Escape to the Riviera

by Jules Wake

  ‘Ah,’ said Angela, in sudden realisation. ‘Marguerite said there was a pass code. I thought she meant for the house. Thirty Oh Six.’

  ‘Are you sure this is right?’ Carrie eyed the wooden gates, no wonder they’d passed them earlier, they were so dark they melded into the night, their solid size and dimensions designed to repel the hordes and keep out unwanted visitors. She had visions of angry Dobermans chasing them off someone’s property.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake. Put the code in, if it works we know we’re in the right place. If not, we’re stuffed.’

  For once Jade’s prosaic approach agreed with Carrie’s.

  Leaning out of the window she tapped in the code with nervous apprehension. The drive had taken it out of her and now she wanted to be there.

  To her slight amazement and utter relief, like magic, lights came on and the heavy wooden gates opened with slow, ponderous eventuality until the gap between them was wide enough to take the car.

  Carrie inched forward, not quite knowing what to expect beyond, taking a leap of faith rather like stepping through the wardrobe into Narnia, except she had no idea what was on the other side. Luckily the smooth tarmac continued and the road curved downward in a wide sweep before coiling back upwards. Solar lights lit the road like sentries posted at regular intervals along the way.

  ‘Whoa,’ Jade leaned forward, her nose almost on the dashboard.

  ‘That’s Marguerite’s little place?’

  ‘Erm … I think so. She was quite vague. Talked about the view a lot.’

  ‘You mean you heard the word ‘free’,’ said Jade laughing. ‘Mum, that is so typical.’

  ‘Now let’s not get carried away. That might be the main house and we’re in an annexe or something. I know she said it was all on one floor.’

  ‘All on one floor is somewhat different from a bungalow, Mum!’

  Carrie stopped the car and all three of them stared at the house ahead of them, sprawled across the top of the hill in a halo of light, looking rather like something out of a Bond film.

  Angela sighed with happiness, or perhaps relief, that they weren’t staying in a dilapidated cottage falling down around their ears. Even Jade, never short of words, stared, drinking in the sight in wide-eyed silence.

  Carrie drove carefully up the hill in second gear, not wanting to miss a moment of the delicious sense of anticipation. The little car wound through the landscaped grounds, lit here and there with uplighters, showing off ornamental grasses interspersed with gravel paths and evenly planted bay trees in huge pots, like sentries watching over the land.

  It seemed rather untidy to park the poor relation of a car in front of this glamorous house. There was probably a garage for the sexy convertibles or huge four-wheeled things that ought to be here. As Carrie got out of the car, stretching her legs with catlike satisfaction, the scent of herbs filled the warm night. Sod the car, they were here and had possibly fallen into the lap of luxury. Whether they were in the gardener’s cottage or the maid’s flat, judging by the size and stature of this house, they were going to be alright.

  Two enormous terracotta pots flanked the front double doors, twin concierges welcoming them, which might have been slightly intimidating if it weren’t for the whimsical touch of tiny fairy lights threaded through the miniature olive trees in each one. Carrie smiled, it softened the rather grand and very contemporary landscaping along the rest of the front of the house, where artfully grouped smaller pots held a variety of precision-trimmed shrubs, scenting the air with a cocktail of fragrances including rosemary, thyme and bay.

  Her face broke into a broad smile as she nudged her sister.

  ‘I think this might do nicely. What do you reckon?’

  ‘I had no idea it was going to be like this.’ Angela twisted her hands together, as if she couldn’t quite believe it either.

  They stood together examining the house. ‘I love the roof. Terracotta tiles. So Mediterranean. So romantic. I have a good feeling about this.’

  ‘It looks wonderful.’ Carrie squeezed her sister’s arm.

  ‘For Pete’s sake are we going inside or not? Listen to you. It’s a house. It’s flipping gorgeous.’

  Angela rummaged in her bag, pulling out the precious envelope, crumpled from the dozens of times she checked it was still there during the journey. Opening it, she pulled out the keys.

