Читать книгу It Started With A Note - Victoria Cooke - Страница 22

I walk past a red coach towards the revolving doors of the hotel, nervously running the phrase I need through my head: J’ai une réservation pour Darlington. If I’m going to be in France for four weeks, then I’ll have to at least make an effort with the language even if I’m ruling out practising aloud on trains. Reservashon or reservacion? I run over it again as I step into the narrow cylinder, only remembering my wheelie case trailing behind me when it wedges in the doorway, jamming the entire mechanism. I yank the handle but it’s stuck fast, and within seconds a small handful of people have accumulated, waiting to get in. I yank again. Nothing. ‘Pardon,’ I say to nobody in particular.

I glance at the reception, but the man at the counter has his head down, seemingly unaware of my predicament. I bang the glass with the heel of my hand but he’s oblivious. Becoming frantic, I search for a stop button or an alarm or something but there is nothing. Surely this happens all the time?

A man from outside starts to try and prise the door open. He’s dressed in a red T-shirt that looks like a uniform of some sort, and I wonder if he’s here to fix the doors – surely they shouldn’t trap people like this. There was probably an ‘out of order’ sign somewhere. I tug the handle of my case while he heaves the two sides open with strong arms. Eventually, it springs free, throwing me back against the glass. That’s when my eyes meet his, deep and blue. The moment I catch them, I look away, but not before I notice his striking resemblance to David the weatherman. A fresh, citrussy smell hits me when I stumble out and my cheeks flame.

‘Thank you. Merci,’ I say hurriedly, before adding a half-bow for good measure. An action that I’ll dwell on later when I replay the whole embarrassing ordeal in my head. I scuttle towards reception without awaiting a reply.

‘No problem,’ the man shouts after me in perfect English. His deep voice has just a hint of a French accent.

‘Good afternoon and welcome.’ The cheerful man on reception greets me with a smile, instantly putting me at ease.

I draw a breath to reboot my system. ‘Good afternoon. You speak English?’ I smile, relieved. My rehearsed French has vacated my brain; likely it ran away with embarrassment. ‘I have a room booked under “Darlington”.’

He clicks away at the keyboard. ‘I have it right here. It’s ten nights with breakfast?’ I hadn’t booked more than that because of the expense, and I wasn’t sure if I’d want to stay somewhere else and see a new place once I’d completed my great-grandfather’s journey, though I’d no idea where. My plan is to use the Airbnb app that Kaitlynn told me about to find something cheap, but I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

I nod, and he hands me a key before he passes on some information about breakfast times and how to find my room. I’m about to head to the lift when I hear some American accents coming from the small bar area. There are two older couples drinking beer and, strangely comforted by their familiar language, I drag my case to the bar where they’re sitting, just to listen for a while.

‘Une petite bière—’ deep breath ‘—s’il vous plaît,’ I say slowly but confidently as I perch on a stool at the bar.

The barman, whose name is Kevin according to his badge, looks up at me and smiles. ‘A small beer coming up.’

‘Thanks,’ I reply, once again deflated by the fact my French was so painful he couldn’t bear to humour me. Still, I’m only half a day into learning French. I can only get better, right?

‘You’re English, huh?’ One of the older American ladies turns to me with a broad beaming smile. She’s tall and slim with a sleek silver bob and is wearing a green matching pants suit.

‘Yes, English,’ I give a half-wave, ‘Just over on holiday to visit the war memorials and museums.’

‘Us too. We’re fascinated by the history of it all. My husband, Harry, over there, was a vet.’ She points to a crinkly, affable-looking man in a navy baseball cap. ‘Not in the First World War, though, obviously. I mean, I know he’s old but …’ She winks, and I warm to her recognisable Southern-belle charm straight away. ‘He had a British uncle killed in the First World War and he’s wanted to take this trip for so long.’

‘Me too. My great-grandfather was killed in the war. In Belgium actually, but he was posted in France too. He was close to Arras when he fought in the Battle of the Somme. I’m here retracing his footsteps. Sort of.’

She gives a sympathetic smile. ‘So, are you here with your family?’

‘Oh no, it’s just me. My son is away at university and my brother wasn’t really interested in coming with me,’ I say, not entirely untruthfully.

‘No husband?’ she asks, with unmasked surprise.

‘I don’t have a partner.’ Kevin places my beer in front of me and I take a big glug of it.

‘Oh, well that’s too bad, a pretty girl like you. Harry and I are fifty years in, and he drives me mad some days, but he’s my Harry and I wouldn’t have him any other way.’ Her eyes twinkle with affection as she gazes over at him and I mumble a ‘congratulations’ that I’m not sure she hears.

