Authors: Wendy Perriam
‘Right, that’s all sorted,’ Scott declared, giving her a thumbs-up sign.
If
only
, she thought, still disgusted by the way she was getting things so absurdly out of proportion. With soldiers dying in Afghanistan and children starving in Ethiopia, how could she possibly make such a ludicrous palaver about the loss of a few paltry items?
As Scott ushered her back to the group, all standing smugly by their
un
-lost, unscathed cases, she made a supreme effort to control herself; even forcing a nonchalant smile. Yet she knew deep down that the next seven days would be pretty much disastrous.
‘Isn’t this a fabulous beach?’ Fiona remarked, leaning back on her recliner, with a sigh of satisfaction.
Gillian nodded in agreement, still surprised by the fact that the place actually resembled the pictures in the brochures, rather than being a pale approximation. Shading her eyes, she gazed out at the far horizon. Both sky and sea were so emphatically blue, one merged into the other; the only difference between them the latter’s shimmer and sparkle, as if it were made of ground-up sapphires. And the beach itself more than surpassed her expectations; not a speck of litter in sight, and the sand so fine and smooth it might have been primped and preened in the local beauty-salon. This particular stretch was owned privately by their hotel, and was dotted with colour-matched recliners and umbrellas, all in stylish olive-green and bearing the hotel crest. She herself had spurned a recliner, preferring to stretch her limbs luxuriously on that
well-groomed
, sun-warmed sand. The traffic on the boulevard had faded to a lazy drone and she was aware only of holiday sounds: the slap of a speedboat as it skimmed across the waves; the enticing clink of glasses from the hotel’s own beach-café, a few yards up the strand. And foodie smells were wafting in the air: sizzling butter, garlicky fish-soup….
‘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.