by Lynda Renham
‘Those who indulge bulge,’ shouts a voice.
I jump and spin round.
‘Jesus Christ, who was that?’
I slam the fridge door shut.
‘Naughty pickers wear big knickers.’
What the hell? I am beginning to feel like a naughty girl who has been caught with her fingers in the cookie jar. A large flashing Diet Decision Maker cupcake is winking at me from the fridge door. Blimey O’Riley, Olivia has a deterrent fridge magnet that gives a verbal equivalent of a slap on the wrist whenever you are tempted. Is this the secret to Olivia’s slim figure I wonder? I turn away with a smile and make myself a cup of tea and sit outside on the balcony to enjoy the stunning view. Any hope of putting Christian out of my mind is impossible. Everywhere I look there are reminders of him. I open the fridge for milk and inside are the cheese and olives that he loved so much. On the kitchen counter are the chocolate biscuits that he ate so many of. After drinking my tea, I decide to drive into the town for some shopping. Olivia’s Peugeot, I am thrilled to see, is automatic, so armed with my map, I set off to the town. The sun is shining and I find I feel quite happy. Stopping at a lay-by, I check the map. I take the next left and follow the quiet country road. A man waves at me and I wave back. I sigh contentedly until a car zooms around the corner. I scream when I realise the maniac is coming straight towards me.
‘Get out of the way, you maniac,’ I shout in a shaky voice.
He swerves around me shaking his fist. I exhale as I see him disappear around a bend and lift my foot slightly off the accelerator. My God, the French are bloody mad drivers. Following the sign to the town I turn right at the lights only to have another maniac come towards me. I see a pedestrian waving frantically at me. Oh Jesus Christ, it’s not them, it’s me. I am on the wrong side of the bloody road. I swerve the car sharply to get it onto the right side, forgetting the cars that are already there. They all sound their horns at once and I scream as the car mounts the kerb.
‘Stupide femme,’ a driver shouts at me and I blush. I have no idea what the insult is, but an insult I am sure it was. How dare he? After all, I am British, so in theory he is in the wrong and I am in fact driving on the right side of the road. Well, I would be if I were in England, I assure myself as I park the car in what I hope is a car park. I look around for a ticket machine, but there isn’t one. I debate whether to leave the car or move it when I see a lady walking towards me.
‘Oh, bon petite senora,’ I stutter, thinking it doesn’t sound right at all. Oh why did I not learn French properly at school? I always was pants at languages. She looks at me quizzically and then behind her and then back to me.
‘Can I park here?’ I say loudly and clearly.
She shakes her head and then shrugs. I point to the Peugeot.
‘I stop car here,’ I say nodding at her.
She shrugs again. Oh sod it. I thank her and walk to the shops. Olivia told me to use the general store as they speak English. The smell of freshly baked bread hits my nostrils as I walk in and instantly my stomach rumbles. I approach the assistant, an elderly lady who wears an apron and has her hair tied back severely.
‘Bon petite senora…’ I begin and then realise it is most certainly wrong.
‘Shit, sorry, that’s Spanish, bon petite madam.’
The girl stacking the shelves sniggers and I feel myself blush.
‘Bonjour madame, how can I help you?’ answers the elderly woman pleasantly.
Oh shit, shit, of course its bonjour, Oh bugger, bugger. I feel the blush suffuse my body.
‘I’m staying at Treetops and I need some provisions, would you be able to help me?’
Jesus Christ, what is wrong with me? Provisions? Am I in the Wild West now? I’ll be asking where the nearest saloon is next. It was so much easier when I was with Christian. Oh bugger, why do I keep thinking of him?
‘Ah yes, Olivia told us about you.’
The young girl sniggers again and I wonder what on earth Olivia told them about me.
‘I am Rosa. My daughter owns ‘Clarisse’ the restaurant. You will be dining there tonight?’
I shake my head and then wonder if it was a question or more of a statement. It did sound a little Gestapo. You vill be dining there tonight.