‘I’m Martha, by the way.’ She holds out a papery-skinned hand to shake and her pale blue eyes rest on mine.

‘Cath,’ I reply, taking her hand.

Martha proceeds to introduce me to the other couple, Roland and Cynthia, who say a cheerful ‘Hi, Cath’. Cynthia’s voice is hoarse like a smoker’s and sounds almost as though someone is stood behind her cranking it out. I give a shy wave. Roland is in a sports jacket and chinos and he has a maroon baseball cap on. Cynthia is a little shorter than Martha with a fuller frame. Her hair is chin-length, snow-white and wavy.

‘If you’re alone, you should come and get dinner with us – we’d love for you to join us. We’ve found a pub in the square that sells decent hamburgers so we’re heading there soon.’

Eating alone was something that had always daunted me a little and some company would be nice. They seem like a friendly bunch and the familiarity of burgers is welcome, so I say ‘yes’. We agree to meet in the lobby half an hour later, which gives me time to dump my bags and freshen up with a quick shower.

When I return to the bar, the four of them are already waiting for me. A man is stood talking to them. As I near the group, my chest thumps with recognition. The man who freed me from the revolving doors is stood drinking a glass of water and he has them all engrossed in whatever he’s saying. As he catches sight of me he grins and takes a bow with an elaborate hand-twirling gesture in reference to my earlier faux pas. Heat immediately floods my cheeks.

Unfortunately, Martha spots me before I have the chance to dart back into the lift or hide behind a pillar or do some kind of tribal dance in the hope the ground might open up and swallow me whole. ‘Cath, this is Olivier. He’s our tour guide and we’ve badgered him to join us for dinner.’

‘Pleased to meet you. Again,’ he says, his gravelly voice beautifully iced with that rich French accent.

I glance at him, looking away at the exact same moment our eyes connect. My cheeks are still on fire. Realising I’m being rude, I mumble a quick hello and thank him again for freeing me earlier before turning back to Martha to make polite conversation about hamburgers.

‘Ahh, about those. I was just telling Olivier how I’m a bit of a connoisseur of French cuisine. Ever since Julia Child released Mastering the Art of French Cooking back in the Sixties I’ve dabbled in French cuisine and I’ve gotten pretty good even if I do say so myself. Olivier said there is a place near here I’d love. You don’t mind, do you Cath?’

‘Not at all.’ My mouth is dry and the words feel thick and chewy. A burger had sounded safe, both to the palate and to the purse, whereas fine French dining doesn’t sound safe or affordable at all. It sounds terrifying. Excuses not to go whirl through my brain and whilst I surprise myself with my creativity at such short notice (I’m someone’s ‘phone a friend’ on the Who Wants to be a Millionaire? reboot; I’ve discovered I’m highly allergic to the French air and must stay inside indefinitely; I’m OCD and have to eat a burger on a Sunday; eating French food in France seems so cliché) I don’t actually get any words out in time.

‘So, it seems you two have already met?’ she says, looking from me to Olivier.

Olivier nods. ‘I bumped into Cath as she was checking in,’ he says, with his eyes fixed on mine. He’s being polite by not telling the story, and I appreciate that but decide to come clean anyway because laughing at myself has gotten me through some of life’s toughest challenges.

‘Actually, I got my bag stuck in the revolving door and Olivier here kindly freed me.’

‘Ahh, so you were her knight in shining armour,’ Cynthia says, and I wince a little with discomfort.

‘It happens all the time,’ Olivier says, playing it down and I’m thankful.

‘Well, I do like a girl who can make an entrance,’ Martha says with a glint in her eye.

We’re all chatting about food as we come to a stop before the road outside the hotel, and, instinctively, I glance right and put a foot forward. Something firm comes out of nowhere and pelts me in the stomach. I look down, surprised to see Olivier’s tanned arm stretched out in front of me. The contact causes me an unfamiliar flutter in my lower abdomen.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘It’s a force of habit. I’m so used to getting British people on my tours who forget to look left.’ The tips of my ears burn and I’m not sure if it’s in response to the fact I can’t manage to cross the road or the fact I had unusual feelings for a stranger’s arm.

We walk for about ten minutes before entering the huge square, the Place des Héros, which is much bigger than I’d expected it would be and much more impressive with its Flemish-Spanish baroque-style buildings. The restaurant is a similar bistro style to the others in the square and given the fair weather, we decide to sit outside.

