Dreaming of St-Tropez

by T A Williams

  At that moment they approached a roundabout and she watched as he expertly manoeuvred the controls – braking and then accelerating away again. She gave it another few moments and then risked a more personal question.

  ‘So how long’s it going to be before you can use the pedals again?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ His voice was low.

  ‘Well, you can obviously put pressure on your legs again – I’ve seen you walking without your crutches and now you’re doing all that physiotherapy – so, presumably it won’t be long.’

  He didn’t answer immediately and she feared she might have overstepped the mark. It came as a considerable relief when he responded.

  ‘I hope I’m getting there. The legs can take my weight now, but the nerves and muscles haven’t quite recovered enough to make everything work. Hopefully that’ll come. The physio says she’s pleased with my progress, so fingers crossed.’

  Jess decided not to press him any more, but was pleased he had been prepared to talk about his problems. She relaxed and enjoyed the ride. After a couple of kilometres, he turned off the main road and they started to climb. Jess loved the sensation of speed that the low-slung car produced as it swung though the corners, although the long bonnet made it difficult to see what was ahead. David was a good driver – fast, but not reckless – and she felt safe in his hands. As they climbed up from the coast into the thick pine forest, she found she recognised a number of the places Olivier had pointed out. One, in particular, gave her an idea.

  ‘David, up there, a hundred yards ahead, can you slow down and see if you can turn onto that track? But it may be too bumpy for this car. See what you think.’

  ‘Are you looking for the wartime bunkers? They’re down there.’ David obediently slowed and turned off the road into a lay-by. ‘The track doesn’t look too bumpy, but it does look very muddy after the rain. I’m afraid this car has no grip at all on mud, so we’d probably better not risk it. I wouldn’t want us to get stuck.’

  Jess looked across at him. ‘Of course. So, do you know where the bunkers are?’

  He nodded. ‘Some of them. As kids we used to cycle up here and play around in the woods. We found a few old gun positions, but all the hardware was removed years ago. If you come up here with the dog one day, try going along this track for the best part of a kilometre until you see the ruins of an old stone building – probably a shepherd’s hut before all the trees were planted. Turn right and you’ll find bunkers and gun pits up there. But be careful – a couple of them are quite deep.’

  Jess was genuinely astonished to hear him deliver the longest speech she had ever heard from him and she smiled back warmly.

  ‘Let’s hope your physiotherapy does the trick and then you can come up here for walks with me and Brutus.’

  He looked up and caught her eye for a second.

  ‘Thank you, Jess.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Thank you for giving me something to dream about.’

  ‘The trick is to turn the dreams into reality.’

  ‘That’s some trick.’

  He pulled the funny T-shaped gear stick into Drive once more, and started off up the hill again. Jess felt very happy with him up here in the forest, occasionally catching glimpses of the blue of the sea and the pink roofs of the houses of St-Tropez down below. After the rain, it was still very clear and there was a wonderful scent of resin in the air from all the pine trees. She reached up, joined her hands behind her head, and stretched luxuriously. As she did so, she felt pretty sure she saw his eyes checking out her body and that same, now familiar, frisson of desire ran through her.

  They drove through Ramatuelle and on from there to Gassin, perched on another little hilltop. David was able to get right into the middle of the village, and as they climbed out of the Jaguar, he tapped the blue disabled badge on his windscreen and produced a creditable attempt at a smile.

  ‘It’s amazing what some people will do to get a parking space up here.’

  Jess smiled back. ‘So, what’s the plan, chauffeur? Do I get to buy you a drink?’

  He shook his head. ‘The drinks are on me. Dad says you’ve refused to take payment for drawing up the plans of the villa. You should, you know.’

  Jess shook her head. ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Then the least I can do is to buy you a drink. There’s a restaurant and a bar up in the square. I should be all right to get up there on the crutches.’

