by Fiona Gibson
I wander past small, cluttered shops smelling of incense and filled with leather goods and ethnic jewellery, wondering whether this scenario could be turned into an amusing anecdote at some point down the line – perhaps in seventy-five years when I might have recovered. Yet another bad date story to be howled over, like when Stu got his toe stuck between the glowing bars of an electric fire whilst having sex with a girl called Morna in a static caravan in Saltburn-by-the-sea.
The recollection cheers me a little and, somehow, I manage to while away a couple of hours with my wanderings. I buy a leather-bound notebook in which I decide to write a plan to sort out my life. Light-headed with hunger now, I find a tapas bar, chosen again not for its menu or ambience but the fact that it’s not too busy, as I don’t feel confident in grabbing the attention of harassed waiters, the way Antoine did. I order some kind of chicken in a paprika sauce, wondering what other diners think of me sitting alone, whether I seem like a woman of mystery or if traces of humiliation are still visible on my face. A boisterous group of young English men and women tumble into the cafe, all in high spirits, clutching each other and laughing. One of the men glances at me – am I imagining a hint of pity on his face? – and I take this as my cue to pay my bill and leave.
Now, as I amble along the promenade – I see the sparkly ring lady, swooping upon another unsuspecting tourist – it dawns on me that I must go back to Antoine’s and try to salvage the rest of my stay. While his comments still sting, and I have no desire to sleep with him again – heaven forbid he should be faced with my ‘largeness’! – we can at least hang out as friends. I’m in the South of France, after all, and I can still make the most of my trip.
I check my phone again – still no text from Antoine – and glance into the window of a department store. Behind the display of gazelle-limbed mannequins in chic taupe separates, it looks calm and inviting in there. A group of backpackers are approaching, all laughing loudly and taking up the entire pavement, and one of their rucksacks biffs my shoulder as they pass. No one apologises. No one even notices. I inhale slowly, push open the ornately carved wooden door and stride into the department store’s beauty hall.
Soft jazz music is playing. I realise there is an actual pianist, an elderly woman with clearly dyed caramel- coloured hair, a string of glittery beads at her neck, wearing a pale pink twinset. What a lovely thing, having a real musician to make the floor feel even more inviting. I wander from counter to counter, my gaze skimming rows of lipsticks in enticingly weighty silver cases, and dazzling displays of fragrances. No wonder women love to treat themselves to beauty products when they’re all so, well, beautiful. If you have the money, why not? Make-up never makes you feel fat, or too old, or in any way disappointed. I have always derived far more pleasure from a new eye shadow palette or nail polish than anything I’ve ever bought to wear.
The staff in here are all exuding an air of just quietly going about their business. Hopefully, no one will traffic stop me. Never mind the language barrier; I am not at all keen on an eagle-eyed beauty consultant surmising that I have spent much of the morning fighting back tears. And my hair – how could I have forgotten my hair? Hours of tumbling about on Antoine’s bed, followed by a fitful night’s sleep, and it still hasn’t had a brush raked through it. I glimpse my reflection in a mirrored pillar and realise I look slightly mad.
And then I spot it, also reflected in the mirror: the familiar logo, blue lettering against white, back to front, naturally, but so familiar. Of course, why wouldn’t La Beauté have a counter here? I make my way towards it. The young assistant – the only one manning the counter – makes eye contact as I approach and greets me.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t speak French,’ I explain.
She smiles warmly. ‘Oh, I see. Is there something you’re looking for?’ she asks in perfect English.
Hmmm. It seems silly to buy something here when I have a staff discount back home, but why shouldn’t I treat myself? ‘Just browsing, thanks,’ I say. The girl nods and turns away to attend to another customer who’s just arrived. I study the blusher testers – a pretty array of soft peaches and pinks – whilst tuning in to their exchange. Although I can only pick out the odd word the easy chatter between the women soothes me and that, coupled with the piano music and enticing scents, causes my anguish to fade even further. What does it matter that Antoine made a couple of clumsy remarks? It seems almost funny now – yet another chapter in my catalogue of dating disasters and one more reason, if it were needed, to opt for a quiet life of celibacy. I shouldn’t be surprised really. Yes, I was infatuated thirty years ago – but how could I possibly have known the sort of man he’d grown into, just by lusting over a few Facebook photos? ‘You’d be really beautiful if …’ Well, he prefers his women slim, that’s obvious. He also seems partial to taking charge on a day out. While I did enjoy all the art yesterday, there’s also something lovely about just wandering around, as I am today, and allowing the day to unfold naturally.
