Читать книгу Perfume Of Provence - Kate Fitzroy - Страница 10
ОглавлениеThe next morning when Rosie awoke she sensed it was late. She focused sleepy eyes on the small face of her watch and was amazed to find she had slept soundly for more than ten hours. She crossed the dark room and slowly opened one of the shutters a few inches. Rubbing her eyes against the brightness of the day, she squinted into the distance.
It took her a moment to realise that she was looking at the sea — an impossibly blue horizontal strip behind the fronds of palm trees in the garden below. The Mediterranean. How could she have missed it yesterday? She must have been too tired to take anything in properly. Rosie sighed with pleasure, feeling her shoulders relax as she stood quietly enjoying the warmth of the sun on her skin. She reached out lazily and ran her fingers through the bright green leaves that reached up to the balcony rail. To her delight she realised the branch was laden with oranges. She gave a slow and careful inspection to the glowing fruits and then plucked the perfect one. Its tangy, citric aroma filled the air as she pushed her thumbnail into the thick skin. This was a good day to be alive — to be happy, alone or not — and a perfect day to wear loafers.
An hour later Rosie was swinging briskly along the Promenade des Anglais following the signs to the flower market. The hotel concierge had given her an excellent map of the city and some suggestions as to how to spend her first day in Nice. The sea sparkled before her in vibrant turquoise and navy-blue stripes. She glanced down at the beach restaurants and picked out one for lunch. Yes, definitely that one with the yellow umbrellas and cushioned sun-loungers spread out on a wooden deck that ran down to the gently lapping waves. She carried on towards the hillside that overhung the end of the bay and turned under a stone arch into the market place. She stopped in amazement. It was so much bigger than she had imagined. The air was full of voices, both French and Italian. Clasping her bag in front of her, she wended her way through the colourful market stalls towards a café in the shade. She was about to sit down at a table when, looking up to admire again the backdrop of the steep cliff that soared up into the deep blue sky, she caught sight of a splendid cascade of water tumbling down over the rocks.
“Absolutely fantastic!” Rosie had the dreadful feeling that she had said the words aloud. Just one day on her own and she was going mad already. She decided to give up on exploring the city and head straight for the haven of a yellow umbrella.
By four in the afternoon Rosie had finished her book. A book that she had been trying to find time to read over the last year. Stretched out on a comfortable sun-bed, served with drinks and pizza, a few lazy swims, daydreaming and dozing, she had contentedly drifted through the afternoon. A couple of attempts to chat had been made by local lads in black Armani swimwear and Rolex-or-not watches but she had remained polite, cool and made no eye contact. Why was it that most of her daydreaming had been about that guy at the airport? She didn’t even know his name and never would. Somehow his face kept reappearing as an imprint on the retinas of her eyes. He was reflected in her sunglasses, blurring the lines of her book — when she closed her eyes she could see the way he had looked at her — the way his eyelashes were spiky dark against his olive skin.
Rosie sighed with exasperation. This relaxation stuff was dangerous for one’s mental health. It must be that she just didn’t have anything else to think about. How could she be so ridiculous? Surely she couldn’t fall in love with a man she didn’t even know and who was certainly happily married anyway? She flicked up her towel and folded it neatly, ignoring the male eyes that followed her every movement…not that dismissing the crème de la crème of Nice’s male beach society made any sense either.
She returned to the coolness of the hotel. The friendly concierge gave her the room key and wished her, ‘Bonne soirée.’
Rosie muttered a polite, ‘Merci,’ in reply, thinking that her soirée was unlikely to be as bonne as he was imagining. He probably thought she would be out clubbing and generally painting the town rouge until late, late, late. Once in her room, however, she found she had seriously underestimated the efficiency of the concierge. Arranged on the bureau was a selection of brochures detailing restaurants and places to visit. On top was a list entitled, ‘Loisirs pour la femme qui voyage seule’. Rosie’s school French just about covered that. A list of leisure activities for the woman who travels alone. Was it that obvious? Smiling ruefully, she glanced without much interest at the brochures until one caught her eye.
‘Visitez la Parfumerie Beauroma à Eze’. She flicked through the description of the tour of the perfume distillery and mediaeval village perched above the Mediterranean. Why not? Well, probably because it closed at seven p.m.? She looked at her watch. Five p.m. already! She could do it if she hurried. Suddenly it seemed to be the most important thing to do. She threw off her beach clothes and dashed into the shower. It was so relaxing to be in a hurry and hopefully a bit of stress would hold off further bouts of going totally out of it.
