Given Time

by Anthony Burn

  He led the way through a glass tunnel into an unimposing two-storey building, which revealed itself to be a small but luxurious departure terminal. We barely had time to take in the cream leather armchairs and elegant furnishings before he ushered us through to a set of double doors at the other side of lounge. I thanked him for coming in to work earlier than their usual opening time on a Sunday morning, and he told me it was a pleasure, which I doubted very much.

  As the doors opened, a second man wearing a high-visibility jacket and a pair of ear defenders around his neck greeted us and led the way across the concrete apron to a waiting Cessna jet.

  Lauren had looked nonplussed since the first guy had greeted us by name, and now her incredulity increased tenfold as she saw what we were walking towards.

  ‘Oh my God… I mean, wow! Are we going on that?’

  I laughed and nodded, and for the first time words failed her while she shook her head in disbelief. She was still shaking it as I followed her up the stairs into the plane. She stopped at the threshold and stared at the opulent interior before turning back to me with an expression that said we must have made a mistake.

  ‘Go on,’ I encouraged her.

  She regained her voice. ‘Where are we sitting?’

  ‘Anywhere you like,’ I told her.

  The aircraft was configured with eight seats, of which six were arranged singly along each side. I’d hoped there might be two together, but the plane was too small to accommodate that arrangement. The gap between the seats was narrow but disappointing nonetheless. The only double seat was a sideways-facing couch opposite the entrance, but I dismissed it as an option as the aircraft’s steps were not going to be the most inspiring view.

  ‘But what about the other passengers? Where are they sitting…?’ She noticed the door closing behind us. ‘Oh my God! We’re the only ones.’ I watched with amusement as another thought obviously occurred to her. ‘Is this your plane?’

  ‘No, we’re just renting it for the day,’ I told her.

  The jet started to move, so we quickly took the middle seats and buckled up, and while the aircraft taxied to the runway I told her about hiring private jets and the advantages over commercial flights – including being able to take off within five minutes of arriving at the airport.

  ‘But we didn’t go through check-in or security,’ she said.

  ‘That was the guy in the suit who met us from the taxi.’

  ‘But he didn’t check our passports or my bag, or anything!’

  ‘I guess he thought you looked okay.’ I laughed. ‘You haven’t got a bomb in your bag, have you?’

  The plane reached the start of the runway, and the co-pilot put his head around the cockpit bulkhead. ‘Are you folks strapped in back there?’ he called.

  I gave him a thumbs up, and he turned back to his controls.

  We powered along the tarmac and up into the leaden sky. The solid grey mass of the cloud cover seemed interminable, but just as it felt like it would go on forever we broke through into brilliant sunshine. I smiled at Lauren, noticing as I did that she was literally pinching herself.

  ‘Oh my God! I am totally dreaming,’ she said, but then her beaming smile clouded over. ‘Except if I were, I wouldn’t keep saying “Oh my God”. Why can’t I stop doing that?’

  We reached cruising altitude and the plane levelled off, so I slipped out of my seat to get us drinks from the small galley. Having checked to see if I could get the pilots anything, I took a glass of wine back to Lauren and a bottle of beer for me, placing them in the holders beside our seats before sitting down again.

  Lauren took a sip of her wine and murmured her appreciation, but then affected a petulant child’s voice. ‘I don’t like this seat. I don’t want to sit here anymore.’

  I knew she was playing some sort of game, but I decided to let her run with it.

  She stood up and pointed to my seat. ‘I want to sit there.’

  Still no wiser, but content to see where it was leading, I got to my feet to allow her to swap seats, but she pushed me back down and sat on my lap. ‘This is where I want to sit,’ she said, her voice returning to normal.

  I kissed her cheek and pulled her into an embrace. ‘Good choice,’ I told her.

  ‘So come on, mister, out with it. Where are you taking me?’

  ‘I’ve already told you,’ I said.

  ‘No, you haven’t. You just said somewhere nice.’

  ‘That’s right,’ I confirmed. ‘Oh… I might have mispronounced it.’