‘You sit there, honey.’ Martha directs me to the seat next to her, which is opposite Olivier. Obviously, I don’t know her very well, or at all actually, but I suspect she’s done it on purpose even if it is just because Olivier and I are similar in age. I take the menu from the waiter and study it to look busy. There’s a drought in my mouth once more as I scan the unfathomable offerings. There are a few recognisable words such as ‘fromage’ and ‘poulet’ to the more obvious ‘crabe’ and ‘porc’ but I’ve no idea what they come with. Whilst I’m not a fussy eater as such, something awful like tarragon sneaking into one of the sauces could come as a nasty surprise.

My hands are clammy on the menu and I glance up for some respite only to rest my eyes on Olivier who isn’t looking and I get that strangely pleasurable flicker in my lower stomach again. He has messy light brown hair that is sort of styled in a floppy ‘Hugh Grant’ style circa 2003 (after the curtains but before the grey). It’s in great condition too, and the light from underneath the parasol glints off it like it does off the hair in those shampoo adverts.

I try to refocus on the menu. It’s definitely unusual, but what is also unusual is the depth of blue to Olivier’s eyes. They’re hypnotic. I don’t think even David the weatherman could lose the entire British navy fleet in his oceanic eyes.

I become vaguely prickly, aware of someone watching me, so I glance up from the menu. Sure enough, Olivier is looking at me. So are Martha and the others and then I notice a presence looming to my left: the waiter, who is looking at me expectantly in his smart black and white attire protected by a chequered apron. Suddenly, the thought of messing up my order or ordering something weird (‘oh, Cath, that’s a palate cleanser’) panics me but I’m out of time.

‘Oh, pardon, I’m sorry.’ My voice croaks. I skim the entrees one last time. ‘The porc please.’ I daren’t even try to pronounce the full title ‘Filet de porc sauce Normande’ even though it seems fairly simple. I can’t help but wonder what Normande sauce is. Is it garnished with fibres from the Bayeux tapestry? Seasoned with the ground bones of William the Conqueror perhaps? That would certainly explain the price. The others have gone for the filet mignon but at thirty-three euros a pop, I decide to give that a miss since I could buy two evening meals in a more low-key place for that.

I don’t even feel that hungry since a thousand butterflies have taken up residence in my stomach, filling the cavity entirely.

Taking a deep breath to try and neutralise them, I turn to Olivier, who looks relaxed, sitting back in his chair easily, resting his head on one hand. The underside of his forearm is turned outward and I can see the veins in his wrist like a map of his body leading back to his heart. In an attempt to look relaxed too, I mimic his position but something about having my arm exposed like that makes me feel naked so I turn it inward and eventually place in my lap. I must look noticeably odd, as Olivier asks if I’m okay. I nod but I’m uncomfortable, and I don’t really know why because I was fine earlier. Olivier’s presence has changed the dynamic somehow.

Martha and the others have entered into conversation about something they’re all ‘in on’ from back home, and since I’m sitting on the end, I don’t even attempt to join in because I’m worried that if I say something and they don’t hear me, I’ll look foolish.

Olivier doesn’t seem to suffer the affliction of inner turmoil as he looks around, soaking up the vibrant atmosphere of the square. I once again attempt to follow suit, glancing around, trying to appear nonchalant and comfortable, but I can’t shake the feeling of Olivier’s presence. My senses are heightened and I’m on edge, like I’ve entered an electric field or a flagship Primark store in the mid-afternoon.

‘Cath?’ Martha’s questioning tone brings me around, but I can’t tell whether or not she’s asked a question because sometimes Americans add that questioning infliction to anything they say, don’t they?

‘Sorry, I was miles away.’ I smile. Trying to appear normal exhausts me, and a part of me starts wishing I was back home in Berrybridge where I am normal and so is everything around me.

‘We were talking about our tour tomorrow, dear. The coach is going to Thiepval and Albert and we wondered if you wanted to tag along. If that’s okay with you?’ She looks pointedly at Olivier.

‘Of course,’ he says to Martha before looking me directly in the eyes. ‘There’s space on the coach so I don’t see why not.’ A tingle spreads across my back. Although Thiepval isn’t part of my great-grandfather’s documented journey, it’s in the heart of the Somme Valley and I’d perhaps see some of what he’d seen. I want to go but I haven’t looked into the costs yet. Having to fork out for this expensive dinner and a coach trip wasn’t budgeted for. My money is vanishing quicker than the frozen turkeys do at Christmas.

‘How much is the trip?’ I can’t look anyone in the eyes as I ask as casually as I can but inside my stomach is rolling with waves of embarrassment.

