Page 64 of The Riviera House Swap
‘I…’ she began.
But then, typically, their food arrived. Two thick steaks with chips and a side salad which both looked and smelled delicious. They laughed and tucked in.
‘So, tell me. If you had written this letter to me. Where do you think we might be now?’ he said, his eyebrows raised.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I don’t know.’ She didn’t want to tell him the kind of life she’d fantasised about – their glorious beachside wedding, the house close to the sea. ‘What do you think?’
‘Oh, I think we would have been very, very happy,’ he said. ‘But then we are still young, yes? It is not too late!’
If someone had told her a few weeks ago that Pierre –herPierre – would be saying these things to her, she’d have barely believed them. Things couldn’t be going better if she’d scripted the encounter herself.
Conversation flowed between them over the next hour – she told him about life in St Albans (mostly boring) and he about life in Cagnes-sur-Mer – (it is a good place). She told him about Bess and how they were still friends, but he couldn’t really remember her. ‘I only had eyes for you, I think,’ he’d said, with an embarrassed laugh. ‘I cannot remember anyone else who was on this exchange.’
When the time came to pay, she insisted on paying her way – and although he put up a little fight, he acquiesced. ‘Shall we go for a walk?’ he said then. ‘It is a little dark, but not so very cold. And I do not think it is raining any more.’
‘I’d love to,’ she said.
She felt a little like a teenager linking arms and going through the restaurant door into the dark street. As if they might sneak an illicit kiss on the beach, and stay out way past curfew. Not that either of them had one any more.
She was about to express this to him when there was the thud of someone running behind. At first she thought they were being mugged and clutched her handbag. But instead, it was the waiter from the restaurant, still dressed in his white shirt and black tie, holding something in his hand. ‘Monsieur,’ he said. ‘Monsieur Dupont!’
Pierre turned, smiling. ‘I am sorry,’ he’d said. ‘Is something the matter?’
The waiter panted for a second, out of breath from his sprint, then pulled a gold band from his pocket. ‘You dropped this,’ he’d said. ‘Under your table.’
Pierre looked at the ring, his forehead furrowing. ‘No, you are mistaken.’
‘Are you sure? You are the first to sit there since we opened so…’
‘Perhaps it belongs to a staff member,’ Pierre said. ‘Or perhaps to my friend here, Nina.’
‘Oh no,’ Nina said. ‘It’s not mine.’ She smiled. ‘Thank you, though. It’s nice of you to try to return it to us.’
The waiter shrugged. ‘Perhaps it rolled from another customer,’ he said.
‘Of course!’ Pierre said. ‘That’s what it must be.’ He smiled. ‘Actually,’ he said, pulling a ten euro note from his pocket. ‘I forgot to leave a tip, I think. So this is for you. For your kindness.’
‘Merci, monsieur,’ said the waiter, taking the note. ‘If you are sure?’
‘Of course!’ Pierre said. They turned and the waiter slow-jogged back into the brasserie.
‘That was nice of you,’ Nina said. Her father had always told her that the mark of a man (or woman) was how they treated waiting staff in restaurants. In which case, Pierre had just earned her father’s approval.
‘Ah, he is just a boy with a difficult job. And it was kind of him to try to return the ring,’ said Pierre, shrugging. Then a look crossed his face. He patted his pocket. ‘Ahmince!’ he said.
‘What is it?’
‘I’m sorry, but I left my phone in the restaurant, I think.Merde. I hope nobody has taken it. It is for my work too.’
‘I’m sure it will be fine. Shall we…’ she began.
‘No, you stay. I will get it quickly,’ he said, jogging off in the waiter’s wake.
She smiled and shook her head, checking her own phone was in her bag for good measure. It was, so she pulled it out and messaged the girls.
Nina
Date’s gone BRILLIANTLY. We’re off for a walk on the beach!