  Jess was impressed, and delighted, to see David walk the hundred yards or so into the square with the help of the crutches, no longer the wheelchair. The square itself was situated right on the top of the hill and dominated the surrounding countryside. As they took a seat at a table in the shade, Jess let her eyes roam out across the tree-clad hills, down to the deep blue of the sea in the far distance. It was a charming view and she felt very happy to be here – particularly with him. She turned back towards David and saw him looking at her.

  ‘Like the view, Jess?’

  ‘It’s stunning.’

  They were interrupted by a woman’s voice.

  ‘David, mais c’est toi! C’est bien toi!’

  Jess looked up and saw a very glamorous, dark-haired woman at an adjoining table leap to her feet and rush across to David’s side, where she draped herself all over him and proceeded to shower him with kisses – and not just restrained, friendly kisses. This woman looked as if she was going to eat him, and Jess felt a sudden surge of a quite unfamiliar emotion. And the emotion was, without a shadow of a doubt, jealousy.

  David fought off the woman’s attentions and emerged from beneath her suspiciously pert bosom.

  ‘Hi, Mireille, it’s me all right. It’s good to see you. Let me introduce you to my friend, Jessica. She’s English.’

  Jess was pleased to find that she had little or no trouble in understanding David’s French. She did her best to lower the hackles that had so unexpectedly raised themselves and smiled sweetly at the other woman, checking her out as she did so. Designer top, perfect tan, freshly-manicured fingernails and a small fortune in gold hanging around her neck and wrists – this, Jess realised, was the type of woman David would have frequented before the accident. And, presumably, as and when he recovered, this would be the sort of woman who would once again have him in her sights. And there was no way Jess would be able to compete.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Jessica.’

  As she spoke, Jess saw Mireille’s eyes flick down for a couple of seconds before coming back up again safe in the knowledge that Jess’s summer dress hadn’t cost more than £29.99. Jess smiled back at her – hoping it didn’t look too much like a grimace – and shook her hand.

  ‘And you, Mireille.’

  The other woman’s attention immediately transferred itself back to David.

  ‘I was so worried when I heard about your accident. You poor thing. Are you on the road to recovery now?’

  ‘I sincerely hope so, Mireille.’

  ‘When you feel better, we should meet up again.’

  ‘We should.’

  At that moment a waitress appeared to take their order and Mireille – after appearing to do her best to tear David’s ear off with her lips – returned to her friends at the other table.

  ‘So, Jess, what can I get you?’ Rather self-consciously, David wiped his ear with his hand. ‘A glass of champagne, maybe?’

  ‘To be honest, I’d love a cup of tea.’ She addressed the waitress in French. ‘Could I have a tea with some cold milk, please?’

  The girl nodded. ‘À l’anglaise.’

  ‘À l’anglaise indeed. Thank you.’

  David decided to have the same and the waitress left. As she did so, he shot a glance across to Mireille’s table and then leant forward towards Jess. The sheepish expression was back on his face again.

  ‘Sorry about Mireille – she does tend to be a bit effusive. I’ve known her since school. She’s married to a solicitor in Aups, but she hates the place, and spends most o
f the time – and most of his money – down here at St-Trop.’

  ‘She seems very fond of you.’ Jess kept her tone studiously even.

  ‘She thinks she is. So fond of me she didn’t get in touch when she heard of the accident.’ He was smiling, but Jess could see it was only a thin veil. ‘There’s nothing like being reduced to a wheelchair for sorting out who your real friends are.’

  Jess was determined not to let his mood – which had been quite buoyant up to now – deteriorate into melancholy once more.

  ‘Well, you’re not in a wheelchair now, are you? I was very impressed to see you make it up here without much difficulty.’

  ‘So far so good. I really hate that thing.’

  ‘The wheelchair?’

  ‘Yes, it sort of symbolises everything I’ve lost.’ Before she could say anything comforting, he continued. ‘Do you know something? Weeks ago, when Antoinette told me two pretty girls had come to stay, I started hiding the chair when I went down to the pool, so you wouldn’t see it.’

  ‘Now you say that, I realise there was no sign of it when I first went to the pool.’

