Ruby Tuesday

by Debbie Chase

  We turned in unison and smiled. I noticed his eyes were as green and glassy as the sea that swelled and heaved around us.

  “Hi,” he said, formally holding out a hand. “Blake…Blake Edwards.”

  His hand felt warm and dry as I gripped it and said, “Ruby Deacon,” for some reason giving a little bow of my head. He grinned before picking up a guitar by its long slender neck, which, unnoticed by me, had been propped up beside him, and bursting into song.

  “‘Goodbye Ruby Tuesday, who could hang a name on you, when you change with every new day, still gonna miss you….’ Don’t mind me,” he said, “I like to sing.” He placed the guitar carefully, almost reverently, back against the railings, keeping it close to his body.

  “Wow,” I said, delighted. “Nobody’s ever sung my song before…thank you.”

  “Are you called Ruby Tuesday?” he asked, taking a step back, his hands held up in front of him. “Please say you are. I’ve never met a Ruby Tuesday before.”

  I nodded. “Yes, Ruby Tuesday Deacon.”

  “Wow. Are your parents hippies? Big fans of the Stones?” He turned fully towards me, resting his body comfortably on the railings and lacing his hands in front of him as if he were in for the long haul.

  I mulled over this for a few seconds before saying, “Hmm, hippies? Not any more. But fans of the Rolling Stones? Yes, definitely, especially my dad.”

  “Yeah, they’re great, and these guys.” He pointed to the band name on his T-shirt. “A pity bands today aren’t like them. They played proper music.” He thought for a minute or two, chewing his lower lip, which incidentally was as glossy and red as a ripe strawberry, before saying, his hand held to his heart, “RIP…real music is dead!”

  We both nodded, silently agreeing with each other. I even put my hand to my heart as well, for God’s sake!

  “I know we’re only young,” he carried on. “You can’t be more than twenty?”

  “I’m twenty-two,” I told him.

  He nodded. “And I’m thirty—just. But really, today’s music has no soul. I envy older people for being there at the right time and in the right place, for their enjoyment of their music.” He spoke so passionately and gave me a smile so charming I felt as if something pierced my heart, and then abruptly, he changed the subject. “Are you on holiday?” he asked. “Travelling?” He nodded his head towards my rucksack, slumped like a down and out at my feet.

  “Yeah, just taking a week or two to explore France,” I said casually, putting on an act for his benefit of being grown up, a seasoned traveller, not how I really felt—gauche and unsure, nervous, and afraid of my own shadow. “You?” I asked.

  “Just pottering about,” he replied. “Seeing where the wind blows me.”

  He laughed, faint wrinkles appearing at the corners of his eyes and showing even white teeth between the blackness of the beard that coated his upper lip and chin. His hair was black too, even sort of bluey in the sunlight, parted in the middle, springing in wings from his forehead and reaching his shoulders.

  He reminded me a tiny bit of James, but he was older and more self-assured, maybe a little battered as if, so far, his life had been a long hard road. He took a deep drag on the vape machine and, watching me closely, said, “Trying to crack a forty a day cigarette habit, and man is it hard.” He shook his head wearily.

  Before I could reply, my phone beeped, alerting me to a text message. Oh no, I thought. This is it. It’ll be from Rose. “Excuse me,” I said and turned away slightly, shielding the screen from the sun with a cupped hand.

  Hey Ruby, if you’re still out walking, go to Smith & Vosper for bread, will you? Mum’s orders. Thanx, xxx.

  I smiled to myself and replaced my phone in my pocket, thinking, Oh well, they obviously don’t know I’ve gone as yet.

  “A problem?” he asked.

  “No, not really, just my sister asking me to take bread home.”

  “Hmm, don’t you think your sister’s bread will be moldy by the time you get back?” I shrugged, and he frowned and said, in a silly mock French accent, “Hmm. I think you’ve got a story to tell.” He glanced at his watch. “Hey, look, it’s almost lunchtime. Let’s go get a beer, and you can tell me all.”

