‘More cheese?’ Fiona offered, leaning down to pass her the Camembert.
She helped herself to another sizeable chunk, then broke off more baguette, plastered it with butter and added a thick layer of cheese. ‘This picnic was a great idea. I was feeling really peckish.’
‘Me, too. The others may be able to last from breakfast through to dinner, but I have to say I do like my three meals a day.’
‘We bought far too much, though,’ Gillian observed, surveying the mini-banquet, set out on a beach-towel. ‘Enough for a whole tribe.’
‘Mm, but it wasn’t easy to resist, let loose in that fantastic market.’
‘I only hope it’ll keep.’
‘It won’t – not in this sun! The quiche is already going runny. Why don’t we finish it up?’
‘OK.’ Gillian divided the remaining quiche in two. ‘But if we pig ourselves on all this savoury stuff, we won’t have room for the desserts.’
‘Speak for yourself! I intend to be a total glutton. We can always work it off when we swim. Talking of which, what bliss to swim in a nice, warm sea in the middle of October!’
‘Yes, they say it’s unseasonably warm this week, yet it’s freezing back in England, so I heard.’
‘Don’t mention England or I’ll start worrying about work. My PA’s new to the job and she’s probably made a major balls-up already.’
Gillian realized with a distinct sense of glee that she didn’t care a jot if Lesley had made a million major balls-ups. Let the maddening woman rot!
‘Anyway,’ Fiona added, scooping a gloop of cheese from her lap. ‘I want to hear about this man of yours.’
‘He’s hardly “mine”. All we’ve done so far is have a quick coffee together.’
‘But how on earth did you meet him? The men in our party are all pretty dire, don’t you think? Trevor must be pushing ninety; Norman’s stone-deaf, and even Alistair seems old before his time, although he can’t be more than forty. Did you hear him at dinner last night droning on about his stamp-collection?’
‘No, I was sitting next to Gregory. Who’s not that bad, in fact.’
‘A bit dreary, wouldn’t you say? And I’m always suspicious of blokes who wear their glasses on a chain. But, listen, you still haven’t told me where you met Jean-Pierre.’
‘Well, I went out first thing this morning to do a spot of shopping …’ Gillian paused, to take a bite of quiche. No way would she add that she had been heading for the pharmacy to buy replacement drugs and laxatives, and to see if she could purchase a milk-substitute. ‘And he literally bumped into me. He wasn’t looking where he was going, so we collided almost head-on. It was quite painful, actually, but he apologized at least a dozen times and insisted on buying me a coffee, to make up. Anyway, it turns out he owns a yacht here. Actually, I’ve never been sailing in my life, but, of course, I showed an interest and – would you believe, he’s offered to take me for a cruise? It’s fixed for this coming Saturday – we’re sailing down the coast to Saint-Tropez.’
‘God, I’m green with envy! And I suppose he’s drop-dead gorgeous, as well?’
‘No, just average, I’d say, but very well turned out. Thank heavens you lent me that sundress! I’d have felt a total disaster if I’d been wearing the clothes I’d travelled in. You know what Frenchmen are like.’
‘Actually, I don’t. And my French is decidedly ropy, so even if Nicolas Sarkozy were to leap out of his limo and try and chat me up, all I could say would be “oui, oui, oui, oui, oui”.’
‘Well, he speaks perfect English, so I reckon you’d be in with a chance! I find most French people have a pretty good grasp of the language and Jean-Pierre, in particular, seems keen to improve his linguistic skills. In fact, that’s probably the only reason he suggested the sailing trip.’
‘Don’t put yourself down, my love. And for God’s sake don’t settle for being his English tutor, when he may have more exciting things in mind!’
