Page 28 of The Riviera House Swap
He might not remember me or be unavailable
I might not even find him
Then she remembered opening the decree absolute. The feeling that had flooded through her – of having failed, of being forty and having nothing brilliant to look back on. What she was contemplating doing was a bit unusual perhaps, but it was something she’d look back on with pleasure no matter how it went. Either with Pierre, as their meet-cute story, or on her own, laughing at whatever faux-pas might occur.
I’m doing it!
She’d lived long enough to realise that every disaster becomes an anecdote or a great story with a bit of time. The disastrous dance class had already had Bess roaring with laughter when she’d recounted it; the pleasure she felt at sharing the story outweighed any embarrassment she’d felt at the time – even the awkwardness she’d felt when the woman’s head had lingered in her car window as she’d struggled into her leggings.
This would be no different, she decided shutting down the search page.
She pulled up her email and sent a quick, obligatory note to her parents.
Hi guys!
Here safe!
Speak soon, Nina xx
Five minutes later, she received a reply.
Dear Nina,
Glad to hear you’re there safe! Very brave of you to go on holiday alone. Although you know your father and I would always happily come with you. It could be like old times!
Rupert’s making himself at home – little scamp. He’s curled up on my lap right now, purring away. Dad’s not a fan, sadly – he accidentally sat on poor Rupert yesterday and ended up with quite the scratch! I’ve attached a picture – sorry about the resolution.
I told him he’ll have to get used to it, because you’re moving home for a bit and Rupert has definitely got his feet under the table. He’s not convinced.
Enjoy your holidays!
Kisses,
MUM
Once she’d recovered from opening an attachment she could never unsee, she tried to get her mind off it by WhatsApping the girls to say she was here and safe. Scratched bottoms aside, it was nice, really, that so many people cared whether she’d made it or not.
She would spend this afternoon getting herself organised, explore the area a little, make herself at home. Then she’d find Pierre’s office tomorrow and see if she could spot him in the flesh. After that, well, who knew? She didn’t have to race over to him instantly – she could take her time, see where he went at lunchtime and after work and then pounce. Or perhaps something a bit more subtle.
She made her way to the bathroom and did the best job she could with her hair – a quick brush through and a little water to flatten it where it had started to frizz would do. She’d put a treatment on it later and make sure that she was looking her best for her potential meet-cute tomorrow. Whilst there, she splashed a little water on her face and dried it on one of Jean-Luc’s white towels, leaving a print of her make-up on its perfect surface. Whoops. She’d better make sure she picked up some hardcore washing detergent.
Then she walked downstairs and found her purse, slipped the house key into her pocket, put her coffee cup by the sink and stepped out again into the warm, afternoon air.
She wasn’t exactly sure where the town centre was, but had got the impression from the taxi ride of roughly where she needed to go. It would be nice to wander a little in any case and discover how much of the small town she remembered from her decades-ago trip.
Outside Jean-Luc’s house, the pavement was quiet, save for a small, white cat sitting on a wall and watching her intently. She moved as if to stroke it, but it instantly vanished from view into the garden below.
As she wandered down the next street, she began to see more and more people. A woman walking a tiny dog who smiled as she passed. A couple, arms-linked, walking in the opposite direction. She turned again and the houses began to be replaced by larger, apartment buildings in bright white. She discovered a small grocery store at the base of one of these buildings and, grabbing a basket, stocked up on essentials then exited back onto the street, a carrier bag in each hand.
She had originally intended to make her way down to the seafront, perhaps wander past the school, but her ill-thought-out timing and penchant for Nutella (the heavy jar she’d bought weighed 1kg on its own) meant that she was forced to retrace hersteps to the house to deposit her groceries before doing anything else.
It was almost five o’clock by the time she made it back – shoulders screaming – so rather than cook some of the food she’d just invested in, she decided stash it in the cupboards and fridge, then splash out on a taxi to the front and to treat herself to a pre-Pierre dinner for one. After all, she was on holiday.
The air was cooler by the time the taxi drew up on the seafront at 7p.m. and she was glad that she’d grabbed her cardigan. The sea stretched to the horizon and the sun, just beginning its autumnal descent, had stained the water orange and pink at its edges.
It was busy: cars trundled up and down the front, taking locals home from work; couples wandered hand-in-hand towards restaurants. A group of children – seemingly unfazed by the slight nip in the air – were playing softball on a grassy area overlooking the beach, screaming and yelling in delight.
Did she remember this place? Perhaps. She remembered visiting the beach with a group of exchange students, splashing at the ocean’s edge. But was it this beach, or one further along the coast? She remembered buying strawberry ice cream from a beach-front kiosk, but not exactly where that had happened. Everything seemed familiar yet brand new at once. Her memory was of key moments on the trip – time spent with Pierre, the day they’d had to go to a French school and she hadn’t understood a word, an awful meal they’d had in a restaurant, and the time when she’d had to stand in front of the rest of the class and read something out in French – but her memory softened as she tried to pin down specific days, locations, even faces, other than Pierre’s.
