‘I think they’re frightened to death of you,’ he replies, and we all laugh a little, not just at the joke, but at the relief that she’s her usual self.
‘Just a hairline fracture of the fib-u-la.’ She sounds out the word in her Southern accent and the sound dances in my ears. ‘I’ve seen the X-ray. Doesn’t even look like you need a darn fibula if you ask me,’ she says, and I can’t quite tell if she’s being serious.
‘Of course you need it! Why else would God give you one?’ Cynthia says. I catch Olivier giving me a sideways glance, his smirk mirroring my own.
‘Well, there’s a much bigger, sturdier-looking bone right next to it, and I’m glad that one is still intact is all I’m saying,’ Martha replies to Cynthia, as though that’s the end of the matter.
‘So, come on then, what happened?’ I ask, before a full-on row about the human anatomy breaks out.
‘Well,’ Harry says, placing a hand on Martha’s good leg. ‘She was having a selfie at the top of some steps, would you believe?’
I choke back a snort of laughter.
‘I was not having a selfie.’ Martha places a hand on her hip while the look on Cynthia’s face suggests her mind may too have involuntarily slipped into the gutter. ‘I asked you to take a picture of me with the Eiffel Tower in the background.’
‘You wanted a picture of yourself. Your-self,’ he repeats. ‘A selfie! I am all up on the lingo.’ He throws his hands up as though he’s won – game, set and match.
‘That isn’t a selfie, you old fool,’ she replies. I notice Olivier turn away as Martha explains to Harry what a selfie is. The slight jiggling of Olivier’s shoulders suggests he’s finding this whole conversation as hilarious as I am.
This is confirmed when he whispers, ‘I am beginning to wonder if Harry pushed Martha down the steps.’ And I giggle before he adds, ‘I’m also wondering if I’d blame him.’
‘I was on the steps of the Trocadéro with the Eiffel Tower in the background, and I’d asked old Instagrandad over here to take a photo.’ She glares at Harry. ‘A selfie of myself,’ she mocks. ‘A simple photo of me and the tower like thousands of people probably take each day. Take a step back, he said. I can’t get you in.’
‘Oh my.’ I clasp a hand to my mouth.
‘It happened so quickly. Rolly and I didn’t see a thing,’ Cynthia says, eyebrows pressed together. ‘One minute she’s posing, the next she’s in a crumpled heap screaming in agony.’ She looks worriedly at me and Olivier.
Olivier holds up his hands. ‘It’s okay, I’m not the police.’ He lets out a small laugh, and it breaks the tension that has mounted from the drama.
As dusk draws in, we decide to make our way back to Arras. Martha is being kept in overnight because of concerns over her high blood pressure, which means she’ll miss her flight back to the US tomorrow. Olivier has told her not to worry and that he’d sort it out. Cynthia and Roland have decided to stay in France too in case Harry needs anything, which I think is very sweet.
Harry stays with Martha in the hospital while Olivier takes me, Cynthia and Roland back to the car. Cynthia bundles several fancy shopping bags in the boot before getting in.
Once we’re on our way, the mood is understandably sombre. Everyone is weary and processing the events of the day.
‘So,’ Olivier pipes up cheerfully, ‘did you get to see the sights of Paris? Before the accident, obviously.’
‘Oh, yes. It’s such a beautiful city, the architecture, the history, the Eiffel Tower,’ Cynthia says dreamily. ‘It’s the most romantic city I’ve ever seen.’
Roland clears his throat uncomfortably and Olivier flashes me a sideways glance and a knowing grin.
‘I haven’t ever been,’ I say.
‘So that just then was your first visit?’ Cynthia gasps. ‘Well, that wasn’t romantic at all.’
Her words hang in the close air of the car as I sit there for a moment, pretending to be indifferent to her inference, if there even was any.
‘Well, I didn’t come to France for the romance,’ I remind her.
‘I know.’ Thankfully, she agrees.
‘What?’ Olivier says in mock horror. ‘France is the country of love!’
I giggle and feel immediately silly.
‘How about you, Roland? Did you like Paris?’ Olivier asks, and I’m thankful he’s moving the conversation on.
