All She Wants

by Jonathan Harvey

  I ventured into a couple of them and practised the sentences Mrs Bathing had written down for me on a scrap of paper. At first she’d advised me to say, ‘Je cherche un homme,’ but then realized it made me sound like I was after a shag, or ‘connubials’ as she delicately put it, so we altered it to the more difficult to say, ‘Je cherche mon ami qui travaille par ici.’ Then I’d show them a picture of Matthew that I’d printed off on Mrs Bathing’s computer.

  How, you might wonder, did I manage to have pictures of Matthew when he’d deactivated his Facebook account? Well, little stalkery me had, many moons ago, created a folder on my iPad called MMM, standing for Matthew Martin Maxwell, and into it I’d saved all the photos from Matthew’s page, so that I could moon over them in the awful event that my internet went down. Although I had felt like a total stalker at the time, I was really glad I’d done it now, and gave myself a congratulatory pat on the back.

  However, no matter how many photos of the floppy-haired one I showed to the bar managers . . .

  ‘Il est Anglais et it s’appelle Matthew Maxwell?’

  . . . all I got was the shaking of French heads, the shrugging of shoulders and the offer of a sunlounger.

  ‘Non merci, au revoir!’

  As I trudged along the waterfront I noted that nearly every guy I saw appeared to be wearing Vilebrequin shorts, and all the older women, glamorous as they were, had skin the colour and texture of their bulging leather handbags. Between the beach clubs of chic restaurants and glorified pizza parlours I took in a heady haze of Franglais menus and fashion victims, oligarchs on yachts and Eurotrash on the sands. The tables of the clubs were adorned with the heads of sunflowers, and skinny, facelifted Madames flicked cigarettes into yellow and blue (the colours of Provence) covered ashtrays. Teenagers whizzed past on motorbikes without helmets, creating the rarest and most welcome of breezes.

  After the twelfth club I decided to call it a day, pay my silly amount of Euros and rest up in a club at the far end of Cannes. I’d done Cannes today, Mandelieu could wait till tomorrow. After a light lunch of lobster salad and a glass of rosé, I settled down on a lounger, shielded from the two o’clock sun by my clay-coloured parasol, untied my platforms and prepared for a snooze. Before I shut my eyes I vaguely noticed a stout woman on the next lounger who was rubbing lotion into her tree-trunk thighs whilst concurrently munching on a croissant and reading a paperback. I didn’t give her much thought, except to comment to myself that her skin was the colour of the average British sideboard.

  A few minutes later I appeared to be awake again. The stout lady turned towards me and smiled, pastry wedged between her teeth. I smiled back pleasantly but uncomfortably and emitted a girly, ‘Bonjour!’

  When she replied, she had a Geordie accent.

  ‘You don’t recognize me, do you pet?’

  I shook my head. Who was she?

  ‘First up, I’ve got to apologize.’

  ‘Apologize? What for?’

  She swung her legs round so she could sit facing me. Her swimming costume was tight around the crotch and my eyes were drawn to the hairs from her growler, which were poking out of either side of the paisley patterned costume.

  ‘For shutting down me account, like. I’m sorry Jodie, like.’

  I had no idea what she was going on about, so I tried to change the subject.

  ‘Have you ever thought about having your growler waxed? I’m sorry, but I can’t help noticing you’ve got a bit of a pedestal mat down there.’

  ‘I like it au naturel,’ she insisted. ‘I’m a feminist.’

  I nodded and tried to turn away to read my book. I had a book all of a sudden.

  ‘I’m also a twenty-stone lesbian,’ she continued.

  I had no idea what to say to that, so I answered politely, ‘Really? You don’t look a stone over seventeen.’

  ‘Thanks, pet. I knew you were a good ‘un. How’s life at the plastics company?’

  I looked back, putting my book down. How did she know about that? Gosh this woman was confusing.

  ‘Plastics company? I’m Jodie McGee. I’m an actress. I play Sister Agnetha in Acacia Avenue.’

  For some strange reason it made complete sense that my character had morphed into one of the singers from Abba. The woman looked hurt.

  ‘But you said your name was Jodie McFee. And that you was an administrative assistant.’

  ‘Only to Matthew,’ I confided.

