Dreaming of St-Tropez

by T A Williams

  Mrs Dupont didn’t look concerned to hear that she was unattached, but was kind enough to express surprise.

  ‘That surprises me – you’re so pretty. How old are, Jess, if you don’t mind my asking?’

  ‘Twenty-nine.’

  ‘Oh, well, you’ve got all the time in the world to find yourself a good man.’

  ‘I might need it. Like I say – there aren’t many good ones out there. Besides, I’m in no rush.’

  ‘You’ll find one, I’m sure. So, now that you’re out of a job, what are you doing these days? What are your plans? Have you got another job?’

  ‘I’m going to start looking, but I’m in no hurry to do that either. I’m doing a few bits and pieces, helping a friend at the moment, but I’ve been wondering about maybe taking a good long holiday while I have the chance. The weather here’s been so foul this month.’

  ‘It’s been awful. And yes, a holiday sounds like a splendid idea.’ She caught Jess’s eye for a second. ‘Yes, indeed, a splendid idea.’

  At that moment the door opened and Mrs Forsythe came in, pushing a trolley. Jess gave her a big smile.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Forsythe. How nice to see you again.’

  The dog pulled himself to his feet, nose pointed at the cake on the trolley, his tail wagging hopefully.

  ‘Good afternoon, Jess. I’ve made a Victoria sponge. I remember you telling me how much you liked sponge cakes.’

  ‘What a memory! Thank you so much.’

  The housekeeper unloaded the teapot, cups and plates onto a low table in front of the sofa and set the magnificent-looking cake on its fine china stand in the middle. As she did so, she glanced down at the dog.

  ‘Make sure you keep an eye on Brutus. Last week he stole a whole joint of roast beef, complete with Yorkshire puddings, and ate the lot.’

  Once she had left, Mrs Dupont returned to the matter in hand.

  ‘You’ve probably worked it out for yourself from my name, but many years ago I married a Frenchman.’

  Jess nodded and smiled. ‘Dupont doesn’t sound terribly English.’

  ‘He was a lovely man. I married him when I was twenty-two and, after a few years in London, we moved over to France. He came from a very wealthy family and we were fortunate in being able to choose where we wanted to live.’ She waved her hands vaguely around the room. ‘That’s why I’ve got all this now.’

  Jess remembered what Hope had been saying about not all rich people being bad and nodded to herself. Mrs Dupont was a sweet old lady – money or no money.

  ‘Anyway, that was sixty years ago. My son still lives in France now.’ Mrs Dupont looked and sounded nostalgic. ‘Alas, Marcel, my husband, died ten years ago, and I’ve been on my own since then. Anyway…’ Jess saw her straighten up again. ‘Anyway, I’m digressing…’

  ‘Shall I pour the tea while you tell me all about it?’

  ‘Thank you dear, that would be kind. The thing is, the news here isn’t very good. I don’t know if you heard, but Glenda’s husband died rather suddenly two months ago, I’m afraid. It was a heart attack.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.’ Jess looked up from the cups. ‘So she’s left on her own?’

  ‘She’s got a daughter who lives in Canada but, yes, otherwise she’s very much on her own. Just like me really.’ She caught Jess’s eye. ‘Or, at least, we’ve got each other. She’s been with me for so long, she’s really become my best friend.’

  Jess poured the tea and set a cup down in front of the old lady.

  ‘Would you like me to cut a couple of slices of cake?’

  ‘If you would, dear, but you’d better make that three slices.’

  ‘A slice for Mrs Forsythe?’

  ‘No, she can help herself later on. The third slice is for Brutus. He likes cake.’

  Jess began to understand just why the Labrador was so podgy. Clearly, if he was feasting on slices of iced sponge cake, it was no wonder his figure was suffering. Mrs Dupont pointed at the dog, but not to remark upon his obesity.

  ‘Anyway, I wanted to talk to you about Brutus. You see, I’m thinking about going off and doing something I’ve always wanted to do, and I thought I’d take Glenda with me for company, and as a treat to her.’

  Jess took her own cup and sipped the tea.