‘It was nice and all, but expensive,’ he says. Olivier lets out a small laugh in agreement. ‘The ladies had us shopping on the Champs-Élysées. They should call it the Chumps-Élysées because that’s what all the husbands walking up there are. Chumps.’
‘Oh, Rolly, you sound just like Harry now. I swear he’s made that joke at least fifteen times.’
‘You women almost bankrupted us. I swear, high rollers in Vegas have lost less money than Harry and I did today.’
‘But I got a gorgeous new scarf,’ Cynthia adds.
I fight heavy eyelids as the darkness settles and silence absorbs us. Olivier’s eyes are fixed on the road ahead and when I glance to the back, Cynthia has her head resting on Roland’s shoulder. They’ve both nodded off.
An almighty bang rattles the car violently, and we swerve to the left and then sharply to the right before coming to a stop on the hard shoulder of the A1 autoroute.
‘What was that?’ My voice trembles and my heart races as I look around the car to make sure everyone is okay.
‘I don’t know. I think the tyre has blown.’ Olivier is already climbing out of the car to investigate before any of us can gather enough of our marbles to respond.
‘Are you two okay?’ I ask Cynthia and Roland. They both nod but Roland has his hands wrapped tightly around Cynthia’s. The sight ignites a little ember in my chest.
‘It’s a flat,’ Olivier says with a sigh as he slumps back into his seat.
‘Ah, okay. Do you want me to help change it?’ I offer – it can’t be that difficult after all.
‘The car doesn’t have a spare.’
‘Can you call the French AA or something?’ I ask trying to be pragmatic.
‘Alcoholics Anonymous?’ He looks at me quizzically.
‘No, a breakdown helpline or something. I don’t know.’
‘I don’t have anything like that. I can make it to the next town if I drive steadily but we’re over an hour away from Arras. I can’t get us back there tonight,’ he says, and I know what is coming. I’m tempted to suggest napping in the car until we can get help in the morning but one more look at Roland’s white knuckles wrapped around Cynthia’s hand suggests that’s not an option.
‘Can we find a hotel nearby?’ I say, despite my dwindling funds. Olivier, one step ahead, is already searching on his phone.
‘There are a few options nearby in Compiègne. I’ll make some calls.’ He gets out of the car and disappears in the darkness. The silence is only interrupted by passing cars and snippets of muffled French dialogue.
‘Okay, I found us a room,’ Olivier says getting back in the car. ‘Two rooms.’ His Adam’s apple bobs in the moonlight as sighs of relief drift from the back.
Two rooms. I swallow hard.
After checking in, Cynthia and Roland head straight to bed. They’ve had a big day so I can’t blame them.
‘Fancy a drink?’ I say, knowing I’d need some Dutch courage to get me into that room.
Olivier’s reply comes far too quickly. ‘Yes.’
He’s got us a twin room but even so. I’m imagining the characters from the film Inside Out are in my head, except my characters aren’t balanced by one another. They’re all ‘fear’ and they’re each having some kind of meltdown. I have nothing to sleep in and my underwear is the comfy ‘old faithful’ sort, not the sort Hollywood would have men believe is ‘everyday lingerie’. In fact, everyday lingerie is an oxymoron. There’s no such thing but men don’t know that.
Why am I even thinking about underwear? What has gotten into me? There are bigger fish to fry. I should be more wor
ried about snoring or trumping in my sleep. Oh God! Now I’ve thought of those things, I am worrying about them.
I take a huge gulp of my wine as soon as Olivier places it down in front of me.
‘It’s been quite a day,’ he says mistaking my gulp of wine for Martha-related worry, rather than bodily-function worry.
‘It certainly has. I’m glad Martha is okay.’
‘I think she appreciated our visit. It was very kind of you to give up a whole day of your holiday to go.’
I brush the remark off with my hand. ‘I had to make sure she was okay.’
‘I know. I just don’t think many people would have dropped everything like that to take a two-hour trip for a lady they’d only recently met.’
I feel heat rush to my cheeks. ‘It’s how I’ve always been.’ I reach for my wine and take another sip. ‘How much do I owe you for the room?’
