Every day since then a bouquet of flowers had arrived for me, each with increasingly contrite messages on the cards. The flat was beginning to look like a chamber of rest. I was pretty damn sure it was going to be his funeral and not mine.
He texted every day, phoned both my mobile and the land-line, to the point where I unplugged the phone and didn’t bother charging my mobile – cue frantic visit from Mum who’d convinced herself I’d thrown myself, like Stu’s clothes, headlong out of the window.
I hoped by pushing him away and cutting him out of my life I’d be able to surf along on a wave called denial, but of course the shooting pains to my eye and cheek were a constant reminder that this had happened and there was no escaping it. If we wore other people’s love on our faces in smiles, we wore their hatred in bruises. Or I did. Many couples existed in seething bitterness without resorting to physical violence, why did ours have to be so complicated? There was love, there was camaraderie, but there were also huge pockets of indifference and anxiety, and I spent so much time walking gingerly on eggshells I was surprised my lower limbs weren’t deformed, like some travelling circus freak: Roll up! Roll up! See the battered lady! See her negotiate a thousand eggshells and get a punch for her labours!
But was there hatred? Did I hate him? I thought about this almost constantly. I hated what he’d done. I hated the physical evidence he’d left on me of his own frustrations about life, but hatred seemed too strong a word. I was disappointed in him, I was frustrated by him, I was furious with him, but if there was hatred there then it was a low-level crackle of interference, interrupting the radio show of our relationship. But what did I do with the radio now? Switch it off? Silence it once and for all? Or re-tune it and let the show play out more clearly, and hope against hope that there’d never be interference again?
As the purple bruising faded, so the scales fell from my eyes. If it wasn’t already clear to Mum and Dad that I’d not really been tipsy and fallen over, then it was confirmed when Stu appeared on their doorstep one night and broke down and apologized. They visited me the next day to tell me, and I knew I couldn’t lie to them any more. If there’d been no surge of hate before, then there was now as they sat in the apartment politely drinking tea and talking in hushed, mournful tones. I hated Stu for what he was putting them through. The pain and confusion etched on their faces. The quietly bubbling anger in Dad, the plaintive ache of Mum. What had they done to deserve this? How dare he? How dare he?
Dad was all for me reporting it to the police, but I was adamant I wouldn’t. My biggest fear was that it would end up in the papers. I didn’t mind, on one level, them knowing the mistakes I made, but I didn’t want it to be fodder for the hungry mouths of the gutter press. Dad was all for getting some fellas from their estate to ‘sort Stu out’. I told him I could fight my own battles. Dad’s eyes flitted to mine; he didn’t look entirely convinced.
All the time they were there I was looking past them to the breakfast bar in the kitchen, where my iPad was. It was as if it was pulsating with a neon glow, off and on, off and on, drawing me to it. I couldn’t wait to get rid of them so I could rush to it and see if he had sent a message. Completely irrationally my excitement was like bicarb burning in the pit of my stomach. I knew I was becoming restless, fidgeting in my seat. No doubt Mum and Dad interpreted it as an unease with the conversation, and maybe on one level it was, but really I was feeling like a heroin addict. And there was my next fix, all ready to smoke/inject on the breakfast bar, calling me to it.
‘Jodie. What are you going to do?’ Mum asked.
I sighed, and for once in my life I was completely honest.
‘I don’t know.’
They nodded. They could easily have said, Don’t take the bastard back. But they didn’t have to, because the words floated from their brains and hung above their heads, like in some scary cartoon, curling round like cigarette smoke. I breathed out deeply, hoping to blow them away.
Trudy was less subtle.
‘Babes, you’ve gotta kick him to the kerb. This is totally a well dodge situation and stuff.’
Trudy came round on the seventh day of my incarceration. I heard a ring at the doorbell and, convinced it was Stuart again, approached the front door with some trepidation. But when I looked through the tiny spyhole I saw Trudy’s face distorted in the glass and reluctantly let her in. I’d not had a drink since the day I’d been to the studio, but she arrived bearing a large vodka bottle and two more of diet tonic water. I got some ice from the freezer and a dried-up lemon from my veg rack, and before you could say ‘second glass’ I was opening my heart up to her. My black eye had all but gone by now and she looked shocked when I explained what had happened. By glass number three I’d even told her about Matthew.