Gillian deliberated, pretending she needed to concentrate on eating. Probably better not to let on that she was also meeting Jean-Pierre this evening, for dinner at Chez Victoire. The last thing she wanted was to alienate Fiona by seeming to boast, or gloat, or engage in one-upmanship. She was extremely lucky, as it was, in having made a friend so soon – and one roughly her own size and shape, who’d been generous enough to share her plentiful supply of clothes, when most women would have been grudgingly possessive. As yet, all she’d had to buy, whilst waiting for her case, was underwear and cosmetics. Even Fiona’s spare bikini fitted to a T. Her own lost swimsuit – a prim, one-piece affair – bore little relation to the skimpy riot of polka-dots now adorning her ample limbs. No – ‘voluptuous’, not ‘ample’. Fiona’s terminology was so much kinder than her own.
However, she would certainly have to dream up some excuse as to why she’d be missing dinner at the hotel, especially as she and Fiona had already arranged to sit together, to avoid Dora’s incessant complaining and Alistair’s philatelic obsession. When she needed such excuses at home, there was rarely any problem – indeed, sadly, they were often all too true: she had ingested some hidden allergen, such as casein or lactic acid, and suffered a bad reaction; she was stricken by a migraine, or a particularly troublesome series of hot flushes. But all that was in the past. In fact, she could barely remember the dreary old hag, once martyr to such afflictions. She didn’t even have a twinge of backache, despite the fact she was now squatting on the sand, in a position that would normally result in atrocious pain. Nor had the dazzling sun brought on the slightest headache, let alone a flush or sweat. She was just sensuously warm, with the beginnings of a tan, instead of lobster-red and drenched with perspiration. And, far from waking in the early hours, this morning she had actually overslept.
‘Oh, look!’ she said, deciding to distract Fiona from the subject of Jean-Pierre by pointing out a passer-by. The woman in question was a riot of pink: pink, sculpted curls, pink halter-top, ultra-short, pink spangly shorts, pink high-heeled sandals – patently unsuited for walking across the sand – and, to cap it all, a miniature French poodle, dyed pink to match its owner’s hair.
‘Jeez, she sure loves pink!’ Fiona whispered. ‘All the women here seem to like to go to extremes. I saw a girl this morning, dolled up in gold lamé, literally from head to toe – and that was just at breakfast-time. God knows what she puts on in the evening!’
Gillian laughed, although it was hard to keep her mind on fashion, when she was so preoccupied with this morning’s kiss. Why had Jean-Pierre kissed her – yes, right there in the coffee-shop, in full view of everyone? And not the sort of casual peck suited to an English tutor, but a real exuberant smacker of a kiss. She was decidedly older than he was and, in any case, could hardly compete with the sophisticated Frenchwomen she’d seen strolling along the Croisette. Yet, if he didn’t find her attractive, why had he asked her out? And why shouldn’t he fancy her – a woman in her prime, with a clear skin and a Junoesque figure; possessed of robust health and a decidedly perky libido? Indeed, she could barely wait for tonight and the sheer thrill of being kissed by a guy who knew exactly how to make a female turn liquid with desire.
She reached out for the gateau and cut two generous slices; smiling as it oozed a whoosh of cream. She mustn’t spoil her appetite for this evening’s splendid dinner, but the way she felt at present, she could eat for France – and still some – all without suffering the slightest reaction, or putting on an ounce.
‘Au revoir,’ Jean-Pierre whispered, giving her a last, lingering kiss. And, once he had finally released her, she stood looking back at his lithe, athletic figure as it was swallowed up in shadow. Until this very evening, she had tended to assume that Frenchmen’s reputation for being superior lovers was just another instance of crowing by le coq gaulois; deliberately inflated, as a matter of mere national pride. However, if Jean-Pierre’s skilful overtures were anything to go by – the way he’d driven her half-wild before they’d even left the restaurant �
� she would be forced to reconsider that assumption. They were meeting again tomorrow, and this time not just for dinner, so she would find out soon enough. Fiona was still a problem, but if they spent a girly day together, shopping, swimming, sightseeing, surely her friend would understand that the evening must be sacred to l’amour.