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘A round the world cruise. My husband and I used to do a lot of cruising, but, since his death, I haven’t been away much. I thought to myself that this was the moment to go for it.’

  ‘And how long’s a round the world trip going to take?’

  ‘I haven’t booked anything yet, but the travel agent tells me these things last about three months.’

  ‘That sounds amazing. I’m sure you’ll love it.’ Inside her head, Jess was wondering how many thousands of pounds a trip like this would cost. Mrs Dupont was certainly providing her friend with quite a ‘treat’.

  ‘I’m really looking forward to it, but there’s a problem.’ Mrs Dupont looked down indulgently at the Labrador whose eyes were still trained on the cake, a small pool of drool forming on the floor in front of him.

  ‘The problem is that I can’t take Brutus on the boat with me. I’ve had him since he was a puppy – that’s almost five years ago now – and he’s as much my best friend as Glenda. I know I’ll miss him terribly and I really can’t countenance the idea of him being locked in kennels for three months. It would be like sending him to prison.’

  Jess nodded sympathetically, but, inside, she was digesting the fact that Brutus was not yet five. With his excessive weight and his geriatric waddle, she had assumed he was twice that age.

  ‘I was wondering if you might be interested in a little proposal I have for you?’ There was a twinkle in Mrs Dupont’s eye. ‘Have you ever been to France?’

  ‘France? Just on a school exchange trip for a couple of weeks, years ago.’

  ‘Well, you see, my husband inherited the family home in France when his father died. He and I lived there for a good few years and it’s a lovely place. My son lives there now. As you were talking about maybe taking a holiday, I was wondering if you might like to do me a big favour by taking Brutus over to France while I’m having my cruise. My son says he can look after the dog, but, to be honest, he’s a bit absent-minded these days and I’m worried he might forget to feed him. I was wondering, in view of your present circumstances, whether you might like to look after him yourself and stay on for a nice long, restful holiday while you’re at it. After all, Brutus knows you and likes you.’

  The dog, his eyes still trained on the cake, had now slumped down until he was lying on the floor, one heavy paw resting on Jess’s foot.

  Jess nodded. ‘And I like him.’ She reached down to stroke his head. ‘That sounds like a wonderful offer.’ Her mind was racing. The idea of a three month holiday was really, really tempting, but the pragmatic part of her was telling her maybe she should concentrate on finding a new job. ‘So how would you suggest Brutus and I get there?’

  ‘Do you drive?’

  Jess nodded again. ‘Yes… though I don’t do a lot of driving. Living in London, a car’s more trouble than it’s worth, but I’m sure with a bit of practice, I’d be all right.’

  ‘That’s excellent. The car’s almost new. I only bought it last year for Brutus’s sake. My old car was getting too small for him. Of course, I no longer drive, but Glenda’s husband used to drive it as and when it was necessary – since his death, it hasn’t been used. But the thing is, Brutus knows the car, and he knows you, so he would feel comfortable. So do you think you might be prepared to do that?’

  ‘I’ll certainly drive him over there and maybe stay a few weeks, if you’re sure I wouldn’t be any bother to your son.’

  Mrs Dupont beamed. ‘Of course not. That’s wonderful, Jess. Thank you so much. You can stay in the guest house. It’s quite independent, tucked away in a corner of the grounds. We used to use it for guests, but he rarely has anybody visiting nowadays, and
it’s been empty for ages. You and Brutus could stay there for as long as you like – hopefully all the time Glenda and I are away, if you like it and you have time – obviously free of charge. It’s a lovely place for a holiday. How would that sound?’

  That sounded amazing to Jess. And, just in case she might have any doubts, the universe chose that exact moment to deliver a downpour of biblical proportions, reducing the view across the garden to a grey mist.

  ‘I should really be looking for a new job, but I suppose as that’s all online nowadays, I could do it from pretty much anywhere.’ Jess turned to Mrs Dupont with a smile. ‘And the idea of getting away from this weather is really appealing – specially on a day like today.’ She made a decision. ‘That sounds absolutely marvellous. I’ll be delighted to do it. Can I say I’ll definitely stay a month and, if all goes well, I’ll try to stay for the full duration? If not, I’ll happily pop back to bring Brutus home to you when you return from your cruise.’

