Do Not Disturb

by Anna Cleary

  ‘Come here.’

  Startled, she looked around and saw Joe leaning up on his elbow, his jaw dark with stubble, a seductive smile playing on his sensuous lips. With a laugh she sashayed across the room, then dived into his bristly embrace.

  ‘Do you know what the time is?’ she panted when she was finally free to breathe, tracing the line of his gorgeous bones from cheekbone to roughened jaw with one delicate fingertip. ‘As your MA, I think I should warn you that you’ve missed two conference sessions already.’

  His brows edged together as he examined her with a gleaming gaze. ‘I think you’re taking this MA role too seriously. Haven’t you heard that the Côte d’Azur should be a place to relax?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said in a dispirited tone, rolling her eyes. ‘I’ve heard it. If only I could try it.’

  He grinned. ‘How about we hire one of those spots under the beach umbrellas and find out how swimming in the Mediterranean compares with Coogee?’

  She bounded upright and squealed. ‘Oh, yes. Now you’re talking.’

  ‘And since we’re here, we might as well have a look around and see what other fleshpots we can plunge into. But first…’ He planted a light kiss on her swollen lips, then cast the covers aside and rose magnificently from the bed. ‘I could eat a lion.’

  A pavement café with a view of the marina served them a delicious brunch of omelettes and crusty rolls with a Provençal salad and coffee. Joe’s tension of the day before seemed to have eased. It was as if he’d walked through some trial of fire and come safely out on the other side. Today he’d reverted to his easy-going self, though there were moments of silence between them when Mirandi still sensed areas of reserve.

  She did some thinking of her own. Last night had certainly indicated that Joe’s passion for her continued unabated, but her dream of an ongoing relationship felt a little shaky. Desire didn’t necessarily mean love, and love as she understood it meant trust and unconditional honesty.

  Though which came first? And how could she demand the one without first being secure in the other? Maybe she was wanting too much. Maybe souls were all entitled to their secrets and she should just be patient and wait for the cards to fall as they would.

  She relaxed in her chair under the awning and spread strawberry jam on her roll, enjoying the ocean breeze whispering through her hair.

  ‘Feeling good today?’ she ventured.

  Joe smiled. ‘Much better.’ He reached out and took her hand. ‘Thanks to you. If you hadn’t been with me last night…’

  ‘Moi? But you were so angry with me.’

  He looked rueful. ‘Yeah, I know. I was—I have to admit—a bit jealous. Does that shock you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’d have been jealous of you if I’d thought you were chatting up a blonde. As it was, I was jealous of the roulette wheel.’

  He smiled. ‘No need to be ever again. That was my first and last dance with the spinning witch.’

  ‘Truly?’ She looked keenly at him.

  ‘Truly. I find I don’t have an aptitude for it.’

  She felt such a flood of relief. ‘Oh, Joe. That’s such good news.’ After a moment she sent him another sidelong glance. ‘Is that why you needed to do it? To find out?’

  He nodded. ‘Yeah. Funny how I’d built it up in my mind. I guess I was afraid I might get hooked like my old man. It’s good to know I can take it or leave it like any ordinary Joe.’

  She smiled behind her sunglasses. As if he would ever be ordinary. Not to her, at any rate.

  Swimming seemed risky after such a feast, so they bought hats at a boutique, donned their cameras and joined the tourists strolling around the town, delighted by the maze of narrow paved alleyways and sunny courtyards, the overhead balconies dripping with geranium or bougainvillea.

  In the shopping boulevards every luxury brand imaginable seemed represented behind the discreet awnings, and classic car shops abounded. After Joe had needed to pause for a close examination of at least his seventh expensive Italian auto parked in the street, Mirandi was grateful for his suggestion that they cool off in the sea.

  The Metropole boasted its own private beach just a two minute ride away. By Australian standards it was cramped, with every available centimetre packed with sun worshippers on their hired loungers, but swimming in the sea was as exhilarating as ever.

  ‘This is peaceful, isn’t it?’ Joe said, lazing beside her under the umbrella, drops of sea water glistening among the black whorls of hair on his bronzed chest. ‘You know, I can’t remember having a holiday since I was a kid.’ He turned his smiling blue gaze to hers. ‘How would it feel to stay on a few extra days? Maybe find a place further along the coast, perhaps at Cap Ferrat or Villefranche?’

