The Case of the Missing Boyfriend (17 page)

‘To London?’

‘No, to Camberley. It’s in Surrey. About an hour and a half west of London.’

‘And you’ve been in London since?’

‘Since I was twenty-two,’ I answer. ‘I got my first job in London and never looked back really. Surrey never really did it for me anyway. It always felt sort of comfortable, but not me. A bit like a hotel room.’

Charles nods. ‘I know exactly what you mean,’ he says. ‘So, you moved out when you were twenty-two.’

‘Oh no, I moved out when I went to college. At eighteen.’

Charles nods thoughtfully.

‘I suppose you’re trying to work out how long ago this all was,’ I laugh. ‘I’m thirty-nine.’

Charles nods slowly again. ‘I wasn’t actually, but anyway . . . Thirty-nine. That’s young. I’m fifty-five.’

I swallow. I had assumed he was a bit younger.

‘You think that’s old, I expect,’ Charles says.

I shrug. ‘Not at all. What’s old? When I was twenty I thought forty was ancient.’

‘Right,’ Charles says. ‘So you presumably like living in London. If you’ve been there for twenty years.’

I wobble my head in a half-hearted nod. ‘London’s great. Honestly, these days I think it’s one of the world’s great capitals.’

‘These days?’

‘It wasn’t so hot during the eighties,’ I explain. ‘It all got pretty grimy during the Thatcher years. But now, I think it’s an amazingly vibrant place to live. It’s just that, in a way, I always think of it as a single person’s place. I have never been able to imagine being old there.’

Charles nods. ‘And you think you could live here though? I suppose at least you speak the language.’

‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘That was sort of my plan. When I was in my twenties. I really liked Aix en Provence.’ I laugh at this, causing Charles to frown at me.

‘Oh, it’s just that, ironically, I had the worst time in Aix,’ I say.

‘What happened in Aix?’

‘Nothing really. That was the problem. I was living in a big friendly shared house in Birmingham, and I swapped with this French girl from Aix – who, incidentally, I never even met . . . The thing was that she had her own flat. So it was pretty luxurious.’

‘But lonely . . .’

‘Exactly. And the people at the college weren’t as friendly as I had hoped . . . You sort of expect people to be interested in you because you’re foreign and exotic or something, but the French aren’t really like that. They all pretty much ignored me. It was a bad time.’

‘I bet,’ says Charles. ‘You poor thing.’

‘I used to phone my mum all the time, reverse the charges, so that I could cry down the phone. That girl – Véronique – had a brilliant time with all
my
friends though.’

Charles laughs. ‘I would have thought that would put you off France,’ he says.

I lean in conspiratorially. ‘To be honest,’ I whisper. ‘It did put me off the French a bit. I mean – I thought they were the bee’s knees before I lived here.’

Charles nods. ‘Well every country has a cliché . . . the Brits are all alcoholics, the Spaniards never sleep, the Italians are loud and emotional, and . . .’ he leans in to my ear and continues, ‘the French are superior and arrogant. There’s always a reason why a cliché is a cliché. It’s always rooted in truth somewhere along the way.’

‘It’s such a beautiful country though,’ I say. ‘There’s so much variety compared with England. And so much space. Not to mention the weather.’

Charles nods. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘There’s a terrible Italian joke about that. It’s not very politically correct I’m afraid.’

‘Yes?’

‘They say that when God created all the countries, all France’s neighbours were jealous. So Spain cried out, “Why do they have these magnificent forests?” And Italy cried out, “Why do they have all the beautiful beaches?” And Germany said, “Why did you give France the wonderful Mediterranean sea?”’

‘And God, woken from his slumber by all the complaints, said, “OK, OK, don’t worry, I have a plan to even things up.”’

‘Yes?’

‘So he created the French.’

I snort and almost have to spit my wine back in the glass. I glance around nervously in case anyone has overheard. ‘That’s terrible,’ I say.

‘Yes,’ Charles smirks. ‘Indeed. Not my fault though. It’s an Italian joke.’

I smile and roll my eyes and then glance around the square. ‘It’s not even just the country though,’ I say. ‘It’s the buildings too. I’ve always thought that the French have a built in sense of aesthetics. Or maybe, at least, of the importance of aesthetics. Do you know what I mean?’

Charles shrugs. ‘I suppose all the designers and stuff are French, aren’t they?’

