Dial M for Merde (12 page)

Not that I thought M was going off to meet up with
some other guy. It would have been too absurd. She didn't need the hassle of inviting me down here, and then cheating on me. No, she was just a woman who kept changing her mind, I told myself. Or who said one thing and did another.

And the bare facts were that I was checked in, free of charge, to a luxury hotel on a Mediterranean island. It was sunny, the sea was inches away from my eager toes, and I had almost nothing to do for the rest of the day except relax, swim and eat. My only obligations were a couple of phone calls about the wedding.

Zero stress.

I changed into shorts and flip-flops, grabbed my snorkelling gear and headed out into the sun. By now it was getting on for lunchtime, and the receptionist told me that there was an open-air restaurant at the far end of the island. ‘Far end' being a five-minute stroll away.

Instead of going past the row of fake fishermen's cottages and the Roman temple, I turned up an alleyway and found myself on the ‘wild' side of the island. There were almost no buildings here, just a well-maintained coastal path that followed the line of the rocky shore. Every twenty yards or so, Monsieur Ricard had built concrete stairways down to tiny gaps in the rocks so that visitors could get in and out of the sea easily. Considerate kind of guy.

I rounded a small headland and came out on the land-ward coast again, above the restaurant. It consisted of little more than a couple of rows of white plastic tables, set out in the open air. All of them were laid for two, I noticed – it was a place designed for romance. I felt a niggle of resentment at being alone.

Against the low inland cliff was an open grill that had blackened the stone above it. The slightest shower of rain
would force the place to close, which seemed to say volumes about the weather down here. Between the tables and the water's edge there was a smooth concrete bathing platform with just enough room for a line of ten or so loungers. Almost all of these were occupied, either by sunbathers or their towels.

There were already a few people eating, presumably the owners of the towels. They reminded me that I hadn't had any breakfast, so I went straight to a table and ordered some grilled seiche (squid) and a half-bottle of rosé.

‘Is it OK if I swim before I eat?' I asked.

‘Of course,' the waitress said, as if it would have been absurd to do anything else. On a hot day, people probably dived into the sea between courses the way that Parisians smoke a cigarette.

I stripped to the legal minimum, rinsed my snorkel and climbed down a short metal ladder into the clear sea. The water here was a couple of degrees warmer than at Collioure, and I spent a few joyful minutes renewing acquaintance with my old friends the spotted oblade and the hallucinogenic sarpa sarpa. I was even glad to meet up with a few spiny black urchins.

When I got out, my wine was waiting, the cool bottle sweating slightly in the sun. I dried off, pulled on a T-shirt to protect me from the breeze, and poured the rosé slowly, savouring the faint glugging sound against the background of lapping sea. I held up the glass to let the sun highlight the pale pink liquid, sniffed at the combined tanginess of the wine and the sea air, then tipped the whole glassful over my groin.

This was not a tasting technique that I'd learned at the hen party on Collioure beach. No, it was because something had put me off my aim.

It was a vision.

Climbing out of the water up the metal ladder was the weirdest thing I had ever seen. And in the past few days, I had seen some very weird things indeed.

In itself, the apparition wasn't at all shocking. It was, on the whole, pretty easy on the eye, and reminded me more than anything of that key moment in cinema history when Ursula Andress emerged from the Caribbean and made sure that no one would ever forget seeing the first James Bond film.

It was her. This time, it really was her. The dark hair was wet and tied up in a bunch, but it was definitely hers. The eyes, the lips, were hers. The way she walked back to her lounger. It was the smooth, self-assured walk I'd seen on the ramparts of Collioure castle. And she looked at me, catching my eye and glancing away again, exactly as she had in the restaurant.

It was her.

‘Sèche?' the waitress said, presumably a suggestion to dry myself off after my accident with the wine.

‘Oui, I will do it myself, merci.' I began to dab at my groin with my towel.

‘Sèche, Monsieur?' she repeated, holding a plate of squid under my nose.

‘Ah, oui,
seiche
, merci,' I blustered.

The mystery girl, whose lounger was only about six feet from my table, was smiling. She must have heard my linguistic mistake.

