It Started With a Note

by Victoria Cooke

  Gently, he peels my hands away and I see he’s been laughing. ‘Listen, it’s a common mistake.’

  ‘Of course it is, the words mean I am hot.’ He laughs again and I sigh. ‘Well, I’ve definitely learned a valuable lesson today.’

  My phone buzzes and I welcome the diversion. ‘Sorry, it’s probably my son.’

  It is.

  Mum, I’m thinking of getting a perm. Is your hairdresser’s any good or shall I just get it done here in Leicester?

  What the …? I do a double take.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ Olivier sits forward, concern creeping into his features.

  I relax my forehead, ‘Yes, at least I think so. Is there such thing as a quarter-life crisis?’ Kieran isn’t even old enough for one of those yet. Olivier lifts an eyebrow. ‘Sorry, I need to just …’ I wave my phone before tapping out a reply.

  Are you being bullied? xxx

  I pause, before adding the word ‘online’ because he’s at university now and those online trolls target adults too.

  It pings back straight away.

  What? NO!!! It’s fashion, Mum. Haven’t you seen it?

  Seconds later, another message pops in below.

  Mum – er – MEET ME AT MCDONALD’S??

  My heart aches for him and it just goes to show that you can need your mum at any age. I look up at Olivier, conscious of my rudeness. ‘I’m sorry, this son of mine is behaving rather oddly. Just one moment.’

  Kieran, love. You know I’m in France, I can’t meet you at McDonald’s, but when I’m home we’ll spend some quality time together. Love you xxx

  I press send and put my hand to my chest. ‘I think my son misses me.’

  ‘Of course he does. Moving away to university is a big step, especially if it has always been just you and him.’

  ‘He wants me to take him to McDonald’s. It’s like he’s reverted back to being a little boy again, and now he’s talking of getting a perm.’ As I shake my head, another message comes in. I look apologetically at Olivier. ‘Last one, I promise.’

  God, Mum, no! The haircut is CALLED the meet me at McDonald’s!

  My heart sinks. In a case of good timing, the waiter brings our wine. I take it straight from his hand and have a big glug of it.

  ‘Something else?’ Olivier looks quite puzzled and I dread to think what my face might be doing.

  ‘I’m sorry. I know I’ve not been much company since we got here. Kieran isn’t missing me after all and he doesn’t want to meet me at McDonald’s; that’s just the name of some hair trend or something.’

  He reaches across the table and puts his hand on my arm, causing frissons beneath it. ‘I’m sorry. I’m guessing you were hoping for him to be missing you? Right now, he’s a young man having fun. Once that wears off, he will miss you. Trust me.’ Something about the way he says trust me makes me believe it will happen.

  I nod, afraid my voice will come out all wobbly if I try to admit it.

  ‘This is just what teenagers are like.’

  ‘I know,’ I say sombrely.

  Olivier’s lips form a hard line as he raises his glass. ‘C’est la vie.’

  ‘La vie,’ I reply, lifting my glass and taking another sip of wine. Olivier bursts into a fit of laughter and I glare at him in confusion.

  He places his right hand on his heart. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t laugh, again; it was a knee-jerk reaction.’

  ‘What did I do this time? You told me to say “la vie” so I did. How could it go so wrong from there?’ I fold my arms, convinced he’s just nit-picking this time. And then he explains.

  ‘Well, I feel like a prized idiot. Perhaps languages just aren’t my forte.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. I shouldn’t have laughed – it was, how do you say it … cute.’

  It’s like flying ant day in my stomach. Olivier just said I was cute. I think I’m acting nonchalant as I smile and take a sip of wine but my cheeks are burning. I press my cold glass to them in an effort to subdue the undoubted redness and then I fan myself. ‘It’s hot, isn’t it?’

  ‘I, er …’ He struggles for a polite way to say: not really, it’s actually just pleasantly warm. ‘We can sit inside if it would be more comfortable?’

  My heart squeezes. Somehow, aside from laughing at my faux pas just moments earlier, he always manages to say and do things that put me at ease. I can feel my heart rate dropping and the tingling subsides in my stomach. ‘It’s such a beautiful day – outside is fine. I think I just drank my wine too quickly.’

