He laughs before lowering his eyes to the menu. ‘So how about this? Do you see anything you recognise?’
He hands me the leather-bound copy and I scan the list. ‘Omelette, hamburger, pizza. I think I’m better at French than I thought.’
He purses his lips, but I can see the humour glinting in his eyes. ‘Okay, okay.’ He waves a hand at the menu. ‘Further down, madame.’
‘Poisson is fish,’ I say, reading the heading from one of the sections.
‘And do you like all fish?’ he asks, raising one eyebrow.
I pull a face to indicate I don’t because I daren’t tell the truth, which is that I only really eat chip shop fish or fish fingers – and of course the tuna in an occasional salade niçoise. I put the anchovies on the side.
‘Then you must learn which fish is which.’ He folds his arms smugly.
‘Sole á l’orange. Sole with orange sauce?’
‘Good, but again quite an easy one. Any others?’
‘Moules are mussels. And that’s it.’ I stare blankly at the rest.
‘You’re better than you thought. We pronounce it “moule” though.’
‘Why put an s on the end then?’ I ask.
He shrugs. ‘Why do women buy so many pairs of shoes when they can only wear one at a time?’
‘Touché.’ I smile. ‘Moule.’
‘Perfect.’ He smiles.
We talk through the rest of the menu and I’m quite surprised by how much I recognise. Some words I’ve seen on products at work, some I just know or are easy to work out. By the time the waiter comes to take our order, I feel confident enough to ask myself.
I decide to be adventurous and confidently say, ‘Moules frites, s’il vous plaît,’ to the waiter, taking a satisfied breath when the waiter just nods as if it was normal.
‘Eek!’ I screech. ‘He understood me.’
‘Well done,’ Olivier says once the order is complete and the waiter has gone. ‘Using language is the key to mastering it.’
Olivier continues to teach me useful phrases while we eat our meal, and he asks me basic questions in French and I reply. He’s a good teacher, patient, calm and thorough just like I thought he’d be, and the French lessons keep any potential awkward silences at bay. By the end of the evening, I’ve ordered wine and dessert for us both, requested the bill and thanked the waiter for a delicious meal. As we sit finishing our drinks, I’m feeling quite accomplished.
‘Well, I think lesson one has been a success.’ He holds up his glass and I chink mine against it.
From across the table, his eyes rest on mine, that lightning blue piercing me. Instinct urges me to look away, but I’m unable to; instead, I find myself running my fingers through my hair to straighten it out in case he’s looking at what a tangled mess it is.
‘I was wondering …’ His smooth voice breaks through the silence. ‘I’m off on Saturday and thought it may be nice to drive over to the coast. The weather forecast looks good and I’m ready for a day relaxing on the beach if you’d like to join me?’
My heart leaps and I have to reassure myself that he can’t possibly see it punching through my chest like some cartoon depiction of love. Is it a date? I haven’t been on a date for such a long time.
‘I’d love to.’ Somehow, I manage to sound casual.
‘Fantastic. If you like, we can visit Étaples in the morning and have an afternoon off war history. We could even use it as an opportunity for another French lesson,’ he says and my heart shrinks before I plaster on a smile.
‘Wonderful.’
Chapter Eighteen
I’ve already changed twice. I don’t know what to wear to the beach in France, or any beach for that matter. Last time I was on a beach I was much younger and much slimmer. Should I even take swimwear? My phone buzzes, breaking my mild state of panic.
Don’t forget ton maillot de bain! O x
I Google the translation and smile because it’s like he’d read my mind. Then a new wave of panic sets in: I’ll have to wear a swimsuit, in front of Olivier. I pull out the two token costumes I’d chucked in the case ‘just in case’. I’d not actually expected to need a costume on a WWI tour of rural France, but it’s what you do when you go on holiday, isn’t it? One is a hot pink bikini that has little bits of sand ingrained in the fabric from its one trip to Dorset many years ago, and the other, a plain black one-piece that I’d bought with the very best of water-aerobics-based intentions, is so old the stitching has started to fray, but I do seem to remember it was quite flattering thanks to a control panel that was great for hiding my ‘mum-tum’. I shove it in my large canvas shopper, which, for today will be doubling as my beach bag.
