‘Okay, so he’s attractive and kind but his partner is very attractive and younger than me and I’m sure they’re very happy.’
‘Partner? So he’s gay?’ She lets out a dramatic groan.
‘No, he’s not gay.’ She’s exasperating sometimes.
‘Why did you say “partner” then?’ I can hear more nail filing.
For goodness’ sake. I need some older friends. ‘Because I don’t know if the woman is his girlfriend or wife.’
‘Well, find out!’
‘What does it matter?’
‘Because if he’s as old as you and he’s not married to her, then it can’t be serious.’ Her tone is nonchalant, and I think she thinks she’s being wise. Her youthful insight, while way off the mark, is endearing nonetheless.
‘Well anyway, I didn’t come here for a holiday romance. I’m not interested in men in England and I’m not interested in them in France.’ I know the words are true as they spill out of my mouth, but they don’t feel right. I’m twitchy and niggled and I know it’s to do with Olivier, but I can’t honestly say why. So what if I find him attractive? Plenty of men are attractive.
‘Are you a lesbian?’ she asks, breaking my thoughts.
‘Not since you last asked me.’
‘I don’t get you.’
‘There’s nothing to get. I’m content, and the whole idea of meeting someone and falling in love makes me feel quite queasy.’ She giggles down the phone but I’m not joking; the thought of giving my heart to someone and feeling so vulnerable and exposed is nauseating. Almost allowing myself to believe Olivier was one of the good guys and convincing myself we had a connection was enough. He lied to me and I can only assume he felt sorry for me. At least if I only count on myself, I will never be let down.
‘You’re so odd, Cath!’ I practically hear her headshake. ‘Well, I have a date next Saturday. I’m hoping this manicure lasts one more week otherwise I’ll have to get another.’ She draws out the word another, and I’m glad to be on a new subject or subheading at least.
After the phone call, I’m able to refocus myself properly. I’m here in France for three reasons:
One – to fulfil my great-grandfather’s dreams on behalf of my grandma.
Two – to soak up some culture other than that of Gregg’s sausage rolls, braap-ing teens and Brexit discussions.
Three – to have some me time, spoil myself and not have to constantly worry about my giganta-kids.
None of these goals include Olivier, but I’m tempted to add a fourth:
Give Olivier a piece of my mind for lying about being single.
I shudder. Whatever his intentions were, they were not good.
I don’t quite feel ready to complete my great-grandfather’s journey. I’m too wound up and going to his final resting place is too special to have my head wrapped up in a man. It needs my full attention. Instead, I decide to visit the Wellington Tunnels after picking up a leaflet about them from the hotel and becoming intrigued as to how some medieval tunnels helped save the city of Arras during the Great War.
A large group are hovering by the entrance, so I take a seat on a grass verge outside. A message has come into the ‘chitchat’ group from Cynthia asking how I am. Martha has thankfully found the full stop on her ‘eyepad’ but those capitals are still going strong. She wants to know if Olivier is looking after me. I can’t bring myself to reply so I tap out a quick ‘hello, how are you both?’ and fill them in on some of the places I’ve been to.
After five minutes or so, the crowds have dispersed, and I pay myself in and make my way down to the tunnels with my headset on. Soon, I’m engrossed in the history of how the tunnels were expanded by the tunnellers of the New Zealand division and practically turned into an underground city, when that familiar red coat catches my eye.
It’s her. She’s all shiny and polished, like a beacon, leading the large group of tourists to the balcony where I’m standing. As they pour on, I’m shunted to the side. ‘Sorry,’ I say, before wondering why I’m apologising.
‘No, we are sorry. I have a full coach today,’ Olivier’s partner says, before doing a double take. ‘Have I seen you before? At the hotel?’
I can’t believe she recognises me. The notion makes me shrink inside myself and regret having accepted my hair as being ‘rinsed’ this morning when I knew that trickle of a shower hadn’t got all the conditioner out. I swear I’d have had more success riding a camel around the Sahara and waiting for it to rain. My heavy, greasy strands cling to my scalp.
‘Yes,’ I croak. ‘I’ve actually been on a few of your tours, with the other guide, Olivier.’