I test an unassuming pinky-beige lipstick on the back of my hand; it’s one of the few shades I don’t own already. The girl turns to me with an expectant smile. ‘I’ll have this, please.’
‘I’ll just get one for you.’ She bobs down to open a drawer, selects the correct shade and rings my purchase through the till.
I was right, I decide as I step back outside, all those years ago in Goldings in Bradford. You get the feeling that nothing bad could ever happen in the beauty hall of a department store. Claudine and Mimi knew that; it’s why they set up their little oases of calm in only the most beautiful, old-fashioned stores. Perhaps Sonia and her ‘team’ are right, in that things are changing, have to change, really – after all, what will happen when those stores are all gobbled up by huge companies until there aren’t any left? Where will La Beauté fit in then?
I stand for a moment at the store’s entrance, wondering how far Grasse is from here, the home town of our company’s elderly founders. Could I get in touch, just to say hello to Claudine and Mimi and see how they are after the takeover? Will they even remember who I am? I picture the kind letter they sent, and their concerned faces when they took me for lunch after David had died. Of course they’ll remember.
I pull out my phone from my bag, scroll through my contacts and find the number I have used only once, to express my thanks for the sisters’ kind condolences. And now, on this busy pavement in the middle of Nice, I inhale the chocolatey aroma from a nearby crêpe stall as I call Claudine Renaud.
*
Antoine greets me with a sheepish expression plus the offer of coffee, a late lunch, a glass of wine and further explorations of the city. ‘Maybe I was too pushy yesterday, deciding what we should do?’ he suggests, rubbing at his chin. ‘Is there anything you’d like to see today?’
His hair, I notice, is still a little ruffled. ‘I’d just like to have a shower if that’s okay.’
‘Yes, yes, of course.’ He narrows his eyes. ‘I’ve been worried about you. You’ve been out for hours!’
Not worried enough to call or text me, though. ‘I just fancied some time on my own,’ I explain, ‘and in fact … look, Antoine, I’m glad I came to see you. Yesterday was wonderful and, even after this morning, I’m still glad. But I just don’t think it’s right between us, do you?’
His face seems to droop a little. ‘Oh, Lorrie, I’m sorry – it was a stupid comment and very thoughtless of me. The people in this block, you know …’ He winces. ‘They are terribly particular, many of them elderly. They complain a lot. Last time Nicolas and Elodie were here, someone complained about Elodie’s violin. I told them, she must practise her scales and arpeggios every day, don’t you understand? She’s going to music college!’
A smile plays on my lips, but I manage to keep it down. ‘That must have been difficult for you. Look, I do understand. I just felt a bit humiliated this morning. I probably overreacted …’
Antoine frowns. ‘Actually, I’m still a bit confused, Lorrie. All I
meant was—’
‘Yes, I know what you meant. It wasn’t really that part, though – about being shouty, I mean. It was the weight thing. That was harder to take.’
‘The weight thing? I was just saying you’d be really beautiful if—’
‘Okay,’ I cut in, sensing my blood pressure beginning to rise again, ‘I get it – you think I’d look better thin. Well, you know what? This is me. I’m forty-six years old and I’m good at my job and I’ve raised two lovely kids …’
‘Lorrie, I wasn’t suggesting for a minute—’
‘And I get enough of that from my mum,’ I add. ‘You know – “Have you tried this soup? It’s hardly any calories at all. Just like hot water really!” And, “Have you thought of going back to that gym?”’
Antoine shakes his head in disbelief. ‘Your mother sounds crazy.’
I laugh dryly. ‘She is, I suppose – but anyway, I’m never going to become some slender little sylph of a thing. I’ve accepted that and, generally, I’m pretty happy with who I am.’