I stand up to leave but sit back on the bed again just moments later. I should try them on first. I check the time and I have a few minutes. What if I look hideous? I take a breath and stuff the costume and my towel into the bag – I think being blissfully unaware of how I look will suffice.
The number of white gravestones at the military cemetery in Étaples is overwhelming. Neither of us speak as we pay silent respects to the fallen and somehow, Olivier’s uncharacteristic silence says a lot. There are a few other visitors around but the place is quiet and still, granting earned, eternal peace for men. I should live a better life. I shouldn’t fall back into my rut of work and cleaning. We each get one chance at life, and if this vast number of gravestones represents something it’s how precious life is. I take out the letter that my great-grandfather wrote shortly after his arrival in 1915.
‘I’ll leave you to read it,’ Olivier says.
Instinctively, I place my hand on his forearm and our eyes catch. ‘You don’t need to.’
20th December 1915
My dearest Elizabeth,
We’ve begun our gruelling training. The conditions here are dreadful. There are men with the most horrific injuries who’ve come back from the front line to convalesce and men deemed well enough to be sent back who seem to have lost their souls. For they are without fear, pride and hope; instead, they’re filled to the brim with resignation.
We have been told of what awaits us down the line, but until we’re there, it’s hard to imagine how one will cope. The men who do return home won’t ever be the same again but this is the hand we must play for our great Nation.
All my love to you and Rose,
Will
Olivier swallows. ‘The conditions were terrible. They only got worse too.’
‘I remember reading how Wilfred Owen described it as “vast and dreadful”.’
‘You know more about the war than you give yourself credit for; you’ll be after my job next.’ His lips dance playfully, and I can’t help but grin at the compliment.
***
‘I hadn’t expected this,’ I say as I take in the white, sandy beach when we pull up in the pretty town of Le Touquet. Olivier turns down the radio that has been blasting the Foo Fighters all the way here. His singing was certainly interesting.
‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’
We trudge through the sand and find a spot to lay out our towels. The sun is beating down but there’s a strong breeze coming off the sea that keeps the temperature at a comfortable twenty-three degrees.
‘This is the life,’ Olivier says, sprawling out on his towel. I hadn’t noticed him take off his T-shirt and the tanned, defined torso I’m greeted with surprises me a little. I’d not given much thought to what was beneath his red uniform before, but now I’ve seen it, it’s all I can think about. I turn away before he catches me looking because that would be embarrassing.
The tide is out and the water glistens under the sunlight in the distance. Children squeal, running around after kites. Seagulls ‘keow’ overhead. I relax into my own towel and look up at the blue sky, shielding my eyes from the sun with my hands. I’m in paradise, and the grey skies of Berrybridge seem like forever ago.
I don’t know how much time has passed but when Olivier sits up and opens the cooler that he’d
brought, I’m parched, and ready for whatever he has inside.
‘Freshly squeezed orange juice for you, madame?’ He hands me the bottle, which I press to my forehead, grateful for the coolness. It has one of those bottle stoppers that teenagers of the Eighties used to affix to their shoelaces.
‘Did you make this?’ I ask, noticing the lack of a label.
‘I pressed the oranges myself this morning.’ He grins but doesn’t meet my eye. I want to tell him he never fails to surprise me, but instead I thank him and tell him how delicious it is once the first tangy sip hits the spot.
When he’s drunk half of his juice, he turns on to his side and props his head upon a sandy hand. ‘How come you’re here alone, Cath?’
I splutter a little. ‘I beg your pardon?’ I realise straight away that I sound abrupt, but his question has taken me by surprise and I want to bide my time and fabricate a reason that isn’t as pathetic as the real reason, which is simply that I didn’t have anyone else to come here with.
‘I suppose I’m wondering why you are single.’ Using the fingers of the hand he’s leaning on, he rubs his forehead. ‘I’m sorry, it is none of my business. The warmth of the sun is probably making me feel too comfortable.’ He bats at the words with his hand and I relax a little, unsure as to why I over-reacted.