  ‘That’s absolutely excellent. And, of course, do feel free to bring a friend, or friends, with you. Is there somebody you’d like to take with you to France?’

  Jess had been thinking about this. ‘Yes, thank you, there is. My friend Hope deserves a holiday. She’s also between jobs so she could probably take a good long break as well. She and I are working for a dog-walking company at the moment, so she’s got lots of experience with dogs, which could be useful.’

  ‘That’s wonderful. Now, the cruise that interests me sails from Southampton right at the end of May. That’s in, what, just about four weeks’ time? Is that maybe a bit short notice for you? Could you manage to get away so soon?’

  Jess nodded. ‘Yes, I’m sure that would be all right. So, tell me, Mrs Dupont, whereabouts is your son living?’

  ‘You may have heard of it. It’s a nice little place on the Côte d’Azur between Toulon and Cannes. It’s called St-Tropez.’

  Chapter 3

  The next few weeks turned out to be very busy, and full of surprises. The first surprise, of course, was for Hope, who was blown away by the chance of visiting her dream destination, rent-free. She immediately set about trying to sublet her flat so she would have money to keep her going at least for a good few weeks. Her excitement was clear to see and Jess felt very happy for her.

  As for Jess, in spite of her reservations about St-Tropez almost certainly being full of filthy rich, objectionable people, she began to feel a growing sense of excitement as well. The weather in London had improved slightly, but it still felt like winter in the mornings, and the idea of some Mediterranean sunshine was very appealing. As long as the sun shone, she felt sure she would be able to tolerate the people. As for money, the golden goodbye from her old firm would be more than enough to keep her all summer if she chose to stay in France for the full three months.

  The next surprise was Mrs Dupont’s car. The following Saturday, Jess went over to the old lady’s house to pick up the car for the weekend, so as to get a bit of practice driving again. The surprise came when she opened the garage door and discovered that the vehicle in question was an absolutely enormous dark blue Range Rover. It was twice the length of anything she had driven before, and so high off the ground that she had to physically haul herself up into the thing. Apart from its size, the added complication was that it was automatic, and she had never driven an automatic car before.

  Inside the vehicle – she couldn’t bring herself to refer to it as a car – everything was sheer luxury. It was a symphony of cream leather, burr walnut and thick-pile carpet, and this opulence felt as daunting as the size of the thing. After an embarrassing delay while she had to consult the handbook to discover how to start the engine – apparently you had to keep your foot on the brake at all times – she manoeuvred her way very gingerly out of the garage and into the traffic.

  She immediately made two discoveries.

  When she put her foot on the accelerator, the big heavy vehicle instantly turned into a Formula One racing car, and she found herself speeding along and in imminent danger of ramming the cars in front. It went like a bat out of hell. Fortunately, the brakes worked equally efficiently.

  The second discovery was more welcome. Other road users appeared to be awed by the sheer mass of the Range Rover and she found that, from the commanding height of the driver’s seat, she was able to cut through the traffic pretty effortlessly. By the time she had negotiated her way through the crowded roads of northwest London and onto the M25, she was beginning to relax. And after her initial concern, driving an automatic turned out to be wonderfully simple, and she soon got the hang of it.

  The next surprise came a few days later. Jess and Hope were on Google Earth, checking the address of the house in St-Tropez that Mrs Dupont had given them. They discovered that this was a villa, set in huge grounds. But the surprise was where it was situated. It occupied an absolutely fabulous position, only a few short metres from the sea. It was just outside the town, directly overlooking the Mediterranean. The views from the house had to be unbelievable.

  From what they could see from the satellite image, there was a swimming pool, and what looked like a private pathway to secluded beaches. It was hard to make out any more than just the roof of the little house in one corner of the grounds where they would be staying, but they could see that it was separated from the villa by a wonderful, verdant garden, containing a number of statuesque trees, including tall palms. Hope raised her eyes from the screen and glanced across at Jess.

  ‘Wow, what a place!’