  ‘Oh, Joe, I’d love that.’ She beamed at him until reality intruded and her smile faltered a bit. ‘Can we do that, though? What about work?’

  ‘I’m sure I can arrange it. CEOs do get to have some time off. I’ll make an executive decision. How about it?’ He smiled and she could see the tiny lines crinkle at the corners of his eyes under his dark glasses.

  She grinned back. ‘Do you really need to ask?’ After a second she added cautiously, ‘But, er…how will you explain me staying on with you?’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ His brows edged together. ‘That might require some ingenuity. We may have to make it a study tour of Provence, like politicians do.’

  She laughed. ‘Why not a study tour of Europe? Then we could stay a year.’

  Later that afternoon, lounging back in her spa tub at the Metropole among the bubbles and the floating rose petals, she said dreamily, ‘And there were you, dreading coming to Provence. You seem to have taken to it very well.’

  There was a fine line of beading along Joe’s upper lip. ‘Well, I am half French.’

  Her nerves jumped, though she tried to be nonchalant. ‘You’ve never really mentioned that.’

  ‘Haven’t I? No. No, well…’ He rested his head against the side of the tub and closed his eyes. She felt his hand tighten on her leg.

  She waited, then after a while said, ‘That was your mother in the lobby, wasn’t it?’

  He let out a breath. ‘I guess.’

  ‘You—haven’t seen her for a while?’

  ‘Since I was fourteen.’

  ‘She seemed quite devastated to see you.’

  ‘Did she?’

  After quite a long time, when she thought he wouldn’t say any more, he said, ‘I scarcely know her.’

  ‘Aren’t you curious?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘How she—who she is.’

  ‘I can guess,’ he growled.

  It felt prudent not to pursue the delicate topic any further, and Mirandi gave herself up to days of hedonistic pleasure. Dancing in nightclubs, swimming, though sometimes on the beach she thought of those long, soft, sandy crescents she’d taken for granted at home. They dined every evening on delicious fare prepared by some of the world’s finest chefs, then later, were lucky to find a villa to rent on the outskirts of the tiny village of Sancerre-sur-Mer with a rocky path from their garden down to a tiny beach, and settled in for a week of idyllic relaxation.

  Joe hired a car and drove them far and wide, to explore hillside villages perched incredibly on the edges of cliffs, with narrow, twisting mediaeval streets. He seemed keen to get in touch with his French side, and visited every little museum and bookshop in the area to delve for local history. They hired bicycles, and on a hot, hot day rode along a hill path, swam in the chill waters of a stream, and in the shade of a dense grove of trees picnicked on cheese, fresh crusty bread from the local boulangerie, and a delicious flaky pissaladière tart filled with anchovy and olives washed down with white wine.

  ‘I’ll be so fat,’ Mirandi said, stretching out on a patch of grass to stare at the cerulean sky. ‘All this lovely food.’

  ‘All the better.’ Joe was sprawled out with his head cushioned on the canvas picnic-pack. ‘I’d love to see you all plum
p and cuddly.’

  ‘You say that now.’ She rolled over on her tummy and plucked a blade of grass, then tickled him under his chin with it. ‘Aren’t you going to see her before we leave?’

  He closed his eyes and didn’t answer for an age. She began to wonder if he’d even heard her question, then he opened his lids and pierced her with a glinting blue glance.

  ‘It’s not as simple as that.’

  ‘Why not? Do you know where she lives?’

  ‘She has a villa in Antibes,’ he conceded reluctantly. ‘At least she—had one. She lives there with her husband. Or for all I know she could be onto her third, fourth or fifth husband.’

  ‘Oh. What makes you think she’s had so many husbands?’

  ‘I don’t know she has. I’m guessing.’ She looked queryingly at him and he let out an exasperated breath. ‘Oh, all right. Perhaps she hasn’t. She walked out on us when I was nine, or thereabouts.’

  ‘Why did she leave?’

  He made a grimace. ‘Oh, probably over the gambling. The disease really had him by then.’

  ‘Didn’t she want to take you with her?’