‘No. No, it’s fine. I got pregnant young and had bigger fish to fry than dating men. My son’s father left before Kieran was even born. He wasn’t ready to be a father he said, then moved away and I haven’t heard from him since.’
‘I can never understand men like that.’ He lets his words hang in the air for a moment but then shifts his tone. ‘You haven’t dated anyone?’ he probes, keeping his eyes on mine.
‘No, I’ve never considered it. Kieran’s always been my priority.’ I tug at a piece of cotton on my towel, unable to meet the strength of those bright blue lightsabres.
I’m expecting more questions or at least a ‘why?’ but instead, he shrugs and says, ‘Fair enough.’
I let out a sigh. ‘I’ve told you all about me, now it’s your turn. What’s your story?’ I ask in a tit-for-tat exchange. His top lip tightens slightly before he breaks into a smile.
‘I had a girlfriend back in school. We were together many years but as we got older, we drifted apart.’ He dusts sand off his arm. ‘The year we turned twenty-one, she left to go travelling the world and I never saw her again.’ He raises his hand to suggest it was no big deal, but I sense some remorse. Perhaps she was the one who got away. I’m about to offer some sympathy when he opens his mouth to continue. ‘Why are you not seeking a Mr Right?’
The question throws me a little, even though I was expecting it. I’d never really thought about it. I’d only asked him because it was unusual for a good-looking, kind man to have reached forty and remained single. Perhaps there was a small part of me that was curious too.
‘For a long time, it’s just been me and my son. I had a brilliant, hands-on mother and since she died my pet brother moved in.’ Bemusement sweeps his face, but I don’t want to have to explain my naff joke, so I continue. ‘I’m never alone enough to think about it. In short, other than lust after the handsome lead in a romantic comedy or the dishy weatherman on the local news, I don’t really think much about men.’ He listens intently as I speak, which is a little unsettling because none of the men in my life pay any attention to me whatsoever. Normally, I don’t talk about touchy-feely things like this because I don’t know anyone interested enough in how I feel.
He smiles. ‘You’re an independent woman. I get it.’
‘You could say that I suppose, but I don’t always feel like one. I think a woman on a punctured life raft is more accurate.’ I find the sand with my fingers and watch them sink into its softness.
‘You speak from the heart and I love how honest you are but you shouldn’t be so negative.’
I let my shoulders sag. ‘I’m not. I suppose I use humour to deflect sometimes.’
‘The tide is coming in. Shall we go for a swim?’ And with that, the subject is deflected.
I look across the sand and children are splashing in the surf. The sun is only just hot enough to penetrate my skin so I seriously doubt it’s hot enough to heat the English Channel to an acceptable temperature, but I don’t want to come across as soft. ‘Let’s do it.’
Olivier is already on his feet, and I hadn’t realised earlier but the navy shorts he has on are swimming shorts so he’s sea-ready. I, on the other hand, need to change. Holding my towel around myself, I slither out of my shorts and vest self-consciously hoping none of my bits are flashing the poor unsuspecting people behind me. Quickly, I step into my costume, pulling it up and taking the time to adjust it in all the right places before daring to drop the towel. Olivier had the good grace to walk towards the water, ensuring my privacy (from him at least), so I jog a little to catch him up, willing him not to turn around and see everything jiggling about in a far-from-Baywatch-esque motion.
As expected, the water is freezing and dipping my feet in is almost too much to bear, but Olivier runs in until it’s knee-deep and dives in head first before bobbing back up and beckoning me in.
‘Come on. You have to get in quickly – once you’re in, you’ll love it,’ he shouts above the crash of the surf.
I inch a little deeper, so the water laps my ankles and turns my feet into blocks of ice. I’m pretty sure I’ve lost the feeling in my toes. ‘You’re right. It’s lovely but I think I’ll just stay here.’ I smile.
Olivier is now swimming at a leisurely pace. ‘Come on, it’s invigorating. You just need to get your head under.’
My head? I’m struggling with my ankles.