Fifteen minutes later she walked briskly into the lobby and asked the concierge to call her a taxi immediately. She waved the brochure at him and thanked him. “Mademoiselle, relax — you ’ave plenty of time. The sun is not even down yet and Eze village is just up the coast. Remember, this is the South of France and you are on the holidays, yes?”
“Yes, you’re right!” Rosie smiled. “But I’m so good at rushing!”
“Rushing — what is this? I not know this word,” he replied, turning his lips down in disparagement and shaking his head.
“It’s like hurrying…” Rosie searched for a word from her school vocabulary without success. “Believe me, you really don’t want to know about it!”
She smiled at him brilliantly and ran out to the taxi that had drawn up outside. And the concierge was quite right — Eze village was just up the coast. The journey was as short as it was breathtaking and ‘up’ seemed definitely to be the key word. The taxi driver drove with alarming contempt bred from his obvious familiarity with the road that careered crazily out of Nice and in the general direction of the sky.
It was called the Moyenne Corniche, he informed her, turning completely around to face her in the back seat as he drove recklessly onward, one hand casually on the steering wheel. Whatever, thought Rosie, nodding quickly in agreement as she was swung from side to side as the car swerved round one hairpin bend after another. Moments later he turned round again and pointed up to the sky. Was he really trying to tell her that there was another road higher up called the Grande Corniche? She closed her eyes and rested her head back in a foolish pretence of sleep. She heard him sigh heavily and hoped he had given up on her feeble command of the French language.
The next moment her eyes blinked wide open as the sound of deafening music filled the car. He had turned to the radio for company but he had not quite given up on her. Turning around again, he smiled enthusiastically as he shouted, “Musique!” and thumped the steering wheel in time to the beat. Rosie smiled weakly back and nodded again in agreement, holding her breath as he turned once more and leant out of his window. He pointed down vigorously, shouting, “La mer…zee sea!”
Rosie made the mistake of looking and there, sure enough, was the sea…a mile or more below the car as they veered round the very edge of the steep hillside. Rosie firmly closed her eyes again as the sea and sky tilted madly around in her head. She tried to concentrate on which old James Bond film she felt she was taking part in…or had it been The Italian Job or that great film with Robert de Niro? Thus absorbed she realised with relief that the taxi was actually slowing down. Opening one eye cautiously, she saw they were entering the village of Eze.
Rosie’s head swam as she stepped from the taxi onto the smooth cobbles. Maybe that was why, when she turned to the entrance of the perfumery, she was so unprepared for the sight that met her eyes. For there he was…object of desire, subject of the day’s dreams…yes, the airport Prince Charming. He was standing by a dark blue limousine, one hand waving wildly in the air, the other holding the handle of the open door as he talked earnestly to two besuited men.
Rosie smiled and whispered, “Yes, yes, yes!” Fortunately he hadn’t seen or heard her. Rosie fought to recover her equilibrium although her knees were weak with excitement. This was the moment to employ all her social skills and arts of manipulation. Not the time to avoid eye contact. As she tried to think of a way to casually bump into him he turned towards her and looked straight into her eyes. Immediately he recognised her and raised a hand in a friendly wave. Just as immediately her best intentions to play it cool and calm completely deserted her. She found herself idiotically flapping her hand in reply as he turned back towards the car.
Was that to be it? Was this the extent of her well-honed talents? She forced her feet to walk towards the entrance foyer of the perfumery. The air filled with a thousand scents as she advanced slowly up the steps, resisting, for the second time, a tremendous desire to turn around and somehow, anyhow, get this unknown man into her life. She heard a heavy car door slam and the sound of the engine purring away into the distance. It took only minutes but it seemed as though a vast cloud had covered the sky and Rosie felt as though she would walk up these steps for the rest of her life. Moving like an automaton, she purchased an entrance ticket and continued into the museum hall. She felt the dizziness return as the air choked her with its sweetness. Why hadn’t she made some effort to speak to him? How could she let him walk out of her world once more? She moved slowly between the displays of herbs and flowers, engulfed in a new loneliness so complete that it took her some while to realise that he was standing in front of her.
“May I escort you on a guided tour, mademoiselle?” He smiled down at her, stretching his arms wide in welcome. Rosie hadn’t realised how tall he was. Suppressing a ridiculous urge to rush into his arms and hug him, she managed to reply.