Her face breaks into a smile, a big warm one, like the kind of smile people in romcoms have when they’re newly in love. Think Julia Roberts in Notting Hill. ‘Ahh, he’s probably told you all about me?’ I wince. Poor girl. He’s deliberately kept her quiet. I can’t lie and say yes, because he hasn’t, and I can’t tell the truth either – that he’s had the chance to tell me about her and didn’t – so I just smile in what I hope is a warm and friendly way. ‘He’s always the favourite of us both, but since he’s not here, I’m giving a guided tour in English if you want to tag along? You’re a customer, after all.’
She’s far too nice for him to be treating her this way, and I daren’t tell her I’m not a paying customer in case she makes assumptions. Nor do I want to tag along, but she’s so bouncy and happy that I really can’t say no. ‘That would be wonderful, thank you.’
‘Great. I’m Elena, if you need anything, otherwise, enjoy!’ Her English is impeccable. Even better than Olivier’s.
She’s a very enthusiastic tour guide, patient and knowledgeable, just like Olivier. I can see why they’re well suited. My chest feels heavy as I think back to how interested in me he became when I spouted out a few facts about the war. He obviously has a type. Albeit a very odd one.
‘Where are you from, love?’ a plump lady with plum-coloured hair and a Northern accent asks me.
‘Berrybridge,’ I reply quietly, not wanting to be rude by talking over Elena.
‘Are you here alone?’ she asks, and I try to keep the irritation from showing when I reply.
‘Yes.’
‘Me too,’ she whispers.
Suddenly, my frustrations dissolve into relief. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, I come every year, usually with my family but my sons are all grown up now and my husband was too busy with work. It’s the anniversary of my great-great-grandfather’s death tomorrow. He was killed in the war.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper. ‘Mine too. I’m here retracing his footsteps and to visit the memorial where my great-grandfather is commemorated. He was killed in Ypres.’
She looks me over. ‘You mean great-great-grandfather?’
I shake my head. ‘No, my grandmother had my mother when she was around forty. Rare in those days, I know.’
‘If you’re staying in Arras, we should meet up for a drink. I’m sure we’d have lots to talk about,’ she whispers.
‘Yes, that would be lovely,’ I say, hoping I don’t sound as desperate for a friend as I am.
She smiles in response, and we listen to Elena’s tour.
After arranging to meet the plum-haired lady, whose name escapes me, in the bar later, I decide to head off back to my studio for a rest. As I’m leaving the museum, Elena jogs up behind me, catching me up. ‘Did you like the tour?’ she asks.
‘Yes, very informative,’ I say politely.
‘I don’t know if you’re booked on any more with Olivier but be sure to tell him you did.’ She grins. ‘I love him, but he thinks he’s better than me at everything.’ For the first time, I notice her name badge – Elena Durand – and I remember Olivier introducing himself as Olivier Durand on the trip to Ypres. ‘Anyway, it was nice to meet you …’ She pauses in anticipation of my name.
‘Cath.’ A flicker of what looks like recognition passes her face, but I might be imagining it.
‘Cath,’ she repeats, holding out her hand to shake. I spot a beautiful diamond ring on her finger. It’s either platinum or white gold, I never can tell.
‘Nice to meet you too.’ I walk away, sombre. They are just two incredibly nice people. I bet she’d offer to give me French lessons too. I replay all the times I’ve been with Olivier and how I misread the signals so badly and almost laugh. I’m a rusty old fool is what I am.
Except I didn’t misread the fact he said he was single. Or did he? Thinking back to our chat on the beach, he actually just brushed over the question by talking about the past. Very clever. I start putting all the pieces together. Olivier and Elena do separate tours and both work erratic hours. It’s perfectly feasible that Olivier could seduce unsuspecting tourists and she’d never find out. It’s probably a twisted little game he plays, preying on lonely single women, making them feel special just so he can put a notch on his bedpost. God only knows what he could be up to in London right now. Bubbles of rage rise in my chest, and I turn back to the museum before spinning back again. I should tell Elena, but not now, not here. I will wait until Olivier comes back and confront him first.