As she turned into her hotel, she all but tripped on the edge of a flower-bed; aware she was gloriously tipsy on champagne. It was decades since she had drunk so much and she had triumphantly chosen dishes awash with milk and cream: oeufs en cocotte au parmesan, with lobster Thermidor, to follow, and île flottant, for dessert. Her usual sojourns to the Pizza Hut with Richard simply couldn’t compare. And as for his perfunctory kisses, they were in the remedial class. In fact, only now did she realize how totally unsuited she and Richard were, not just in sexual matters but in every other way. Why aim low, when you could reach for the stars?
Reluctant to go inside on such a balmy evening, she gazed up at the sky. Yes, there were the stars – brilliant and unfathomable and barely dimmed by the bright lights of the town. The air was as warm and musky as Jean-Pierre’s breath; the night as dark as his eyes. She was tempted to race after him and invite him up to her room. But she had only to wait a mere twenty hours and they would be together again. Already, his highly seductive repertoire had whetted her appetite for more. Closing her eyes, she replayed the last half-hour: the thrilling way he had fluttered his long, dark lashes against her own, then kissed the inside of her elbow, with a slow and sensuous brushing of his lips. Even then, he wasn’t finished, but took her hand and clasped it and caressed it, before running his tongue languorously up and down each finger, and finally circled her palm with the tongue-tip. Those lazy, teasing circles had made her palm a new erogenous zone and the sensations seemed to spread through every cell in her body and even to galvanize her bloodstream. Foreplay was an unknown concept for Richard, as, indeed, was after-play. On the few occasions he did gear himself for action, the earth certainly never moved. Rather, the bedsprings gave a timid squeak, while he laboured for a scant five minutes, then, collapsing with a self-satisfied grunt, soon fell fast asleep.
Sleep? No way! She was too elated to do anything but just lie and think of her French lover: the scent of his skin; his headstrong thatch of hair – different altogether from Richard’s thinning locks – his throaty, sexy voice; inventive hands….
In a joyous daze, she entered the hotel, seeming to float across the gleaming marble floor.
‘Bonsoir, madam,’ the receptionist smiled, handing over the key. ‘Vous sera très contente d’apprendre que votre valise est arrivé a l’hôtel et elle est maintenant dans votre chambre.’
Her missing case – now waiting in her room. So what? The last thing she wanted was to douse her enchanted memories by unpacking at this time of night. Besides, she would hardly need a nightdress if she didn’t intend to sleep. More exciting to lie naked and just indulge in steamy fantasies about tomorrow night.
Key in hand, she sauntered up the stairs, but her blissful smile morphed into a frown on entering the room. The case had been plonked in the middle of the carpet: a definite blot on its cream perfection – indeed, an insult to the elegant suite as a whole. How scuffed and shabby the hulking object looked, and how ludicrously over-sized – out of all proportion to what she actually required for these all-too-short few days. Lugging it into the wardrobe, she closed the door with a bang. The clothes she had packed with such care in England now seemed completely wrong. Tomorrow, with Fiona’s help, she could buy replacement gear on their shopping expedition: maybe a zanily coloured outfit, to express her new upbeat mood, or a slinky, backless little number, like the one she was wearing now, on loan from her warm-hearted friend, for the all-important date.
Draping herself over the edge of the bed, she unzipped the exquisite dress, imagining Jean-Pierre’s deft fingers slowly easing it down. Yes, his lips were on her naked skin, kissing every inch of her back, as the zip crept lower, lower. And now the dress had rustled to the floor and he was slipping his seductive hand inside her silky knickers and that hand, too, was gliding lower, lower, and….
She woke with a start, burning hot and soaked with sweat; lay for a moment, wincing, as the flush engulfed her in waves of breathless, clammy heat. Why in heaven’s name was she sleeping naked, when her sensible, all-cotton nightdress would have absorbed at least some of the perspiration?
Snapping on the bedside light, she peered at her watch. Three o’clock, for pity’s sake! Last night, she hadn’t thought to draw the curtains and the windowpanes looked menacingly black. Black as her mood. Wearily, she eased herself out of bed, dragged the suitcase from the wardrobe and heaved it up onto the luggage-stand. Having struggled with the straps and locks, she found her nightdress lying on the top and immediately put it on. It was totally inappropriate for a woman of her age and size to be wandering round in her birthday-suit. Next, she unpacked her medicines. She already had a raging headache, and would need a double dose of Ibuprofen to ease the now savage pain of her arthritis.