“Do you work here?” Her voice, at least, had not been too squeaky. He burst out laughing.
“Non, mademoiselle, although they are trying to buy me. Allow me to introduce myself — Jean-Michel de Fleurenne, à votre service!” He held out his hand, and as she took it into hers she felt a high-voltage shock of contact. His hand was long-fingered and smooth and he pressed her fingers firmly and for a moment longer than necessary. They walked slowly side by side down the long alley between the barrels of flower petals and copper vats.
“How are they trying to buy you?” she asked, secretly wishing she could buy him for herself.
“Oh, that’s a long, boring story. First you must see the distillery and the museum before they close.”
“First”, he had definitely said “first”…and what would be second? Rosie wondered, her vivid imagination running wildly ahead. Jean-Michel gave her an excellent tour of the perfumery. He was serious and then amusing, telling her so much about perfume- making that she realised he must be involved in the industry. She found it fascinating and listened attentively. It wasn’t too difficult. She could have listened to an entire dissertation just watching his curving lips open and close.
Eventually they arrived back at the entrance foyer just as the lights were being turned out. Rosie hesitated awkwardly, inwardly panicking that their time together was coming to an end. Jean-Michel stood at the top of the entrance steps for a moment and then clapped his hands together.
“C’est une belle soirée! If you have time we could walk down to the beach.”
“That would be lovely. I’m completely at a loose end.” Rosie replied, making no pretence that she even needed to think about it. So it was not to be a bonne soirée but a belle one. Her heart fluttered ridiculously.
“There’s a footpath but it’s quite steep and uneven.” Jean-Michel looked down at her shoes. The faithful loafers. “Great…you’re wearing sensible shoes! If you trust me then follow your tour guide this way, please!”
Rosie saw the small path to the side of the car park. Did she trust him? Somehow she knew she did…completely. Supposing he was a murderer? Was she really going mad, diving off into the unknown undergrowth with a tall, dark stranger? She followed slowly and then saw that, although it was a small path, it was obviously well used. Several couples and family groups were making their way downhill. It was not, anyway, a romantic walk. Jean-Michel seemed to know nearly everyone they passed, stopping to shake hands and exchange kisses and pleasantries as they scrambled on down the hillside. Coming to a small resting place, he turned to her for a moment, holding out his hand as she jumped the last stone. “You must excuse me! I couldn’t introduce you to all the people we passed because I didn’t know your name.”
“Rosie Fielding. I’m sorry — I should have introduced myself before. In my work it’s a cardinal sin not to push your name around.”
“But you are on holiday, Rosie…and what is your work?”
There was a small silence. She was still recovering from his velvety French pronunciation of her name. Rosie! She had never liked her name until then. She pulled herself together and began to reply. “Publicity. PR in the fashion world…” Her voice tailed away to nothing. Suddenly it seemed a futile way to spend one’s life. She looked at the vast panorama of sea and sky stretching to infinity.
“I enjoy it and I’m quite good at it,” she added, almost defensively, justifying her work more to herself than to Jean-Michel.
“I’m sure you’re very good at it. A PR princess. I don’t know much about your world but I can’t imagine anyone being able to resist you in any way.” Before she had time to absorb the compliment he carried on down the path. She followed slowly until they reached the beach.
“This is like a film set!” she said, her voice filled with wonder as she took in the small cove curving away into the gold of the setting sun.
“Now, don’t get any ideas of bringing a film crew here. Work is work but you are on holiday, right?” He looked down at her. There were those dark, spiky lashes that she had seen in her daydreams earlier that very day. Close enough to touch, to kiss, to lick. Rosie held her hands tightly behind her back in case she should be unable to resist reaching out and brushing his cheek with her hand. How his skin gleamed to bronze in the last rays of the day’s sun.
“Would you like a drink…a sundowner?” Jean-Michel asked. Had he said it once or twice? Rosie pulled herself back from the brink of somewhere she yearned to be.
“Yes, a drink would be great. Is there anywhere down here?”
“Oh, yes, there’s a bar called ‘Zara Zazou’ — it should be just opening up for the evening. Thank goodness you’re not wearing silly shoes. It’s just over there on the beach.”
Again it was obvious that Jean-Michel was well-known. First the barman kissed him on both cheeks and then a truly stunning girl rushed out from the kitchen and threw herself at him. “Jean-Michel, mon amour, pourquoi tu ne viens plus me trouver?”