‘Nothing. The tour company has a business account with this hotel so it’s all covered.’
That’s a relief.
I wonder if it’s just me who feels the conversation that flowed so naturally earlier now feels stilted in light of our sleeping arrangements.
We chat mostly about Martha and the others whilst we finish our drinks. I’m soaked with apprehension about going to the room, but Olivier seems more relaxed.
‘I suppose we should go to the room,’ I say not wanting another drink for fear it could make the aforementioned snoring more inevitable.
He smiles. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t get separate rooms,’ he says, obviously picking up on my less-than-gleeful tone.
‘I’m just worried I might snore or something and keep you awake. I sometimes sleep-talk and I’ve been told I can get a bit shouty. I might wake you up whilst I’m yelling at a green and yellow rabid cat or something.’
Olivier laughs softly and I feel a little more at ease.
‘You’re a funny lady,’ he says, catching me a little off-guard. Secretly, I’m flattered.
‘I just blurt things out when I’m nervous,’ I say honestly.
‘You’ve nothing to be nervous about. I’ll be the perfect gentleman.’ A shiver runs up my spine. Even though I know there was no hidden meaning and he’s just saying he won’t walk in when I’m on the loo or something, my body responds to the comment. I swallow whatever words try to bubble to the surface.
‘How about a walk?’ he asks, taking me by surprise. ‘Roland and Cynthia will want to get back to the hotel tomorrow I’m sure, but isn’t “seeing France” part of the reason you’re here?’
I nod. ‘I suppose it is.’
We step outside into the sooty darkness. Everything is silent, and the dynamic between us shifts without the subtle background noise of the bar. We walk in silence through the deserted streets until eventually, Olivier speaks. ‘It’s actually quite a fitting coincidence we’ve ended up here.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘It was here where the armistice was agreed. On the eleventh of November, 1918. Your poppy day.’
‘Remembrance Day,’ I whisper. My eyes tear up for no fathomable reason. I’d not really thought much beyond the third battle of Ypres and my great-grandfather’s journey but this, being here, is so significant.
We walk past the beautifully lit palace, which feels illicit since we have the view of it all to ourselves. We then walk to the stunning gothic town hall, with its impressive façade, in relative silence until Olivier points out a statue commemorating a battle in which Joan of Arc played a part in defending the town. Just walking past the old, pretty building, lit by street lamps and moonlight helps me realise that this is what my great-grandfather wanted his daughter to experience. I can’t quite believe I’m here, doing what she should have done. I wonder if Olivier can sense that too. Perhaps that’s why he’s so quiet: he’s allowing me time to process.
‘It feels like we have the whole town to ourselves, doesn’t it?’ he says after a while. It does; it feels as though the town has been built just for us.
‘Yes, it does.’ My words come out as a whisper as he slows to a stop and turns to face me.
‘It’s my favourite time to go out walking, when everything is still and quiet.’ He takes a step forward and my whole body is alert with his proximity. I swallow as he reaches up and sweeps my hair from across my face, sending strange sensations through my body.
For a moment, we stand there, looking into one another’s eyes as a gentle breeze whips around us.
‘We should get back,’ I say.
When we enter the hotel room, the air changes between us again and I feel awkward with the thickness of it. Olivier throws down his satchel on the desk chair and takes off his shoes. ‘Which bed would you like?’ he asks.
I glance at the two beds and reason that the one closest to the bathroom would probably be the best. ‘This one.’
He flings himself on the other and sprawls out. How can he not be fazed by this?
‘Mind if I use the bathroom first?’ I ask, and he shakes his head.
Once inside I slump on the toilet seat and let out a huge sigh. I’m a grown woman; I should be able to spend a platonic night with a man in a hotel room without crumbling to pieces. I don’t know if it’s Olivier’s presence in particular that’s making me feel so self-aware or the fact that having a man in my bedroom is such new territory.
I switch on the shower and have a wee once the water comes through loud enough to mask the sound and it’s a good job I did because it’s been a while and I’ve stored water in camel-like quantities. Then I hop in the shower and rinse off the day. Once I’ve patted myself dry, I put my underwear back on, which feels disgusting against my clean skin. I look in the mirror.
