Old Friends Reunited, page 25
‘Ah,’ Laurent said thoughtfully.
We were leaving the outskirts of the town now. We had passed the long, golden beach where I had stopped to get my bearings. It seemed a long time ago. The road took us up into the hills, past neat rows of vines, which stretched on indefinitely to either side of the narrow road. Then there were olive trees, more vines, occasionally groups of people working in the distance, a lay-by filled with wooden crates, hair-pin bends around rocky crags which made me glad I wasn’t driving.
The trees crowded closer to the road as we went on, the leaves still bright with autumn colours. The air felt cooler now. I rested my arm on the side of the car, feeling the wind between my fingers and felt glamorous and sophisticated. And rather excited.
Only a few weeks ago I had been leafing through a guidebook, double-checking the expiry date on my passport and triple-checking the routes I would have to take. I’d also been making a note of where the car hire office was at the airport, which was a waste of time as they were in the middle of a refurbishment and the actual office – a portacabin with no signage, presumably to avoid those pesky customers – was miles away.
Now I was sitting back in a marvellous car with a pleasant companion, looking out over beautiful scenery. Occasionally we would pass a stone gateway and a dusty track leading to white-walled farmhouses further down the valley. Furious looking dogs barked at us as we passed and ran forward, snapping at our wheels. Once I saw a ginger cat, sleeping on top of a tractor.
And still we drove on, getting even higher, the road winding around the rocky landscape until suddenly we were at the summit, out in the clear air, acres of fields stretching below us like a wrinkled bedspread.
‘Ah,’ Laurent said, ‘here we are. Bellevue.’
He pulled up alongside a couple of trucks, parked outside an unpromising looking shack, painted white with a wriggly terracotta roof. What in the world were we doing here?
English woman missing in the hills north of Marseille. She was last seen getting into a man’s car three days ago. Friends said she was not the sort to go off like this and the Commissariat de Police said hopes were fading.
‘Where are we?’ I said, trying to sound like a woman who was more than capable of fighting off kidnappers, bands of international drug dealers or ne’er do wells. Did they have such a thing in this part of France?
‘A friend of my father started this place many years ago; I heard his daughter had taken it over. I hope it’s as good as it used to be.’
He led the way around to the back of the shack, where there was a long veranda, covered in vines. There were three or four tables set with red-checked cloths, and a couple sitting at the far end, staring at the view. And my goodness, the view was astonishing.
‘Just look at that,’ he said, ‘isn’t it glorious?’
In the distance there was a mountain range, and in between a wonderful valley, green and russet and golden with a river sparkling between the slopes.
‘They used to do the best omelette au truffes here, and the tarte tropézienne is superb. I hope it is still so, or you will think I have just taken you into the hills for no good reason.’
‘Of course I wouldn’t think that,’ I said with a jolly laugh.
The Commissar de Police – who looked a bit like a worried Gerard Depardieu in my imagination – faded from my mind as a rather jaded-looking young woman showed us to a table. It was like sitting in the middle of a painting, or a film set. No photograph could have done it justice.
A stout woman wandered out from the house and when she saw Laurent her face collapsed into an expansive smile.
‘Laurent! Mon Dieu! Q’est que tu fais ici?’
‘Thérèse! Ça va?’
This led to a great deal of hugging and cheek kissing and then Thérèse’s husband, Albert, wandered out and was similarly delighted to see us.
Then I was introduced and the whole handshaking and cheek kissing thing started again. So it took a while but eventually after everyone had been introduced, including the girl who was apparently their daughter, Suzanne, water and bread were left on the table and Thérèse went back to the kitchen to create something fantastique.
I wondered what we were going to have, there was no sign of any menus.
‘Thérèse likes to cook what she feels like,’ Laurent explained. ‘I’m sure it will be great.’
‘I hope so, I’m starving.’
He smiled. ‘I like to hear that. Perhaps it was the drive or the mountain air.’