I poured another glass of wine and made sure it all went in my mouth this time. The bite of the cold liquid at the back of my throat convinced me that I was awake and not dreaming.

This woman, who had been popping up in my consciousness ever since I first saw her, was now a couple of
yards away, smiling at me while she rubbed sea water off her tanned body. She wasn't exactly beautiful, but there was something enticing about her. She was smallish and muscular rather than curvaceous, as if she did some kind of intensive sport. Her face was slightly angular, with high cheekbones, and as she dried herself off, there was a fierce determination about her. She looked almost dangerous. And she kept looking at me.

It was as if M had set this up – a honeytrap to see if I was the faithful kind. She announces that she's going away for a day and a night, and half an hour later a woman starts giving me the come-on.

I prayed that a husband, boyfriend or girlfriend would come along and receive the kind of lingering kiss that would tell everyone she's not available.

But no, her lounger was on its own. It seemed she wasn't expecting company.

Maybe her phone would ring and she'd answer it with a string of
chéri
s and
je t'aime
s?

But she didn't seem to have a phone. Her only visible possessions were a towel, sunglasses, sandals and a bikini.

And she was walking towards my table.

‘Bonjour,' she said, holding out a suntanned hand. ‘Léanne.'

‘Bonjour,' I replied, gripping the proffered fingers. ‘Paul.'

‘Ah, you're English!' I hoped it was the way I said my name, and not my pronunciation of ‘Bonjour' that had told her this. ‘I love to speak English. I am a tourist guide.' She had a strongish French accent and a husky voice. ‘I am sure we have seen ourselves before,' she added.

‘Seen each other? Yes, I think so. In Collioure.'

‘Collioure, yes!' She looked even more delighted, and
squeezed the hand that she hadn't yet let go of. She had an almost painful grip. ‘In the restaurant, no?'

‘Yes.'

‘You were with your girlfriend. She is not here on Bendor with you?'

‘No. Well, yes, she's gone to Marseille. She won't be back till tomorrow.' I wondered why the hell I'd added that.

‘She is English too?'

‘Yes.'

‘Really?' She looked surprised, for some reason.

‘Yes. A scientist.'

‘A scientist?' Again, she looked as though she didn't believe me. I guessed it was because M didn't look the classic boffin type.

‘Yes,' I said, and was struck dumb. I wanted to ask her what she'd been doing up on the castle ramparts, and whether she'd actually seen me through her camera lens, but I knew that prolonging the conversation wasn't a good idea. It felt like a blatant – and highly flattering – chat-up, which was the last thing I needed. I wanted to make things work out with M.

‘Is it good?' She was nodding towards my squid, which was cooling on the plate.

‘I don't know. I haven't tasted it yet.'

‘Try it, please, and tell me if it is good.'

Holy shit, I thought, next she'll be feeding it to me. The image was a pleasant one, but I banished it from my mind and took a businesslike forkful of squid.

‘Mm,' I concluded. ‘Very good.' I swallowed, and rinsed it down with a sip of wine, thinking now perhaps she'd wish me ‘Bon appétit' and go back to her lounger.

‘Well, in that case may I join you? I am very hungry, and I have had enough of eating alone.'

It
had
to be M playing a trick. This woman in a bikini was going to sit there opposite me, slurping down squid tentacles? Only a eunuch saint would have been unmoved.

She ordered squid and the same rosé as me, and asked what I was doing on the island. ‘Vacation?'

‘Yes.' It seemed the simplest answer. ‘We're travelling along the coast.'

‘Ah. Where are you going next?'

‘Saint Tropez. I have some friends with a house there.' I didn't really know why I felt the need to show off, but it came out very naturally.

‘Your friends, or friends of your girlfriend?'

‘Friends of mine.'

‘Ah. And what do you do? In life, I mean?' she asked.

‘I'm in catering.'

‘Cat-ring?'

‘Catering. I'm a
traître
. I mean, a
traiteur
,' I corrected myself. ‘For weddings.'

