Nick Alexander was born in Margate, and has lived and worked in the UK, the USA and France. He is the author of the five-part ‘50 Reasons’ series of novels, featuring lovelorn Mark, and when he isn’t writing, he is the editor of the gay literature site BIGfib.com. Nick lives in the southern French Alps with two mogs, a couple of goldfish and a complete set of Pedro Almodóvar films.
Visit his website at www.nick-alexander.com
Also by Nick Alexander
The Case of the Missing Boyfriend
The Half-Life of Hannah
The 50 Reasons Series
50 Reasons to Say Goodbye
Sottopassaggio
Good Thing, Bad Thing
Better Than Easy
Sleight of Hand
Short Stories
13.55 Eastern Standard Time
Published in paperback in Great Britain in 2013 by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.
Copyright © Nick Alexander 2013
The moral right of Nick Alexander to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Paperback ISBN: 978 0 85789 635 3
E-book ISBN: 978 085789 634 6
Printed in Great Britain
Corvus
An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd
Ormond House
26–27 Boswell Street
London
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www.corvus-books.co.uk
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks to my friends and readers and to those that are both, for being so constantly enthusiastic and supportive – you make it all worthwhile.
Thanks to everyone at Corvus for making this book a reality, to Jerome for his help with the French text, and to Rosemary for being my touchstone.
CONTENTS
THE BIG SKY
NOT A HOT TORRENT
THE GREAT CONTRACEPTION DEBATE
MEETING TATIE
TOURIST HEAVEN
DIVINE INTERVENTION
SNUGGLING
SEPARATE NIGHTS OUT
FAST TRACK
COLD AND GREY, BUT IN LOVE
BIOLOGICAL TIME BOMB
BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR
FAST TRACK TO SIBERIA
ANGELS VS. DOCTORS
TOO MANY GHOSTS
HOME ALONE
THE RIGHT SET OF EARS
FIVE LITTLE DEATHS
SOMEONE JUST NEEDS TO STOP ME
FOR EACH THOUGHT, AN EMOTION
OTHER PEOPLE’S BUSINESS
ROUND ONE
ROUND TWO
ROUND THREE
WHAT YOU DID TO ME
LIKE MOTHER, LIKE DAUGHTER
JE L’AIME
A LITTLE TOO RELAXED
LOVE IS THE DRUG
THE BIG SKY
When I get to Nice airport, I am expecting my new boyfriend to be ready and waiting, pulling faces at me through the glass as I watch for my suitcase to appear on the carousel.
I’m already in a heightened state of anticipation about this trip because, however it goes, it will influence our future. If I like it here as much as Victor seems to, then we could end up together in France. If I don’t . . . well, that hardly bears thinking about.
When he still hasn’t appeared by the time I drag my suitcase out into the arrivals hall, I feel a spike of anxiety.
I scan the crowd a few times, walk around the big fish tank – twice – and even read the names people are holding up on their scraps of cardboard, before doubtfully following the smokers outside.
I switch on my phone and adjust the clock to local time – 2 p.m.
It’s a crisp January afternoon and the sky is deepest blue, the light low and yellowy. It’s exactly the same weather as the last time I came to Nice and I wonder if it is always this way. I check my mobile and start to compose a text message asking Victor where he is but am interrupted by two hands slipping around my waist from behind.
‘Hello, sexy lady. Don’t turn around,’ he says in a dodgy French accent.
I giggle and attempt to turn but Victor hops around and manages to remain behind me.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask, starting to laugh and finally pulling free before spinning around to face him.
Victor raises his hands to cover his grinning mouth. My own smile fades.
‘I know,’ he says. ‘I’ll get rid of it as soon as we get back.’
I have had a phobia about men with beards for as long as I can remember. I even saw a shrink once, and we pretty much traced it to the fact that my father had one. But, sadly, knowing the origin of a phobia doesn’t seemingly make it go away. Such are the limitations of therapy.
I swallow hard, and pull his hands away from his face. ‘Jesus, Victor!’ I say. ‘You look like Osama Bin Laden.’
‘It’s why I was late,’ he says. ‘They wouldn’t let me into the airport until I could prove I wasn’t a terrorist.’
‘Really?’
‘No,’ Victor laughs. ‘Not really.’
I pull a face in spite of myself.
‘I know!’ he says. ‘Honestly, I was going to shave but the pipes froze.’
‘They froze?’
‘Yeah. It was cold last night and both the tank in the van and the standpipe froze. But I’ll do it as soon as we get back, I promise.’
I nod and just about manage a smile. ‘You will!’ I say.
‘Anyway,’ Victor says, moving in. ‘Any chance of a kiss from my little Chelsii?’
I shake my head. ‘None,’ I laugh. ‘And calling me Chelsii definitely won’t help your case. You know I hate it.’
‘Sorry. CC. And just a peck then?’ he says. ‘To say hello?’
I close my eyes and lean in, trying to push my phobia from my mind. Our lips meet, but then his straggly beard tickles my top lip and I suddenly feel sick. ‘That’s it!’ I say, covering my disgust with a false little laugh. ‘Sorry but . . .’