First Suzanne brought out some sparkling wine in special champagne flutes and a little pottery plate of tapenade with deep-fried croutons. Then a bowl of garlicky rouille, and bouillabaisse, fragrant and steaming in the still afternoon. We each had a small glass of local, red wine. It was absolutely delicious.
‘What a place,’ I said, taking a breather from my meal. ‘This is perfect.’
We admired the view together in companionable silence.
Finally, Laurent broke the quiet. ‘I was brought here many times when I was a boy. For family gatherings… there used to be a lot of us. Not now; time has moved on of course. I remember celebrations, birthdays, that sort of thing. It’s been many years since… I’m glad it’s still here and has lost none of its appeal.’
‘Hmm. I was taken to the Kardomah in Cheltenham for my birthdays,’ I said. ‘It was nothing like this.’
‘Not such a good view, perhaps?’
‘Nothing like it,’ I agreed.
After a break between courses, Thérèse brought out our dessert with great ceremony. Two beautiful faience pottery plates with great slabs of the famous tarte tropézienne. It looked like Victoria sponge with attitude.
‘I warn you, this is le dessert le plus délicieux,’ Laurent said. ‘The only one I really like. The memory will spoil every other dessert you eat from this day forwards.’
‘That’s quite a claim,’ I said.
‘You’ll see.’
It was indeed the most delicious dessert I had ever eaten. From the crunchy, sugary, almond topping to the soft brioche dough and the creamy filling flavoured with orange blossom, it was divine.
‘See, I told you,’ Laurent said with a grin. ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’
I nodded. It was probably massively calorific too, and a splash of orange blossom plus a few artistically arranged berries could not possibly count as one of my five a day.
‘Invented in St Tropez and named by Brigitte Bardot.’
‘Really?’
He nodded. ‘She was filming there, and it was her favourite.’
‘I don’t blame her,’ I said, scraping up the last few crumbs.
Well, if it was good enough for BB, then who was I to disagree?
‘That was a wonderful meal,’ I said, pushing myself back in my chair and wondering if I should have worn some bigger trousers.
He nodded. ‘It does my heart good to know this place is still here, that they are still successful. Food is important to the French, and excellent food is vital.’
Thérèse returned with two espressos and tiny glasses of some liqueur. I was not sure what it was called, but it was like rocket fuel. Laurent declined his with a regretful smile.
‘J’ai la voiture. I’m driving.’
She stood, wiping her hands on a tea towel and beaming at us.
‘Mangez bien, riez souvent, aimez beaucoup. C’est le secret de la vie!’
She clapped her hands, beamed some more, collected up our plates and went back inside.
My O-level French, at grade 4, couldn’t cope with this.
Laurent tilted his head to one side.
‘It’s an old French saying, the secret to a happy life. Eat well, laugh often, love a lot.’
I thought about this. I hadn’t done any one of those things much in the last few years. It was more a case of eat erratically, brood on my past mistakes, put up with stuff. How sad.
All of that, every part of it, was changing.
We drove home through the warm evening, back along the dusty roads towards the sea which glittered in the distance. It was absolutely beautiful. As we passed the beach, people were strolling along the path walking their dogs, which were either massive with colourful bandanas or tiny and wearing little outfits. I’d never seen a dachshund dressed as a cowboy before.
Some of the cafés were open, fairy lights strung along their awnings. People were sitting inside, the lights glowing amber and welcoming in the fading light. Each one looked like the sort of place I might like to have a drink, perhaps a meal if I hadn’t been quite so full already.
‘It’s all so pretty,’ I said with a sigh.
‘Shall we stop?’ he said. ‘I’ve enjoyed our trip, and we are nearly home, it’s a shame to see the day end.’
So we did.
He parked, we walked a few steps to a wine bar and he brought me a tiny, frosted glass of a golden liqueur.
‘This is Douce, remember?’
‘I remember.’
It was delicious, cold, heady and aromatic.
