by L M Bee
Mo reached out again to comfort her, placing her hand sympathetically on top of Mary’s and murmuring, “I feel for you, I really do.”
Mary took a deep breath before resuming their conversation, describing the different qualities of each child and details of life at home. By the time Mary realised her mistake, it was too late – she had told Mo everything.
Mortified by her bout of verbal diarrhoea, now way past the point of salvaging any remnants of dignity, Mary cast off the damp towel, pretending she had to leave in a hurry. The hotel staff making their way round the pool offering afternoon tea provided the perfect excuse. “Goodness, is that the time already? I’m going to be late. So sorry, I must go.”
She added politely, in an attempt to smother shame with good manners, “Are you staying at the hotel?”
“No, we live nearby.”
“Oh, okay,” mumbled Mary, not giving a damn, just wanting to get the hell out after humiliating herself beyond the point of no return.
“Maybe we can meet up for a drink later in the week?” chirped Mo.
“Yes, hope so,” replied Mary, lying through her teeth, clambering awkwardly off the sun-lounger and lurching as she stood up, flushed in the face, with her hat perched at a precarious angle. She had to concentrate really hard to walk steadily, intending to go straight up to her room before anyone else realised she was completely smashed.
Chapter 3
Crashing face down on her bed, Mary passed out instantly, snoring loudly.
Waking an hour later, a sweating sticky mess, with her damp swimsuit clamped in another uncomfortable wedgie, she clambered off the bed to examine herself in the mirror: flabby skin with patches of sunburn. In her inebriated state she’d forgotten to apply any suncream.
Hastily swallowing another couple of paracetamol, Mary hoped a shower would improve things.
Feeling hot and grubby, long brown hair tied up in a messy bun to keep her neck cool, Sophia checked the time on her phone; if she left site now, she’d have time for a quick shower before meeting Mary.
It had been a gruelling first day, communicating with sub-contractors in a mishmash of French and English. Thankfully, Bernard had very kindly provided a translator to assist with the technical explanations. Sophia’s French was average, but not sufficiently fluent to discuss plumbing and electrics in great detail, so this was a godsend.
Bernard Maskell was a kind and unassuming man who had made his fortune in nightclubs, now enjoying a quieter pace of life with his second wife and young family here in the South of France. His main hobby up until now had been Hôtel d’Eau Bleue, before the unexpected opportunity to purchase this old farmhouse. One of his regular hotel guests had got into trouble gambling at a ritzy casino further up the coast, lost everything and was desperately in need of cash. Solicitors swiftly drew up the necessary documents, and Bernard bought the rundown old property for a song, turning it into his new pastime; a project to keep him busy during early retirement.
Bernard’s eldest daughter, Beatrice, and Sophia had been roommates at university. When Beatrice got in with the wrong crowd and became dependent on drugs, Sophia stepped in and helped Bea to get back on track. Bernard had just moved to France at the time, with his second wife, and was busy setting up their new home, reluctantly distanced from Bea's problems. He was incredibly grateful to Sophia for helping his eldest daughter, and since then had always wanted to do something in return for Sophia. He was delighted when she accepted his invitation to be the interior designer for Hôtel d’Eau Bleue; the first time they’d worked together, and it had gone very well. A rigidly professional relationship, rarely involving Bernard’s wife or children as he preferred to keep them at arm’s length from the business. Always polite and attentive, Sophia couldn’t help liking him, a great teddy bear of a man.
The rundown farmhouse was a massive project: originally a stunning country house, but after years of neglect it had fallen into a sad state of disrepair. The main building almost derelict. The garden a jungle. The swimming pool, a shallow green stinking slime, too vile even for newts to inhabit, weeds growing through the tennis court, and lawns as overgrown as wild flower meadows. Nobody had touched the place for years.
It needed complete renovation from top to bottom. New roof, wiring, plumbing, heating, internet and security, plus ensuite bathrooms for all eight bedrooms. The tennis court needed resurfacing and the pool needed completely redoing from scratch. The garden was a major job on its own. All in all a massive undertaking, which would require a lot of money to be spent on it.
Sophia was planning to install an assistant on site, to carry out her daily instructions, with the intention of being there herself about one week a month. Twice-daily FaceTime calls would enable her to follow progress, view problems close-up and discuss details. As always, she would be responsible for all communication with her client, meeting Bernard on site at least twice a month in the early stages. Thus enabling her to keep the London office running smoothly, whilst still bringing in new jobs at the same time.
Whenever big projects were at the preliminary stage, for some reason, Sophia suffered a bad attack of nerves. After years of experience, she put it down to being the interior designer’s equivalent of stage fright, at its worst before work started, when negativity would question if she’d bitten off more than she could chew, but quickly improving once things got under way.
This afternoon the nerves were getting to her really badly. Her normally positive attitude was flagging, probably not helped by the fact she was tired and hungry; a shower and food would help. With no mains power or running water on site, she hadn’t eaten anything all day, existing on just two bottles of warm Evian from the car.