Before I head down to the hotel bar, I pull out my phone. There’s a message from Martha asking how things are and repeating Cynthia’s question about Olivier so I tap out a quick response telling her what I’ve been up to and asking about her leg. Before I hit send, I add: ‘Olivier is married!’
When I arrive at the hotel bar, Kevin is handing my new plum-haired pal a G&T. ‘Oh, hi.’ She scrunches her shoulders up and smiles as she spots me walking over and pats the seat next to her. I stifle my amusement when I think about how I’ve obviously been doing ‘making friends’ all wrong when purple hair seems to have it down to a T.
‘Hello,’ I say, settling into the chair. ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch your name earlier.’
‘It’s Jackie. Now tell the man what you’re drinking.’ She bangs a hand on the bar.
‘Large white wine, Cath?’ Kevin asks before I open my mouth.
‘You know me too well.’ I smile at him.
Jackie is already giving me the lowdown on her entire life, and by the time Kevin plonks my wine in front of me, I reckon I could probably get at least a level seven in the ‘Jackie GCSE’. Still, she’s very nice, and it’s good to have some company. I learn that her great-great-grandfather is buried in the cemetery in Arras and she’s heading there tomorrow for the anniversary of his death.
‘I’m sorry, my husband tells me I talk too much but I can’t help it. Tell me more about you. Do you have family?’ She takes the front of her hair and tucks it behind her ears.
‘I have a grown-up son too. He’s just gone away to university in Leicester.’ She’s looking at me with a slight raise to her eyebrows and a narrow smile. She’s waiting for more. ‘And my brother Gary is living with me at the moment.’ I know the burning question is coming, so I supply the answer. ‘I’m not married or with anyone.’
‘Gosh, a pretty woman like you, single.’ She lets out a dramatic breath.
I look down at my wine and slosh it about in the glass to avoid having to say anything.
‘Have you met the other tour guide? The man?’ she says suddenly, eyes twinkling.
‘Yes.’ I sip my wine.
‘He’s a dreamboat, he is.’ She cackles to herself and sips her drink.
‘He certainly catches a few eyes,’ I say dryly.
‘He’s spoken for, though,’ she says with a sigh. ‘That lovely woman, Elena, was gushing about how she and her new husband work together – could you imagine working with your husband? I’m sure the enthusiasm will wear off and she’ll reach the “can’t wait to go away without you” phase of love soon enough.’ She winks and I force a smile in response. I’m pretty sure Olivier has already reached that point.
‘Well, good luck to them.’ I sip more wine, allowing the heat of it to fill my body.
‘They both did a tour introduction thing the other day and they did seem pretty cosy together. Lots of banter and that kind of thing. Both lovely, though.’
Jackie keeps ordering drinks and while I become chattier and more carefree, her demeanour doesn’t alter in the slightest. By the time Kevin announces that the bar is closing, the world is slightly filtered and looks a bit like one of Kaitlynn’s Instagram pictures, all hazy and in soft focus. I wobble when I try to stand up straight.
‘Will you be all right getting home?’ Kevin asks.
‘Of course.’ As I speak, the hand I’m resting my body weight on slips off the stool I was using to steady myself. It happens in seconds, sending me crashing to the floor, causing a vague pain in the side of my bottom.
‘Oops. At least there’s plenty of padding there,’ I struggle to say.
‘I’m walking you home,’ Kevin says sternly.
‘Ooh, I like a man who takes charge,’ Jackie says. ‘I’ll see you in the morning, Cath.’ She winks before glaring at Kevin. ‘And you make sure she gets home safely.’ I know I should feel embarrassed, but my inhibitions have been neutralised.
Kevin links his arm through mine to steady me, and I allow his sturdy frame to carry most of my weight. The heat from his body feels nice. The pavement sways like I’m on a ship, and I can only just get my feet to land one in front of the other. It makes me giggle and I look up at Kevin expecting to see him giggling too but his jaw is hard set and his eyes are intent on the road ahead. He looks like a man on a mission, and that makes me giggle more because he reminds me of an action hero.