‘Hey,’ Victor says, serious now. ‘It’s OK. You told me all about it. I know. I’m sorry.’
He starts to drag my suitcase towards the car park and reaches for my hand. ‘So how was the flight?’
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Orange.’
‘On time, anyway.’
‘Yes. Unlike someone I could mention.’
‘Yeah, the roads were bad,’ he says. ‘So I had to take it easy. Have you eaten?’
‘A sandwich. Horrible but filling. And what do you mean the roads were “bad”?’
‘Oh, icy. Slippery.’
‘Eek,’ I say. ‘Should I be scared?’
‘No. Well, maybe just a bit. Later on, I’ll tell you when.’ He squeezes my hand tight. ‘God, it’s good to see you.’
‘You too,’ I say. ‘Well, it will be when you get that doormat off your face so that I can see you.’
Once Victor has negotiated the traffic and merged onto the motorway, I ask, ‘So we don’t go through Nice, then?’
‘No,’ Victor says, leaning forwards to look in my wing mirror before changing lanes. ‘No, we’re, um, west, so . . . But if you want to go dow
n and visit, it’s only an hour.’
‘Is it hard having a right-hand-drive?’
Victor shrugs. ‘You get used to it. But ultimately I’ll end up swapping the van for a French car. As soon as I don’t need to live in it any more, I suppose.’
‘It’s freaky sitting here,’ I say. ‘I feel a distinct need for a steering wheel.’
‘We’ll get you one,’ Victor says, casting me a wink. ‘One of those stick-on kid’s ones.’
We sit in silence for a minute or so and I steal a glance at Victor’s bearded profile. Surprisingly, I think it suits him. He looks rugged and sexy. It’s just the sensation of it against me that I can’t stand.
After only a few minutes on the motorway we turn off and immediately start to head up into the hills. ‘I had no idea that the coastal towns ended so abruptly,’ I say, watching the clichéd tableau of French Provençal life sliding past the windows.
‘Yeah,’ Victor says. ‘It’s great, isn’t it? And this is still town compared to where we’re going.’
The road winds past stone cottages and along tree-lined country lanes and then up and over a small hillock and through a copse of dense trees. When we come out on the other side, a majestic mountain range comes into view – bleak and grey and stark against the blue sky.
‘Wow,’ I say. I point to a raggedy village clinging to the side of the mountain. ‘Is that us?’
‘No,’ Victor says with a laugh. ‘No, we’re right over the other side of that mountain.’
We continue on and up, and around each bend there is another bend, and over each peak there is another peak.
‘So many hilltop villages,’ I say.
‘Yes. And all empty.’
‘Really?’
‘Pretty much. Most of them have twenty or thirty old people living in them. When they’re gone, I think that will be it.’
‘Incredible views, though,’ I say.
And they are. As we round another bend, suddenly we can see the road before us. It is a simple ledge carved from the side of the mountain winding around its contours, gradually heading towards the peak. To the south I can see the Mediterranean Sea in all its turquoise glory, and in the distance I can see huge, white, snow-capped peaks.
‘They’re like proper mountains,’ I say.
‘They are, they’re the Alps.’
‘They’re not, like, the actual Alps, though, are they? Not really.’
‘Yes,’ Victor says, glancing at me. ‘They are. Really.’
‘It’s not snowing where we are, is it?’
‘No. Not yet at any rate.’ He glances at me. ‘Are you scared?’
I look down at the sheer drop below and say, ‘No, not yet. Is this where I should start to be?’
‘No,’ he says, slipping one hand onto my knee. ‘Not of my driving, anyway. You should maybe be scared of the facilities.’
‘The facilities?’
‘The bathroom. In particular.’
‘Right.’
‘It’s cold.’
‘Nice. I love a cold bathroom.’
‘Very, very, very cold,’ he says.
‘OK,’ I say, pulling a face. ‘I shall prepare myself for that.’ I turn back to look out at the scenery. ‘I’m in awe. I had no idea the Riviera could look like this.’
‘No,’ Victor says. ‘It’s surprising, isn’t it?’
‘It’s just so big.’
‘You said you’ve been here before, though?’
‘Yes, but just to Nice. And along the coast a bit.’
‘On a date, you said.’
‘Yes.’
‘You didn’t want to tell me about it.’
‘No,’ I say.
After a full minute of silence, Victor laughs. ‘OK then. I’ll just try to imagine it, shall I?’
‘If you want,’ I say.
As we bump over the numerous potholes in the final stretch of ‘road’ to La Forge, the hamlet in which the house is located, I check the time on my phone. Though the drive has taken almost an hour, the torturous road and the setting sun make it feel like more.
‘You have reception?’ Victor asks, glancing over at me.
‘On and off, yes. I was just looking at the time. It’s hard to believe that it’s not even four, what with the sun setting and everything.’
‘Well it’s not really setting, is it?’ Victor says. ‘It’s just dipping behind the mountains.’
‘Sure . . . God, this road’s bad!’ I exclaim as the van bumps around.
‘Ha! You think this is bad? You just wait!’ And as if to prove his point he turns off down a dirt track – in fact, even dirt track would be overstating it. It’s a muddy wheel-stain which crosses a field.
