Escape to the French Riviera

Chapter One

The sound of the halyards clanking in the distance distracts me as the wind brews up in the marina. Normally, the repetitive chime would relax me, but today, it’s like some kind of earworm that I can’t get out of my head.

I stare at the blank page on my laptop, trying to ignore the outside noise as I wait for inspiration to come. But all I can hear is clink, clink, clink, and as much as I force myself to focus, no words come into my head. Zero, zilch, nada.

Oh, come on, brain. I want to write this book. Why is my head not on the same page? Like literally.

My creative writing tutor, Annie, said that I have talent, and I actually believed her. Now I am starting to think she might only have been saying that to get me to attend each week. The praise she gave me in the evening classes that I joined recently filled me with confidence. I thought I could make something of myself for once. I felt as though I could finally be more than that woman who had been made redundant from the local pet food store, or Michael’s ex-wife and Poppy and Jasmine’s mam. I could be the person I dreamed of being when I was young and had ambition. A woman who wasn’t told by the careers officer that I couldn’t be a novelist like I aspired to be but that there was a Youth Training Scheme at the local fashion retailer where I could earn ￡19 a week instead. I duly applied and was reminded how fortunate I was to do the same amount of work as everyone else for a lot less pay, but at least I was being trained for a career in retail. A thirty-year career that ended in redundancy at the same time I found out about Michael’s two-year affair. Eighteen months ago, I discovered I was to be made redundant in more ways than one.

With a redundancy package, a divorce settlement and a devastatingly unexpected new start, I found myself bewildered, single and shocked. How on earth was I supposed to suddenly adjust to life without the job I could do in my sleep and the husband I thought I knew so well? It took time. After nine months of feeling like a zombie, I had an epiphany. It was almost like a sign when the local community centre advertised creative writing sessions with a best-selling author. I felt as though this was my chance to be who I wanted to be all those years ago. Could I finally be a novelist and write that book? As I slowly came to terms with my new routines, I knew this was exactly what I needed.

Of course, it was nerve-racking the first time I walked into that class. All my confidence had evaporated after losing my husband and my job within three months of each other. Despite that, I was excited and went out and bought a beautiful new notebook before my initial class. I was so eager to learn.

However, even though I left home early, an unexpected road diversion held me up. I was the last one to arrive, and the whole room turned to glare as I walked in. With only one seat left for me in a crowded room, my nerves got the better of me. I wanted to walk back out and pretend I had a phone call to make as everyone stared at the latecomer. But before I could make any excuses, someone pulled a chair out for me and shuffled up the table with a smile. Then our tutor, Annie, put us at ease, and I remembered how much I wanted this. It was going to be okay.

The class was full of fellow introverts who were similarly terrified about sharing their work but within six weeks, we trusted each other and had built a bond. By the end of term drinks, Annie pulled me to one side to tell me she thought my work had promise. Her words made every endorphin in my body explode. I relished those words for weeks. I even wrote them down on a sticky note and stuck it on the side of my laptop screen.

‘There’s no reason you can’t be published,’ she told me over her gin and tonic. ‘You just have to write that book. If you don’t get those words down, well, you’ll never be published. Just keep writing, it’s that simple.’

I repeated the words to myself in the mirror every day for a month, but now, left to my own devices with the blank page, I am not feeling nearly as confident. Although the sticky note is crumpled and losing its stickiness, I keep it safe and remind myself of those words.

You have promise.

But, while I try to focus on the words and the laptop, sitting alone in my living room, I get a flashback to the moment I found out about Michael and his lady friend. The flashbacks won’t go away, although they’re not happening as often as they used to. I only had an Instagram account so that I could follow cat people, so I was shocked to find a message in my inbox from someone who had clearly made up a fake account. But there, waiting for me, was a picture of my husband’s prized Porsche on someone’s driveway. I recognised the house as it was only around the corner from our family home. So, one night, I drove past to snoop. The house had fabulous hanging baskets outside, so I immediately assumed a woman lived there. Then I saw her walk out and look straight at me. She looked as though she had seen a ghost. Stereotypically, she was younger than me by about ten years. I got out of the car and asked her if she knew my husband, Michael. She informed me that she knew him as Mickey and not Michael. Was he lying about his name, or simply trying to sound more her age? I wasn’t sure what he was trying to do, and I suppose it didn’t really matter. The fact was that this affair had been going on for a lot longer than I would ever have guessed. I kicked myself for not seeing the signs, but perhaps Michael was a better liar than he was a husband. The woman said she was sorry that she didn’t realise he was married and had only found out recently. He had lied to both of us.