  She held the key gripped between twisted thumb and finger, eyeing the lock with the intense concentration of a surgeon about to make the first incision. Jade and Carrie hung back with practised patience, determinedly not looking at each other. It was a familiar routine, where neither acknowledged the slow, painful attempts that any fine motor skills demanded or made any attempt to speed up the process. Although Angela’s rheumatoid arthritis limited her in many ways, she never complained and had never once said, ‘why me and not you’ to Carrie.

  The door opened, light streaming out and Angela stood poised on the threshold, a triumphant smile on her face.

  ‘Looks like we’re in the right place.’

  They crowded in through the door, their feet echoing on the polished marble floor, blinking in the light thrown by a huge dandelion clock of a lighting fitting, with what looked like hundreds of brilliant bulbs. For a second they stared around the high-ceilinged hallway, larger than the whole of their semi-detached home.

  On a console table of painted wood, in a cracked glass vase, spilled a blousy, extravagant bouquet of flowers, a white card tucked into the foliage.

  Angela plucked the card and read out aloud.

  Dear Angela and family, you are most welcome to La Maison de Clemont. Please do make yourselves at home. The fridge is fully stocked to get you started but please do let Marisa, our much-loved maid, know of your preferences and she will shop accordingly. She’ll pop in to say hello. I hope you have a happy and joyous holiday here and I look forward to hearing all about it on your return.

  Enjoy

  With much love

  Marguerite

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘How lovely, said a rather shell-shocked Angela.

  ‘This is going to be ace.’ Jade threw her arms around her mother.

  Carrie stepped forward, opening a set of double doors to reveal a spacious lounge. No, lounge sounded too mundane, this was a salon, a sitting room … just gorgeous. Looking up she traced the bleached-blonde wood beams criss-crossing a high-pitched sloping ceiling, smiling at the wonderful sense of light and space.

  ‘Come and look at this,’ she called, taking the three broad, shallow steps down into the room, unable to resist the temptation to sink into one of the two taupe-linen-covered sofas, each of which could have comfortably seated five people. Contrasting arm chairs in cream were dotted around the modern wooden coffee table opposite the sofas. Understated and classical, Carrie could imagine the key words, in capitals, on the interior designer’s brief had been ‘style’, ‘taste’ and ‘elegance’.

  ‘Get a load of that TV,’ said Jade with a squeal of delight, crossing to the flat-screen television framed within the wall above a fireplace with a log burner in it the size of a small bath tub. ‘Whoa! That is fab-u-lous.’ Almost reverently she reached up to touch the sixty-five-inch, or, whatever it was, screen. ‘Much better than our piddly little thing.’

  Personally Carrie thought the thirty-inch screen at home was more than adequate, although she had to concede the size of this room meant you did need a monster screen this big.

  Angela came and bounced on the sofa next to Carrie, letting out a happy sigh. ‘Oh my days. I never imagined it would be like this.’

  ‘You pulled a blinder, sis,’ said Carrie, hugging her.

  ‘You certainly did, Mum,’ agreed Jade, coming to join them on the sofa.

  With a sudden squeal, Carrie threw herself backwards, taking Angela and Jade with her, kicking her feet up in the air.

  ‘Woohoo!’ she shouted as the other two burst into giggles and copied her
, all three bicycling their legs like mad.

  Euphoria fizzed in Carrie’s stomach like an errant Catherine wheel, spinning so hard it had taken flight. ‘It’s like that scene in Pretty Woman where Vivienne throws herself on the huge bed.’

  ‘OMG. What do you think the bedrooms here will be like?’ Jade sprang up. ‘And the bathroom?’

  ‘I suspect bathrooms as in multiple. Which will be great. You can spend as long as you like in there.’

  Jade stuck her tongue out her aunt.

  ‘And what’s out here, do you reckon?’

  Soft flowing linen drapes skirted the room on two sides. Jade tugged at them to reveal a complete wall of French doors. It was too dark to see beyond the patio area and the dark shapes of furniture. Lights dotted on the hillside were testament to a potentially fabulous view in the morning.

  ‘I’m starving,’ announced Jade.

  ‘Why don’t I find the kitchen, while you two go and bring in the cases and then you can explore the bedroom situation?’ asked Angela, falling into her usual mothering role.

