Justin would have been over the moon to be here now at her side on a vessel so finely constructed. The memory caused her to tremble, to shudder. Why wasn’t he here? She dragged a deckchair towards her and made herself comfortable, facing portside. Cannes, with its original marina and the tall white-fronted hotels lining the Croisette, was diminishing. The lower Alps in the distance were drawing into focus, offering a verdant backdrop to the harbour and town. This was the bigger picture with less precise details. Figures in miniature. Susan felt the breeze on her face, the rocking of the hull beneath her, and she began to relax.
As they glided out beyond the jetty to the open sea, they slid by a small flotilla of single-person sailing boats: a sailing class. Voices were hollering excitedly from one to the other. A pod of young white butterflies scudding through the gentle swell of shore-bound breakers.
Gustave, wielding another canvas chair, slapped it to the deck alongside Susan. He crossed his legs, exhaled with a deep sigh of satisfaction. ‘Florent, our captain, will head us east towards Italy. We’ll round Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat and then make our way back. I hope you don’t feel I’ve kidnapped you?’
Kidnapped?
Susan shook her head and glanced in his direction. ‘I think it’s just what I needed,’ she smiled shyly.
4
Susan’s flute of champagne was drained. She had downed the very last drop. She stood up to stretch her legs and place the plastic glass somewhere out of danger. Gustave had disappeared to spend time with the crew or the captain. They had rounded the Cap d’Antibes and were splicing through the water at a good six knots an hour. Her hair was flapping across her face. The salty sea air was invigorating and she felt rejuvenated, as though segments of limbs were waking up after an extended period of paralysis. Susan’s inner self had shut down, been frozen. Frozen with shock and sorrow, but today, for the first time in more than two drawn-out years, from when Justin’s sickness had first taken hold, she felt the blood tingle through her veins. She was alive. Whether she chose to be or not, she was alive; she was here, and this was a glorious day on which to be alive. She clung tight to the rails and gazed out onto the passing landscape of closed and shuttered belle époque mansions with manicured gardens and perfectly still blue-water pools shaded by umbrella pines. Each villa possessed its own private staircase carved out of the rock, descending to the sea.
She had chosen this part of France as her getaway location because neither she nor Justin had ever visited the Côte d’Azur. She had wanted somewhere that would throw up no memories, no history. Blank walls, just like those in her white studio. She had not reckoned on, given any thought to, the stupendous beauty of this corner of the Mediterranean. The French Riviera was seductive, and now they were sailing onwards towards the Italian Riviera. If Gustave – this charismatic man whom she knew absolutely nothing about except that he had patient eyes and an enthusiasm for adventure – if he had asked her whether she wanted to keep on going, sailing onwards with no thought of yesterday or tomorrow, or even this day, she would in that moment have answered ‘Yes’. A resounding affirmative as the wind billowed out her clothes and her long chestnut hair danced about her shoulders. Grief and loss were slipping away, falling from her shoulders. She wanted to thank the stranger who had given her this respite, gifted her these hours of escape, of liberation. But Gustave was nowhere to be seen. She spun about. In sight were a trickle of the crew members busy with their tasks. She decided to go and look for him. She dragged herself away from the magnificence of the scenery and descended below to explore the yacht while searching for her benefactor.
There were six double cabins, a spacious dining area, a kitchen fully equipped with everything you could possibly need. This schooner was the height of luxury. Discreet gilded metal plaques, attached here and there to various parts of the sailing boat, announced the name Perini Navi, esteemed boat-builders from Italy. Had Gustave purchased this schooner in Italy and then, together with his friends, sailed it to Cannes? Or might they have clubbed together and bought it between them?
She wondered why he had been so determined that she should tag along. Somewhere she caught the muffled murmur of voices. Gustave and Florent? She followed the sound, drawn towards them. She wanted to ask questions. She was keen to know whose treasure this was.
Might the captain require another crew member? If so, she would volunteer. She pushed open and poked her head round one, two, three doors but could not locate the men. Eventually, she returned upstairs to the deck, to the fresh air and her new-found exhilaration out on the open waters.
5
‘Is this your yacht, Gustave?’
Gustave tossed back his head and let out a lion’s roar of laughter. ‘Alas not. Having looked at several others, I am intending to hire this one for our wedding next month, assuming the captain and I agree terms.’
‘Wedding?’
‘The bride has been insisting on a blessing out at sea at sunset after the official chapel service and luncheon. I warned her that it was not practical. It would disrupt the principal day, cause the meal to be hurried and not a focal point in itself. Instead, I suggested that, if she is still dead set on this outing, it could take place on the evening before the great day. All guests present, which is to count a gathering of some one hundred and fifty. Champagne, canapés, the usual . . .’ Gustave fell silent.
‘And?’
‘Yes, she’s acquiesced. So here I am on the hunt for the ideal bateau. I expect I will settle for this one. What do you think?’
The schooner was tacking, turning, a stately pirouette in the aquamarine sea, preparing for its return journey to port. Susan stared open-mouthed at her host. Why wasn’t he asking his fiancée’s opinion, rather than hers?