The discovery that my perfect family life was a sham was the hardest thing I have ever dealt with. How could I not have known? There were days when I was as angry with myself as I was with Michael. Was I not enough for my husband? On a good day I realised that actually he wasn’t good enough for me. But it wasn’t always that easy to remember, and some days the tears and devastation over the loss of the future I had imagined in our old age were too much to deal with.

I closed my Instagram account and disappeared out of sight to try and pick up the pieces. But, despite my determination to become the person I wish I could be, when I get one of these flashbacks, my confidence flounders, and I think to myself that perhaps the time has come to stop living the dream. I have no inspiration to write the love story I want to, and the redundancy and divorce payout won’t last forever either.

Perhaps it’s time to get myself a ‘proper’ job as Michael keeps telling me. It probably is, but if he says that writing is only a hobby one more time, then I might put one of my cacti somewhere that the sun doesn’t shine the next time he comes over on some spurious excuse for a visit. If you can’t have a dream, then there’s no hope in life.

He has always dissuaded me from my love of writing. I tried to write a short story once when the girls were born and I was on maternity leave. I read it excitedly to Michael, but he had no interest in it whatsoever. He suggested I enjoy the time off with the girls and that it wasn’t the right time to take up a new hobby. Secretly, though, I kept a little journal in my bedside drawer. Sometimes, when everyone was asleep and I woke up in the night overthinking about the girls’ problems in school, or whether they’d do well in exams, I would make notes in there. I used to read back what I’d written in those days, but I’ve stopped that now. It feels sad to look back at a time when we had so many plans as a family. So now I try to simply look forward. The only problem is that although I finally have the time and there’s nobody to stop me writing, I struggle to write the love story I have always wanted to when I’ve no romance in my life. Some days I wonder if I shouldn’t turn my hand to horror stories. I could probably relate far better to those right now.

Dating has certainly changed since Michael and I got together in the early Nineties. Carol, one of my best friends, tells me that it can quickly become a horror story if you’re not careful, and the thought of a date with some stranger terrifies me.

Also, I don’t even know how people manage to find dates unless they want their photos plastered all over an app. This doesn’t appeal to me at all. Perhaps I need to write an old-fashioned love story where people bump into each other and fall in love. Although that doesn’t seem to happen nowadays. But I know if I were ever to consider dating again, it would have to be with someone charming and romantic. I’d want to get to know them and take things nice and slowly. Proper courting stuff. Do people even do that any more?

As I try to stop my mind diverting to the scary methods of modern-day dating, I stare at the laptop, accepting that I am not going to get any writing done this morning. It’s useless even trying, so I decide to ring my other best friend, Soraya, for a chat.

‘Lucy, what good timing. I was just talking to Andrew about France.’

‘Oh, right.’

I love Soraya, but she is determined that we are all going on an expensive holiday for her fiftieth. It’s alright for Soraya and her rich husband, Andrew, but I am a single mother with writer’s block and a dwindling redundancy package. As much as I would love a dream holiday with my best friend, I cannot possibly afford such a frivolity. Of course, I wish I could live the high life with her and help celebrate her birthday, but the mention of this trip is starting to stress me out.

‘So, yeah… Monaco, Antibes, Cannes, where shall we go? Andrew’s got a client with an apartment in Cannes or Monaco we should be able to use. Any preference? I’m leaning towards a weekend in Monaco at the moment, I must admit.’

How on earth do you tell your best friend that you can’t go, but you also don’t want to let her down or sound like a miserly mate? The pressure is on, and I think of ways I can get out of it without explaining the truth. I’ve never been one to just come out with it and always try to please people by sugar coating things.

‘Oh, I don’t know. I’m so sorry, but I think you’ll have to count me out. It doesn’t look like I’ll be able to make it. I set myself a deadline to write this book, before I have to start looking for work again, you know…’

‘Ooh, I didn’t realise you’d started the book. I’m so thrilled for you. Do you know, I remember you saying you wanted to be a famous author when you grew up, the very first time we met.’