  The bar was crowded and noisy, and the music blaring through massive speakers was “New Music,” as Blake said with a grin, batting at the air with his hands as if it was of no account. So we went out onto the deck and made ourselves comfortable in plastic chairs in a quiet corner, cradling bottles of ice-cold beer in our hands. The sun was very warm now, and the deck crowded with people either milling about or laying on loungers or towels soaking up the rays. Children ran and played, shrieking and laughing.

  Blake took off his coat and scarf and laid them carefully at our feet, along with his guitar. I noticed that his arms were tanned and covered in tiny light hairs like down. He leaned closer towards me, his forearms on his thighs and, occasionally swigging from the bottle, invited me to talk. His attention solely on me was intoxicating and, together with the lulling movement of the boat and the ice-cold beer, before I knew what I was doing, I was telling him everything. Everything about Rose and the job in the library, James and my need for freedom, my need to not be a twin for a while but to just be myself.

  “Well then, Ruby Tuesday,” he said when I came to a stuttering finale, “You are doing absolutely the right thing.” He clinked his bottle against mine in a toast and, picking up his guitar, began playing the opening bars of “Ruby Tuesday.” We sang and played, an interested crowd gathering around us, until the afternoon passed us by, and everybody dispersed to the sides of the ferry to look at the beauty of St. Malo, gilded gold in the evening sunshine as we glided into port. My phone had buzzed several times, so I knew I had an important phone call to make as soon as I arrived at the B&B. Shrugging my rucksack onto my back, I followed Blake’s retreating figure as we made our way off the boat and onto French land. And wow, how beautiful it was with its tiny inlets of sandy beaches and tall, dignified houses.

  Despite the almost constant buzzing of my phone, I felt a strange exhilaration and took several deep breaths of the fresh salty air as I gazed around. I noticed that Blake was a little apart from me now, his phone clamped to his ear. He paced up and down, talking animatedly, his guitar firmly in his hand and his scarf and coat hooked over his arm. I felt unsure of what to do next. Should I go off alone and look for my B&B, or should I wait for him? I glanced at my phone again—another couple of texts from Rose. I really needed to be somewhere private where I could call and speak to her and Mum as well.

  My heart lightened as I saw Blake striding towards me. He did a courteous little bow of the head and, taking hold of my hand, kissed the palm quite erotically, I thought, sending pleasant little shivers hurtling through my body before saying in his silly mock French accent, “Thank you, Ruby. You have made what could have been a boring voyage into something special. I hope we meet again.”

  “Oh yes, me too,” I said, giggling girlishly, standing there like a dumb fool waiting for the verbal exchange of phone numbers or, as with James, a scrap of paper to be pressed into my outstretched hand.

  He kissed the tips of his fingers, and with a flourish, proffered me an airborne salute. “Au revoir, mon cheri….” And without further ado, he turned his back and walked away, swallowed up quickly by the hungry crowds.

  Chapter Four

  I awoke the following morning, wrapped like a mummy in the thin duvet, unsure at first of where I was and expecting at any moment to hear Rose’s ragged breathing from the other side of the room divider. But of course, there was no room divider, and I was alone at the B&B La Petite Amelia in St. Malo. Slipping out of bed, I went to the window, carefully rolled up the cream blind, and peered out at the garden. It was a proper garden, a smooth lawn and well-stocked fragrant borders, the B&B being a big old house set within its own large grounds. It also happened t
o be on a hiking trail, as well as being within walking distance of the beaches and the town. I couldn’t have picked a better place to stay. As a matter of fact, it reminded me of home. And as well as that, the proprietors, Amelia and Georges, had made me feel so welcome when I’d arrived late last night straight from the ferry port.

  Stretching and yawning, the events of the day before suddenly crashed into my mind, and once again, I saw the tall figure of Blake Edwards walking away from me, probably never to be seen again. How weird was that? I’d told him everything, things I would never have said if it hadn’t been for the two beers loosening my tongue and making me natter on and on like an old washer woman. It wasn’t just that, though—he was a good listener. He seemed interested, and he’d told me I was doing the right thing, that I wouldn’t regret taking the time out to be alone and think about my life and where I was going.