Yells from one crew member to another drifted from the mast areas out to the high waters. It was after three in the afternoon and it was beginning to dawn on Susan that they might not berth in Cannes in good time for her to present herself for her first evening’s employment. She needed to return to her studio, change her clothes, slap on some after-sun cream, a bit of make-up. Her cheeks were reddening from the wind and sea air. She cursed her fair complexion. And how foolish of her not to have calculated the time she needed to prepare herself for her new job.
Reality was creeping back.
‘Obviously, if we are to factor in the necessity for overnight accommodation, even a vessel of this size cannot host more than a dozen or fourteen at the outside, whereas our château has many more rooms. So, I have put my foot down and insisted that we opt for the sunset champagne cruise – corny as it is – the evening before the wedding, and then bus those of the party who are staying with us back inland to our estate for a light supper. Afterwards, early to bed in readiness for the holy service in the private chapel the following noon.’
‘Well, a sunset cruise on The Name of the Rose would seem a dreamy start to any wedding, I think.’ Susan felt something seeping out of her day.
‘As I said, only if the captain or his superiors drop the price. They are driving a hard bargain. We only require a half-day affair, which is certainly costly enough. Still, the bride’s family have endless resources. And whatever she desires . . .’ Gustave let out a sigh and fell silent. A hangdog look. He who always appeared so upbeat. Susan wondered why he never spoke of his future wife by name. She wondered why she felt a sense of disappointment at the revelation that Gustave was soon to be married. It was not as though she was attracted to him – she wasn’t, was she? – or had nurtured any romantic inclinations for herself, had she?
‘I thought you might have an opinion on the matter,’ he smiled, half apologetically, after a few moments of silence. ‘I hoped you might come up with another plan, something more original.’
‘Me?’
‘Would this really appeal to you, the night before your wedding? Sunset drinks, a blessing . . . sailing this, admittedly magnificent, coastline?’ He gestured towards the shore, which now lay to their rear, beyond starboard as the
schooner swung west. ‘I suppose I should have realised that there was bound to be an attraction to this renowned location and that any bride might make such a request. Foolish of me not to have done so, given that we are situated sufficiently close to the hub and glamour of Cannes.’
‘I could live here. It’s perfect,’ mumbled Susan as she attempted to reel back her carefree mood.
‘Could you?’
‘What time do you reckon we’ll dock?’
Gustave threw a glance in her direction, appraising her as though he had completely forgotten who he was actually in conversation with. He had also caught the sun on his face. It suited him. ‘Close to six, I’d say. Do you have another engagement?’
She shrugged, debating whether or not to admit that she had a job, and such a menial one at that. Why not? It was nothing to be ashamed of. Honest, hard graft. On the other hand, she had no desire to embarrass him or cause him to feel guilty on her behalf.
‘When’s the wedding?’ she asked, deflecting the conversation away from herself.
‘Second week of June. A month from now, give or take a day or two.’ He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it. She noticed his fine, long fingers. On the back of his hands was a light dusting of ginger hairs. She felt an excitement rise within her, an emotion that had been absent for too long, an upsurge of longing, which she curbed, to stroke her fingertips against his hand, to let her fingers settle there, to be in physical contact with this stranger. ‘And there is still so much to prepare, to make ready. The château is . . . Well, we bought it as a ruin. Semi-ruin.’
The prospect seemed to perplex rather than please him. Were he and his bride intending to live in the château? What about his two colleagues? Presumably it was sufficiently large to house them all?
The set-up struck her as a little odd. What did it matter? She turned her head away from Gustave, tamping down her desire. It was none of her business. She was going to be late. Damn.
The schooner was gliding through the open waters again.
Susan shifted her chair, eager to make the most of the scenery, and to gain some breathing space from this man at her side. They had rounded a cape and were brushing closer to the shore once again, passing by hidden coves where bathers lay stretched out on the rocks or the sandy shore. Gustave stood up and lifted his chair, offering to take hers too.
‘Where are you from?’ he called as he carried the seats to face starboard and to shore.
Lines of dinghies bobbed at the palm-fringed water’s edge. Villas the size of palazzos, where no one seemed to be in residence, gazed out to the distant horizon, beckoning, silently calling.
‘London originally,’ she answered, hoping his interest in her personal life would end there.
‘And now?’
She deliberated. ‘Close to Oxford. What about you?’
‘I’m Parisian, or Ile-de-France, through and through. I was brought up on our family estate just south of Versailles. This is the first time I’ve ever set up home more than a hundred kilometres from the capital. I have no idea how long this little venture will last, but it promises to be an excellent experience. So I thought, why not?’
At that moment, the captain climbed up on deck. He was carrying a sheath of loose papers, which flapped in the breeze. ‘Pardonnez-moi. Gustave, si vous avez un petit moment?’ he called softly.
Gustave excused himself and the two men disappeared below for the remainder of the voyage.