‘Oh, did I? I suppose it’s all I ever wanted since I was little. Maybe this is my chance. I’ve started writing today.’

My eyes turn to look at the blank page. Technically, I have started. After all, I’ve opened a new document and called it ‘The book I want to write’. Isn’t it the thought that counts? If only the words would flow as easily as the title came to me.

‘Well, you can bring your laptop with you to France. You can write from anywhere. You’ve got to be at my fiftieth. It wouldn’t be the same without you. How can I celebrate if you’re not with me?’

This makes me feel even worse and is another reason why I keep skirting around the truth.

Soraya has told me time and time again that I must be on our girls’ trip. I know how much she wants me there. We have been best friends since primary school when a horrible boy in our class broke her pencil before a spelling test, and I stepped in to offer her one of my scented ones. I am ashamed to admit that before that incident, I had been a bit envious of Soraya when she first turned up at our school. She was so perfect, so pretty and confident. But, when I got to know her, I discovered that she was the most beautiful human on the inside too. Our lives might have turned out differently, but she has never let the wealth she built with her husband go to her head. The only problem is that she likes to go to places that I can’t afford. Like a weekend in Monaco for her birthday. What is wrong with Minehead?

I take a deep breath and finally admit what is holding me back from the offer of this fantastic girls’ holiday. I would hate for Soraya to think that I don’t want to celebrate with her.

‘Look, you know you’re my best friend in the world, but I… I’m sorry, I just don’t have the money for a weekend in Monaco.’

‘You don’t need money! Andrew’s paying for the three of us to go on a girls’ holiday, and one of his clients will put us up.’

Carol is the other invited guest. It’s always been the three of us, ever since Soraya joined me and Carol’s little friendship circle that day of the pencil incident. I wonder if Carol’s aware that Andrew is providing us with such a generous opportunity.

‘Goodness, that’s very kind of him, but I can’t take such a lavish gift. It’s going to cost a fortune.’

‘Listen, it’s my birthday, and that’s my pressie. It’s what I want more than anything else. Just to spend time with you two.’

After Soraya has insisted that she won’t take no for an answer, I ring Carol to see what she thinks of it all.

‘Of course we’re going. Andrew can well afford it. You wouldn’t seriously say no to a free holiday in Monaco, would you? Soraya wants us all to be together and celebrate. That’s her pressie.’

‘I know, but I feel terrible having someone else paying for it.’

I am a proud person and don’t feel comfortable taking anything from Soraya and Andrew, no matter how genuinely kind they are.

‘Stop being silly. How could you not celebrate with Soraya when that’s her birthday wish?’

‘I know.’

‘Well, there we go then. The financial aspect is what it is… Forget about it. We’ll have the best time ever. Anyway, it might be a good chance for you to do some networking. There could be a publisher there for your book, and it’ll be turned into a movie. These places are full of big shots. Ha, you never know.’

‘That’s hilarious. I love your optimism, but even if I bumped into the best publisher in the world, I haven’t even started the book yet.’

‘Well, bring your laptop with you. You never know when inspiration may strike. You can’t miss this chance for us to have a girls’ trip. I mean, we couldn’t celebrate your fortieth because Stella got sick, remember?’

I think back to my fond memories of Stella, my beautiful nineteen-year-old Siamese cat who sadly died the day I signed the divorce papers. They always say bad things come in threes.

‘Yeah, when she had all those fur balls.’

‘Come on, it’s time to have some fun. We’ll have the best holiday ever. I promise,’ says Carol.

I love my two best friends, and it would be wonderful to have a weekend away with them, but when I check my bank account for spending money, I realise that more than anything, I need to think about a new career. Could this trip give me the inspiration I need to do that? One thing I do know is that staring at these four walls in my flat at Swansea Marina certainly isn’t helping right now.

I picture myself floating around the French Riviera with the sun beating down on my skin, dressed in a kaftan, meeting film directors. Even if I am far too old and sensible to believe this could actually happen, my imagination enjoys the daydream for a moment. A weekend with my two best friends celebrating another milestone in our lives is just what I need. I mean, what could possibly go wrong?