My comfy nude-coloured pants are from a multipack from the clothing department at work and the mismatched bra is a plain black jersey style. It isn’t even underwired. I could be a poster girl for ‘Agent Preventer’, the lesser-known underwear-brand-slash-birth-control guaranteed to put off even the most amorous of men.
On the plus side, everything sits quite well in this old-faithful pairing and there are no obvious unsightly bulges.
In the absence of toothpaste, I rinse my mouth vigorously with water and that’s about the best I can manage. Wrapping the tiny hotel towel around me for modesty, I open the door and peek around it.
‘I’m not looking,’ Olivier says. His arm is thrown lazily across his eyes and I appreciate the gesture. Quickly, I slip out of the bathroom and hop into bed. Pulling the covers up to my chin, I drag the towel out, placing it on the floor beside me for in the morning.
Now all I have to do is get to sleep.
Easier said than done.
When Olivier returns from the bathroom, I cover my eyes in a gesture to mirror his and once he’s in bed, he asks if it’s okay to turn out the lights, which I agree to of course. I couldn’t wait for the darkness. Now it’s pitch black I can feel his energy. He’s just a metre or so away and I can hear the steady rise and fall of his chest.
‘Cath?’ Maybe he feels it too. I wanted to speak to break the tension but I couldn’t find the words.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m sorry I won’t be able to drive you to Neuve-Chapelle tomorrow now.’
‘It can’t be helped,’ I say. I can’t and shouldn’t rely on him to take me anyway.
‘Bonne nuit, Cath.’
I smile in the darkness. ‘Goodnight, Olivier.’
Chapter Twelve
A high-pitched clanging sound wakes me with a start and the unfamiliar pale blue walls don’t immediately register.
‘Olivier?’ I sit up, tucking the quilt tightly under my armpits.
‘Welcome to this morning,’ he says with cheer. I can’t tell if he’s teasing me for sleeping in or it’s an odd turn of phrase because of our language differences.
‘It’s good to see you in the land of the living.’ Okay, so he was teasing.
‘Good morning,’ I croak as he hands me a cup of coffee. I could get used to this.
‘I’ve found a local man who can fix my tyre today so I’m going to pop into town for an hour or so. It’s still early so you can relax here and have breakfast if you like.’
‘Actually, could I come? It would be nice to see some of the town by daylight.’
His face lifts slightly and I can’t help but feel like he’s pleased, although I’m about as good as reading men as I am at reading French.
‘That would be nice,’ he says. His hair is ruffled, and T-shirt crumpled but somehow, it suits him. I, on the other hand, can’t imagine the circumstances have been as kind to me.
Under the fluorescent lighting of the bathroom, things are worse than expected. My face is dry and blotchy and my hair wayward. But, on the bright side, getting ready without so much as a hairbrush takes no time at all and I freshen up as best I can with water and the plasticky hotel soap.
The weak morning sun isn’t quite enough to take the chill off my bare arms but it feels refreshing as I walk by Olivier’s side. We have an hour before we collect the car and the town hasn’t woken yet. He talks animatedly about the history of the place and I listen with interest, whilst simultaneously keeping a safe ‘morning breath’ buffer between us.
‘How about you, Cath, what are your interests?’ he asks as we stop to look at the Château de Compiègne.
‘It’s just as beautiful by day,’ I say, avoiding the question. It shouldn’t matter that I have no real hobbies, and I shouldn’t be embarrassed to say so but I am.
My tactic works and he starts talking about the chateau, leaving me a little bit in awe. I could talk for ages about the differences between own-brand products and premium ones but I doubt that would be of interest to anyone.
‘So anyway, I talk too much. Tell me about you?’
My heart sinks a little. ‘I work long hours in a supermarket and run a home – there isn’t much time for anything else. Not very exciting, hey? But if you’d like me to tell you all about subliminal marketing and why you pick up those three-for-two deals you don’t need from the supermarket then I’m your gal.’ I realise I’m gesticulating wildly and hook my thumbs through the belt loops of my jeans to minimise the risk of taking off.
It Started With a Note Page 9