  ‘But don’t you see, Jodes? I am Matthew.’

  Gulp.

  ‘I’m sorry, pet. I used the name and the photos as a pretence. I knew you wouldn’t look twice at us if I put me normal pictures up, like, so I borrowed some off our Declan.’

  Gulp.

  ‘That’s why I shut me profile down when I knew you was coming over, like. Didn’t want to have to tell you the truth.’

  Gulp.

  ‘Anyways. Now you do. So, would you like to go for a drink with us tonight? I won’t try to grab your snatch or nothing.’

  Gulp.

  ‘Well, not unless you want us too, like.’

  ‘I don’t!’ I called quickly, a few people on the adjoining loungers looked round to see if I was OK.

  ‘Well, what about I put some tanning lotion on your pearly white skin, like. I hear the tops of your thighs can be quite sensitive, pet.’

  ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ I seemed to be channelling Joyce Grenfell. ‘I’m not actually a lesbian.’

  ‘Sure about that?’ a man’s voice said behind me. I turned to tell him to shut up. Why were there so many English people here? I saw Stuart behind me in Vilebrequins and a frown. ‘Are you sure you’re not a total, full-on lez?’

  ‘Stuart!’ I gasped. ‘What are you doing in Cannes stroke Mandelieu?’

  ‘I mean. Maybe that’s why you left me?’

  ‘I left you because you hit me, you stupid twat.’

  ‘And maybe I hit you because you’re a lesbian.’

  ‘How many times? I am NOT A LESBIAN.’

  Now the whole beach was looking over.

  ‘But you’ve been chatting to one on Facebook behind my back.’

  ‘Oi! The name’s Gwen!’ the woman beside me reprimanded.

  ‘I thought she was a bloke!’

  ‘Look at the pictures, Jodie.’

  He produced the originals of all the pictures of ‘Matthew’ from the website. He laid them out on my chest. Looking again, I could see why Matthew had floppy hair. It was actually an asymmetric bob, because Matthew was, in fact – how had I not spotted it before? – a lady!

  I wanted the sand to open up and swallow me whole, but just then Ace of Base came on the tannoy from the Beach Club DJ, playing ‘All That She Wants’. I turned to look at the DJ’s booth and saw Our Joey standing behind the decks. He was sun-kissed, but twelve years old. He waved over and started gyrating in time to the music. One by one everyone on the beach sprang up from their loungers and started to dance along with him. It was all too much. I’d come on holiday to get away from all this. Gwen was dancing with Stuart, fondling his arse quite obscenely. I thought she was a lezzer! I clambered up from my lounger, intent on heading to the DJ’s booth to have a word with Our Joey, but the tide had come in without me looking, and my feet sank into the gooey sand beneath me. I tried to move my feet but couldn’t. How come everyone else was dancing in the incoming water and I couldn’t budge? I was trapped, frozen in the heat. I bent and gripped onto the sun-lounger, trying to squelch my feet up, but the lounger started floating away. I would be trapped here for ever, like an Antony Gormley statue on Cannes beach. The sad bitch who came to France and made a holy show of herself.

  I woke with a start.

  ‘Gwen’ was picking her nose, distracted by her paperback. Europop was coming from the tannoy. Stuart was nowhere to be seen.

  I asked a waiter for a bottle of water.

  The second full day I wore more sensible shoes, flip flops actually, and worked my way through the beach clubs of Mandelieu. Once
again I drew a blank. I rested up on a lounger for the afternoon, listening to my iPod and flicking through some Paris Match magazines that Mrs Bathing had lent me. I nodded off again, but only dreamed about swimming in the sea. No mad encounters with monstrous boyfriends, bogus internet trolls or twelve-year-old gay brothers. Just me, paddling through what looked like a mirror.

  I decided to be healthy and walk back to the villa rather than take a cab, and soon discovered the hill was steeper than it appeared. I passed a huge development of apartments that looked like a berthed ocean liner, very much the trompe l’oeil, and headed through the cobbled streets of what must have been the old town. I stopped to take a swig from the bottle of water I’d bought from the club to replenish me on the walk home when I heard music coming from a bar down a side street to my left. It was music I recognized. Why was it so familiar? I took a nosey down the side street and soon identified it as a song that had been in the charts ages ago, that really annoying Bob the Builder song. What a bizarre thing to hear in the South of France, where even the blokes on bikes carrying onions wear head-to-toe Nicole Farhi. And then I saw a wooden sign hanging above a pub. Nell Gwyn’s. Traditional Olde English Pub. It had a painting on it of a titian toothless hag holding two oranges where her boobs should have been and a wobbly Big Ben behind her looking like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Oh well, in for a penny, in for a Euro.

