Chapter 7
I didn’t even hesitate as I felt the cool waves splash around my hot skin.
Despite the fact I hadn’t been in water since the day of that swim gala, the need to show this guy how wrong he was took over completely.
I dived in and closed my eyes, enjoying the shock of the cold, my body remembering the water like I’d never turned my back on it.
How dare he speak to me like that. I swam out into the ocean with strong, sure strokes.
Then I stopped, started treading water and looked back towards the beach.
I could see Mum, Dad, Rue and Wren laughing about something.
Then I glanced at the surf hut and there he was, just standing there, watching me from the sand.
Who was he calling Princess? I swam along the beach, back and forth, careful not to go out too far.
I did length after length along the same stretch, clearing my head, the anger diluting with every stroke.
When I finished, my muscles were aching in a familiar way. I emerged from the water and squeezed the salt water from my hair. I glanced up and saw the guy still watching me. I turned away, picked up my dress and sandals, and walked towards Mum and Dad.
‘Looking good out there, Margot,’ Dad said.
‘Yeah, thanks.’ I sat down on a towel on the sand beside Rue and Wren. I wasn’t going to say it out loud, but I felt amazing.
‘What’s this about surf lessons?’ Mum asked.
‘Yeah, they do lessons here. That guy is going to teach the girls.’
‘Oh yeah? I think that’s a great idea,’ she said, looking at Dad, who was looking out to the sea.
‘You’ll be with the girls, Margot?’ he asked.
‘I’ll be with them.’ I rolled my eyes. Like obviously, I wasn’t going to send them off alone with some asshole, even if it did look like he was amazing with kids.
‘You don’t want lessons too?’ Dad asked. I could tell by the softness of his tone that he was treading carefully.
‘Nope,’ I said simply.
Dad gave me his credit card, and I went via the camp reception on the way home. He’d offered to do it himself, but the swim had lightened my mood. When I got there, two blonde girls were laughing with each other in Eurocamp uniforms.
‘Hello.’ One of the girls gave me a huge grin when she saw me.
‘Hi. Can I book surf lessons, please? With Antoine.’
‘Of course,’ she said, smiling, and the other one flicked something up on the computer. ‘What is your name?’
‘Well, actually, it’s for my sisters. Rue and Wren Ryan. They’re eight and nine.’
‘Ah, OK. Antoine has space in his ten o’clock class – would you like this? One hour, Monday to Friday? You need to be there thirty minutes before each lesson.’
‘Perfect.’ I grinned, still buzzing from the water.
The second blonde girl typed something in the computer, took Dad’s credit card details and I walked towards the door.
I headed back to the mobile home, found the key that Dad had badly hidden under a cup on the table and went inside. Dad had said they’d be right behind me, but I guess they were still at the beach.
A flash of disappointment consumed me, like I missed them or something. So I grabbed some Euros from the counter and went for a walk, and the feeling disappeared. Soon, I found myself at the miniature supermarket.
I hadn’t been in a French supermarket for nine years, but as soon as I walked through the doors, it all came flooding back. The smells. The fish, the cheese, the sweet fruit that tasted so much better than it did back home. I picked up a paper bag and filled it with some peaches.
‘You should smell them first,’ said a voice behind me.
I spun round, and there he was. Felix from the Brasserie.
‘Smell them?’ I asked with a smile.
‘Les pêches.’ He reached into my paper bag and took out one of my peaches, bringing it to his nose and inhaling deeply.
‘The ones that are ready have the best smell.’ He put it back in my bag.
‘Thanks, that’s good to know.’
We ambled around the shop as I picked up pieces of fruit, smelling them just like he’d shown me. And now that he had, I noticed loads of people doing the same thing.
‘You were at the beach? It was busy?’ Felix asked, as he eyed my wet hair.
‘Very busy. I signed my sisters up to do surf lessons tomorrow.’ I picked up an orange and held it to my nose, breathing in the sweetest citrussy smell. I got another bag and put the orange in. ‘Do you surf?’ I asked when he hadn’t said anything.
He just shook his head as he picked up another orange, examining it as if it was taking all of his concentration and he couldn’t spare any for our conversation. The way he looked, lost in thought about an orange, made me smile.
And then he was back. ‘How old are your sisters?’ he asked, putting his orange into my bag. ‘It is a good one,’ he added, nodding at the fruit.
‘Eight and nine.’ I shook my head with a smile.
‘It is nice to have sisters, no?’ We’d found ourselves standing beside the bakery section. I walked over to the glass counter and looked in at all the perfect little desserts.
‘Sometimes. Do you have any?’ I hoped he’d look up at me with those brown eyes.
‘No,’ he said simply. ‘My favourite is le mille-feuille.’ He pointed at a rectangular iced pastry through the glass.
‘It looks really good.’ I salivated.
‘Deux mille-feuilles, s’il vous plait,’ Felix said to the woman behind the counter. She put them in a little brown bag for him and we walked again, moving out of the way for other shoppers in the little aisles.