  He evaded her eyes. When he spoke his voice was so deep and gruff she needed to strain her ears to hear him properly. ‘She tried. She moved into a flat over in Ryde, packed up all my clothes, and transported it all there in a taxi. But I—wouldn’t stay. I ran away and caught the train home.’

  ‘Oh. Didn’t you get on with her?’

  He was silent again. Then as if the words were torn from deep inside him he growled, ‘I did, in fact. I—loved her. But I couldn’t leave Dad.’

  ‘Oh.’ The poignant simplicity of the story moved her, and she had to turn her face away so he wouldn’t see the tears blurring her eyes. ‘Didn’t she come to visit you?’

  His pain almost tangible, he put his arm over his eyes. ‘Yes, she did, often enough, but she’d never stay. Dad—I—wanted her to. It was too painful after a while for Dad. She kept begging me to go with her and I got angry one day. I said things, as kids do. She must have given up hope then, I s’pose, because she left Sydney and came back here to her family.’ After a small charged silence he said, ‘She used to write to me.’

  ‘Did you write back?’

  After an eternity he said, ‘No. I…well, I never opened the letters.’

  ‘Oh.’ She sighed. ‘That’s such a shame.’

  He removed his arm and lifted his head to look at her. ‘Well, it would have felt like a betrayal of Dad. You see?’

  She shrugged. ‘I guess.’ A deep silence fell, and in the stillness she could hear insects whirring in some nearby gorse. Every so often the faint breeze carried the scent of lavender from a nearby farm. Joe sank back, his eyes closed.

  She said, pursuing the delicate thread, ‘But you did come over here at some point. You mentioned being here for that weekend.’

  He glanced across at her, curling a corner of his lip. ‘Oh, yes. It was after the funeral. She came to Sydney for it and insisted I come back here with her. I was only fourteen and—in a bit of a—black hole, so to speak, after…so I… Well, I was pleased to have somewhere to go. And I—liked her. I trusted her, but of course when we arrived here I discovered she had a new man.’

  ‘Oh, Joe.’ Her heart welled with pity and she couldn’t prevent a rush of tears. She crawled over and lay on top of him with her arms around him. She could feel his big heart thumping against hers through their thin cotton clothes as he held her tight, tolerating her teary kisses.

  ‘Sorry, sorry,’ she said after a while, mopping up after Joe was forced to comfort her. ‘So what happened when you were here?’

  ‘He probably wasn’t even such a bad bloke, but you know, I was a boy, and I couldn’t live with it. Anyway, after a pretty bleak weekend, I forced them to pay my way back. I’m sure her partner was only too glad to put me on the plane. Then in Sydney I moved in with my cousin Neil until the law said I was old enough to fend for myself. You must remember Neil.’ She nodded, and he smiled grimly. ‘Yeah. Neil was twenty-one at the time and a bit of a wild lad himself, though you’d never know it now.’ His smile warmed in recollection of his wild beginnings. ‘I’ll always be grateful to Neil.’ He shrugged and spread his hands. ‘Anyway, the rest is history.’

  ‘But it’s not over yet.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ He turned lazily to look at her, though his eyes were alert. ‘What does that mean, Miss Summers?’

  ‘Well…’ She gazed into his eyes. ‘You’re here. You’re an adult now. You can see it all through a man’s eyes. I’m sure she…your mother…’

  ‘Amelie.’

  ‘Amelie? Oh, that’s such a lovely name. Well, I’m sure she’d be open to—talking to you at least.’

  ‘I doubt it. No, no way.’ He shook his head with conviction. ‘Not after all the times I…rejected her. Anyway, there’s no point. What would be the point?’

  ‘The point.’ She sat up and brushed herself down. ‘Well, she’s your mother. In my view that’s a pretty strong point. Having grown up without one, even though I had Auntie Mim and I love the dear old girl despite everything, if I had the chance—just one chance to spend an hour with my mother before I die…’ Her voice wobbled. ‘Even five minutes. One minute. I’d fly across the world. I’d shift heaven and earth for that minute.’