  He nodded. ‘It was shoved behind a bush. Damn thing, I hate it.’

  Just then their teas arrived and Jess was glad of the interruption, just as it looked as if he might be about to slip back into his depression. The idea of him feeling ashamed of his wheelchair was tough to swallow, but she valued this new, tiny insight into his inner feelings. As soon as the waitress left them, she studied him across the table and waited for him to look up and catch her eye. It took almost a minute but, finally, he looked up, and she launched into some encouragement.

  ‘Well, you’ve pretty much finished with the chair now, haven’t you? And soon, hopefully, you’ll be able to ditch the crutches. Tell me, David, are you a betting man?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Well, if you feel like taking it, I have a bet for you. I bet you you’ll be up here, walking the dog, before the end of the summer. Bet?’

  ‘I haven’t heard the stakes. Are we talking big money?’

  Jess hesitated, deliberately taking her time over her next mouthful of tea. There were a lot of things she knew she would love to do to him if he won, and lots of things she knew she would love him to do to her if she won, but she decided to leave sex out of it – at least for now. She set her cup down again and made a suggestion.

  ‘How about, if I win, you have to come with me to the beach bar and dance with me?’

  ‘And if I win?’

  ‘You won’t.’

  ‘I wish I had your confidence. But just suppose my legs don’t make the grade and you don’t win, what do I get?’

  ‘Wash your car?’

  He snorted.

  ‘Wash your car in my bikini?’

  He raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment.

  ‘Hope and I both wash your car in bikinis?’

  He smiled – a lovely relaxed smile that lit up his face.

  ‘That’s an enchanting thought, but I’ve got a better idea. If I win, you have to stay on here until Christmas and help me put my shoes on every morning.’

  ‘Sounds fair to me, but you aren’t going to win.’

  She held out her hand, looking him in the eye.

  ‘So, have we got a deal?’

  He caught hold of her hand and held it for a few moments before shaking it. ‘It’s a bet. And I really hope I lose – although the help with the shoes would have been good.’

  ‘I hope you lose as well, and I’m sure you will. As for the shoes, we’ll see about that. Maybe I could be persuaded to help out with those anyway.’

  ‘In your bikini?’

  ‘We’ll see about that.’

  Chapter 20

  Jess decided she had better dress up a bit for George’s drinks party and it didn’t take long for her to work out that the stuff she had brought from England wouldn’t cut it. This was definitely going to be more than a shorts and T-shirt affair. She did a rapid calculation of her finances and was encouraged to realise that she still had a sizeable chunk of the euros given to her by Mrs Dupont and hadn’t needed to dip into any of her savings so far. In fact, she had spent very little. Conscious that many, probably most of the other guests would be out of the Mireille mould, she decided to throw caution – and a whole heap of money – to the wind, and go dress shopping in St-Tropez.

  As she walked slowly down the narrow streets in the very centre of town, gazing apprehensively at the clothes on display in the boutiques and big-name designer stores, she began to have second thoughts. Most of the nicest clothes had no price on display – and she knew what that meant. Where there were prices, they were very, very scary. One boutique, in particular, caught her eye. The window was almost empty, but all three of the dresses on display were absolutely gorgeous – lightweight and stylish – one white, one red and one blue – the colours of the French flag. Needless to say, there were no prices to be seen anywhere, although she was slightly heartened by a discreet red and white notice indicating a sale. It wasn’t a big notice, so presumably it wasn’t going to be a big sale, but she decided to go in and try – after having a coffee to bolster her courage first.

  She went into a little bar and stood at the counter to drink her espresso. A few moments later, she was joined by a familiar figure.

  ‘Hi, Jess, what brings you into town today?’

  She looked round and smiled. It was Pete – today wearing a dark suit that, if anything, highlighted his muscular form. She reached up and kissed him on the cheeks. Living in France, she had already worked out, meant doing a lot of kissing. She rather liked the habit.

  ‘I’ve got to do some shopping. What about you?’

  ‘I’m on duty in half an hour. I’ve got a new client arriving from the USA.’