More people were coming in now, steaming bowls of onion soup were being served and golden croque monsieurs. Across the room from us were a couple with a toddler in a highchair, the little boy happily pulling apart a crêpe, his hands sticky with chocolate sauce.
Perhaps I would have a grandson like him one day, maybe I would bring him here and show him the Mediterranean. The rows of grapevines ripening in the sun.
‘Now it seems we have both been avoiding our work today,’ I said, ‘me with my writing, you with your painting.’
‘Ah, you could be right.’
‘I’ve been a bad influence.’
He looked at me, his head tilted. For a moment he didn’t speak, and then he reached across the table and put his gentle hand over mine.
‘Bea, you have been an influence, but not a bad one. I have enjoyed today more than I can say.’
I suddenly felt a rush of happiness that spread through me like a warm wave. Perhaps it was the Douce. Perhaps it wasn’t.
‘That’s good,’ I said.
He ran his thumb over the backs of my fingers, and I tensed a bit, hoping he wouldn’t notice my age spots. Perhaps I should get something to fade them. Such things existed.
I’d read somewhere that no matter how much Botox or cosmetic surgery someone had, the hands always gave them away. That and the knees for some reason. Could you have cosmetic surgery on knees? Like a bulldog clip behind each one?
How silly that I had such thoughts. (Because let’s be honest, no amount of cosmetic surgery could slice off the years or the memories.)
‘Thank you for today,’ I said at last.
‘It’s been my pleasure,’ he said.
‘Let me pay for this.’
He frowned. ‘I may be old-fashioned, but I would never expect a lady to pay for me.’
‘But you paid for lunch.’
‘It’s a long time since I had a date but please, believe me, I don’t expect you to pay.’
I felt my sad old knees give a tremor. I was sixty, and I was on a date.
He pulled out his wallet and settled the bill with a charming waitress who fluttered and pouted at him a bit. Still, if I had looked like her, I would have done the same. But I don’t think I would have dared wear such a miniscule skirt.
I didn’t think I had it in me to flutter and pout any more. I wondered why not.
But if I did flutter and pout, Laurent would probably think I was having a stroke.
We left the garlicky warmth of the bistro, and he tucked my hand under his arm, quite casually and neatly.
We got back to Brise de Mer just as the sun was setting. There was a new freshness to the air, and the sea below us was calm and still, unlike my brain. As he closed the car door behind me, we stood looking at each other for a moment. Then he took hold of my hands and pulled me towards him.
La bise. A kiss on each cheek. French people did it all the time. I felt a little, unexpected tingle of excitement.
‘I enjoyed today very much indeed. I enjoyed your company. I like talking to you, you make me laugh.’
Inside, deep in my throat, I was giving a little, happy yelp of excitement. It was as though I really was me again, not just the tattered remnants of the me that William had left behind.
‘Me too,’ I said.
He bent his head and kissed me properly, his hands gentle under my jacket, his fingers firm against my back. I was so in the moment I forgot to straighten up and avoid the possibility of him finding my muffin top.
It wasn’t a kiss that was a thank you or a greeting or an apology. It was two people kissing each other because they wanted to. (Which sounds fairly straightforward, but it isn’t really. Not – to use the cliche – at my age.)
‘So we are alone again,’ I said.
‘We are,’ he said. ‘Silly, isn’t it? To feel like this. To be the parent who is having an adventure, keeping such secrets from the child. It’s usually the other way around.’
I leaned back and looked up at him. ‘So, I am an adventure?’
‘You have no idea,’ he replied, his voice husky.
‘Come to bed,’ I said.
‘I would like that,’ he agreed.
Blimey. (See what you get when you take a chance? And believe in yourself?)
I woke up early the following morning to the sound of my mobile. Where was it? That annoying little tune reverberated, not loudly but insistently. Yet somehow it was still impossible to locate.
I scrambled out of bed, pulling my dressing gown around me. I kept knocking into furniture, sending a lamp thudding to the ground, tripping over my clothes which were scattered over a fairly wide area again. It was still dark outside, and I wasn’t familiar with where the light switches were. Or the door for that matter.