  Over dinner, we practise some of the French phrases I’ve already learned, and I inform Olivier that I’m moving out of the hotel and into an Airbnb room tomorrow.

  ‘Oh no, you should have said. There are some gîtes for rent in my village and I know the owner well. He’s not been lucky with rentals this summer and I know he’d give you a good deal if I arranged it.’

  He’s too kind but I really can’t fathom why he’s taken me under his wing.

  ‘Thank you but I’m sorted. It’s a bedsit thing above a shop in Arras. It will do and it’s still close to the train station, which will be useful. I’ll miss the hotel because I feel comfortable there but I’m going to be living alone when I get back to England. It shouldn’t be any different here.’

  He seems to accept that. We talk about other things – my favourite places so far, what else is on my itinerary and so on – and before we know it, two hours have passed.

  ‘I think I’ll have to bring you back here. There’s so much we haven’t done: the pools, crazy golf, dinner …’ His eyes meet mine on the word ‘dinner’, zapping me. I can’t help but wonder if he meant to do that to me, or if it’s all in my head.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I’ve found a job. Complete load of bollocks it is, but it will get me out of your hair. Am I OK to stay in your grand palace for two more weeks until I can sort a flat out? Gaz

  I read the message in Gary’s voice complete with the sarcastic tone I know he intended and slump on the bed in relief. At least I’d be able to get the empty-nest syndrome business dealt with and start walking the path laid out for me. It would be impossible while caring for that man-child.

  Congratulations. That’s great news about the job – I knew you could do it. Yes, of course you can stay for two weeks.

  I pause before hitting send. Something occurs to me, something I should have done a while ago, and that is to stop being such a blooming pushover. I add a few more words to the message before hitting send. I don’t even put my phone down because I know he’ll reply straight away, and he does. His messages come through short and snappy, and I smile because I know it’s his stream-of-consciousness style.

  Fix the bathroom mirror?

  It’s not really in my skill set as an engineer.

  I don’t have the right tools.

  I’m about to reply but it’s time for some tough love. He can’t keep relying on me to help him out of difficult situations. It’s quite bizarre that he’s coming to me for help with a tricky situation that I’ve purposely put him in to make him more independent. I laugh at the irony and put my phone down. Gary can figure this one out on his own.

  The phone buzzes endlessly as I pack the last few bits in my suitcase. Only once I’ve finished do I check it.

  Do you have any tools?

  Don’t worry yourself, I’ve found your little toolkit.

  All done! Happy now, slave driver?

  You don’t have any plasters, do you?

  I giggle at the last one and send a short reply now his lesson is over.

  Thank you – plasters in the cupboard above the fridge.

  I settle the bill at the hotel and set off on the five-minute walk to my new room, suitcase in tow. Olivier had offered to help me move but he was heading off on an overnight trip to London this morning and could only help at some ungodly hour that Kieran would probably consider ‘time to leave the club and get a kebab’. Having him make all that effort to help me pull one
wheelie suitcase was unnecessary, but he was persistent. He only agreed to let me do it alone when I told him in no uncertain terms that no way was I getting up at silly o’clock in the morning.

  It’s a damp, soggy day and the temperature seems to have dropped a few degrees. As I reach the apartment’s proximity, I double-check the address and map on my phone. It should be right ahead. I take a few steps forward trying to spot it when I see a man leaning in the doorway smoking a cigarette.

  ‘Er, excuse moi? J’ma—’

  ‘You are here for the apartment?’ he says, sparing me the excruciating exchange.

  ‘Yes.’ I nod eagerly.

  ‘Come this way.’ He enters the building without stubbing out his cigarette.

  I follow him inside, taking a quick look around to see if there would be any witnesses, should I never re-emerge, but the folk of Arras don’t seem keen on the rain and there isn’t a soul in sight. Apprehensively, I climb the steps.

  The ingress to the apartment is a cracked and peeling, off-white door, which creaks as the man, who I realise hasn’t yet introduced himself, wiggles the key and shoulder-barges it open.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say politely. ‘Would someone be able to fix that? I’m just not sure if I’d be able to manage it.’

