Escape to the French Riviera

Chapter Nine

Since none of us are handy with finding deleted things from phones, I decide to do some work in the sunshine. I rummage around for my notebook to start planning a plot I can write about.

Maybe this is where I have gone wrong. Until now, I haven’t really planned out my book. Instead, I tried to write different things, and nothing worked out. Yes, that is what it will be. However, ten minutes later, my mind keeps drifting off to why I deleted Elias’s number.

I throw the notebook back in my bag. I’m not going to be able to write anything and I’m not going to be bumping into Elias again.

Agitated and fidgety, I look around at the Monaco jet set posing around the pool and wonder how much time they’ve spent in the gym and how many biscuits they must have sacrificed to get bodies like this. I would think it must be a full-time job. Even the best genes couldn’t give the toned triceps these women have. I self-consciously suck my tummy in as one of the women walks past me in a gold bikini. I would look like one of those round toffee pennies that you find in a box of Quality Street if I tried wearing something like that. Thank goodness for plain black swimsuits with tummy control.

A few hours later, once we are all rested, have had a good swim and can take no more of the fierce sun, we walk back up the hill towards our apartment. The walk feels harder than usual after a few hours in the sun, but after a quick siesta, we get ready for Soraya’s big birthday dinner, still feeling the effects of the UV rays.

‘Does my nose look burnt?’ says Carol.

‘I’ve got a fab new concealer. Try some,’ says Soraya, as she kindly avoids telling her the truth. Someone is going to have a peeling nose for the next few weeks.

‘I think I burnt my shoulders,’ says Soraya.

‘Yup, I’ve burnt my inner thighs,’ I admit.

‘How on earth did you burn there?’ says Carol.

I don’t admit that I was lying on the sunbed in a very strange position so that all the gravity went in the right direction and made my cellulite look less visible. Soraya will only tell me off for not loving my body. It’s easy for her to say.

‘Dunno, it’s weird,’ I say.

Tonight, Soraya is wearing a stunning red strapless dress that shows her figure off beautifully and perfectly complements her dark hair. She looks sensational. In fact, when Carol puts the special birthday tiara on her, you’d be forgiven for thinking Soraya was a beauty pageant contestant. Although, Soraya would undoubtedly have an issue with that, since she doesn’t feel that people should be judged on their appearance and thinks beauty pageants are unnecessary in this day and age.

As we have a glass of the French wine from the fridge, we hear a beep.

‘Ah, there’s the taxi,’ says Soraya. We thought perhaps we would have Paulo at our disposal, although that would be very generous of Gianni, who is already kindly lending us this amazing flat, but there has been no sign of him since he dropped us off that night. I suppose Gianni must have given him the rest of the weekend off.

Through the twinkling streetlights of Monaco, we head to the restaurant in Nice that Andrew has arranged for our special evening. We make our way along the hairpin bends on the corniche roads, gasping at the ocean and the steep drop below us. The taxi driver takes the bends sharply with a terrifying confidence. At every turn, I pray there are no cyclists who could be knocked over by us.

‘What a view,’ says Soraya, looking down at the huge drop below.

‘It’s like a movie, isn’t it? You can just imagine someone like Audrey Hepburn in a vintage sporty convertible driving along these roads with her headscarf staying perfectly on her head. Unlike me in Elias’s car this morning,’ laughs Carol.

Did she have to remind me of Elias again? I get angry with myself for thinking how I might have to look for a phone shop to see if someone can help me restore my deleted messages.

We pass through Cap d’Ail, where little sailing boats and yachts are scattered around the sea like confetti. Then we arrive at Eze-sur-Mer with its white sandy beaches and medieval architecture. I wish we had time to stop here, but the taxi driver carries on through the seaside resort of Beaulieu-sur-Mer and onto Villefranche-sur-Mer. Finally, we are welcomed into Nice with its palm tree-lined promenade. Since it’s a bustling Saturday night, mopeds whizz past us, alongside Ferraris and small French cars.