  A girl whose name badge told me she was called Sandrine served me a warm pint of bitter and, on realizing I was English, added, ‘Cor blimey, strike a light,’ in her thick French accent, never once cracking a smile.

  I looked around the place, taking in the spit and sawdust floor, which was making my flip-flopped feet itch, the various framed photos of English ‘celebrities’ on the oak-panelled walls: Su Pollard, Desmond Tutu – yes, Desmond Tutu – and Anita Dobson looking like someone was pinching her. Maybe it was Brian May (unseen).

  Half a pint in and I was feeling chatty, so I asked Sandrine in my pidgin French if there were any English people working there. It went something like this – remember, I was going off piste as Mrs Bathing hadn’t written this one down – ‘Excusez moi, monsieur’ – she didn’t look too pleased about that – ‘Les Anglais de pub. Behind le bar. Excusez moi ici? Por favor?’

  She narrowed her eyes at me in a way that made me think she might be in the Mafia and I had just crossed some hideous line and told her that her mother was a cock-sucking whore in Antibes, but then the eyebrows bounced back and she called to an open door behind her, ‘Matthieu!’ Then continued to ignore me.

  Matthieu? Matthieu? But . . . wasn’t that French for . . . Matthew? My breath became shallow and my heartbeat raced. Was my Matthew going to appear, Stars in their Eyes-like, from behind a curtain with his floppy hair and neon smile?

  I looked again at the picture of Anita Dobson, trying to distract myself. Where had they got it from? No wonder Dirty Den dumped her.

  ‘Yes, can I help?’ a chirpy Australian voice chirruped at me cheekily. I turned to see where the voice was coming from and was met by a spindly guy in bifocals and a Union Jack waistcoat who had far too many teeth for the one face.

  ‘Matthieu?’ I asked, heart sinking.

  He nodded. ‘Well, Matt. But that stupid bitch can’t pronounce it.’

  I regained my composure, pulled out my photos of Matthew and, after a brief explanation of my quest, he sifted through them thoughtfully. I garrulously rabbited on about how he was a friend from school and how we’d lost touch, and how I knew he was working in a bar somewhere in the area but had so far drawn a blank. He looked through the photos again, then opened his mouth as if to say something. Then he sighed and handed them back to me with a chirpy, ‘No, mate. Never seen him before in my life.’

  Oh. I put the pictures back in my bag and drained my pint.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ he asked. I nodded. ‘Are you that bird off the telly?’

  I nodded and grinned a ‘guilty as charged’ smile.

  ‘I thought so. What are you in again? Oh, it’s on the tip of me tongue, mate.’

  ‘Acacia Avenue,’ I said.

  ‘Acacia What?’

  ‘Acacia Avenue. The soap.’

  ‘Oh yeah. We have it on Sky here sometimes. Coz it’s an English pub and that. And you’re in it?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Oh right. Fair play to you, mate. Personally I can’t stand the fucker.’

  ‘Right.’ I gathered myself together to leave.

  ‘Yeah. On account of the fact I think it’s total shit.’

  As I was heading to the door I heard him call after me, ‘Have a good day, strike a light, yeah?’

  I’m not embarrassed to say, I gave him the finger.

  Mrs Bathing thought the sun shone out of my proverbials. Her phrase, not mine. And I thought they shone out of hers, too, pretty much. She’d told me I could treat her plentiful wine supply as my own, so I cracked open a bottle of rosé when I got back to the villa and went to sip some by the pool. I didn’t understand how she’d made her money – something to do with investment banking: a subject likely to cause my eyelids to close over any day of the week – but she must have been loaded to afford a palace like this. I mean, it was posher than the posh bits of London, and properties there were eye-wateringly expensive. She had to be a millionaire, had to be! I’d told her I was an actress off the telly, but she said the last thing she’d seen was Bouquet of Barbed Wire, whatever that was. We had a camp old giggle together most evenings, and I think she was touched that I chose to sit in with her rather than venturing into the town to hit the bars. She always cooked a lovely meal each night and made enough for the two of us. I promised her I’d bung her a load of cash at the end of my stay for her generosity, but she’d poo-poo the idea with a flick of her wrist.