Rosie knew that Frenchmen kissed each other but she could do without this voluptuous bombshell calling Jean-Michel ‘mon amour’. Her school French was more than adequate to get the gist of that. Jean-Michel turned to Rosie.
“This is Zara!” he said, gently extricating himself from her embrace. “Suffis, Zara, suffis, laisse moi tranquille. Put me down!”
Zara gave Jean-Michel a light cuff around the back of his head and called across to Rosie. “Don’t mind me, ma chère, I kiss all the beautiful boys — it makes my job more interesting! I live for my work! But this one — he is an old favourite of mine!” Her accent was superbly exaggerated. She slapped Jean-Michel lightly on both cheeks. “And that is for not visiting us for so long. I no love you no more — is finished, you unnerstand?”
She spun around and came over to the table where Rosie was sitting. She was even more beautiful in close-up. Beautiful and powerful. Dark olive skin and blonde hair, lustrous violet eyes under dark eyebrows and the reddest of red lips that pouted and exaggerated her words as she spoke. “Are you with ’im, ma chère? Be careful, he is a very good boy. He does nothing but the work, work, work. He is not the good fun. I was at school with ’im — always the same — workin’ and workin’. Such a good boy — pah!” She pulled a scornful face and threw her hands in the air in disgust as she swung her way over to the ancientjukebox. Leaning against it, with one hand on her impressive hip, she gave it a resounding kick with one pink-booted foot and it sprang into life. The plaintive electro-synthetic sound of ‘Rage in Eden’ filled the café with heady nostalgia.
“They’re playing our song, darleeng, you remember?” she drawled in fake American and returned to the kitchen, making a magnificent exit.
Jean-Michel came over to the table carrying two tall glasses of pink wine. “Phew! That’s my punishment over. I’m sorry about all that — she’s always larger than life!” He glanced at Rosie anxiously. Rosie burst into laughter.
“She’s great, simply fantastic.”
Jean-Michel laughed too, his dark eyes sparkling with vitality as he set the drinks on the table.
“Do you like Kir? It’s the only way to drink the cheap wine here.”
“Kir is perfect and so is this place.” Rosie had a really brilliant smile but this time she smiled as she had never smiled before.
“And so are you,” Jean-Michel said quietly as he looked at her over the rim of his glass. “Let’s drink to perfection.”
“To perfection!” said Rosie, sipping the cool, blackcurrant-flavoured wine and reflecting that this was what eye contact was really all about. And the evening was perfect — so perfect that Rosie felt she had floated into a dreamlike world. The only cloud looming on the entire horizon was her absolute certainty that he must be married. She kept pushing the doubt to the back of her mind, enjoying the moment and avoiding any questions about his private life. It wasn’t difficult. Jean-Michel was an excellent listener. She found herself telling him more about her work. Finally she drew to a halt.
“Now it’s really your turn,” she said. “You must tell me your long, boring story and why the perfume house are trying to buy you. Was it the buyers that you were seeing into the stretch limo?”
“You’re very observant. Was it that obvious I was trying to send them on their way?” Jean-Michel smiled but his eyes were serious. “If you really want to know then I have to insist we have dinner together — somewhere more comfortable.”
Rosie dreaded that he would make some crass comment about going back to his flat. Was his wife away perhaps?
“There’s a restaurant perched on the very edge of the village with a superb view. Can I tempt you?”
Rosie gave another of her wide smiles. “That sounds perfect. But how ever are we going to make our way back up that path in the dark?” she asked doubtfully.
“Mais non — you have sensible shoes but you’re not a goat. Did I mention on the way down that it was a goat-path?”
Rosie laughed. “No, but I’m not at all surprised.”
“Definitely the most famous goat-path in France or maybe the whole world — and, as your personal tour guide, I must now tell you that it is known as the Chemin Nietszche because the great man was walking along it when inspired to write — zut, I can’t remember — something about what Zarathoustra said to someone or other… Anyway, it was extremely philosophical and also explains how Zara came to be called Zara. But I’m afraid I can’t recall the detail. Ah, well, perhaps I won’t make a tour guide when I lose my job in the perfume industry. Now for the next instalment we must bypass Nietzsche and borrow Zara’s Jeep… Excuse me, I’ll just go and tell her. If I don’t return immediately it will be because she has hugged me to death.”
Ten minutes later they were chugging up the steep road that wound its way up to the village. Rosie hung onto the roll bar as she looked down at the steep drop to the sea. This place was all vertical roads.