When the taxi pulls up outside our restaurant, I can’t get over the views. The waterfront restaurant balances on a rocky promontory that is lit up from beneath. There are diving boards at the side of the bar for the more audacious. I watch as someone dives off into the sea below. I think I will be sticking with the eating and drinking.

A waitress leads us to a table on a large balcony that is laid out with bright yellow sunflowers and perfectly co-ordinated pale blue plates. The twinkly lights hanging above us reflect onto the silverware, and our table teeters on the edge of the Mediterranean beneath us. It is absolutely perfect.

‘Well, you certainly know how to celebrate a birthday,’ I say, looking around at the views over Nice. Andrew knows his stuff when it comes to picking venues for a special bash.

We are perusing the menu, trying to decide between sea bass, octopus or cod fillet, when the waitress comes back with a fancy champagne bucket.

She removes the white napkin from the side and wipes at a bottle of very expensive-looking champagne.

‘I don’t remember you ordering any drinks yet?’ I say to Soraya.

‘Isn’t that the stuff celebs drink?’ says Carol, looking at the bottle.

‘Excuse me, we haven’t ordered anything. I think it might be the wrong table,’ says Soraya.

‘No, no. It’s the right table,’ the waitress assures us.

We all look a bit baffled and then conclude that Andrew must have bought it for us all as a surprise.

‘Bless him. How amazing is he?’ I say.

Soraya takes a photo of the three of us with the backdrop of Nice and the champagne glasses in our hands and sends it to Andrew, thanking him for the surprise.

It is only when Soraya is biting down on her octopus that Andrew answers her thank-you message. She almost chokes and starts coughing as she reads it.

‘Andrew says he hasn’t sent any champagne. He’s confused now, saying it must be some mistake.’

We make eyes at each other and then look at the half-empty bottle. This is the really good stuff, and there is no way I could afford to even contribute to it. As the waitress walks past, Soraya stops her.

‘I’m sorry, but was the champagne already paid for, or has it been charged to our bill? I think there’s been a mistake.’

‘It’s paid for, madame.’

‘Umm, by who?’

‘Ah, he wanted it to remain a surprise for you.’

Carol and Soraya both stare at me.

‘Elias!’ says Carol.

‘What? Why Elias?’

‘Well, it must be. Who else would it be? He’s the only person apart from Andrew who knew we were coming here tonight. I told him when you two were looking in the galley. He asked me where we were going for dinner tonight. He said he’d been here.’

‘Oh, Carol! Maybe you shouldn’t have told him,’ I say.

‘Of course I should have. I was asking him what it was like. Then you two came back upstairs, and that was the end of the conversation. Well, now, I don’t know about you, but I really want to meet Elias again. Maybe we should try and find his boat tomorrow to say thank you,’ says Carol, her nose getting redder by the minute with the combination of sun and alcohol.

‘I’ve no idea where it was. Do you?’ says Soraya.

‘Nope. I could never find it again. I was too busy singing along to Take That to watch where we were going, and now I don’t even know his number. Oh no. I feel bad now. I wish I could thank him.’

‘Well, if I know anything, it’s that a man does not spend that much on champagne for someone and then disappear. He’ll be wanting something.’ Soraya waves her champagne glass in the air as if she is giving me a lecture.

‘And if I know anything, it’s that free champagne tastes even nicer than when you pay for it yourself,’ laughs Carol, taking a sip.

As we sit back, I can’t help feeling a glimmer of hope that Elias will be in touch. I also feel slightly smug that, for once, it is I who has brought something glamorous to the table and not Soraya. I may not have met the miraculous director who can turn my unwritten book into a movie, but I have met the Mysterious Mancunian of Monaco who has treated us to the finest champagne, something I never thought he could have afforded, if I am honest. Although, the terrible thought occurs to me that he could have put it on his expense card and Lady Jane and her husband will have to pick up the tab. If that is the case, then I would be horrified.