‘Oh no, not tonight but tomorrow I vill, I mean will,’ I reply and bite my lip.
‘I book table for tomorrow, eight o’clock good for you? We have nice British man who eats with us every night. I sit you with him?’
‘Oh no,’ I shout and quickly look behind me to see if anyone has heard me.
She raises her eyebrows.
‘I thought you look for a new man, and he is English just like you, and no girlfriend.’
Good Lord, do I look that desperate that I would dine with a stranger on my second night?
‘That’s very kind of you but don’t you think you should ask him first? Actually, I will eat alone and about six thirty, if that is okay?’
Good heavens, I have not been here five minutes and matchmaking is in progress. I would really prefer to see what this man looks like before sitting down to dinner with him. What kind of man is he anyway if he agrees to eat with a woman he has never met, and who might look like the back of a bus for all he knows. A desperate man, that’s what, and a desperate man is probably an ugly man. Unless, of course, he knows nothing about this matchmaking malarkey, in which case it would be dead embarrassing all round.
‘I am sure he will not mind. He comes most nights to eat and chats to everyone. I think he would like the company at dinner.’
I cough uncomfortably.
‘Well, I would prefer to get to know him first, but thank you.’
I thank my lucky stars for the escape and allow myself to be guided to the cheese counter. My mouth waters at the sight of the succulent meats and assorted cheeses. I purchase a selection along with some freshly baked bread and olives and, of course, Christian enters my head again. Oh this is ridiculous. The whole country reminds me of him. The girl wraps the cheese and points to a poster on the wall.
‘You would like it, and there will be men too,’ she says nodding excitedly.
Good Lord, what on earth did Olivia tell them about me? One hour in France and it seems I am already known as the ‘man-eating English woman’. They will be locking up their men before you know it.
‘Lovely,’ I remark, looking at the poster and not understanding a word.
‘It is a cheese tasting with wine. You will like it. It is in French of course, but we will pair you with someone who speaks English as well as French. I will put your name down,’ says Rosa, pulling out a pad and scribbling in it.
Heavens, these French women are pushy.
‘But, when is it?’ I ask hesitantly, not wanting them to think that their idea of finding me a man is not appreciated.
‘Wednesday evening. That is good for you? Ah…’ She puts a finger to her head. ‘Claude is helping you, I remember, he can bring you, and you can drink some wine. That’s good.’
I go to protest but she wags her finger at me and I know it is pointless.
‘Great, that sounds really great,’ I say, attempting to sound enthusiastic and moving quickly to the door.
‘Bon Jovi,’ I say exiting quickly and cringe. Bon Jovi? What am I saying?
I trudge back to the car with my purchases and am piling them into the boot while trying to think of an excuse to get me out of the cheese evening when a yellow Citroën zooms past. It couldn’t have been the Lemon, surely? After all, isn’t Christian in Munich? Or if not in Munich then in New York, but most definitely not in Côte d'Azur. Anyway, I am supposed to be forgetting him aren’t I and meeting someone new? Perhaps I should have dinner with the British man, after all he may be decidedly handsome for all I know. No, what am I thinking? No men for a while. I put the Citroën out of my mind, switch on the engine, check what side of the road I should be on and pull out slowly. Visions of a large glass of red wine, a warm bath and my French language pro
gramme push all thoughts of Christian from my mind. My first day getting to know the locals has gone very well, I think. I drive slowly on the wrong side of the road. Well, it is in fact the right side but it certainly does not feel like it. My mind travels to Christian and something occurs to me. I turn into the driveway leading to Treetops, park with a screech and dive out of the car. I race upstairs to Robin’s office where I had dumped my laptop. I open it and Google ‘Christian and French home’. It takes almost ten minutes before I have the information I need. There is a small photo of him wearing a hard hat, and a very unglamorous jacket, but to me, he still looks sexy. The caption below reads Celebrity architect builds his own home in France. I read the article and clap my hands in glee. This is exactly what I suspected.