‘Don’t you worry about getting stuck?’ I ask. ‘I mean if it rains . . .’
Victor shrugs. ‘It doesn’t really matter if I can’t get home, this being my home,’ he says, gesturing about the van.
‘No,’ I agree. ‘I suppose not.’
When we finally pull up in front of the farmhouse, words fail me. ‘Gosh!’ is the best I can manage.
‘Gosh?’ Victor repeats, pulling on the handbrake and releasing both of our seat belts.
We climb down from the van and Victor slides one arm around my waist. ‘Home!’ he says.
The farmhouse is a large single-storey building of the same grey stone from which all the drystone walls around the property are made. It is set into a niche carved from the hill behind. The building has only two tiny windows on the visible side and a gaping hole in the roof. To the right and left of the main house are two outbuildings, each about two-thirds the size of the main house, neither of which has any roof whatsoever.
The three buildings enclose what must once have been a gravelled courtyard, only most of the gravel has long since been driven into the mud. Vast amounts of junk sit in piles strewn around the courtyard: a rusty bike, a half-burnt settee, an almost entirely decomposed oil drum over there; a broken lawnmower, a garden chair, an old gas cooker and a toilet seat over here.
The sun is dipping behind the mountains now, the whole ensemble sliding into grey and, to be perfectly honest, I’m struggling to see the potential. The overriding ambience is cold, derelict and rather sinister.
‘You have to use your imagination,’ Victor says, pulling me tight. With his free hand he points as he describes what I’m apparently failing to imagine on my own. ‘This whole area nicely gravelled. Roses growing up the walls. No, um, hole in the roof. That cherry tree in blossom.’
I nod at the gnarled skeleton of a tree. ‘Is that really a cherry tree?’
‘Yep,’ he says.
‘It looks dead, though.’
‘You’ll find trees do that in winter,’ Victor says. ‘Come! I’ll show you the house before it gets dark.’
He leads me across the desolation zone to the front door and then pushes and kicks it until it opens. The inside isn’t as bad as I expected. That is to say that it actually looks like a house, albeit one that has never heard the words ‘interior design’ or ‘cosy’. With the exception of the gaping hole above our heads, it looks like a basic, old-fashioned Provençal farmhouse. It looks like someone lived here once.
‘Nice range,’ I say, nodding at the huge iron wood stove.
‘Yes,’ Victor says, releasing my hand and crossing the room to stroke it. ‘It’s rusting because of the roof. I wonder if it will clean up?’
I follow him across the room and look up through the hole. ‘It’s not going to fall on us, is it?’
‘What, the sky?’
‘The rest of the roof, silly!’
Victor shakes his head. ‘No, I went up there to check it. It all seems pretty solid. The hole is a bit of a mystery, actually.’
‘Yes,’ I say, thoughtfully. ‘It’s not like there’s anything to fall on it.’
‘Big bird?’ Victor says in an ironic tone.
‘Bloody big bird,’ I laugh. ‘Meteorite, more like.’
‘Maybe.’
Victor shrugs. ‘I can’t get anyone to even come and have a look. They all say it’s too remote.’
‘Well, we need to get it covered,’ I say, ‘even if it’s just with a tarpaulin.’
Victor grabs my hand and squeezes it. ‘You have no idea how nice that “we” sounds,’ he says.
‘Actually, I have,’ I say, bumping his hip. ‘It felt nice to say it, too.’
Victor looks up at the darkening sky again. ‘I thought about fixing it myself,’ he says.
‘That’s dangerous.’
‘Nah, not really. It’s just that the roof is made of these corrugated sheets and I can’t even lift one. Anyway.’ He pushes me towards the hallway. ‘So you’ve seen the lounge-cum-kitchen-cum-dining room.’
‘Have I?’
‘Yes. Here’s the rumpy-pumpy room,’ he says, steering me into the next room.
‘Hmm,’ I say. ‘Needs some work before it’ll be seeing any rumpy-pumpy.’ The walls are bare stone. The floor is peeling vinyl. The hole in the roof extends over a rusty metal bed.
‘Indeed,’ Victor says, already leaving the room. ‘And then this is the second bedroom or office or—’
‘Cupboard,’ I say, peering into the gloomy, windowless box room.
‘Probably need to put a window in here.’
‘Yes.’
‘And then, finally . . . La pièce de résistance . . .’ He grabs my hand and pulls me excitedly through to the final room. ‘The facilities.’
‘Jesus!’ I exclaim. For though comfortably sized, the ‘bathroom’ is absurdly basic, comprising a toilet bowl in one corner, a rusty yellow sit-up bathtub, and a stone sink.
‘All mod cons,’ Victor says.
‘Yes, I can see that.’
‘Madame will note the complete absence of a flushing mechanism,’ Victor says, sliding his hand across the wall behind the toilet bowl.
‘How lovely!’
‘And . . . wait for it . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘No hot water.’
‘Jesus, Victor.’
‘I know.’
‘Can’t we get that working?’
‘It’s not that it doesn’t work. It’s that there isn’t a hot water system in the house.’
The French House Page 1