‘Well, yes – you should be.’ He nods approvingly and checks his watch. ‘I like to see confidence in a woman. It’s a very attractive quality. Now, shall we get ready to go out? I know a nice little bistro and if we hurry we could probably catch an exhibition before dinner …’
I touch his arm. ‘Maybe we could have dinner another time, if you come to London again. I’d like us to be friends, Antoine. But the thing is, you and me … well, it’s just not the same. I’m not upset anymore, but whatever we do, it won’t feel like it did yesterday.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘So I made a call to someone I know,’ I add. ‘She lives in Grasse and used to own the company I work for with her sister. I was just curious to find out what they’re doing now, and they’ve invited me to visit them.’
‘You’re going to Grasse?’ he exclaims. ‘When?’
‘Well, as soon as I’m ready.’
‘But that’s mad, Lorrie. You’re just storming off, trying to make a point—’
‘No, I’m not. Look, it’s only an hour away by train and they were insistent about me visiting. I’d love to see them. I’ll stay the night and go straight to the airport from there tomorrow afternoon.’
He looks down at the low table where this morning’s coffee cup is still sitting, the newspaper beside it. ‘Well … if you’re sure,’ he says sulkily. ‘If that’s what you really want.’
‘Yes, it is,’ I say gently. ‘And you’re right, it has been lovely seeing each other again. But we were just teenagers when we first fell in love and …’ I pause. ‘I don’t think we can turn back the clock, can we?’
Antoine pauses. ‘Maybe you’re right.’
In fact, he is very decent about it, terribly gentlemanly, which makes me realise he is a good man and a real catch for someone – but not me.
I have a brisk but luxurious shower, and coffee is waiting for me when I emerge. Antoine compliments my rather demure choice of grey linen skirt and a flower-sprigged top, and insists on carrying my suitcase downstairs to the waiting taxi.
‘I wish you’d let me take you to the station,’ he says.
‘It’s fine, really.’
He sweeps back his hair with his hand and exhales as the driver loads my case into the boot. ‘Well, have a lovely time in Grasse.’
‘Thanks.’ I smile.
‘And, um … you’re really welcome back here, if you’d like to visit again.’
I smile. ‘Maybe one day I will, just as a friend? Would that be okay with you?’
A proper smile crosses his face at last. ‘Of course, if that’s how you’d like it to be.’
‘Yes, I would,’ I say, hugging him briefly before climbing into the taxi.
I glance back as the driver pulls away, and Antoine waves before turning back into his apartment block. I smile, my head filled with anticipation now as I pull out my mirrored compact and decide that my new lipstick – in a shade called ‘Optimisme’ – is just right.
Chapter Thirty-Two
‘Of course we’re happy,’ Mimi exclaims, her silver bob swinging at her chin. ‘It’s been a very exciting time for us.’
‘But La Beauté was your baby,’ I remark, ‘started right here in this garden. Wasn’t it hard for you to let it go at all?’
‘A little, but our baby is all grown up now,’ Claudine says with a gravelly laugh. ‘We were happy to send her off. We’ve spent forty years building the company and now, well …’ The younger of the two – although both are well into their seventies – she wears her long, fine hair secured at the back of her head in an elegant plait. ‘It was the right time,’ she adds. ‘Things are changing rapidly, Lorrie. We are a niche brand as you know, but perhaps we have taken things as far as we can …’
‘La Beauté is ready for a new vision,’ Mimi adds.
I nod and scan their barely cultivated garden. It’s more of a wild-flower meadow, the flowers seemingly having sprung up at random, the haze of colour stretching to the river beyond. I feel honoured to be here; Claudine picked me up from Grasse station in her charmingly rustic Citröen 2CV, chatting all the way about my time here so far – reluctant to go into the Antoine scenario, I explained that I had stayed with an old friend – and presenting me with a great flourish as Mimi and their housekeeper, Anne, set out an early supper at the garden table.