‘Ah.' She smiled and nodded, as if this was exactly what she was looking for. With any luck she'd announce that she was getting married next month and still hadn't ordered any food for the reception. It occurred to me that I'd actually be interested in the job, too. Catering for weddings might be fun in France, I decided. It was worth talking to Jean-Marie about adding this as a permanent sideline to our business.

‘In London?' she asked.

‘No, I'm based in Paris.'

‘Ah.' She was less pleased with this piece of information. I didn't know why.

‘And where do you work?' I asked.

‘Everywhere. I live in Saint Tropez, but I go with groups or families to different parts of the region.'

‘And are you here with a group?'

‘No. This is purely, you know,
pleasure
.'

She hadn't said the word provocatively, but I winced all the same.

The spell was broken by a crash and a woman's squeal a few tables away. A parasol had been picked up by the wind and blown from one table to the next. I just had time to see it flop to the ground behind the woman who'd screamed. She was an old, deeply suntanned lady, with a chunky gold bracelet on the wrist that she was now holding. She was grimacing in pain.

The woman with her – her daughter, presumably – stood up and started bawling out the guy at the next table whose parasol had done the damage.

‘We told you! We told you!' she yelled.

‘Told me what?' The guy shrugged. He was small and frizzy, and his tan was even deeper than the old lady's.

‘We told you to put down your parasol!'

‘And I told you to watch out because my parasol might get blown away.'

They both had strong southern accents, and were pronouncing their syllables so clearly that I understood every word.

‘Look at Maman's hand. It's turning blue!' Maman held up the battered wrist to support her daughter's argument.

‘You should have moved.' The guy wasn't letting a milligram of guilt get anywhere near his conscience.

‘
We
should have moved? Why should
we
move? We're
chez nous
!' The woman was in even more of a fury now.

‘And who do you think I am, a Parisian?' The guy shook his head and returned to his meal.

‘It is typical of us,' Léanne said. ‘Here on the Côte, we think we can do anything, because we are chez nous.
We can break the law, do anything, because it is Parisian law.'

‘Maybe someone should give the old dear a bucket of ice cubes,' I suggested.

‘You are right.' Léanne made to stand up, but I told her to finish her squid and went to ask the waitress for a ‘seau de glaçons', which I delivered to the table myself.

Mother and daughter were melodramatically grateful, and the wrist-dunking ceremony was performed with a full set of sound effects, including the loud clanking of the mother's gold bracelet against the side of the ice bucket.

‘Merci, Monsieur, merci,' the daughter repeated, glaring over her shoulder at her mother's attacker, who was giving his full attention to a chocolate mousse.

I returned to my own table, where Léanne was looking thoughtful.

‘That was kind,' she said, almost as if it contradicted something she'd believed about me before.

‘I ought to be going,' I said. ‘I have to make some important phone calls.'

‘Oh.' She looked disappointed. ‘You don't want coffee, or dessert?'

‘No.' This whole situation was getting dangerously cosy.

‘Maybe we can have a drink later?' she said.

‘A drink?'

‘Yes. If your girlfriend is not returning before tomorrow, I suppose you are free?'

‘Well …'

‘Meet me for a drink at six o'clock in the hotel bar? Please?'

‘OK.' She'd made it impossible to refuse.

‘Excellent. Do not worry, I will pay the bill,' she said.

‘Oh no, no, allow me, please.' I pulled out my credit card
from my shorts and sent my hotel key skidding across the table. The room number landed face up, staring Léanne in the eye like a crude invitation.

Bugger this, I said to myself, pull yourself together. I picked up my key, turned towards the cash desk and collided with the old Maman, who'd been limping from the table to her lounger. The ice bucket tipped down the front of her knee-length T-shirt, making her scream even louder than when her wrist had been hit by the flying parasol.

‘You must excuse Monsieur, he's not from chez nous,' Léanne called out, laughing.

3

If I'd been daring or drunk enough, I could have jumped off the balcony of my hotel room into the channel that ran between the island and the mainland, a cobalt-blue current that flowed gently with the breeze, from east to west. The town was so close that from the balcony, I could practically read the gold logos on the sunglasses of people driving along the seafront, and yet here it was completely peaceful, the only sound the slap-slap of the water on the rocks below.