I knew that in the morning I’d regret telling her. I could just see the article in Hiya! now . . .
You know I never shy away from being too deep in my column, so . . . a big shout out to all you ladies (and guys, too, coz lets face it, it happens to some poor dudes as well) suffering from domestic violence right now! Its a real toughie, and it never goes away. Talk about taboo and stuff! Foundation and blusher might be able to help those bruises, but what about the mental scars? Anyway, I hope you all find the strength to get through it. If Finchley can, you can. Kisses!
She wanted to know what Matthew was like. And now that she was asking, I had no idea how to answer. This is all I knew about him:
1
He lived in the South of France but was originally from Yorkshire.
2
He was three years older than me.
3
He worked in a bar type place on a beach.
4
He wore his hair in a floppy centre parting.
5
He had a sister.
6
He had a nice smile.
7
He was very good at cyber sex (I didn’t tell her this bit)
8
He was really nice.
And I was ashamed to admit that’s all I knew. But Trudy didn’t seem fazed.
‘I fell in love with a guy on a bus once. I only saw him twice. We never spoke, but it was a deep, emotional love.’
‘I’m not in love with Matthew,’ I protested, thrown somewhat by her bizarre declaration.
‘But you could be.’
‘But he’s in the South of France.’
‘So go and see him.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not, babes?’
‘Coz . . .’
‘You’ve got another week off. Have a little holiday. Go and say hi. He might be a plonker. He might be really nice. But at least that way, you won’t always wonder what might have been.’
No. No! I couldn’t just up sticks and fly to France.
‘Babes, if anyone needs a holiday it’s you. And let’s face it, we can’t walk down a street in this country without someone trying to take a picture. At least in France you won’t get no hassle, babes.’
I couldn’t.
‘What else you gonna do? Slob round here all week? Go to France. I would. Top up your tan. Well,’ she corrected herself, ‘get a tan. Drink wine, surprise him. What have you got to lose?’
My dignity? A sense of pride?
Yet how much dignity and pride did I have now, hiding away in my Mersey-view ivory tower?
No I couldn’t. I really couldn’t.
Could I?
TWENTY-EIGHT
SPLAT!
There was one.
SMACK!
And another one. I turned to my companion, alarmed. She circled her glass in her hand and explained, ‘You know, dear, if the archetypal sound of England is leather on willow on the village green, then the Provençal equivalent is people slapping their flesh to kill the mosquitos.’
I loved the way she spoke. Part olden-days BBC travel presenter, part aristocratic lush.
‘Now if you’ll excuse me, Miss McGee, I need to visit the little girls’ roo
m.’
She got up and waddled away. She was old school. I liked that. I addressed her as Mrs Bathing and she called me Miss McGee. Although it sounded formal, it actually felt rewardingly intimate. I cooed a warm sigh of contentment, had a dainty sip from my glass of rosé and took in the view from the terrace of my villa.
My villa. Get me.
Well of course it wasn’t my villa. I was only renting a room in it, B & B stylee for a few days from Mrs Bathing. But sat here, alone, as the light faded over the bay beneath me, I could pretend it was my house, my lavish steeply sloping garden, and those sprinklers that had just come on to water the tropical plants? Why, I’d planned that meticulously with my gardener, Patrique, of course! I didn’t even know if Patrique was a real French name, my French having been taught to me at school by Mrs Byrne in her strong Liverpool accent. But in my head, Patrique was my rock. Sometimes, when I bossed him about in the garden or the house – he was an odd job man, too, it was quite some building – I would shorten his name, playfully, to Rique. But he always, always called me Madame Shhodee. Anything more familiar and he knew he’d be for the high jump. I took another baby sip of rosé. I’d never really liked it before, but here, in the baking dusk, palm trees poker straight above me like imperious cranes on the skyline, the oily blue sea darkening beneath me, I don’t know, it just felt . . . right. The South of France was clearly bringing out the poet in me, I realized with a wry smile.