  She thought about it, and her face lit up. ‘Nice?’ she asked in French.

  ‘Oui, c’est vrai.’

  ‘Nice,’ she said in English.

  We nestled in heavenly intimacy as we caressed and nuzzled one another, oblivious to our surroundings and to the world turning slowly several miles below us.

  Sometime later, Lauren sat upright. ‘Did you know that Matisse lived in Nice?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve heard of the name but I wouldn’t know a Matisse if it bit me,’ I confessed.

  ‘Henri Matisse – he was considered to be the spearhead of the Fauve movement in France,’ she said, taking her phone out of her bag. ‘Oh… I don’t suppose we can get the internet up here, can we?’

  ‘You should be able to log on to the plane’s wi-fi,’ I told her.

  ‘Brilliant! I shouldn’t have been surprised really, should I?’

  She flicked through a few pages until she found images of Matisse’s work, and then began a fascinating discourse on the artist. She explained about Fauvism, and how the early Fauvist paintings caused a scandal when they were first exhibited in Paris.

  ‘Apparently, people laughed at them and some scratched the paint off the canvasses in contempt,’ she said.

  She explained how his style had changed from his early still lifes and landscapes, through to his cut-outs, and culminated in what many considered to be his masterpiece: the designs for the stained-glass windows and murals in the Chapelle du Rosaire de Vence.

  Once again, I was astounded by the depth of Lauren’s knowledge and the easy manner in which she conveyed her enthusiasm. Not for the first time, I found myself thinking she would make a great teacher, and I told her so.

  ‘What, standing in front of a class of disinterested, hormonal adolescents? No, thank you,’ she said, and pulled a sour face.

  ‘With your passion for the subject, you would have them enthralled.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it. A lot of kids in school choose art because they think it’s an easy option, not because they have any fascination for the subject. Art for me is like an addiction. Whenever I see something new, I want to understand everything about it. You could fill me up to bursting and I would still want more. I can see that in you too, Kee. It’s what first attracted me to you. Even though a lot of it’s still fairly new to you, you’re open to art and see much more than most.’

  ‘But that’s because you’re so good at showing me,’ I argued. ‘You could make anyone love art.’

  ‘No, it’s because you’re receptive, and that’s really exciting for me. I love that I can share my passion with you. It’s not the same with everyone. So many people look at art and they either like it or they don’t, but that’s as far as it goes. Even when they come to buy a painting they’re choosing on the same basis, and it’s so frustrating.’

  ‘Because if they understood what they were seeing, they’d find they liked a lot more,’ I suggested, remembering my experience with the Rothko.

  ‘Yes, that’s it exactly. It’s like, if they would only open the door, they could step into a wonderful new world.’

  ‘Like I did. I’m so lucky to have found you.’

  ‘Well, you’ve made all my dreams come true,’ she said, ‘so we’ll call it quits, yeah?’

  The impossibly turquoise, diamond-encrusted surface of the Mediterranean rose up to meet us as we made our descent along the coastline of the Côte d’Azur, and it looked as though we might drop right
into the waves before we touched down at Nice.

  Lauren had moved back to her seat and buckled in for the landing, holding my hand and squeezing ever harder as we’d flown past the multitude of pastel-coloured buildings with their sunburnt orange roofs that crowded into the green and rocky landscape. Safely on the ground, and with the sunshine blazing off the concrete, her grip was so firm that her knuckles had turned white.

  Her face was filled with excitement as we taxied up to the terminal building. ‘I can’t believe we’re really here. This is amazing. I’m sorry, I’ve got to say it.’ And then she pronounced each word slowly and deliberately. ‘Oh… my… God!’

  Within minutes we were sitting in the back of a taxi, heading out of the airport. Having depleted my supply of schoolboy French, I’d asked Lauren to give directions to the driver as she seemed to be fluent.

  ‘Ask him to take us to the best restaurant in town,’ I’d told her, and she had rattled off a conversation with him that was so rapid I’d only managed to pick out one or two words. Among them, I was sure I’d heard ‘la mer’ and ‘la plage’, but Lauren had answered my quizzical look with an enigmatic smile so I’d let it go.