“How on earth will Zara get home?” she asked, although it was one of the minor questions that she had in the long list forming in her head.
“Oh, Zara will get a lift — she knows everyone here. The place will be buzzing until three or four in the morning. She was born here like me.”
Well, that crossed another question off her list. “How amazing to be born in such a spectacular place.”
“Yes, I suppose so. Apart from the Mediterranean at your feet, the ruined château and the white penitents’ chapel it’s just like any other ordinary old mediaeval village.” Jean-Michel laughed.
“Not forgetting the Chemin Nietzsche,” added Rosie. “And the perfumery and the pine trees on the beach and…”
“Do you want a job as a tour guide?” Jean-Michel asked, raising his dark eyebrows. “Anyway, you haven’t seen anything yet. This is ‘be glad of your sensible shoe time’ again.” He slung the Jeep into the square, turned off the engine and then slipped the car key behind the sun visor.
“Will it be OK to leave it like that?” Rosie asked in surprise.
“Goodness, yes. Everyone around knows Zara and not a soul would dare take it without her permission. You must have noticed she is one terrifying woman!” Jean-Michel laughed and then came round to open her door. Rosie couldn’t remember anyone ever doing that for her before. She supposed she should feel some sort of feminist rebellion but instead she felt enchanted.
“This time we climb, mademoiselle. May I take your hand as the cobbles are so uneven and the lights few and far between and…? Well, I can’t think of any more excuses.”
So hand in hand they made their way through a heavy stone arch and into the narrow winding streets of the village. Up and up, towards the starry sky. Finally they arrived at a small entrance with a wrought-iron hanging sign announcing ‘Château Eza’. Rosie was suddenly conscious of her casual appearance and, yes, the loafers.
Jean-Michel, still holding her hand, strode into the narrow foyer and, leaning across the desk, called out, “Pierre, où es toi?”
A young man hurried into sight, his face breaking into a smile of welcome when he saw Jean-Michel. They talked rapidly in French for a minute and then Jean-Michel turned to her. “Isn’t that lucky? They have a table for two on the terrace.”
“Perfect!” Rosie laughed. She hadn’t understood much of what had been said but she knew enough about booking the best locations to know that something had just been fixed. As they walked through the small restaurant and out onto the candlelit terrace Rosie felt all eyes were fixed on them. Jean-Michel seemed completely oblivious. Stopping to give close examination to the dessert trolley and shaking hands with several people, waiters and diners, he led the way through the tables. Rosie was not a shy person and she began to enjoy the attention, smiling to herself as the waiters hurried to lay a small table on the very edge of the terrace. She recognised and knew the value of being known and liked.
It wasn’t until they had finished the main course that Rosie reminded Jean-Michel of his promise to tell her about his work.
“Do I have to? Do I really have to? I’m having such a good time…but, yes, a promise is a promise. I shall try to tell the story as quickly as possible. Are you sitting comfortably?”
“Very comfortably!” Rosie sighed as she leaned back in her chair and looked across at the wide expanse of dark sea now divided by a silvery gold path to the moon.
“Well, it’s a long family saga…a bit like a French edition of The Archers! My family own quite a large area of greenhouses and lavender fields in the Provençal hills near Grasse. Our business is making perfume and has been since the time of Catherine de Medici. In fact, one of my ancestors reputedly scented her gloves…but that is another story and belongs to a tourist guide. I knew little of the business until last year when my parents were killed in a plane accident. It’s OK…” He hesitated as Rosie instinctively put her hand over his in sympathy. “I’m getting over it now but certainly it was a great shock. I had been educated in England and I was working in London when it happened — nothing to do with perfume. I’m a quantity surveyor.”
He smiled ruefully and looked out to sea. “Or rather I was a quantity surveyor in a big company in Hanover Square. To cut a long story short, I resigned and came back here to try to carry on the business. My grandmother is still alive and she knows a great deal about it all but somehow it’s just not working. Then a short time ago I was approached by the big boys here. They want to buy us out. My grandmother is set against it and I suppose I am too in my heart…but my head tells me differently. Today was yet another meeting and really they made me an offer I can’t refuse but…well, I did. Of course, I can always go back to them. Last time I turned them down they just offered me more money. We’ll see… The good thing is I don’t have to go and see Grandmère tomorrow and tell her she has to move. Now that really would be scary. She still lives in the old château — very much the head of the household. She rules with an iron hand in a perfumed silk glove. Everyone is scared stiff of her! Now can I have my profiteroles?” Jean-Michel looked down at the neglected mound of chocolate dessert.