Her role required terrific foresight; not for the faint-hearted, facing a derelict building and guaranteeing the client’s high end expectations. Already knowing Bernard made it much easier, and she was grateful for two other major contributing factors. Firstly, he had a genuine desire to restore the house to its original beauty, at whatever cost. And secondly, he already understood that bespoke craftsmen take much longer than anyone ever expects.
Nestled perfectly into the rural landscape with stunning views stretching towards the range of hills on the far horizon, sadly very little of the original property could be saved. Apart from the traditional roof tiles, and the walls of the main house, the only other salvageable items were the original limestone flagstones; soft creamy slabs that gave character and charm to the pretty property.
On the outside, rotten timber frames and pergolas gave fragile support to healthy vines, wisterias and a variety of creepers. Although the place was run down and neglected, the plants were still lush and healthy. Double French doors from the main ground floor rooms opened out into the garden. All the woodwork would have to be replaced by bespoke craftsmen, even the shutters would have to be entirely remade by hand. The schedule was immense but since Bernard was known for being wealthy, and willing to pay for a high standard of work, the sub-contractors were all as keen as mustard.
After a long day in muggy heat, the last contractor just leaving, Sophia felt sticky and ready to pack up. Folding up the architect's drawings, and putting them back in her car, she thanked the translator and said she would see him in the morning.
Driving back along the peaceful country roads, she tried Mary’s number but it went straight to voicemail, so she left a message.
“On my way back, hope you’ve had a good time. Bet you’ve been lounging by the pool all day getting drunk with the locals! See you soon.”
Chapter 4
By the time she met Sophia for supper, Mary’s head was throbbing so badly it was making her eyes squint.
Too ashamed to confess to a hangover, she pretended it was a touch of sunstroke. On tenterhooks, dreading an interrogation, Mary retreated quietly into her shell, willing the time to pass quickly so she could lay her head on soft fluffy pillows and sleep.
Fortunately Sophia wasn’t on top form either, equally keen fo
r something quick to eat and an early night.
The next day when Sophia left for work, Mary heaved a sigh of relief. Thinking a breath of fresh air might help to clear her head, she grabbed her hat and sunglasses and wandered barefoot through the gardens – creamy stone walls and cobbled paths, bordered by rose-scented flowerbeds, leading down to a sandy beach.
Lost in a world of her own, Mary pottered back and forth along the sand, breathing in deep lungfuls of sea air, looking down at her feet as she paddled slowly through the shallow waves, grateful for the soothing serenity. She was keen to avoid other hotel guests, still not brave enough to face up to their scrutiny, worried they might point and snigger. “That’s the woman that got so smashed yesterday, she struggled to walk back to her room!”
Intending to find a comfy place to sit and think, Mary looked around and spotted a large rock at the far end of the beach. Clambering up onto the top of it, smooth and warmed by the sun, she put on her hat and made herself comfortable. She hugged her knees close to her chest, tucking the kaftan fabric around her legs, and stared out to sea.
Time ticked by, her mind drifting in circles, having second thoughts about leaving her familiar routine behind; maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to come here after all. She had too much time on her own, dwelling on sad thoughts, and nobody around to cheer her up or make her feel better.
“Is the seat beside you taken?” asked a deep voice.
Peeking out from under her wide-brimmed straw hat, Mary found herself looking down into the face of a handsome man holding a worn Panama. She briefly wondered if he’d made a mistake and approached the wrong person, but he was looking straight at her.
What a silly question also fleetingly crossed her mind; they were clearly the only people on the entire beach. Mary smiled at him politely. At first glance, he was slightly older than her with dark hair greying around the temples.
“Is there room for two up there?” he asked cheekily with a glint in his eye.
Mary nodded silently, amused by his forward approach, and watched as he carefully sought footholds to climb up and join her. Plenty of space for them both, without being too close for comfort.
“Hi, I’m Oliver,” he said, respectfully holding out his right hand.
“Hello, I’m Mary,” she replied shyly, getting to her feet to shake his hand.
Her first impression of him was friendly and good-looking; no objection to him gatecrashing her solitude.
“Come here often?” he drawled playfully. She quickly judged his opening gambit as beyond cringeworthy, but somehow the humorous note in his voice allowed him to get away with it, that and the twinkle in his eye.
Now they were both on the same level, she realised how tall he was. From underneath her sunhat all she could see was the chest of his polo shirt. Whipping off her hat to look at his face, she crouched down to leave it on the rock, just as a light sea breeze caught the brim and whisked it away.
“Your hat!” he gasped, leaping energetically off the rock and chasing after it. Each time he bent down to pick it up, another little gust blew it out of reach. Mary giggled. He heard and looked back, grinning with amusement. Now playing to his audience, he pretended to sneak up on the hat, suddenly pouncing and eventually managing to catch it. Mary clapped as he returned triumphantly shaking the sand off her hat.
He climbed back up onto the rock and passed it to her.
“Thank you,” she smiled gratefully.
“Probably trying to escape my dreadful chat up lines!” he joked.
They both laughed at the icebreaker, and sat down side by side facing out to sea.
“Great sentimental value. My husband spotted the words embroidered on the front and decided it was made for me!”
“Will he mind me disturbing you now?” asked Oliver respectfully.