For the first time in ages I felt completely relaxed. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the heat. Maybe it was the fact that as soon as I’d stepped off the plane, not a soul had recognized me, pointed at me, sniggered at me, or squawked, ‘Oi, love, where’s your wimple?!’ at me. Being abroad agreed with me. Feeling the warm breeze from the Mediterranean, as opposed to the chill wind from the Mersey, agreed with me. Doing nothing and just being agreed with me. And Mrs Bathing’s fantastical villa agreed with me so much we were in danger of becoming co-dependent.
Thanks heavens for the internet. I knew nothing about the South of France before coming here except, well, it was in the South of France. But remembering that Matthew had mentioned he lived in a place called Mandelieu-La Napoule, I looked it up on Google Maps and saw that it wasn’t that far from Nice Airport, which was nice. I then looked up ‘luxurious B & B’s Mandelieu-La Napoule’, and before you could say, ‘Bonjour, je m’appelle Jodie,’ in a thick Scouse accent (thank you, Mrs Byrne) I had tickets booked and accommodation sorted. Stu and I had saved a lump sum for a rainy day in a high-interest account, and that rainy day had just come. With a valedictory tap of my fingernails I texted Stuart and announced,
Spending all our money on a nice holiday. ON MY OWN.
I got one back almost immediately: ‘Hope you have a nice time and find some peace.’
Oh Jeez. He’d turned into some tree-hugging earth mother all of a sudden? I couldn’t help myself, I texted back,
Very peaceful thanks. Now you’re not around.
The only fly in the ointment was that I messaged Matthew on Facebook to tell him I was coming. And then didn’t hear back. Oh well, it all added to the anticipation of the journey. It would be just my luck that he’d have gone off on holiday while I was heading over, but he’d not told me if that was the case. He was probably just working and missed my message. He’d probably read it while I was airborne. I was sure I’d get to France, turn on my iPad and see that he’d replied, overexcited by our impending meeting. And if I didn’t hear from him, well, nothing ventured, nothing . . . No, I would hear from him. He’d never let me down so far. He wasn’t going to let me down now, right?
Wrong. After half an hour in a cab from Nice to Mandelieu along a motorway called the A8, and stopping at something called a péage for the driver to pay for the joy of using the motorway, we arrived in Mandelieu. Wide avenues alongside the yacht-dotted port led to narrow cobbled streets of olde worlde shops and terraced cottages, then we climbed a hill to streets that put me in mind of Beverly Hills. Soon the driver was pulling up outside the most gorgeous white villa that looked equally LA, except for the very French blue shutters on the windows. The owner of the villa, a pleasantly posh English lady with a beetroot nose, black and white scraggly hair scraped back in an Alice band and mismatching flip flops, showed me to my room. I gave it a cursory glance, ‘Yes, Mrs Bathing, it’s gorgeous. What’s your Wi-Fi password?’
I fired up my iPad.
Opened the app.
Entered Matthew’s name in my Friend search.
And came up with the error message: ‘Did you mean Matthew Martins?’
No! I meant bloody Matthew Martin Maxwell. I retyped the words, assuming I’d spelt something wrong in my over-enthusiastic haste. I was here. He’d be over the moon!
But the same error message came up.
I tried again. And again. And again. Then, with a sinking feeling, I realized that Matthew had deleted his profile. He wasn’t on Facebook any more. In fact, Matthew Martin Maxwell had ceased to exist.
I deflated onto the bed, closed my eyes and tried my hardest not to scream. But I must have made some kind of noise because Mrs Bathing came sliding into my room – note to self, that must be one hell of a highly polished parquet if even flip flops could slide – gasping, ‘Are you OK, sweetness?’
I sat up, straightened my dress and nodded with an embarrassed, ‘Yeah I just . . . stubbed my toe.’
‘I know what you need.’
I looked at her. What?
‘A glass of rosé. Why don’t you unpack and I’ll see you by the pool in fifteen?’ She winked, clicked her teeth, then slid away again in those flip flops.