  He’d been attractive too, I thought wryly, more so than James in some ways, although in an older, more beat up sort of way. He looked as though he’d been through hard times and that perhaps he even had problems. Why that should be more interesting to me than a younger man of twenty-three fresh out of college, with a good job and no worries, was absolutely beyond me. Maybe it was his singing…or his serenading me with the song “Ruby Tuesday,” and his silly mock French accent…or perhaps it was his sexy sea-green eyes and stubbly beard. Who knows?

  Anyway, I didn’t come all the way to France on my own to become infatuated with a man—in fact, that was the one thing I should be avoiding at all costs. My head had been turned. Oh my God, how weak I was to fall for the first eligible male that came along. I would be keeping myself to myself from now on, and there would definitely be no more confiding in handsome strangers, that was for sure. Today I would lace up my walking boots and take to the hills and dales—were there hills and dales in France?—and not, I repeat not, sit around drinking beer and singing silly songs. No, not even silly love songs.

  Once the chastising of myself, the sheer flagellation of myself, was over—I almost expected to see blood oozing from my already tanned skin—my mind wandered to the conversation I’d had with Rose. The conversation I had dreaded but knew I had to have once I eventually found my B&B. The shouting and the tears, all because I wouldn’t be there for a couple of weeks to accompany her to Hayling Island, or Southsea, or Prinstead, or to try surfing at the Witterings. I was selfish and mean not to have told her. How dare I sneak off like that! Was I crazy!

  “You got the job,” I felt like saying to her, “And I got the holiday.” But of course, I didn’t say that. It was my own fault—I’d left the job wide open. I kept quiet most of the time, just pointing out when I could get a word in edgeways that it was only for a couple of weeks and that after that, I would be back, and there’d still be plenty of time to do all those things together before school started again.

  The conversation with Mum was totally different. She said that both she and Dad were proud of me for being so adventurous and that there was no question I was doing the right thing. Also, they understood why I had sneaked away as I had, especially now, having seen firsthand Rose’s reaction to it. Everybody should go find themselves at some point in their lives, she told me. She spouted out a few very badly pronounced French words, which made me laugh, and told me to be careful and to ring every couple of days…and to text too. She spoke loudly and clearly over the background noise of Rose’s sobbing. “I have a full orchestra behind me,” she said, “And it’s playing far too many encores.” Now that did crack me up.

  ~*~

  The next few days passed in a haze of walking, sightseeing, swimming in impossibly warm clear water, and sunning myself on many of St. Malo’s pretty little beaches. I loved walking through the town and looking at the historic walls and cobblestoned streets, as well as wandering the old town with its long string of cafes and restaurants and then relaxing on St. Malo’s most famous sandy beach, the Plage Du Sillon. It was a problem though that, however hard I tried not to, I kept a vigilant eye out for the tall figure of Blake Edwards, but he was nowhere to be seen. Sometimes I had the strange feeling I’d imagined our encounter on the ferry, and that he didn’t exist at all, or if he ever had, he’d disappeared into thin air just like the invisible man.

  Convinced that I’d succeeded and banished him from my mind for good, and in any case would probably never see him again, one evening almost a week after my arrival, I decided to walk into the old town and wander the little shops for gifts for Rose and Mum and Dad to take back with me. I decided I might also have a bite to eat and a drink at one of the many bars that lined the streets, as I’d eaten at the B&B every night and fancied a change.

  I waved goodbye to a few of the guests sitting in the garden basking in the evening sunshine and enjoying coffee and cakes while Amelia and Georges toiled in the kitchens cooking the evening meal. The walk into town was pleasant, and I felt good wearing a pretty sundress, trainers on my feet for ease of walking, and a small rucksack on my back carrying water, phone, and purse. Oh, and I always carried a French phrase book just in case. I’d caught the sun and felt tanned and fit as I strolled along.

  The town was busy, and I immersed myself in the crowds going from one shop to another, looking at all the beautiful things on display. Such unusual jewelry, scarves, and hats. So many things to choose from for a woman, but for a man? What on earth could I get Dad? Ah, chocolate! Such beautiful shops selling unusual types of chocolate. My eyes on stalks, I gazed in the shop windows, unsure, as yet, of what to buy, although I was pretty sure of scarves for Mum and Rose and chocolate or whiskey for Dad.