  ‘Okey doke.’ For once Jade was happy to follow orders without arguing the toss. ‘I reckon there’ll be a bedroom each.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Carrie, laughing. She’d been worried she’d have to sleep in the lounge on a sofa. These sofas were bigger than her double bed at home.

  Angela stood uncertainly. ‘Which way do you think the kitchen is?’

  They burst out laughing, looking around them, all of them amused by the thought of being in a house so big that it wasn’t obvious where the rooms were.

  In unspoken agreement they retraced their steps.

  ‘Blimey, this is fancy,’ said Jade as they walked along a glass corridor linking the first building to another on a slightly different level. ‘I think Marguerite’s idea of everything being on one floor is slightly different to mine,’ said Angela as they tripped up a set of three steps. ‘Oh!’ She gasped. ‘Isn’t this lovely? Look at the range stove. I would love one of those at home. It’s got seven rings on it.’

  The range, which didn’t do much for Carrie, sat under a wooden cream-painted canopy, no doubt hiding the extractor fan. The styling of the kitchen was very much French provincial with its distressed wooden cupboards and plate filled racks. It was the sort of room that everyone gravitated to, perfect for cooking and entertaining at the same time, with its central island, a sink on one side and rustic wooden bar stools on the other.

  What she loved about the room was the roof, similar to the lounge, open to wooden beams, which met in a high ridge running the length of the room, finishing above a contemporary-styled bay window. Under the window on all three sides was a built-in seat with brightly coloured cushions in patterned fabric.

  Carrie’s eyes were drawn to the full-height wine fridge, filled with bottles. ‘Do you think she meant it when she said “help yourselves”? I think we should celebrate.’

  Angela had already pulled open the doors of the American- style fridge.

  ‘It’s got an ice-maker. That’s cool.’

  ‘And enough food to feed five thousand,’ said Angela faintly, looking around at Carrie, with a slight frown. ‘I wasn’t expecting this. I’m rather overwhelmed.’

  ‘Bin that Protestant work ethic, Catholic guilt attitude right now. Marguerite’s note was quite explicit and from what you’ve told me about her, she meant every word. We are going to enjoy every last minute of this wonderful house.

  ‘Now you get cracking and rustle us up something fabulous and choose a bottle of wine. While me and the brat here will unload the car.’

  ‘And bag the best bedrooms,’ added Jade.

  ‘I think, given your mother has come up with this gem, she should get the best room,’ said Carrie, poking her niece in the back.

  ‘Oy.’

  ‘To be perfectly honest,’ Angela shook her head in wonderment, ‘I think the worst bedroom here will still be better than any of ours.

  ‘I need to check out the wi-fi code.’ Jade shook her phone. ‘Crap signal up here. Please say this place has internet.’

  ‘There you go.’ Angela pointed to a note tagged to the fridge door with a magnet, rather bizarrely in the shape of the Statue of Liberty, among all the other local tourist magnets.

  ‘Holey Moley, thank God for that.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Sumptuous didn’t begin to describe the bedrooms. They were all decorated in the same subdued colours which Carrie imagined would be very cool during the hot summer days, with pure-white cotton, plumped-up bedding.

  Jade darted from room to room, now wired for comms, snap-chatting her friends asking their opinion as to which she should choose. While she was doing that, Carrie fell in love with the bedroom at the furthest corner of the building.

  Like the rest of the house, it featured the same stripped- wooden beams, cool neutral colours and light airy feel, but what swung her decision were sets of French windows on two walls which met at the corner of the room. Opening one set, she stepped out onto a balcony and it felt as if she were stepping right out into the night air as the hill fell away beneath her. Someone had cleverly built this house to maximise the contours of the hill.

  She unpacked quickly, laying claim to the room, although she couldn’t believe that either Angela or Jade would be that fussed about this one. It was easily the smallest but it felt right, down to the little dressing table, which would double perfectly as a desk, although she suspected the view might be rather distracting.