  ‘But you can’t tell me his name…’ Jess was grinning.

  ‘Or hers.’ Pete grinned back. ‘So, what sort of shopping? Food, clothes, jewellery?’

  ‘Clothes.’ She explained about George’s party and the rather nice dresses she had seen in the boutique window. ‘The thing is, I’m scared stiff of going in there. They’ll probably take one look at what I’m wearing and laugh me out of the place.’ She pointed down. ‘I’ll give you a clue – the top came from the Tuesday market here, and the shorts came from the supermarket back home in Britain.’

  ‘You don’t want to be intimidated. It’s the same in my business. First impressions count. If you walk in looking as though you own the place, normally they roll over and behave.’

  For a moment, Jess had an image of a Chechen gangster lying on his back, legs and arms in the air like a little puppy, while Pete scratched his tummy.

  ‘It’s difficult to look as though you own the place when your whole outfit – and I’m including my underwear and sandals – cost less than a good meal here.’

  Pete glanced at his watch.

  ‘Listen, I’ve got a bit of time. Let me help you out. Have you decided which shop you want to visit?’

  ‘Yes, it’s just a few doors up the road from here.’

  ‘Fine. So how much do you want to spend?’

  ‘As little as possible. What do you think for a summery dress? Something smart.’

  Pete reflected for a moment. ‘I’ve done quite a bit of shopping around here with various clients, and you can pay anything up to three or four thousand euros for a dress if you try hard enough.’

  ‘Blimey. I’ve never paid more than a hundred pounds for a dress in my life. I was thinking of maybe twice that in a place like this.’

  Pete shook his head. ‘I reckon we should be able to get you something nice, but you might need to spend a bit more than that. What’s your absolute max?’

  Jess had been thinking about this all morning. She really had been very frugal so far and she still hadn’t even started to dip into her severance pay. This was possibly going to be the dressiest event she had ever attended and she wanted to look good. And, of course, she knew she particular
ly wanted to look good for David. She took a deep breath, hardly believing what she was saying.

  ‘Absolute tops – five hundred euros.’

  As she said it, she found herself wondering what her mum would say if she knew her daughter was contemplating spending that much on a frock. Yes, living in a place like St-Tropez could seriously affect your sense of proportion.

  Pete nodded approvingly.

  ‘That sounds fine. Now, are you going to pay cash or by card?’

  ‘Either, really.’

  ‘Have you got a flashy gold card or something like that?’ Jess shook her head. ‘Then you need to pay cash. I tell you what, let me have it. The very rich don’t carry money.’

  Jess took ten fifty-euro notes out of her purse and passed them across. She was surprised to see Pete remove a thick bankroll from his pocket and add her notes to it. Catching her eye, he explained.

  ‘In my business, it’s necessary to have a certain amount of cash on hand for emergencies. Also, like I was telling you, it helps with maintaining the illusion. Now, when you find what you want and it’s time to pay, just give me a sign and I’ll do it.’

  ‘What sort of sign?’ Jess was beginning to enjoy the intrigue.

  ‘Something dismissive. You know – superior to inferior. Try something like this.’

  He half-raised one arm and clicked his fingers. ‘I’ll be standing behind you. That should do it.’

  Jess experimented until Pete declared himself satisfied.

  ‘Excellent, but remember not to smile at me. I’m part of the furniture. You’re a princess. I’m just a foot soldier. Got it?’

  ‘Got it.’

  ‘Right, finished your coffee? Fine. Now, have you got a pair of shades?’

  ‘Shades?’

  ‘Sunglasses, sweetheart. The mega rich don’t go anywhere without them – even at night. One of my clients walked into a lamppost last year because he wouldn’t take his shades off while we were walking through Cannes at midnight. He was still wearing them in the emergency room.’

  Jess giggled, pulled out her sunglasses and put them on. She saw Pete remove a pair from his top pocket, shake them open and follow suit. They walked out of the bar and up the road. As they approached the boutique, Pete leant towards her and lowered his voice.