Laurent raised his head.
‘What’s the matter? Are you okay?’
‘Fine, sorry,’ I replied. ‘I can hear my phone somewhere. Go back to sleep.’
At last, I found the door and went out onto the landing where the dawn was gleaming through the window. I disentangled the silk scarf I had worn the previous evening from around my ankle whilst hopping to my bedroom. Of course, I had left my phone charging there for days.
‘Mum, Mum, is that you?’
‘Katie! Yes, it’s me. Is everything okay? What’s the matter?’
‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you for ages,’ Katie said reproachfully. ‘Where have you been? I thought you would be home by now.’
I sat down on the edge of the bed and pushed my hair out of my eyes.
‘I decided to stay on a bit longer. What’s the matter?’
‘I have big news!’
All sorts of thoughts flashed through my head.
Someone had been involved in an accident. One of my daughters had been arrested. Or was ill. Or…
‘I’m pregnant!’
I gasped with shock. Whatever I had imagined, it hadn’t been this. ‘Katie!’
‘Isn’t it great? Callum and I didn’t want to tell anyone until we were sure because we had a couple of false alarms. And now we are! The baby is due in May.’
‘Oh my goodness! How are you feeling?’
‘Terrible. I’ve been off work with the sickness thing. I throw up all day, but the doctor says it will pass. All I can eat is ginger biscuits and ice cubes. I haven’t had a cup of tea for ages. Although I quite fancy a banana. I’ll have to send Callum out to get some.’
‘Oh, Katie, how exciting! The baby I mean, not the banana.’
‘Isn’t it? I’ve been dying to tell you, but I didn’t want to raise your hopes. I know it’s been the only thing on your mind recently, wanting to be a grandmother.’
‘So exciting,’ I said, while thinking, Well no, actually, it hasn’t been the only thing on my mind. But then most children were like that, they thought nothing mattered to you but them, where they were and what they were doing. And of course, most of the time it was true, but at that precise moment…
Katie chuckled. ‘Libby says it will give you a new lease of life.’
I almost said that I had one of those already, but I didn’t.
‘You’ll be able to come to the scans with me, and when the baby arrives – we don’t care what sex it is – you can babysit! Won’t that be brilliant?’
It had been many years since I had looked after a baby. And most of the time, particularly with Libby, I had been frightened of doing something wrong. The prospect of being left in charge of someone else’s baby, my grandchild, would be even more terrifying.
‘I couldn’t be more delighted! Have you told Callum’s mother?’
‘Yes, Heather’s been up into their attic and come round with a load of Callum’s old baby clothes that frankly I wouldn’t put a dog into. And she’s trying to persuade me to call the baby Gerald after Callum’s grandfather. Can you imagine?’
‘How awful; you wouldn’t be so cruel?’
‘Of course not. We were thinking of Pax or Wisteria. Heather says she is going to fight you to change the baby’s nappy. Isn’t that hilarious?’
The chances of that happening were nil. Or less than nil.
‘I promise on my honour as a seconder in the Brownies, that I will never fight Heather to change the baby’s nappy,’ I said.
‘You are a scream. You were chucked out of the Brownies, weren’t you? But, Mum, the other big news is – we’re getting married! Callum did the whole getting down on one knee bit. He didn’t have a ring so he used an elastic band. It’s the nicest elastic band I’ve ever had! I don’t want to look like an elephant in a frock on my wedding day, so we want to do it as soon as possible. We have already been to see the registrar and given notice, so it can be any time after next Monday.’
Home. Ah yes, I would have to go home.
I felt rather odd for a moment. Very pleased and excited for her, but at the same time worried. I shouldn’t feel like that. I should be more like Heather: maternal, exuberant, helpful and involved. Was I wrong to feel like this? Surely anyone would want to be there, buying changing mats and knitting teeny garments.
A new lease of life.
‘Oh, Katie! I’m so pleased for you.’