‘Actually, sorry to say this, but do you think Elias could be some fraudster who is trying to woo us all?’ says Soraya.

‘Well, I wasn’t expecting that one,’ says Carol.

‘Do you think?’ I ask.

‘No, it’s silly. It’s just this champagne is so expensive. I mean, it’s a lot to pay for something with no motive. No, I’m being silly and paranoid. He’s a lovely guy. Forget I said that,’ says Soraya.

What is his motive? As my mind goes into overdrive, I regret not having my handy notebook with me. So many ideas are running through my head for the book, although most of them would involve some sort of crime. I am so confused that I am glad when our conversation changes course, and the three of us laugh about some of the adventures we have had over the years.

‘Remember when Soraya’s waters broke in the middle of the C&A closing-down sale,’ says Carol.

‘Meanwhile, people were nearly trampling over us to get to the bargain underwear. Then you nearly slipped in the amniotic fluid, and I had to rush and get help. We were a right bunch,’ I say.

‘We’ve been through everything together, us three. Births, deaths, marriages and divorce,’ says Carol.

‘That’s what makes us the Three Musketeers. Nothing will ever come between us. Through thick and thin, we are besties forever,’ says Soraya.

We raise our end-of-the-night cocktails and make a toast.

‘Through thick and thin.’

‘I was thinking I’d use this photo for the last pic in the album. What do you reckon?’ says Soraya, holding her phone up for us to see.

We all agree that tonight’s photo with our champagne glasses and the view of Nice will be the perfect one to end on.

‘Next thing, it’ll be your sixtieth,’ says Carol.

‘Oh, don’t. Time doesn’t stand still for any woman, does it.’

I think about our next milestone birthdays. What will we be doing? Will we all go away and celebrate together, or will Carol have met someone who will whisk her away from us by the time I turn sixty? Maybe I will be even more of a penniless wannabe author than I am now and have given up on my dream. If Michael hadn’t strayed, I wonder how different things would have been. The divorce was the hardest thing I have ever been through in my life. Harder even than my parents dying in a way, because I lost everything . I lost the little family unit that I thought we were. I lost my home. I lost the life I thought I had and the future I had imagined. I grieved for all those things we would never get to do. Michael and I would now never be one of those couples celebrating a ruby wedding anniversary with our grandchildren around us. Everything had changed forever. But, sat here in Monaco, I recognise that change isn’t always a bad thing. I’d much prefer to be on my own than stay with a philanderer. I have far too much self-respect to ever stay with someone like that. Because of his choices, I can now live my life as I want to. It is my time, and Monaco is a pretty wonderful place to start living my best life and fulfil my dream career. Finally, I am excited about what the future has in store instead of being fearful.

The waitress interrupts my thoughts when she asks if we want more drinks. Since we have to get back to Monaco, we decide to have the last nightcap at home again, like last night.

We are heading back in the direction of the apartment, and dozing in the taxi, when Soraya reads a message that Andrew has just sent.

‘Oh, girls. I know who sent the champers.’

I thought we already knew who had sent the champers. We have all worked out that it was my handsome yacht skipper. But then my heart skips a beat as I register what Soraya is saying.

‘Aww, that’s so sweet. It was a present from Gianni. He gave Andrew the restaurant recommendation, you see, so Gianni arranged the champagne.’

I cringe to myself as I sit in the back of the taxi, feeling like such a fool. Why on earth would a skipper on a yacht that I have just met be sending us a bottle of the most expensive champagne in the middle of an upmarket restaurant? I must have been completely deluded to even consider it. Although, on a positive note, this means that at least Elias isn’t trying to swindle us by luring us into investing in some kind of cryptocurrency scam, or some lie about needing to borrow money for a spurious operation in the States.

But, still, I feel incredibly disappointed, having built up all sorts of scenarios in my head. I desperately try to smile and hide my chagrined face from my best friends. I am grateful that the back of the taxi is so dark.