  ‘You aren’t joking. It’s amazing.’ Inevitably, as she looked at it, Jess put on her architect’s hat. ‘I can’t see much of the villa from above, but from the roof tiles, I reckon it’s probably old traditional Provençal style. It’s called Les Romarins, which apparently means rosemary bushes, and that sounds pretty traditional, doesn’t it?’

  ‘It’s hard to judge from the air. Is it very big?’

  ‘It’s biggish, but not too massive. I’d say the footprint’s about one-fifty to two hundred square metres. To give you an idea, this flat of yours is maybe forty square metres. And I’m talking footprint – you know, the area of just one floor. Although it’s difficult to judge from an aerial photo, it looks like this villa’s got a second storey, at least for part of the length of the building, so it’s a good size house. But it’s the position that’s amazing. It’s right beside the sea, on the Côte d’Azur of all places.’

  ‘So it would appear that your Mrs Dupont’s son isn’t short of a bob or two.’

  Jess was beginning to get a bad feeling about this. ‘To own a place like that, he must be worth an absolute bomb. What have I been telling you about my not wanting to get involved with the filthy rich again? Maybe this trip to France isn’t such a good idea, after all, Hope.’

  ‘This trip to France is a bloody marvellous idea, Jess, and you just remember that.’ Hope took hold of her arm and looked her firmly in the eye. ‘Now, don’t you go getting all bitter and twisted about things, all right? The man’s the son of your Mrs Dupont, and you keep telling me she’s a sweetie. He’s probably just as nice. So, he’s loaded – that doesn’t mean he’s automatically bound to be another Drugoi.’

  Jess repressed a shudder.

  Jess visited Mrs Dupont regularly and they promised to stay in touch over the next few months. She liked the old lady a lot and dearly hoped that her son would be equally pleasant.

  Finally, the end of May arrived and Jess and Hope went round to collect the dog and wish Mrs Dupont and Mrs Forsythe well. As they climbed into the huge car, Mrs Dupont handed Jess a little package, containing the registration and insurance documents for the car, Brutus’s pet passport, and dietary and care instructions for him. The dog himself stood in the boot, surrounded by doggie toys and his luxurious bed, wagging his tail as his mistress disappeared from sight. Jess had no doubt the old lady would be in tears, even though she knew he would be in good hands. She glanced across at Hope.

  ‘We’d better take
damn good care of our four-legged friend. She obviously loves him to bits.’

  ‘He’ll be fine. I see what you mean about her being a sweetie. He’s a lucky dog to have a mistress like that – although she hasn’t been doing him any favours as far as his diet’s concerned. Do you want me to open this package and see what she says about what we’re supposed to feed the dog?’

  ‘Good idea.’

  As Jess manoeuvred the car through the London traffic, Hope opened the package from Mrs Dupont and perused its contents. The first thing she found came as a huge and very welcome surprise to Jess. It was a thick envelope marked Expenses, and it contained five thousand euros in cash and a scrawled note saying, Please keep what’s left over and have a wonderful holiday.

  Jess was totally awed by Mrs Dupont’s generosity. Hope, on the other hand, was equally awed by the sheet indicating the dog’s dietary requirements. She read it out loud, disbelief in her voice.

  ‘Our hairy friend back there has a bowl of muesli and a big helping of dog biscuits for breakfast every day. He prefers full cream milk with his muesli, but skimmed is also acceptable. If he’s still hungry, he also has two or three slices of unsmoked back bacon.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of muesli as part of a canine diet before. He’s a Labrador, for crying out loud! Of course he’s hungry. They always are. So, we can safely assume he gets bacon every morning as well. Little wonder he’s a bit paunchy.’ Jess shook her head as she squeezed the big vehicle past a red bus and followed the signs for the motorway.

  Hope was still reading.

  ‘It’s called killing with kindness, but listen to this. He has two main meals a day – taken at one o’clock and seven o’clock. At least one of these must include half a pound of best steak, medium to well done, allowed to cool, but not too cold. As a treat, every day at four o’clock, he’s allowed a slice of cake or, his personal favourite, a doughnut (jam, not jelly). Blimey, Jess, this dog eats better than I do.’