‘Fine.’ If there’s one thing I’ve learned about the British since being here, it’s that we’re made of tough stuff and I’m not a wimp. I take a deep breath and run towards the breaking waves until I’m deep enough the water poses too much resistance to run any further, and then I flop forward into what I hope resembles a dive. The initial shock of the cold water takes my breath away but as I swim, my muscles warm up quickly and it does feel quite pleasant. The old salt water.
‘See, invigorating isn’t it?’ Olivier swims over to join me. ‘I much prefer this to sweltering on a hot beach down in Spain at the height of summer.’
‘I think there’s room in my life for both,’ I say, laughing.
We run back to our towels, collapsing into them when we arrive. The breeze is like an Arctic blast now I’m wet, but he’s right, it was invigorating, and I feel giddy and alive. I sit propped up on my arms. My legs are almost dry already with just the odd water droplet scattered around my goose bumps, but my costume is wet.
‘Here, have my towel.’ Olivier puts his towel around my shoulders and sand grains fall from it, sticking to my arms. He’s already plonked his wet bottom in the sand before I have time to protest.
‘Thank you.’
‘Thank you for humouring me and coming for a swim. In fairness, I didn’t think it would be quite that cold.’ He shakes his head, sending water droplets everywhere. ‘Not many women I know would have gone in. You’re brave.’
‘Or an utter dingbat. Those women probably have more sense than I do.’ I chuckle. ‘It’s not a proper trip to the seaside if you don’t go in though, is it? That’s what I used to tell Kieran anyway.’ Olivier looks at me for a moment and smiles warmly sending a new wave of shivers through me.
A ball lands by my feet, sending a puff of sand into the air, and I throw it back to the young boy bounding towards it.
‘Once we dry off, I’ll show you the town,’ Olivier says. ‘But first, how about our next French lesson?’
***
The town of Le Touquet is as perfectly whimsical as I’ve come to expect from my limited experience of French towns, with narrow streets lined with stunning French architecture. The summer crowds have descended and the bars and restaurants seemingly reap the rewards. Aromas of garlic, fish, and ale fill my nostrils as the ra
ys beat down, making all the glass in the town sparkle.
‘I could live here,’ I say, as we amble through the crowds.
‘You’d need a lot of money and besides that, if you lived here, you wouldn’t appreciate it as much.’ He’s right, of course. I think of all the things I could see or do back in England that I never get around to. ‘Arras gives me the best of everything: Paris, Lille, the coast and even the channel are all close by.’
‘I suppose I have it pretty good too,’ I muse. Not Olivier-good, but I have a roof over my head, a job and a wonderful son and that’s a lot to be thankful for.
Olivier stops outside a traditional-looking bar-come-restaurant. ‘Here we are.’
There are some wooden bistro-style tables and chairs outside and we manage to grab one of the few remaining.
The temperature has picked up so we both order the salade de la mer, after Olivier assures me that shrimp will be the only seafood I’ll find in there and then he orders a bottle of wine I’ve never heard of: Louis Jadot, Macon Village Chapelle aux Loups. I make him teach me how to say it because it sounds so wonderful and I love how the shape of the words feel in my mouth.
Perhaps I’d soaked up too much of the place but I’m a little lightheaded. France is a drug running through my veins and, caught in the moment, I feel brave enough to put a few words together. ‘Je suis chaud,’ I say confidently, adding what I believe to be a French accent and hoping I’ve pronounced it right. Sometimes it’s difficult to know what you actually sound like.
Olivier’s eyebrows shoot up pushing away any shred of hope I had of accuracy.
‘Er, yes. I am hot. Now we’re not getting the sea breeze.’ I say with less confidence.
He smiles and his eyes fill with mirth. ‘Ahh, I knew what you meant. It’s probably not something you should go around telling everyone though.’
‘Why ever not?’
He leans across the table, so his lips are close enough to brush my ear and whispers; ‘You’ve just told me that you’re horny.’
I gasp, hiding my face with my hands as my cheeks blaze. ‘But, the words … Oh, dear God!’
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