  He looks up at me with brown, unsympathetic eyes before taking a drag of his cigarette and swinging the door open. ‘You have paid in full through the website, but any damages must be paid for.’

  A musty smell hits me as I cross the threshold and take in the dingy room. There’s an unmade bed, kitchenette and old TV, and I realise that the photographs on the website were perhaps overly sympathetic. The bathroom has been built out of louvered doors and takes up a small corner of the room by the bed. My chest tightens. A jingling sound prompts me to look right, to where the man is holding up the keys. I take them and he disappears down the stairs.

  It takes two hands and all my body weight to get the door to close. When it’s shut, I slump against it, letting out a sigh. It wasn’t as though the hotel was luxurious, but it was comfortable, clean and welcoming. Here, there’s a brown patch on the ceiling that I actually hope is damp and not something even worse. The pile of linen folded on the bed is crisp and white. It smells clean, which is something, but not enough to stop the creepy-crawly feeling up my arms.

  The romantic image I’d had of living independently abroad for a while like some young and trendy gap-year student is shattered. Even after I make the bed and the stained mattress is covered I can’t settle, and for the first time since I’ve arrived, I start to miss home. I miss Kieran and to some extent Gary, but only because I’m so used to having him around. My eyelids start to feel hot and moist. Within seconds, a tear blobs onto my cheek and my nose starts to run. Without a better option, I wipe it on my sleeve.

  ‘Pull yourself together, woman,’ I say aloud. It’s not exactly the worst hurdle I’ve had to overcome in my time, but it’s probably the worst place I’ve ever slept. I stand up and rub my eyes, before forcing myself to go to the shop for cleaning supplies.

  Three hours later, every surface has been disinfected. I’m thankful for the hard vinyl flooring but I wouldn’t have ruled out scrubbing a carpet with disinfectant had I needed to. Either I’ve become accustomed to the foul smell or it has gone and the place is slightly more habitable.

  I’ve worked up quite a thirst, but the thought of going and sitting in one of the nearby bars alone is daunting. After the day I’ve had, I want somewhere comfortable and familiar.

  The clean air-freshened smell of the hotel feels like home when I walk in. I take a deep breath of it through my nose before walking over to the bar area, where barman Kevin is kneeling down stocking the fridge.

  ‘Hi, Kevin,’ I say, sliding onto a stool.

  ‘Cath, you’re back already.’

  ‘I missed the ambience of the lobby.’ My tone isn’t convincing, nor would anyone describe the lobby as ambient. It’s plain, slightly dated and very green.

  ‘Are you struggling to settle into your new place?’ Kevin’s English is quite broken and heavily accented but still much better than my French.

  I shrug. ‘It’s not what I expected but it will do.’ Boring Kevin the barman with my problems seems a bit sitcom-esque, and in real life, I can’t imagine he cares a great deal about my bedsit. I order a white coffee in French and Kevin looks at me with a raised eyebrow.

  ‘You’ve been learning some of the language?’ he says.

  I’m about to reply and tell him about Olivier’s lessons when all of a sudden, a loudly groaned ‘Kevin’ comes from behind me. I turn around and see the pretty female tour operator from the other day. She slumps onto the stool next to me and starts speaking to Kevin in French. I try not to listen, not that I’d understand much anyway. I don’t feel isolated this time. Instead, the noise of chatter and simply being around people is comforting. Much more so than the flat. I screw up my eyes, wishing I could just go upstairs to bed and not back to that hellhole bedsit, when the woman’s phone rings. The first word she says catches my attention.

  ‘Olivier?’

  My chest thumps and I listen as carefully as I possibly can while pretending to sip my wine. I don’t understand much of her hurried speech, so I listen to her tone. It’s light and she laughs. She doesn’t sit still – one minute she’s leaning forward and the next running her fingers through her hair. Suddenly her tone gets angrier before she simmers down again. The next few words from her mouth I recognise and they are a vice around my stomach.

  ‘Je t’aime,’ followed by another word I don’t pick up.

  My mouth goes dry.