  He gazed quizzically at her for a moment, then his black lashes screened his eyes. After a minute or two he hauled himself up with his usual athletic grace and stood, stretching out his hand to her. ‘Come. Siesta will be over now in the town. Didn’t you say you wanted to do some shopping for dinner?’

  Joe didn’t speak of his mother again that evening, although Mirandi ventured one further question over their ravioli and salad.

  ‘What became of her letters?’

  He looked curiously at her. ‘Amelie’s?’ His eyes slid away from her, and he gave an off-hand shrug. ‘Oh, they’re somewhere, I suppose.’

  Somewhere. Then not destroyed. Not torn to shreds or burned to ashes in some backyard bonfire. That suggested they were kept by someone. Someone who cared deep down, perhaps. At least these were Mirandi’s musings, though she was careful not to reveal them.

  The following day was their last before the precious time ended and they flew back to reality. It started early with a swim before breakfast. The sea was too chilly at that hour for Mirandi to stay long, so she waved to Joe and climbed the rocky steps up to their villa with chattering teeth.

  Half an hour later, with coffee brewing, she set orange juice, yoghurt, strawberries and wild raspberries on the terrace table, and waited for Joe to arrive with the basket of warm croissants from the boulangerie.

  It wasn’t long before they were facing each other over breakfast.

  ‘I was wondering,’ Joe said, about to bite into a croissant with his white teeth, ‘if you would care to drive into Antibes today?’

  Mirandi’s ears pricked up, but she concealed her surge of interest. Silly to leap to conclusions. A drive might be no more than that. She said as calmly as she could, ‘I’d love to. Any particular reason?’

  ‘Possibly.’ He lifted his shoulders, gruffness in his voice. ‘We’ll see.’

  Since Joe wasn’t sure any more of his mother’s surname, he used the Internet to search for her telephone number. The last surname he had for her was Bonnard. If a Bonnard still lived at the old address, he would have to assume it was still hers and her husband’s. As it turned out, the initial to the Christian name was all that had changed in the directory listing. Now, it seemed, there was only an A. Bonnard.

  Finding her number was the easy part. Dialling it was something else. Mirandi left him to make the call in privacy, though she was agog to know the outcome.

  ‘She’ll see us at noon,’ Joe said, emerging from the bedroom. Though his voice was steady, she sensed a tension in him that hadn’t been there for days.

  ‘How did she sound?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ His voice sounded strained. ‘She�
��she didn’t take the call. It was Marie I spoke to. The housekeeper.’

  Mirandi crossed her fingers. Oh, for a successful visit.

  The drive to Antibes was spectacular, though Joe didn’t have too much to say, possibly because he was concentrating on the road. Just possibly. Or perhaps he was feeling as nerve-racked as Mirandi.

  They followed the Corniche as far as Nice, and enjoyed breathtaking views of sea and coast, as well as some hair-raising bends. Antibes wasn’t a great deal further on from Nice and the hire car’s navigation guide helped them find the correct address.

  When they drew up at the villa with ivy trailing over the pink stone walls and twining itself around high black ironwork gates, Joe turned off the ignition and sat in silence, his hands clenching the wheel.

  Mirandi noticed the tiny pulse throbbing at his temple. ‘I’ll wait here,’ she said after several minutes.

  He gave a small start and turned to her. ‘Are you sure?’

  She smiled and touched his hand. ‘It’s your meeting.’

  He leaned over to kiss her, then got out of the car and straightened his jeans and jacket. In the side vision mirror she watched him brace himself, run a finger around the inside of his shirt collar, then stride up to the gate and ring the bell.

  Almost at once the gates opened.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  JOE walked up the path and climbed the few steps to the small stone portico, conscious of his increased heartrate and moistening palms. The heavy front door was ajar, the same maid standing there in wait as had stood on his previous arrival, albeit with twenty more years of living lining her grave face, and touches of silver at her temples.

  ‘Bonjour, Marie,’ he said. ‘Do you remember me?’

  ‘Of course, M. Joe,’ she said, bowing her head. ‘Mais bienvenue. Madame expects you. Please…’

  He followed her along a hall, then through some glass doors and across a small walled courtyard cooled partly by an orange tree and partly by Aphrodite, who was rising from the centre of a fountain and projecting a graceful spray through her eternally pursed lips.