I looked at my computer, hoiked it back onto my lap and entered those three words one final time.
Nothing.
Merde! MERDE!
I sighed and looked round the room. It was beautiful, there were no two ways about it, with its parquet flooring, iron framed bed, lacey white linen, white timber walls, model ships painted white and displayed in cabinets on top of the wardrobe and above the door. There was even a painting on the wall that looked like an original David Hockney But right now, like many beautiful things, it just felt . . . pointless.
What was I even doing here? I’d come halfway across the world. Well, Europe. To find a bloke I’d chatted to for a few months on the internet. Someone who’d chucked me a few platitudes when I was feeling down and confused. And now he’d done a bloody runner as soon as I’d threatened to come and visit. Why? Why?
I knew why.
Because he wasn’t daft. He had a brain in his head. He saw me for the chaotic, crazy, mixed-up, lying fool that I was, probably. Oh God. Why did I always do it? Why did I always make a complete and utter mess of my life? I had done it again. My recurring theme. Oh, Jodie, you complete and utter tit!
I stood up and moved to the open window, where a hot draught hit me as I looked out. The sun was high in the sky and I pulled my sunglasses down off the top of my head, covered my eyes and admired the view. And what a view! The velvet green garden, the pool at the bottom. I could see Mrs Bathing fussing about at the far end of the pool in her billowing kaftan, arranging a table under a canvas awning. Looking further afield I could see the sea, twinkling like it was full of diamonds. Ironic, I’d just got over my black eye and here I was having to wear sunglasses again. I took a deep breath, considering the view and what I’d been through, and came to a positive conclusion. I was here. I was on holiday. I needed a rest and, Matthew or no Matthew, I was going to enjoy myself.
Je vais m’enjoyer, I told myself. And I actually found myself smiling. Instead of the usual mortification of, Oh, Jodie, you stupid cow! I actually found it funny that I’d been so ridiculous. My only bit of stupidity had been witnessed by one person – if I didn’t count Trudy. God I wished I’d not told her – and as it appeared that he was no longer in my life, even if he had just been a picture on my computer screen and some, admittedly charming, words, then I had no one to feel embarrassed in front of.
Come on, Jodie. You’re here. In a beautiful part of the world. You’ve been miserable for ages. Time to lighten up and have some R & R.
Oh. And . . . possibly do some Jessica Fletcher-style detective work to track down the elusive surfer dude while I’m at it.
I’d find Matthew. Somehow I would. But not so I could pounce on him or proclaim undying love, but to apologize and show him I wasn’t a nutter. And to thank him for being so kind. But mostly to say sorry for being a psycho bitch from hell.
I headed down to the garden with some suncream and a smile to meet my rosé companion. We sat and chatted into the late afternoon before she excused himself to make a trip to the supermarket. I moved from the pool area up to the terrace and watched the sun set. I felt no sadness as the fierce orange circle dropped into the sea like an egg yolk. Tomorrow was going to be the start of my adventure. And as the evening got darker, bright sparks exploded in the sky. It must have been a firework display down the hill in either Mandelieu or Cannes (Mrs Bathing had pointed out the geography of the view). It was odd, seeing it happen so far below, but I allowed myself the pretence that they had been laid on to welcome me to the area.
I heard some doors shutting in the house and footsteps behind me. Then Mrs Bathing gently touched my shoulder.
‘Miss McGee? Shall I crack open another bottle?’
‘I think it would be rude not to, Mrs Bathing.’
The next day, after a terrace breakfast of pain au chocolat and fresh fruit salad washed down with a fierce black coffee, I took a cab to nearby Cannes and started the seafront promenade back to Mandelieu. Having spoken to Mrs Bathing about ‘an old friend I wanted to look up, but all I knew was his name and the fact that he worked in a nearby beach club’, Mrs Bathing had informed me that there were practically millions of them between Cannes and here. I’d foolishly worn some impractical cork platforms for my journey, which started to rub after the third beach club, all of which seemed to consist of bars or restaurants with their own private sections of beach.
All She Wants Page 38