  I gazed into the shimmering pool. Oh well, I’d tried my best. And now that it was pretty obvious I wasn’t going to find Matthew, and that he was probably some bored housewife getting her kicks on the internet, it was time to get over it and enjoy my holiday. The one thing I had to be grateful to ‘him’ for was that he’d brought me to this beautiful part of the world. I would never have come otherwise. So it was now time to luxuriate, stop worrying and get on with relaxing. Having some me time. Taking a swim in Lake Jodie.

  I had bigger fish to fry than Matthew Martin Maxwell. I had some decisions to make about my battering boyfriend back home. But as I started to feel all warm and fuzzy from the lunchtime wine, the warm bitter and now the rosé, I decided that worrying about real life could wait till tomorrow. Tomorrow I would decide what – to quote the Spice Girls – I really, really wanted. Today I would remain serene, fabulous and calm. Chilled. If you can be chilled and baking at the same time.

  ‘Miss McGee?’

  I turned. Mrs Bathing was standing up on the terrace at the French windows that led into the hallway. Her face was red from too much sun or too much wine, it was hard to tell which.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Bathing?’ I replied, faux haughtily. She liked it when I put on a posh voice. She grinned back at me, a little out of breath as she lit a cigarette in a holder. She took a deep, satisfying drag, then blew out the most enormous smoke ring.

  ‘I think I’ve found your man!’

  TWENTY-NINE

  ‘My friend Petronella in the greengrocer’s tells me that the people up the hill in the pink house – ghastly thing – have an English cleaner. And they’re pretty sure her surname is Maxwell and she lives in Mandelieu with her brother. They don’t know the brother’s name and they’ve never seen him – she’s pretty much a recluse who just nips out to do her cleaning jobs – but it stands to reason he’s English, too, and that his surname might be Maxwell.’

  Hmm. Was that a lead?

  ‘So, Miss McGee. What do you think to that?’

  ‘I think, Mrs Bathing, it might be worth pursuing. Bathing? We’re back on the case!’

  She grinned like a little girl who’d done well in a spelling test.

&nbs
p; ‘Excellent!’ she said, unscrewing the top off yet another bottle of rosé. ‘Tomorrow we should head on up there and see if we can find her. Then you can introduce yourself and be reunited with your chum in a matter of hours, I’m sure.’

  Chum? Oh gosh, yes, I’d told her Matthew was an old pal.

  ‘Or do you know the sister? You must do! He must have mentioned her? Or are you pals, too? Though you didn’t mention her. D’you know her name?’

  I felt my cheeks burn, hot with shame. I hoped she might just think it was the reflection of the citronella candle flickering away on the table. I waited for her to top my glass up, took a bulimic slug, then it all came pouring out of me like I was her very own overactive water feature. I told her everything about me. Everything good. Well, I couldn’t really think of much that was good about me apart from the fact that my ugly mug was on TV five times a week – big deal, it didn’t make me a nice person, it just made me a lucky bitch. And everything bad. That took a while longer. I told her about Stuart and my drinking at work, about Greg, Our Joey, everything. I even showed her some pictures I’d taken of my black eye on my phone. She said nothing, just nodded, shook her head and topped up our wines whenever we hit a tight spot. And, of course, I told her about Matthew Martin Maxwell, and how I didn’t really know him. And yet I’d come to another country to seek him out. I’m not sure how long I spoke for, but I noticed she smoked two cigarettes during my urgent monologue, and she wasn’t the sort to chain smoke, so it must have been ages. When I realized there was nothing more to say, and nothing to gain from randomly repeating the whole thing, I shut up and waited for Mrs Bathing to pass judgement. She sat and stared at the black sea, before lighting up cigarette number three and saying, ever so softly, ‘My poor, poor angel. What you’ve been through is ghastly. Ghastly. But,’ and here she took a drag on the fag before continuing with, ‘I’m worried.’