Inside I’m giddy. I like wine. It’s been a long time since a knight in shining armour has escorted me home and Kevin is a fine knight. His tight black T-shirt grips his tanned biceps like any red-blooded woman would, given half the chance. He’s barely older than Kieran, I have to keep reminding myself.
I’m about to step down a ridiculously high kerbstone when all of a sudden, Kevin yanks me tight to his chest and I fall into him as a flash of red whizzes past.
His eyes are just inches from mine. ‘For a moment there I thought you were making a move.’ I chuckle nervously, but a little niggle in the back of my head tells me I’ll regret saying that in the morning. It was just a little joke, I reason.
‘Cath, you could have been killed by that bus just then.’ He shakes his head and I’m sensing a lack of amusement.
‘You’re very serious, Mister.’ I squish his cheeks.
‘You’re very drunk. I should have been a more responsible bartender.’
‘Jackie wasn’t even drunk. Do you think she Rohypnol-ed me?’ I widen my eyes humorously.
‘No, I just think you, being half of her size, should have drunk half the alcohol,’ he says dryly.
***
Grogginess consumes me when I wake up the following morning, and sunlight streams through my window because I neglected to close the blinds before I went to bed. For a moment, I lie silently, staring at the ceiling, but memories of last night start pelting me like hailstones and I groan, pulling the duvet over my head. I hate being so drunk and losing control. I’ll have to apologise to Kevin and probably Jackie.
‘Shoot.’ I sit up and snatch my phone off the bedside table to check the time, relaxing when I realise I haven’t slept in. I can just about remember arranging to go to the cemetery with Jackie this morning. The sudden movement makes the room spin and my stomach lurches. I dart into the bathroom, thankful for its proximity to the bed, and retch into the toilet, heaving up nothing but bile. Champion limbo dancers haven’t even seen such lows.
Jackie is sipping orange juice in the bar when I arrive. After a can of full-fat Coke and a shower, I’m feeling more like a human. Jackie, on the other hand, looks like she’s had twelve hours’ sleep and a facial.
‘Well, good morning,’ she chirps, lifting her large sunglasses to get a better look.
I wave my hand in the direction of the sunglasses. ‘Put them back on – you don’t want to see this,’ I say, with considerably less enthusiasm.
‘I take it the head isn’t great this morning?’ Her body shakes as she giggles.
The head? I wish it was just the head. ‘I’m not much of a drinker,’ I say.
‘You don’t say.’ She slides a glass of orange juice towards me and it’s gone in three gulps.
I hear footsteps behind me, and whoever it is catches Jackie’s attention.
‘Kevin!’ she screeches, while my internal organs plummet. ‘Make this woman a strong coffee will you, love?’
I turn around, forcing myself to look him in the eye. ‘Kevin, I …’
He places a hand on my shoulder. ‘There’s no need to apologise. I shouldn’t have served you so much alcohol.’
‘It wasn’t your fault. It happened so quickly – I was merry and fine and then I wasn’t. I’m sorry.’ The movement of the revolving door catches my eye and my heart rate picks up when I see Olivier walk in. Instinctively, I want to dash over to him and confront him about lying to me and tell him what he’s doing is wrong, but I don’t have the stomach for it just yet. Maybe after I’ve eaten. His eyes catch mine but his usual bright smile doesn’t appear. Instead, he gives the slightest nod of acknowledgement and goes straight to chat to the man on reception.
There’s a release of pressure as Kevin removes his hand from my shoulder and walks to the bar, but I barely notice. My mind is on Olivier and his sudden change in demeanour. What has he got to be cross with me about? I rerun our last conversation in my head. He offered to help me move and I’d declined, then he said he’d catch me when he returned from London, which is now. Maybe it’s because he didn’t get what he wanted from me when we got back from the beach. I didn’t invite him in, not that he asked, but perhaps he thought I would. Whatever it is, he didn’t win the little game he was playing so now I’m just an annoying tourist he can’t wait to see the back of. He’s probably already onto his next victim. Or perhaps Elena has mentioned that she’s met me. Maybe I’ve taken his game too close to home.
‘Are you ready?’ Jackie has gathered her faculties and is getting to her feet.
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