We have tucked into delicious asparagus tarts, potato salads, and some kind of fine, buttery pastry draped with anchovies. There is wine, of course, and for dessert a simple platter of strawberries scattered with mint leaves and shards of dark chocolate. ‘This is lovely,’ I exclaim. ‘It’s all so simple.’
‘That’s how we like things,’ Mimi explains. ‘It’s the whole ethos of the company, isn’t it? Just the things you need – nothing more.’
‘Oh, perhaps a few fun things,’ Claudine chips in. ‘That glitter for eyes …’
‘Yes, for the young ones,’ agrees Mimi, ‘but for us, the whole point was that any woman, whatever her age, could find just what she wanted without having to make any confusing decisions, and know it would work.’
I nod, deciding that now is the time to tell the sisters about developments at head office since the takeover.
‘Stool time?’ Mimi exclaims, wrinkling her lips. ‘What a ridiculous concept! You mean, customers aren’t valued anymore?’ She glances at Claudine in alarm.
‘Well,’ I say hesitantly, still unsure of how forthright I should be, ‘it all comes down to cost-effectiveness – not that I agree with it. It’s not the beauty business anymore, according to the new management. It’s the business beauty.’
Claudine widens her eyes, her small gold hoop earrings catching the evening sun. ‘The business beauty?’
‘That’s right,’ I say.
‘So are we all talking backwards now?’
I sip my wine. ‘I know it sounds bizarre. It’s as if they’ve stormed in and thrown everything the company stands for up in the air.’ I glance at the sisters who are both looking quite upset. ‘I’m sorry, perhaps I shouldn’t have told you …’
‘We’d have found out anyway,’ Mimi says briskly.
‘Stool time,’ Claudine repeats, almost spitting out the phrase. ‘It’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard. Don’t they understand why women love to come to beauty counters? Are they idiots, these people, or what?’
I inhale, wondering how to respond when Mimi chips in. ‘Oh, come on, Claudine. We talked about all of this. We made the decision because we were ready for a change – it was long overdue actually – and we have to accept that it’s not ours anymore …’ She turns to me, her expression firm. ‘You have teenagers don’t you, Lorrie?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘It’s like them flying the nest. You put in absolutely everything you can to help them to flourish and then, when they leave you …’ She picks up a fragment of chocolate and pops it into her mouth. ‘Then you just have to let them go and hope for the best.’
I smile, heartened by their stoical attitude, before telling them about my own predicament following the meeting at head office.
‘Oh, I’ve never heard such rubbish!’ Claudine gasps. ‘Too old? A beautiful girl like you? How could anyone say such a thing!’
‘I’d hardly class myself as a girl,’ I say, laughing.
‘But you’re perfect, Lorrie. Your lovely face, your openness with people …’
‘… So approachable,’ Mimi adds. ‘What are you going to do? You can’t accept this … this stock cubes thing.’ She shudders.
‘Well, I’m not sure yet. They’ve given me a week off to think it over, but I can probably persuade them to let me have longer.’ I shrug. ‘It’s a big decision. You know I’m a single parent, I have to think about Cam and Amy …’
‘We understand,’ Mimi says.
‘I wish there was something we could do to help,’ Claudine murmurs.
‘You are helping by being so kind. I sort of … needed to come here today.’
We fall into a silence which is anything but awkward; I can tell they understand that something else has happened – something personal – and that I’d rather not share it right now.
The evening is turning cooler and Claudine, casually elegant in a leaf-print dress, gets up from her seat.
‘I’m sorry about bringing bad news about the company,’ I murmur.
Mimi shakes her head. ‘When we decided to accept the offer, we also had to come to terms with the fact that things would change—’
‘We didn’t imagine it would be quite as dramatic, though, did we?’ Claudine asks.
‘Well, no.’
‘But what makes things easier to accept is that we have exciting plans of our own …’ She raises an eyebrow at her sister and they both beam at me.
‘Would you like to see?’ Mimi asks.
‘Oh, yes, of course!’
‘We’re so glad you came here,’ she adds, ‘because we need some feedback. So far, well – it’s just a dream we’ve had for a very long time and it’s starting to come to fruition. But it must appeal to all women – that’s the whole point …’