Rosie smiled gently as she said, “My father always told me ‘when in doubt don’t’ — it’s always worked for me, so personally I think you did the right thing today. Why are they so keen to buy you out? Is it the land?”
“Partly — but it’s also our list of scents. We have one or two of the big names and a whole library of original perfumes just waiting to be bought by fashion houses. Any day one of them might call up with an idea, a ‘look’ or an image and we can offer three or four perfumes for them to choose from. My venerable grandmère is absolutely amazing at this. She is what is called ‘un nez’…a nose. I know it sounds funny in English!”
“No, no…I’ve heard about it — like wine tasters or something. So she creates a scent and then what?”
“Well, if the fashion house choose one from our collection, then bingo — the contract is drawn up and we have a new client. It is all totally top secret — from the actual recipe right down to customer confidentiality. Once it’s signed up it’s good business, especially if you get a big name and a perfume that is marketed well. Then there is the side of the company that markets essential oils, both importing exotic fragrances and extracting and distilling from jasmine, mimosa, roses, lavender and herbs, of course…being Provence. We have two centuries of experience and an excellent reputation that Beauroma, that’s the big boys here in Eze, is longing to get its hands on. I’m sure they would run it all very commercially and exploit the tourist attraction with coach trips up to the Disneyed château…tour guides…a job for me there!” Jean-Michel smiled apologetically. “Isn’t this where we came in? I’m really sorry to bore you with all this but I did try to warn you.”
“It’s not boring at all. It’s a fascinating business but I can see it must be a great worry.”
“It wouldn’t be so difficult if half my life wasn’t still in London,” replied Jean-Michel.
Suddenly he reached across the table and took her hand in his. Rosie felt her stomach somersault. This was it. He was going to tell her about his wife and kids. Of course, they were in London and that was why he had said he travelled frequently to and fro. Rosie’s heart thumped painfully as Jean-Michel leaned towards her, offering her a spoonful of the profiteroles from the pyramid piled in the silver dish between them. He watched her lips as she opened her mouth and tasted the explosion of dark rich chocolate and cream on her tongue. Rosie was melting inside. Never had she been so attracted to a man. The dark side of her didn’t want to know about his wife and kids. He began to talk again and Rosie had been so far away in her own fears that she missed his first words.
“…and so I must visit my grandmother tomorrow and tell her about the latest developments. Now, let’s return to enjoying this evening. Would you like a coffee here or would you prefer to get back to Nice and we could find a café on the promenade?”
“That would be perfect,” Rosie answered automatically.
“So much perfection in one evening is good for my soul!” said Jean- Michel softly.
They walked slowly back down the cobbled street to the village square, holding hands lightly. When they reached the car park, Jean-Michel directed Rosie to an old Peugeot estate that was parked near Zara’s Jeep. Once again he opened and held the door for her as she jumped in. Rosie sighed, settling back into the old leather seats with pleasure, thinking how easily she could get used to this.
The drive back along the coast was another scene from a film. Jean-Michel’s old Peugeot estate, redolent with floral scent, rolled slowly along a road that hugged the coast. Jean-Michel drove with one arm casually along the back of Rosie’s seat and the other elbow resting on the open window. The air was warm, the moon was full, the stars bright. Jean-Michel gently turned the car into a lay-by that hung over the sea edge. Rosie burned with excitement. This was it — now he must kiss her and hold her in his arms. Jean-Michel opened his door and came round to her side of the car.
“You must see the view of Nice from here — it’s really stunning. Your taxi probably took the Moyenne Corniche, high above the coast, but this little road is just as direct and ends up in the port. Look, you can see the boats in the harbour from here.”
“Yes!” she murmured, not thinking about what she was saying but every fibre of her body tingling in anticipation. “I’m sure you’re right — it was certainly high up above the sea. I felt quite giddy when I arrived in Eze!”
Not as giddy as I feel now, she thought to herself. They were standing so close she could feel the heat from his body on her bare arm. She obediently looked down at the large bay. It was certainly impressive. Large liners, private launches and a thousand lights reflected in the still dark water. She sighed as she felt him move behind her and, with his arms around her waist, pull her firmly towards him. The words fell from her lips.
“But what about your wife?” She pulled quickly away from him and, turning, saw his handsome face filled with anguish.
“Wife?” Jean-Michel repeated the short single word and it hung in the air above them.