  We reached the first roundabout, and I pointed out of the window. In the middle of the grass circle was a massive sculpture. Seven metres tall, it consisted of giant rocks tied together with rusted iron concrete-reinforcing bars into the shape of a man. As soon as she saw it Lauren became animated, and she almost screamed at the driver. ‘Monsieur, pouvons-nous faire le tour à nouveau, s’il vous plaît?’

  He yanked hard on the steering wheel, causing a squeal of tyres and a howl of invective from the driver in the next lane, who had to brake sharply to avoid hitting us. Lauren was apparently unaware of the commotion as the taxi circled the island, and she stared in complete absorption at the work of art. ‘C’est magnifique, n’est ce pas?’ she asked.

  The driver shrugged. ‘Merde, je pense,’ he said, and even I understood that.

  We laughed, and Lauren said, ‘I don’t suppose there’s much point in asking him if he knows who the artist is.’

  We pulled up at the far end of the Promenade des Anglais, and the driver pointed to an archway above a set of stone steps that led down to the beach. A sign hanging from the arch read Restaurant and Bar, but it was hardly what I would have envisioned for the best in town. Lauren had already jumped out before I had a chance to ask the driver to take us somewhere else, so I followed suit, and having paid him I pointed at the archway.

  ‘Ici?’ I asked, unable to disguise my irritation.

  He babbled a tirade at breakneck speed, of which I didn’t understand a word, while gesticulating at Lauren, the sea and the promenade. Finally, he threw his hands up in the air and drove off, still muttering to himself.

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s my fault,’ Lauren said. ‘I did ask him for the best restaurant, but I also said close to the beach or with a sea view.’

  ‘So, what did he say just now?’ I asked.

  She smiled coyly. ‘It’s probably not worth repeating. It wasn’t very complimentary.’

  I looked across the road and pointed out a hotel on the opposite side. ‘We could try over there, if you like?’

  ‘No, this will be fine, Kee. I’m just happy to be here. I don’t need the best restaurant too. Honestly, today couldn’t get any better,’ she insisted.

  ‘Okay, if you’re sure,’ I said, and took her hand as we made our way down the stairs. The restaurant was set out, beneath awnings and umbrellas, on wooden boards that covered the beach. The furniture was high quality wickerwork-style patio chairs, and the tables were covered with white linen table cloths. Potted ferns and palms were dispersed throughout the enclosure, and despite its location the restaurant exuded elegance. When our food arrived it was superb, and presented in a style that would have graced any fine dining establishment.

  I gave Lauren a rueful smile. ‘I think I should find the taxi driver and apologise.’

  We lingered over our coffees, enjoying the relative tranquillity of the restaurant, while all around us the beach bustled with holidaymakers enjoying the sun and sea.

  ‘I haven’t been to the seaside since I was at university in Brighton, but it never looked as inviting as this,’ Lauren said. ‘Can we go for a paddle?’

  Her exuberance was hard to resist. ‘Yeah, why not? Anything you want.’

  Beyond the restaurant and bar area were several rows of precisely spaced sun loungers equipped with blue and white towelling-covered cushions and matching parasols. I hired a pair for us, together with complimenting beach towels, before we made our way through the throng to the water’s edge. The beach consisted of large greyish-white stones, making it difficult and uncomfortable to walk on, so we stayed only a short while, carefully walking through the surf and playfully splashing each other’s legs before retiring back to the loungers.

  ‘Not much danger of sand between your toes,’ I said as I started to put up the parasol.

  Lauren took off her jacket. ‘No, but it’s still lovely here. Let’s leave the umbrella down and get a bit of sun.’

  ‘Aren’t you concerned about your fair skin in this heat?’ I asked.

  She laughed. ‘My boyfriend says he wants to kiss every one of my freckles, so I’m trying to bring out some more.’

  ‘That sounds like a very good plan.’