‘It’s as if the Germans worry about how efficiently things will
work
. And the French worry about how they will
look
.’

‘And the Brits?’

‘Sadly, I think we mainly worry about how much they will cost.’

‘Yes,’ Charles says. ‘Yes, your big projects are always a bit on the cheap. Nothing ever seems to quite work properly.’

‘I don’t think it was always like that . . . in fact, I don’t think it was like that really until the Second World War . . . maybe we just ran out of money then. Maybe we made a culture of getting by. I mean, if you look around, there are plenty of magnificent things from before . . . Buckingham Palace, Saint Paul’s Cathedral . . . but the French
still
build stuff like that. Even that big bridge they opened a few years ago . . . in Millau, I think it is . . . even that’s beautiful.’

And so the evening passes. I don’t know what has got into me, but I talk and talk and then talk some more. Perhaps it’s the rosé, or perhaps it’s the Mediterranean ambience. Then again, perhaps it’s simply that no one seems to have been this interested in anything I have to say for a long time. Well, not outside work at any rate.

By eleven p.m. when we leave the restaurant, I feel like I have been engaged in a talking marathon. And when I stop, I suddenly feel terribly, terribly tired.

‘I’m not surprised,’ Charles says when I tell him. ‘It is five a.m. in New York.’

‘Actually, it isn’t,’ I say. ‘New York is
behind.’

‘Oh yes. Well, the change is still confusing!’

After a short taxi-ride back to the hotel, Charles thanks me for a lovely evening, and I say, ‘No! Thank you for a lovely evening.’

And just for a second, oiled by rosé and chatter and a long lovely meal, I think that Charles deserves a kiss. I’m stepping out of the lift when this thought occurs to me, so I turn back to peck him on the cheek.

I’m fully aware that this peck may lead to something else, but am, as yet, confused about whether this is what I want or not.

Charles though, has turned away and remains totally unaware of my hesitation. He is far too busy looking for the ‘close door’ button of the lift.

And then the moment is past, and as I turn away, he now notices, and says, ‘Yes?’ but the doors are already closing.

‘Nothing,’ I call through the diminishing gap. ‘See you tomorrow.’

I’m not sure if this is a missed opportunity or a lucky escape.

Romance by Design

The next morning – partly from habit but mainly due to a strip of sunlight sneaking through a chink in the curtains – I’m awake at seven-thirty a.m.

As Charles and I haven’t agreed any particular plan for this morning, I shower, drink a glass of water and head straight outside, determined to make the most of my mini-break.

The air is still cool, but the sky is a pure cloudless blue, the sea a crazy turquoise colour and the air fresh with salt and iodine.

I cross the road and stare at the sea for a while, and then, inspired by all the joggers, start to walk briskly westwards.

After fifteen minutes, I take a break in one of the little blue chairs the town authorities have thoughtfully strewn around. I note that they are painted exactly the same blue as the sea. More confirmation of my theory about French aesthetic instinct.

After another ten minutes watching the waves, I turn and walk slowly back towards the hotel. When I come level with the pedestrian crossing, I spot Charles, also seated on one of the chairs, staring out at the horizon. He looks serious, mournful even, and I hesitate a moment before crossing the pavement to talk to him. ‘You look pensive,’ I say.

Charles physically judders at the shock of being spoken to from such close proximity. ‘Gee. You made me jump!’

‘Sorry,’ I say.

‘It’s fine. You OK?’

I nod. ‘I went for a morning walk. What a glorious day, huh?’

‘Yes, isn’t it?’

‘You looked very thoughtful,’ I say again.

‘Me? No. Not really. I was just watching those gulls. I know they only have a brain the size of a pea or something, but I can’t help but think that they look like they’re enjoying themselves. I was just thinking that maybe their brains only have that one function. It wouldn’t be so bad.’

I pull a chair over and take a seat beside him. ‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘They do look like they’re loving it.’

We sit like this for a while watching the birds sweeping and swooping apparently pointlessly, apparently, as Charles says, just for the fun of it, and then Charles’ stomach rumbles loudly.

He laughs. ‘Did you hear that?’

‘Time for breakfast?’

‘Yes, I think so too.’

‘Back in the hotel, or . . .?’

Charles wrinkles his nose. ‘I didn’t find breakfast to be very good there. And it’s terribly expensive. Don’t get me wrong, I mean, if you want . . .’