* * *
When they finally dropped anchor, Susan was anxious to skip away. It was twenty to six. She was one of those who are obsessed with never being late, and almost an hour behind schedule was not the impression she had wished to give her new employer. Gustave, who seemed to have reached a satisfactory arrangement with the captain, shook the man’s hand and set forth to escort her. ‘Can I give you a lift somewhere? My car is parked just along towards the Mairie.’
Susan was intending to head in the opposite direction, away from the town hall, so blurted out a Merci to Gustave for his invitation and scooted off along the pontoon. She had no time to lose, no time to change her clothes, tidy herself up. Her hair was wild from its open-sea combing, her face must be redder than a lipstick and her emotions were churning as though she were seasick. No time to thank her host properly for a splendid day out on the water. She waved goodbye and legged it along the quay without looking back, running the length of the port to the start of the Croisette, where, opposite the Palais, she bulleted into Chez Louis and almost set a waiter with a tray of full glasses spinning.
She was given the sack on the spot, without discussion. No amount of pleading or protestations could soften the manageress’s heart. ‘I don’t need someone who lacks commitment. The festival kicks off tomorrow and now I’m one short for tonight’s service. Thanks for nothing.’
‘I could lend a hand, just for this evening . . .’
‘Be off with you. Stop wasting my time.’
Susan nodded. She perfectly understood. In earlier days, she might have reacted in a similar manner. Slowly, she made her way out the door and stood helplessly in the street as the evening traffic roared back and forth. Now what? Little was different to yesterday evening, she reassured herself. She’d had no job then and she had no employment now. Did it really matter? She’d manage. She always had, even through the very leanest of times during Justin’s illness when neither of them had been bringing in a salary. And the fact was she had enjoyed this day out, her unforeseen excursion, more than any other for months now. Possibly years.
Even so, now what? She felt deflated. At a loss.
She was back where she had been, yet something had shifted – although she could not have described what that something might be. She trudged back along the front, intent on making the most of her stroll along the esplanade to her studio. The bars were filling up. Shiny red, white or daffodil-yellow sports cars were flying by her, each occupied by neatly cut young men with blondes at their sides. Attractive people in party frocks were congregating. Music could be heard from a dozen different sources. Susan had stopped listening to music after Justin died. She hadn’t even thought to bring her iPod with her.
Elgar, Mahler, Brad Mehldau’s keyboard of evergreens. Her head, her body had been emptied of so many notes. Deprived. She had forgotten the smell of freshly cut grass on a Saturday evening after Justin had mown the lawn, how their cottage had resonated with music. When Justin was alive and well, together they had curled up against cushions in their back room, which looked out upon their garden, drinking wine, reading, talking. How in a simple unspoken way her heart had been so full and reverberated with such joy.
She felt utterly, utterly lonely. Miserable.
There was nothing indoors for dinner or, yes, the paper bag with two hundred grammes of fresh pasta purchased that morning was still in her shoulder bag, squashed there. It had been in the heat since this morning, but it would do. She had eaten nothing since an early breakfast. One beaker of champagne on an empty stomach. She was ravenous, windswept and just a bit tearful.
Back to base, to another solitary supper.
Inside her pristine white cell, she set a kettle of water to boil for a cup of tea. As she pulled the bag of linguine from her handbag, she found lying alongside it an envelope with her name, ‘Susan’, handwritten in blue ink.
Within was a short note penned by the same author.
Chère Susan,
I have enjoyed your company today. Thank you for accepting to come along for the ride. I admire your spontaneity.
May I add that . . . I can empathise with those faltering steps along an uncertain path to an undefined future.
Don’t ask me why or how I know, but I think I do.
Please, don’t judge me intrusive. But if I can be of help . . . no, there is none. Still, companionship can eventually ease the loss. Attached is my card. Again! Do call.
Why not come up and have a long idle lunch with us at the château on Sunday? On Sundays, our wedding discussions
and responsibilities are set aside. Charles and Jean-Christophe will gleefully take on the role of chaperones.
Amicalement
Gustave
PS: I can drive down and collect you – I don’t even know where you are staying – sometime around noon? Or whenever suits you.
Susan stood clutching the letter, which she read twice. It had been written on the schooner’s stationery so he must have penned it while she was up on the deck and he below with Florent.
‘I can empathise with those faltering steps along an uncertain path to an undefined future.’
What was he telling her? She set the letter aside and filled a pan of tap water to heat the pasta. Lunch at the château. With a man who was soon to be married. This would be a foolish step. The emotion that had been confusing her throughout the day was the budding attraction she felt towards Gustave. Or was it simply her loneliness responding to his acts of kindness, his interest in her? Nothing to do with a physical yearning at all. The visceral response from one isolated being to another who has expressed generosity and empathy?
Instinct, or fear, warned her that she should not accept this invitation. Her defence mechanisms were threadbare – every last thread – and she would be unable to protect herself against rejection, or derision. She was better off on her own, consuming the hours with her daily round of inconsequential activities. Her existence might seem forlorn and, yes, it was uneventful, but it was steady and impenetrable. She was walled in, surviving, getting by.
It was wiser to leave her circumstances as they were.
The Love of a Stranger (Kindle Single) Page 4