‘Do you surf?’ I asked again, because I don’t know, this image of us at the beach together just flashed in my head.
‘I do not go to the beach. But you are hungry?’ he said with a smile that made me immediately forget to ask why the beach was off limits.
‘Starving,’ I said.
‘You will come to the Brasserie? I will make you whatever you like.’ His smile was so inviting that it was impossible to say no.
‘Sure,’ I said.
We paid and walked back the way I’d come. When we got to the bar, Felix pulled out a chair for me and handed me a menu.
I stared at it. ‘What should I have?’ I asked.
‘Do you like seafood?’ His eyes sparkled when he looked at me and I had to catch my breath.
‘I do.’
‘Moules frites,’ he said with certainty.
‘Bien s?r,’ I said, promising myself that I’d at least try to say something other than merci and bien s?r while I was here.
He disappeared into the kitchen and came out fifteen minutes later holding a steaming bowl of mussels and a plate of chips. He carried them to a table in the corner and I followed him.
‘The orange.’ He pointed to one of the brown bags I’d set on the table. ‘You should eat it for breakfast tomorrow, with some coffee. But no milk.’ He sat down opposite me. ‘The contrast. It will make both taste better.’
‘Oh my God, like Cécile!’ From Bonjour Tristesse. That’s what she eats. We’d read the Francoise Sagan book this year in class. I was delighted with myself, remembering something from a class I’d barely paid attention in for a year.
He looked pleasantly surprised at my outburst. ‘J’avais dix-sept ans et j’étais parfaitement heureuse.’
‘I was seventeen and perfectly happy!’ I grinned – at least I remembered the first line. ‘You’ve read it?’
‘Many times. Cécile et sa voyage découverte de soi.’
I cocked my head in confusion.
‘Cécile and her journey of self-discovery,’ he translated.
‘Self-discovery. That’s relatable,’ I said with a laugh.
‘What do you mean?’ Felix immediately looked interested.
‘I don’t know. I think I’ve kind of forgotten who I am. Maybe, I don’t know …’ I shook my head, suddenly embarrassed.
‘And where is better than the French coast to discover yourself again?’ He smiled, with no judgement, sincere.
Then something in me relaxed. Something I didn’t even realize was so tightly wound, that loosening it meant everything inside me felt … lighter.
‘How long have you worked here?’ I asked. His leg brushed against mine under the table, but he didn’t move it out of the way, so I just let my knee rest against his, feeling the warmth of his skin against mine.
‘Not long. Last summer, this summer. Before that, I worked at the market, but now I only help my mother sometimes,’ he said.
‘What does she do?’ I asked, interested in a life so different to mine.
I chose a mussel and pulled opened the shell.
‘She makes, how do you say, du savon?’ His brow was creased in concentration.
‘Soap! I know that one.’ I smirked, and he laughed.
‘Of course. She sells soap and I help at the market in Saint-Jean-de-Luz. It must sound very boring to you.’ He looked down at the plate and put a chip in his mouth.
I nudged his leg under the table, and he looked up at me.
‘It’s not boring at all. It’s so different to Belfast. I mean, the sun for a start. We spend so much time inside because it’s so cold.’
He laughed at that. ‘The sun is nice.’
My gaze landed on his lips as he ate a mussel, balancing the shell on his bottom lip and pulling it into his mouth with his teeth. I’d never been jealous of a mussel before.
He picked up a closed shell. ‘Do not eat these ones. The ones that are not open.’ He set it on the table and ate another open one. ‘You are close with your family?’
‘A bit. I don’t know, we used to be closer. But now my parents think I’m a bit of a waste of space.’ I shrugged and selected a mussel, focusing on the salt and garlic that exploded in my mouth.
‘Et mon cul, c’est du poulet?’ Felix said it loudly and I’d no idea what he meant so I just laughed.
‘What?’
‘In English, it translates as “My ass is chicken”? It means, “I don’t believe you”.’ His brown eyes were sparkling again as he beamed at me.
‘That’s hilarious. And they didn’t teach us that expression at school.’
‘Tu l’as étudié?’ he asked, pronouncing each word slowly instead of running them into each other.
‘Oui.’ I replied.
‘Of course, you told me that you read Sagan. We must learn more. I will teach you.’ Felix reached for my hand, with its chipped black nails and still painfully white skin.
‘La main,’ he said.
‘I knew that one.’
He touched each of my fingers, gently. ‘Les doigts.’ Then he turned my hand over and laid it on the table. Then he traced the lines of my palm. ‘Les lignes de la main.’
Then he took my hand again and raised the back of it to his mouth, kissing it gently. His lips warm and soft on my skin. ‘And this? Bisous,’ he said, looking right into my eyes.
‘Bisous,’ I repeated. And it felt different from the other French words I’d been saying.
‘Or sometimes we say “embrasser”.’ He’d lowered his voice to a whisper. And he’d moved closer to me, leaning on his elbows.
‘Embrasser,’ I said, feeling the weight of each syllable melt on my tongue.