Christian Lloyd, the celebrity architect has bought a home in Europe. Born in Surrey, England, Mr Lloyd has often voiced a desire to build a home in France. It is thought that Mr Lloyd paid an estimated half a million euros for land which is deep in the French countryside in the village of Carte d’Or, close to the town of Côte d'Azur.
I jump up and do a little dance and then realise my phone is ringing downstairs. It must be him. I fly down the stairs almost falling down the last two. He must have seen me in the town also. I grab my Blackberry and stare mesmerised as Simon’s name shows on the screen. Oh good God, what now?
‘Hello,’ I say cautiously.
‘Annabel?’
For Christ’s sake, if he phoned me, it must be me mustn’t it, so why does he ask such a question? And why in heaven’s name doesn’t he call me Bels like everyone else, sod it.
‘Simon, hello.’ I attempt to sound less cautious this time, but I can’t help wondering why the hell he is phoning.
‘You arrived there okay then?’
His voice sounds funny but I can’t work out in what way. My eye spots the bottle of wine that Olivia had left sitting on the kitchen counter and I then remember the shopping I had left in the car in my haste to get to my computer. I walk outside.
‘Yeah, I got here fine,’ I say pulling the car door open and retrieving my shopping.
‘I didn’t know whether to call you back or not but I figured you wanted me to.’
‘What!’ I shout, slamming the door on my foot and wincing.
‘Can you hear me?’ he shouts back.
Shit, what the arsing head and hole is he talking about? Why is he being so nice to me? What does he mean he figured I wanted him too? I limp to the lounge and drop the shopping bags and then myself onto the couch. I look down to my foot and wince. My toe is very red, and oh good God, very big.
‘Simon, I’d better say goodbye. I think I’ve broken my toe,’ I say, attempting to wriggle it.
‘Good God, how did you do that?’ he exclaims, surprise rather than concern in his voice.
I sigh and don’t bother to respond.
‘Do you want me to come to France to see you?’
‘What?’ Jesus Christ, is the only word I can utter, continually going to be what?
‘No no, I don’t think it’s anything serious.’
I stare longingly at the kitchen to where the wine sits and slowly ease myself up and begin to hobble towards it. Clicking my phone onto hands-free Simon’s voice booms out,
‘I wasn’t talking about your foot. It’s just I checked your flat and well, you hadn’t left the cooker on… the thing is…’
I look to my phone and see the battery has died. Oh God, what was he about to say? Surely he does not think I phoned with the pretext of leaving the cooker on as an excuse to talk? Oh bugger. I pull the cork out of the bottle and a wave of pain shoots through my foot. I fill a glass in the hope it will send me some kind of divine inspiration. I look at foot and groan in disgust. It is starting to turn a very nasty purple colour now and throbs like hell. I grab Claude’s card from the coffee table and limp to the house phone. He answers on the second ring.
‘Hello, Claude, sorry to bother you but I think I have broken my toe,’ I say flatly.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I wake up feeling quite happy until I move my foot. The agonising memory of the door slamming on my foot returns with alarming clarity. I grab my Blackberry which is now nicely charged and see I have missed two calls from Simon. Oh bugger it. Pulling the quilt off I stare at my now very large toe. Of course it is just a bad bruise. Claude’s wife came over last night and rubbed some atrocious smelling cream on the toe and gave me a bottle of strong painkillers. I was also equipped with a pair of crutches. The painkillers had knocked me out for the night. I can’t let a bruise stop me, I think courageously and forty minutes later cautiously test my bad foot on the pedals of the car. Feeling assured it would be okay I grab my bag, map, crutches and Blackberry and set off to an art exhibition that is being held in a church in the hamlet where Christian has his house. I considered looking for the house but remembered it was so well hidden that the chances of me finding it were very slim. No, the best idea is to go to the hamlet and ask questions, well try to ask questions. I hope that someone there will speak English. All through breakfast I had debated whether to phone Simon, finally deciding it was best not to. I will see him when I get back and by then he would have seen sense, hopefully. I edge the car out of the driveway and make sure I am on the right side of the road. I stop after thirty minutes to check the map and then continue for another thirty minutes until I see the sign for Carte d’Or. My toe is throbbing now, and I am delighted when I see a sign for car park in English and French. After manoeuvring the Peugeot into a space I lift my throbbing toe from the pedal. I am in the heart of the countryside, and the smell of lavender is divine. I close my eyes and listen to the birds singing and imagine that I am sitting in the Lemon with the sunroof off. After a short time I reluctantly open the door and step timidly from the car. Armed with my crutches I hobble down the cobbled pathway. I see people walking towards me and hope that they speak English, but not feeling very confident I pull out the notes I had made in French. I approach hesitantly.