  Lavender perfumed the air when she opened up the painted-wood wardrobe, filled with fancy, silk-padded hangers and lace sachets of herbs. It seemed almost sacrilege to bother it with her meagre collection of clothes. She didn’t do quantity but where quality was concerned, she had an aptitude for mixing expensive with dirt cheap and making it look good. Most of the things she’d brought with her, T-shirts, strappy vest tops and flippy skirts didn’t need hanging up and certainly not on hangers as posh as these.

  The tiled floors were cool to her hot feet when she slipped off her beloved converses and yanked down her jeans, which now clung to her legs. Folding them up, she consigned them to the back of the wardrobe. They could stay there until it came to going home. Just think – she could wear dresses and skirts every day without once having to worry about being cold or taking a coat or an umbrella everywhere with her. If it did rain here, it would be the sort of rain that you didn’t mind getting wet in.

  Slipping her feet into her well-worn flip-flops, she cast a quick, longing glance at the en-suite bathroom and its walk- in shower that she didn’t have to share with anyone. Absolute bliss.

  The beep of her phone with yet another text welcoming her to France providing details of how much it cost to send a text or make a call, reminded her that she ought to let Alan know they’d arrived safely and alleviate his fears that their free accommodation wasn’t a shanty house after all.

  A quick flurry of texts between them confirmed he’d had a great day’s cycling and that he was pleased that the house wasn’t falling down around her ears.

  All that was needed now, to finish the day off in perfect style, was a long, cool glass of wine. But first she wanted to look up where the village of Ramatuelle was and when market day was.

  Angela had wasted no time. With the instincts of a born nester, she’d unearthed a table cloth, pretty napkins and china to lay the table in the bay window. To Carrie’s delight a condensation-coated bottle of white wine wedged into a terracotta cooler took up prime position in the middle of the table flanked by a pair of large wine glasses.

  With picture-perfect design, a basket of rustic bread waited alongside a wooden board of cheeses, some of which already scented the air with their pungency, a platter of sliced meats and two round dishes of pâté.

  ‘Can I do anything?’ asked Carrie, with a raised eyebrow, knowing that Angela was in her absolute element.

  ‘Nothing. Apart from getting that bottle open and pouring us both a glass. Oh and you c
an put these olives on the table.’

  ‘When are the others arriving?’ asked Carrie. ‘Did you put everything in the fridge out?’

  Angela laughed gaily and threw open the fridge doors. ‘You’ve got to be kidding. There’s enough food here to withstand a siege. It’s heaven.’

  Every shelf was packed with unfamiliar branded bottles, unusual-shaped jars and beguiling paper-bag-wrapped parcels.

  ‘There’s gallons of stuff in here. Merguez sausages, compôtes, duck confit, Cassis and myrtle jam, a million different cheeses and meats.’ Angela threw open a cupboard, almost skipping with joy. ‘Here, look. There are stacks of tins, every kind of bean you can imagine, haricot, flageolet and green beans, cassoulet, Tartiflette and even tinned Dauphinoise potato!’

  Carrie opened the bottle and poured two glasses, sticking her nose deep in the first glass before sampling it. The clean fresh straw-coloured wine tasted every bit as good as its heavenly smell.

  ‘I’m going to have so much fun in this kitchen.’

  ‘It’s supposed to be a holiday,’ said Carrie, offering up a glass with a dramatic shudder, grateful as always that her sister loved cooking.

  ‘It is but I don’t have the time to think about cooking properly at home, which means we have the same old. With all this inspiration, I can go to town.’

  Carrie smiled, her heart lighter just listening to her sister.

  ‘Are you sure? I know you love it but don’t overdo it.’ Her eyes rested on the knobbly joint at the base of her sister’s index and middle fingers.

  Angela flexed her fingers, the fine lines around her mouth tightening. ‘I’m fine.’

  Carrie smiled at her sister’s stubbornness, but then she’d had to be to fight against the regular pain that her condition brought with it. ‘I know you’re fine. But I don’t want you to end up in here all the time. Jade and I need to help out otherwise it isn’t fair. Now come sit down.’

  ‘I bet the view out of this window is fabulous in daylight,’ said Angela, perching on the window seat and twisting around to peer through the glass. ‘Can’t see much now. No wonder Marguerite kept going on about the views.’