“No, you’re fine – he passed away a few years ago,” replied Mary quietly.
“Sorry to hear that.”
“But he would have been very grateful to you for rescuing my hat … and saving me from self-absorbed melancholia.” She muttered the last bit to herself, before adding more brightly, “Haven’t a clue how long I’ve been sitting here, any idea what the time is?”
He pulled a phone out of his pocket. “Almost one.”
“Gosh, is it really? Been sitting here for hours! Ought to go back and find my phone, just in case my children have been trying to call.”
“I’m on my way to the little beach restaurant, just over those rocks there. If you haven’t any other arrangements, why don’t you join me?”
Mary considered his invitation, weighing it up against the other less appealing option of going back to the hotel; lunch elsewhere did sound preferable to sniggering glances.
“Won’t I be intruding on your plans?” ventured Mary.
“Not at all. In fact you’d be doing me a favour.”
“Really?”
“Don’t enjoy eating on my own, much nicer to have someone to talk to.”
“In that case, yes please,” she replied, also delighted to have some company.
Standing up and putting his Panama on at a jaunty angle, he bent down to offer Mary a hand to help her up. When they were both standing, he gallantly offered to hold her hat. “Would you like me to carry the runaway for you?”
“No, it’s all right thank you, got a firm grip on it this time.”
“We need to cross the beach to those rocks over there. It’s an easy climb to the top, you can see the restaurant from there, not far at all. Have you been to it before?”
“No. Actually, it’s my first time here, only arrived the day before yesterday. My friend’s refurbishing an old farmhouse nearby, and very kindly asked me to join her for a fortnight. While she’s at work, I’m enjoying the sun and a change of scenery.”
Mary couldn’t help being impressed by how attentive he was, offering his arm for support when she stepped up onto the rocks, and staying close by in case she slipped. She appreciated being looked after like this again; it had been a long time. Normally, at home, she was always the one looking after everyone else. Chivalry seemed to come naturally to him; she liked that.
“Are you keen to do any sightseeing, get to know the area?”
“Haven’t thought really, bit of a last minute decision to come here. Actually to tell the truth my friend persuaded me, said I needed a break or I would have a breakdown!”
“Sounds serious! What a nice friend to be so concerned about your wellbeing. Look, there’s the restaurant!” he cried, pointing ahead as they reached the top.
The only building in sight was a small timber shack with wisps of smoke escaping from its chimney. A dozen round tables were scattered outside under white canvas umbrellas, each with a first class view out to sea.
“Owned and run by an elderly Provençal couple. They only open for the summer season but do a roaring trade. Food’s simple, all local produce, cooked by the owner’s wife.”
A portly man waddled towards them, pushing his spectacles up onto the top of his bald head, holding out a podgy hand. Greeting Oliver like a regular, he ushered them to the best table. Following along behind, he pulled out Mary’s chair for her to sit down and deftly removed the Réservée sign from the table. After taking Oliver’s order for drinks, he returned almost immediately with a chilled bottle of local rosé and two glasses.
“What a fantastic view,” gushed Mary, “absolutely stunning!”
“Thought you’d like it,” beamed Oliver, picking up the menu and glancing down it. “One of my favourite little places for proper local food. Traditional unfussy recipes, wine from a nearby vineyard, an incredible view – and now a beautiful woman too!”
Mary felt a little flutter inside; it had been ages since anyone had complimented her and it felt good. She was going to enjoy lunch.
Conversation flowed easily between them, as though they’d known each other a long time. Mary found him interesting and able to talk about almost any subject. She told him briefly about
Henry, her children and life at home in London.
As the waiter approached to take their order, Oliver leant forward to catch a stray wisp of her hair and gently tucked it behind her ear.
“Let me order for you, I want to guess what you like!”
Momentarily taken aback by his forwardness, which she had to admit she quite liked, his easy confidence gave her delicious shivers.
Turning to the waiter, Oliver asked, “Could you give us a couple of minutes please?” before smiling warmly at Mary, and studying the menu to choose for them both.
Impressed by his rock solid aura, Mary also liked the flattering way in which he kept looking at her. It wasn’t long before she was certain, without doubt, he was flirting with her.
He was immensely charming too, making her feel younger and happy again. Little butterflies had appeared in her stomach, but she daren’t analyse them; they felt suspiciously like lust. Desire and longing were just distant memories nowadays, long since forgotten about. This flutter of emotion caught her completely unawares, the antithesis of normal life, even surprising herself with wanton thoughts.
The waiter came back again, topped up their glasses, and asked if they were ready to order yet. When Oliver rattled off their order in perfect French, the butterflies rioted and Mary had to pinch herself to check she wasn’t dreaming.
When she’d finished her starter Mary sat back in her chair to reflect, capturing the moment and appreciating the view, feeling grateful for the unexpected turn of events. Oliver finished his food and dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a napkin, placed it on the table, and leant back in his chair to observe her. Obviously liking what he saw, the smile on his face and the twinkle in his eye said it all. Boldly attempting to meet his gaze, Mary felt her cheeks burn, as it dawned on her she fancied him too.