‘Bon Jour Senorita, can you show me le eglise?’ I ask, drawing the shape of a church steeple with my hands.
They look at me blankly. Oh God, stupid bloody language course. I feel sure eglise is the French for church. I begin to wonder if maybe they speak some kind of French slang and so do not understand me. There must be regional accents here too.
‘You English, yes, I understand,’ says a woman smiling.
Oh Lord.
‘No, no, you don’t understand. I’m not English, well I am English but, oh dear…’
‘Ah, Swedish?’ she says.
Swedish! Do I look bloody Swedish? I didn’t recall having blonde hair and plaits the last time I looked. There suddenly seems to be a lot of shouting. Within minutes a mob has gathered and they are all staring at me expectantly. Good God, if I had been in the East End of London, I would not expect to get out alive.
‘Bon Jour, everyone,’ I say pleasantly, only to be met by a stony silence.
‘Ah, of course, I must use the plural as there are a lot of you. Bon journo,’ I repeat and this time, at least, they look at each other.
‘I want to go to le eglise. Yes?’ I pretend to pray and feel I am getting closer and closer to God by the minute.
‘Ah, eglise, yes,’ says one woman excitedly and my heart leaps until she starts firing directions at me in rapid French. Oh sod it. Obviously in this part of France they do not speak English or at least not very much. Another woman joins in and I attempt to write down the few words I understand, which are, turn right turn left and then turn right again. I spend five minutes writing things down and crossing them out, as they argue amongst themselves. Finally, armed with directions, I thank them kindly and make my escape. My foot throbs and my stomach feels decidedly acidic from the wine I had drunk the night before, and I could seriously murder a coffee. Hobbling away from the mob I try to follow their directions by using my small phrase book. God knows, the bloody Beginners French course has been totally useless s
o far. By the time I reach what few shops there are I am parched and in desperate need of my painkillers. I see an elderly man walking towards me and, although I am certain it will be a waste of time, I approach him.
‘Excuse me, can I get a coffee anywhere?’
He snorts, points to what looks like a corner shop and continues walking. Good Lord, friendly lot or what? I open the door of the coffee shop and fall down a step.
‘Shit, that’s a bit dangerous,’ I yelp, glaring at the pretty shop assistant who smiles kindly at me.
‘Are you all right,’ she asks in perfect English and I almost hug her.
‘You speak English,’ I say excitedly.
She nods.
‘I love the English language, I so much want to go to England and see Cilla Black.’
Well, that’s novel. Most people want to see Kate Middleton, and there was me thinking the French hated us.
‘Are you from Liverpool?’ she asks, her face brightening. I stare at her. Good God, do I sound like I am? I shake my head. How did I go from being Swedish to a Liverpudlian?
She rushes out the back and comes thumping back with a chair.
‘Here, you have to rest your feet.’
I discover her name is Greta and she loves everything English, especially re-runs of Blind Date. She makes me coffee and while I sit drinking it, she lists all her favourite British things, all of which are Cilla Black related. When I can finally get a word in, I ask her if she knows where Christian Lloyd lives but she looks blank.