  First things first, I thought as I caught sight of a micro bar called simply La Bar. Ducking inside, I sat at a table and ordered a glass of red wine, taking a cursory glance at the menu as I waited. It was a tiny place very similar to the micro bars that had sprouted up recently in England and was very cozy and welcoming, with soft lighting and gentle background music.

  “Madam,” said the young bartender as he placed the glass of wine on a mat in front of me. “You eat?”

  “Yes, please,” I said and, referring to the menu, ordered a cheese quiche with a green salad, something simple I could order without having too much trouble speaking the language. I had my school girl French, but not much else.

  “No problem, madam,” he said politely as I thanked him for the wine and took a sip. While waiting, I texted Rose, telling her I was in a bar alone drinking wine and was just about to enjoy some food. I told her I was okay but missed her and Mum and Dad and would be back within a week. She’d been very mean with her texts since we’d spoken last week, so it was hit and miss as to whether she would get back to me. I sent a similar text to Mum and dropped my phone back into my bag just as the young bartender brought my food, which looked really good.

  “Merci,” I said, but instead of leaving straight away so I could eat, the young bartender hovered around the table, obviously trying to tell me something.

  “Madam, please you…umm….”

  Puzzled, I asked him, “Yes?” putting out my hands palms up.

  “We have…um…singer tonight?”

  I nodded vigorously and repeated his words. “You have a singer tonight?”

  “Oui, here.” He indicated the area I was sitting in.

  “Ah. You want me to move for the singer to sit here?” I began to stand up.

  A look of relief passed over his face. “Oui, madam.” He indicated some other seats. “Madam, here.” He escorted me to the seat, fussily fluttering around as I moved from one place to the other and settled down to eat. “Look.” He pointed at a poster I hadn’t noticed tacked to the wall beside me. “Look, madam. Singer here…Mr. Blake. Guitar….” He held out his left arm and began to strum against his chest with his right hand while putting a sort of rock star look on his face. “Guitar, madam.”

  Looking closely at the poster, I saw a familiar face. A face that, yes, I ha
d to admit, I was very pleased to see. I’d really wanted another look at the combination of sea-green eyes, shoulder-length dark hair, and stubbly beard.

  “Mr. Blake?” I asked the bartender, pointing at the person on the poster. A man posed almost seductively on a settee piled with cushions, cradling a guitar in his arms like a baby, the rock star pout that the bartender had tried to copy on his face. He would definitely make a good model.

  “Oui, madam, Mr. Blake.” He began to walk back to the bar. “Bon appetite, madam.”

  “Merci! What time Mr. Blake here?” I asked, tapping at my watch.

  “Now,” said the bartender, shrugging his shoulders. “Maybe. When he comes….”

  I grinned at how laid back they were and turned to my food. As I ate, the place began to fill up, and a knot of people crowded around the bar to order drinks, some of them looking intently at the menu. I noticed that a young girl and an older woman had joined the bartender and were frantically running around trying to disperse the heaving queue.

  A man appeared at the table I’d vacated, moved it aside, and began to set up a couple of small speakers and a microphone on a stand. He did a cursory squealing sound check that reverberated around the room, setting my teeth on edge, nodded with approval, and wandered off into the shadows.

  After eating every last morsel of food, I checked my phone. I had a text from Mum telling me to be careful in a bar alone but to have a good time—nothing from Rose as yet. Wow, she was definitely playing hard to get. I had the distinct feeling that it would take a lot for her to forgive me for this little escapade, as she called it. Well, it was too bad. I was enjoying myself, and to prove it, I drained the last drops of wine and asked the passing bartender if he could possibly bring me another, which he did with a little bow and a “You are welcome, madam.”

  More people started to pack into the bar, and an older couple, after many hand gestures and head nodding, sat at my table, thanking me profusely by raising their glasses and their thumbs in that age-old “I’m okay” gesture. It was very warm now, and the crowd restless and excited. Perspiration gathered at my hairline and trickled down my cheeks like tears. Snippets of conversation popped out at me.