  She produced a tube of factor sixty sun cream from her bag and began to apply it to her legs and feet. I took it from her and slowly massaged the cream into her shoulders and neck, marvelling again at the softness of her skin beneath my fingers. I could have happily gone on stroking her all day, but after a while she laughed at me. ‘I think I’m done now.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ I said, and kissed her. ‘I love touching you.’

  We lay back, holding hands, and let the warmth of the sun and waves of contentment wash over us.

  ‘This is wonderful, Kee,’ Lauren murmured. ‘I feel as though I’m on holiday.’

  It wasn’t long before she turned onto her front, pulled out her phone and started flicking through web pages.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m trying to find out about the sculpture on the roundabout,’ she said. ‘Oh, here it is. It’s called Le Voyageur.’

  ‘That’s imaginative,’ I said. ‘Oh, yeah. Now that I think about it, there were signs on the roundabout saying Rond-Point du Voyageur. I thought they were just a reference to the airport.’

  She found the artist’s website and showed me several photos of his other works, all very similar to the sculpture we’d seen on the roundabout but in varying sizes and positions.

  ‘He likes to stick to his theme,’ I suggested.

  ‘Yes, all artists do,’ she said. ‘Most strive to make something completely original and then work in the same vein until the work becomes their signature. If you see something by, say, Constable or Picasso or Jackson Pollock, then you often know it’s their work without having to be told. If another artist creates something similar, then you say it’s like Constable or Picasso or Jackson Pollock, and you probably won’t remember the name of the artist because it’s a copy of someone else’s style.’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit limiting for an artist, if they always have to work in the same way?’

  ‘No, most will do all sorts of different work and go through several periods during their career.’ She showed me photos of the artist’s other dissimilar works. ‘But this guy will probably be remembered for his “stone men” first. He’s both very talented and very fortunate. There are lots of artists who will never create something truly memorable.’

  She was flicking at the web page, which was entirely in French, and I could tell she really wanted to read it, so I told her I’d leave her to it while I went to get us some drinks from the bar.

  ‘Only if I can have a kiss first.’

  ‘I never realised you were so demanding,’ I said before obliging.

  I expected to find her engro
ssed with her reading when I returned, but she was zooming in and out of a map.

  ‘I’ve just discovered there are lots of art galleries around here,’ she said, her eyes shining.

  I passed her a glass of wine. ‘It’s your day off, Miss Dinsdale.’

  She responded to my stern tone with a theatrical sulk. ‘Yeah, I suppose so.’

  ‘Besides, we probably wouldn’t have time to visit more than one, and that would never be enough for you.’

  ‘Have we got time to have a quick look at the Fontaine du Soleil on Place Masséna?’ she asked. ‘It’s literally just across the road.’

  ‘Is that “literally just across the road” as in “I live right next to the station” or have we got to walk miles again?’

  ‘Oh, you poor baby! Did you have to use your legs?’

  ‘It wasn’t that. It was just getting a bit urgent. If it had been any further I might’ve had to take you in the street.’

  She closed her eyes and her hips squirmed on the lounger. ‘Mmm, that’s an exciting thought,’ she said.

  ‘You’re a wicked woman,’ I said, rubbing her shoulders as I sat down beside her. ‘So, come on, exactly how far is this place?’

  She zoomed in on the map and then held up her thumb and forefinger to show a small gap between them. ‘It’s this far,’ she said, a silly grin on her face.

  I feigned a sigh. ‘Let me see.’

  She pouted and passed me her phone.

  ‘No, I wanted to see your fingers,’ I said, taking her hand and kissing them individually.

  We strolled to the Place Masséna, which wasn’t quite just across the road, but was less than two hundred metres away, so I forgave Lauren even after she asked if I needed a rest every fifty metres or so. We looked at the impressive statue of Apollo in the middle of the fountain, and she told me what she had just read about it being even more impressive when it was first installed.

  ‘Apparently there were so many complaints about how well-endowed he was, the artist had to come back and chisel away some of his manhood.’

  ‘Ouch, that’s not nice,’ I said. But with the statue standing seven metres tall, I noticed he still had a sizeable chunk of marble remaining.