I shake my head. ‘I have no preference at all,’ I say. ‘As long as I get some caffeine and a few calories.’

‘I usually just have a coffee and a croissant in the first place I find.’

‘Sounds perfect,’ I say, following his lead and standing. ‘Sounds like a proper authentic French breakfast. It’s just a shame I don’t smoke.’

‘Smoke?’

‘Well, yes. That’s the real French breakfast, isn’t it? Coffee and a cigarette.’

‘Yes,’ Charles laughs. ‘Yes, of course. I suppose it is. Now, if I remember correctly, we just need to go down that little side road . . .’

The day is perfect.

We have fresh buttery croissants and microscopic doses of caffeine.

‘When caffeine tastes this good . . .’ I joke, swapping the decaf coffee slogan around, ‘. . .who needs coffee?’

We amble through the winding streets of the old town, and I get Charles to take a photo of me in the middle of the brightly coloured vegetable market to prove to Mark that I was really here.

For lunch we both have perfect Niçoise salads on Place Rossetti before wandering around the port to look at the boats. Charles points at a big sleek number he tells me is a forty-footer and says that he used to have the same one.

‘Why did you get rid of it?’

He shrugs. ‘Money mainly. The mooring cost a fortune, and after the first summer, I never really used it. Boats are a bit like second homes. It’s better really just to decide where you want to go and rent something.’

‘Where is your first home? I mean I know you move around all the time, but . . .’

Charles shrugs. ‘Most of my stuff is in Chicago these days. And the kids. And the ex-wife, of course. But I honestly don’t spend much time there.’

‘It must be strange. Not having a proper home. How many kids have you got?’

‘Two,’ Charles says. ‘They’re adolescents now. I don’t see much of them either, of course. Not with them being in Chicago and me being mostly anywhere else.
Everywhere
else.’

‘No, I suppose not.’

That evening, we take another taxi to a small nearby town – Villefranche sur Mer. Here we eat in a swanky fish restaurant overlooking the twinkling lights of the port.

As Charles says, all clichés exist for a reason, and the candlelit dinner overlooking the sea predictably breaks through any remaining barriers I might have about feeling romantic. The food is beautiful, the bottle of white crisp and fruity, the table linen white and starched, the windows spotless, the music soothing.

Indeed, Charles himself looks tanned and appealing in the flickering candlelight. What girl could fail to be wooed under such circumstances?

Guys, listen and learn: it’s a cliché because it works!

The only sour note of the entire evening is provided by our somewhat overbearing waiter. He keeps appearing to top up our glasses. When our glasses don’t need topping up, he makes little visits to brush crumbs off the table with a sort of handheld carpet sweeper.

I know that this is the way five-star service is meant to be, but the truth is that I have never liked it. Trying to have an intimate conversation under these circumstances is like trying to work while someone is hoovering under your feet.

Charles leans on the table, and rests his chin in his hands. ‘You know . . .’ he says.

I smile at him gently. ‘Yes?’

‘At risk of . . .’

And of course, at that second, our obsessive-compulsive crumb-cleaner returns for his third table sweep. Clearly, it’s getting to Charles too. ‘I’m sorry, but can you just wait?’ he asks the waiter.

‘Pardon?’ the guy asks, hovering over the table with his silver carpet-sweeper thing.

‘Don’t do that crumb thing. We don’t
care
about the crumbs,’ Charles says.

‘I’m sorry,’ the man says in a thick accent. ‘You have a problem?’

‘Sorry, Charlotte. Can you explain before I . . .’ Charles mutters, turning to look out of the window.

‘Nous essayons . . .’ –
We’re trying to talk
, I tell him in my best French.

‘
Vous
pouvez
parler,
’ he replies with typical French nonchalance.
–
You
can
talk.

‘We would
rather
you cleaned the table
after
the meal,’ I say.

‘But this is how we do it in France,’ he says.

‘Not tonight,’ I tell him. I see Charles watching me, looking impressed, and decide that I need to win here.

‘But—’ the waiter says.

‘Look,’ I interrupt, ‘we’re paying for all of this, so can you just let us eat the way we want to?’

‘
Comme des chochons?
’ he says, which I think, but am not sure, means, ‘Like pigs?’

‘I’m sorry?’