Olivier bats the air with his hands. ‘Nothing. Like Martha said, there are spare seats and we’re going anyway.’

‘Thank you but I’m more than happy to pay the going rate.’ I hope nobody else notices the subtle rise in the pitch of my voice.

‘Please, be our guest,’ he says in a way that feels final and a warmth fills my chest.

‘So how long have you been a tour guide?’ I ask, feeling braver.

‘I’ve done this for almost twenty years now. I wanted to utilise my English and most of the people who use our tours are either British or American. Plus, I love history and travel and since the company is Europe-wide, I get to see more than just northern France.’ He takes a sip of his beer.

‘I’ve always loved history too, and seeing different places has to be a bonus.’

His features lift a little. ‘Definitely.’ He nods. ‘So do you travel much?’

I shake my head. ‘Hardly ever. I wasn’t brought up in a family of ambitious travelling types and we never really had much money. My mother was a single parent and just a regular hard-working, working-class person who enjoyed relaxing at home on her days off. She took me and my brother on minibreaks to Wales and for days out and was great in the sense that she could create adventures for us without even leaving the house.’

I smile. ‘One time, she turned the lounge into Loch Ness. She covered the floor with blue flannel sheets from my brother’s bed, and our big brown sofa was a sailing boat. She used a snake puppet as the Loch Ness Monster.’ I stop talking, remembering how my mother used to make us close our eyes and imagine the gentle swaying of the boat. I can still feel it now if I really concentrate and it wasn’t too dissimilar to the ferry crossing to Le Havre considering there wasn’t any water or a boat in sight. ‘Sorry, you probably have no idea about what I’m blabbering on about.’

He looks bemused by my expression but smiles warmly. ‘Everyone knows of the Loch Ness monster. Not too many have seen him though, hey?’ His eyes glint mischievously before a more sympathetic smile forms on his lips. ‘Your mother sounds like a wonderful woman.’

‘She was.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ He holds his eyes on mine for a moment too long, and I fight the urge to move my hair off my face. I’d read in some ‘women’s’ magazine in the staffroom at work, that doing that can be seen as a sign you’re attracted to someone, and I certainly don’t want to give off those types of signals, thank you very much.

‘Were you just talking about Loch Ness?’ Cynthia’s gravelly voice cuts through the tension that I’m ninety-five per cent sure I’m imagining.

‘We were. Have you ever been?’ I rest my chin on my hand and look at her, glad to have someone else to focus on.

‘Yes, Roland and I went about twenty years ago. It’s such a beautiful place, isn’t it?’

‘I wouldn’t know, I’ve not actually been. My brother and I used to pretend our living room floor was Loch Ness.’ I don’t feel like sharing the story again; it seems strangely intimate all of a sudden.

‘Well, you must go. It’s one of the most beautiful parts of the world, and you live so near.’

‘I’m sure I will,’ I say politely, though our opinions of what constitutes ‘near’ seem to differ somewhat.

The food arrives and the conversation mostly centres around travel. Since I’ve very little to contribute, I listen with genuine interest and make a mental note to travel more whilst I push the food around my plate. Now Kieran is grown up, I should travel more. It makes sense to see the world. My annual bonuses will cover the cost of a trip once a year and even though I’ve only just arrived in Arras, I feel like I’m doing okay if you discount the door fiasco and the fancy menu. Travelling alone doesn’t seem so bad.

‘Are you going to eat that?’ Olivier asks. The sauce is a pale green colour and it smells sort of fruity with a tinge of alcohol but there’s no indication of delicate embroidery fragments or the DNA of an ancient monarch so I take a forkful and raise it to my lips with trepidation.

‘Yes.’

He leans across the table and whispers, ‘It’s an apple and brandy sauce.’

I give a small smile in response but feel ridiculous inside even though there was nothing mocking in the way he said it and I don’t think he was trying to embarrass me.

I take a bite and it’s a delicious explosion of flavour with the apple complementing the pork and the brandy flavour cutting through perfectly. Mum had always thought fruit and meat to be an odd combination, so much so she’d laugh at the cranberry sauce display at Christmas and shake her head with utterings of ‘bonkers, fruit is for pudding!’ As a result, I’d never thought to combine fruit and meat but this works so well. I stuff the next forkful in and it seals the deal. Cranberry sauce next Christmas it is!

Back at the hotel, I bid the others goodnight and head up to my room where I fall asleep, wrapped in the warmth of the evening, the aromas and flavours of France, and, strangely, thoughts of Olivier. There’s something about him that’s quite unlike anything I’ve seen in anyone before.