  Chapter Twenty

  The brown spot on the ceiling is definitely just damp. I consider myself a bit of an expert now, because I’ve been staring at it for about an hour, putting off getting up and dressed because I quite frankly can’t think of anything to do with my day. I can’t shake the feeling that Olivier was giving off ‘signals’, and it’s consuming me, but why would he be if he was in love with a gorgeous blonde?

  I need to pull myself together and remember why I came here. Taking my phone off the side, I use the voice-activated dial. ‘Call Kieran.’

  It rings for a while and goes straight to voicemail. I try Kaitlynn.

  She answers after a few rings.

  ‘Cath, hi.’ Her voice is thick with sleep.

  ‘Sorry did I wake you?’ I check the time and it’s just gone nine here so it’s only just after eight back home.

  ‘Yes but it’s fine, I need to get up anyway. Is everything okay?’

  I stumble over my words. ‘Yes, I just … I’m checking in, just seeing if those tills are running smoothly, that’s all.’ My voice cracks a little at the end.

  ‘Er, yes. Everything is fine. Are you really okay, Cath?’

  I sigh; I’ve never felt more alone. This bedsit, being in a foreign country all alone, and Olivier stringing me along playing me for a fool is all starting to feel too much. ‘I think I’m a bit homesick, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, believe me, there is nothing to miss here. It’s still raining, work is the same, your son is still at uni and Gary is still vegetating on your couch. In brighter news, my manicure has lasted.’

  ‘That’s good, about your manicure. I know all the other stuff, I just … I don’t know. I think I even miss Gary.’

  Kaitlynn scoffs.

  ‘Okay, that was a little bit dramatic. I wish I could just pop home for the day and come back, but I haven’t budgeted for that.’

  ‘Stop being ridiculous!’ she barks. ‘Holidays are a bit like dog years: what feels like seven days to you when you’re away, is really just one day here. Honestly, to me it’s like you’ve only just gone.’

  She has a point. It has only been two weeks. ‘I think it’s because I’ve left the hotel.’

  ‘Haven’t you made any friends?’ She sounds distracted, and I can hear her filing her nails in the background.

  ‘It’s not that easy w
hen you don’t speak the language, and it’s even harder now I’m in a bedsit.’ I draw a breath. ‘One of the tour guides has been helping me learn French and we’ve been out for food and drinks a few times.’

  ‘Well, there you go then. If you’re feeling down why not give her a call and arrange to do something today?’

  ‘She’s actually a he. Not that it matters.’ I just wanted to correct her because it felt odd she referred to Olivier as ‘her’ but as soon as the words come out I regret them and brace myself for Kaitlynn’s reaction.

  ‘Oh, is he now?’ Here we go. ‘Well, well, well.’

  ‘It isn’t like that,’ I say before she goes getting any ideas. Now I know what I know about him, it really isn’t like that, but I don’t want that conversation right now.

  ‘So, this tour guide is just teaching you French for fun, is he?’ Her tone is teasing but I can tell she wants the gossip.

  ‘It isn’t like that. I actually think he feels … felt sorry for me.’

  ‘What does he look like?’

  ‘What does that matter?’

  ‘It matters to me.’

  I sigh. ‘He’s handsome I suppose, dark messy hair that seems to flop one way or the other depending on his mood, tanned skin.’ That looks like caramel. ‘And the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen.’ As the words leave my mouth, I realise how foolish it was to think that someone like him could possibly be interested in a plain Jane like me.

  ‘Oh my God! You love him!’ she shrieks.

  ‘Shhh,’ I say, as though he could hear her if she spoke any louder. ‘No, I do not! He’s with someone.’

  I can feel her disappointment through the phone. ‘Well, just as it was about to get juicy! You could have started with that little nugget.’

  ‘It’s irrelevant. The point I was trying to make was that I’ve not been completely alone and I’ve been learning French. You turned it into something else. Too much Love Island perhaps?’

  ‘Er, until you’ve watched Love Island, you can’t knock it with your condescending tone, and actually your “the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen” comment was the giveaway.’ She uses a mock ‘Southern Belle’ accent to mimic me.