As she limped into the bathroom to fetch a glass of water, she stared, aghast, at her reflection in the mirror. Her allergic rash was worse than ever: lumpy, red pustules had erupted all over her face and spread even down her neck and chest. She turned away, unable to endure the sight, and swallowed each medicament in turn, including the herbal potions, of course. And she had better take her laxatives, as well, since she could hardly count on All-Bran and stewed prunes for breakfast in a French hotel. The bulk laxatives required at least a pint-and-a-half of liquid, some of which she would drink in the form of tea – less unpleasant than gulping down more tap-water. Thank God for the travel-kettle and soya milk, both of which she now dug out of the case; also extricating the light-box. She knew already that she would never get back to sleep, so best to switch it on and sit in front of it, to help lift her jaded mood.
Having made the tea, she set the Litepod on the writing-desk and placed her Back-Friend ready on the chair, while she went to fetch the neck-support. She would need them both, judging by the way her joints were aching. However, before beginning her light-box session, she unpacked her clothes and put them all on hangers. They were already badly creased and she would have to iron the whole damned lot, as soon as it was light. While that murky night was pressing against the windows, she just didn’t have the energy for so onerous a chore.
Once her things were in the wardrobe and she had choked down all the laxatives, with the help of three large cups of tea, she positioned herself at the desk, in front of the Litepod screen. However, hardly had five minutes gone by, when she was overtaken by another flush, which galloped through her body, leaving her breathless and disoriented. One of the worst features of the menopause was the way it plunged the sufferer into uncontrollable states. She couldn’t choose not to flush or sweat – her hormones simply overruled her and went their own pernicious way.
On impulse, she rushed over to the window and flung it open, breathing in the cool night air, to counteract the surge of heat, still throbbing through her limbs. As the flush gradually subsided, she remained leaning on the sill, drenched with perspiration and exhausted from lack of sleep. Tomorrow, she must have an early night. The minute dinner was over, she would sneak up here on the quiet and leave the others drinking in the bar.
Oh, my God, she thought, only now recalling that tomorrow she had arranged to meet Jean-Pierre. Out of the question! How could an overweight, rash-infested, arthritic, menopausal wreck even entertain the prospect of allowing a virile young lover to lure her into bed? First thing in the morning, she must ring his mobile and say she was unwell – all too miserably true. She now felt shivery and nauseous, as she often did following a flush. In fact, if she didn’t lie down, she might actually faint, as had happened twice before. The sheets would be disgustingly sweaty, so she had better resort to her Dreamsack. The smell of her unwashed body was odious, but she felt too defeated even to shower. All she wanted was to crawl into t
he Dreamsack, close her eyes and imagine being safely home; back in her steady job and regular routine.
Holidays were lethal – the uncertainty, the change of diet, the risk of illness and accident; the way you were thrown together with completely unsuitable people, who just happened to be members of your group. Fiona might be younger than the rest, but she was far too much of a hedonist to be counted as a friend. Tomorrow’s shopping trip must certainly be cancelled, otherwise the frivolous woman would only persuade her to lash out on absurdly unsuitable clothes: blatantly backless numbers, or outfits in some flagrant shade of puce. Besides, being out of doors in the glaring sun was bound to bring on another migraine – or worse. What her body actually needed was to lie down all day in a darkened room.
She mooched over to the writing-desk and switched off her trusty light-box. Whatever its merits, it could hardly alleviate her aching sense of isolation, as if she had travelled not just to France, but to the far reaches of the universe, where no other human being lived. She longed for company and comfort; for someone to confide in, someone who could understand. Illness cut you off from normal, healthy people, who either shunned you as a bore, or tried to jolly you along. Only fellow-sufferers could empathize – people like dear, faithful Richard, with his haemorrhoids and sinusitis, his tendency to athlete’s foot, his need to rest after any heavy meal.
I'm on the train! Page 5