Chapter 8
Maxine woke in darkness, fully clothed, her skin cold.
Someone was banging loudly on the door.
She reached for her phone – it was past eleven. Her heart thudded. She flicked on the light and listened.
The persistent knocking continued downstairs. Maxine slid from the bed and her bare feet pattered on the wooden staircase. Fear became inquisitiveness: who could it be? It was late at night and she knew nobody. She paused behind the door and was glad she’d bolted it. She took a deep breath.
In her boldest tone she asked, ‘Qui est là?’
‘Fliss?’ A male voice came from outside. ‘Fliss, ma poule… j’ai besoin d’un verre.’
So someone wanted Fliss. And he needed a drink. And it was almost midnight. Maxine felt she ought to put him straight.
‘Ce n’est pas Fliss. Je loue la maison.’
‘Ah, English?’ The man sounded amused. ‘You are not Fliss and you’re renting the house. Your French is good. But can you let me in anyway?’
‘No,’ Maxine said. ‘I don’t know you.’
‘I am…’ He said a name that might have been Jeff or Joff, Maxine wasn’t sure. ‘Now you know me, please let me in.’
‘No,’ Maxine said firmly. ‘Go home.’
The anonymous voice said, ‘But I cannot – I live in Chapellin. I can’t drive there.’
‘Why?’ Maxine asked and was greeted with a deep groan. She heard a bump and wondered if the man had fallen over. She listened again but there was no noise. Tentatively she opened the door and switched on the security light.
A man was standing in the spotlight, doing up the fly buttons on his jeans. He shrugged. ‘I needed to go… but the plants will not mind.’
‘You might have killed them,’ Maxine said dryly.
‘It’s pure wine,’ the man said by way of excuse. ‘Please – can I come in?’
‘No,’ Maxine said again.
‘Fliss lets me stay…’
‘I’m not Fliss.’
‘I can see that.’
Maxine placed her hands on her hips and looked at the man. He was roughly her age, with slate-dark curly hair, expressive eyes, a leather jacket, and he was definitely the worse for wear.
He took a deep breath and leaned against the door jamb. ‘Fliss is my friend. I own the canoeing in Chapellin, and some nights I come to Plouvannec for a meal and to drink. Fliss lets me sleep it off here and I go home tomorrow.’
‘Where do you sleep?’ Maxine was unimpressed.
‘On the sofa.’ The man gave a short laugh. ‘She doesn’t let me sleep in the spare room. She says I smell of too much wine, but we take a drink together, then I fall asleep on the couch.’
‘And you think I should do the same?’
‘I have nowhere to go,’ the man said simply.
‘Don’t you have friends in Plouvannec?’
‘Of course.’ He looked offended. ‘But they have wives and families. They’re all asleep. Fliss is kind to me.’
‘Fliss is in England.’
‘Oh, I remember now…’ The man put a hand to his head as if it hurt to think. ‘She has sold her house there.’
‘Well…’ Maxine wondered how she was going to deal with the man; he didn’t seem in a hurry to leave. ‘How much wine have you had to drink?’
‘One bottle – two. Who’s counting?’ The man shrugged again. ‘You’re from Alcoholics Anonymous?’
Maxine almost smiled. ‘Where’s your car?’
‘I have a motorbike.’ The man waved behind him, staggering a little. ‘I leave it in your drive before I drink. I didn’t notice the little car.’ The man hugged himself. ‘I’m freezing to death. Alcohol lowers body temperature.’ He met her eyes mischievously. ‘If I die, you have murdered me.’
‘What did you say your name was?’
‘Jean-Francois Kastell.’ The man took a step forward as if she’d invited him in. ‘My friends call me J-F.’ He pronounced it zhee-eff. No wonder she’d thought he was called Jeff.
Maxine had no idea what to do. She could offer him the couch for the night, but he could be a liar, a thief. He could be a serial killer. Recently, she’d become mistrustful of all men.
She narrowed her eyes and tried to ignore the cold air that made her skin prickle. ‘We’ll talk here, by the door, while I message Fliss.’
‘She’ll tell you I’m her friend. You can trust me.’ J-F looked pleased with himself. ‘And you are called?’
‘Maxine,’ Maxine said, gazing over his shoulder into the darkness where shadows of shrubbery moved in the breeze. She wasn’t inclined to give him any more information than she had to.
‘Maxine…’ he repeated in a drawling French accent. ‘A beautiful name. It means the greatest of all.’
He was one of those flattering men who was full of rubbish. She was tempted to tell him so in no uncertain terms. She thumbed a quick text to Fliss.
There’s a man here asking to stay on the couch. Jean-Francois Kastell. What should I do?
J-F was watching her. Maxine said, ‘Can’t you stay at a hotel?’
‘There’s nowhere as good as this place – or as cheap.’ He made a face. ‘L’Auberge des Glazicks charges two hundred euros a night.’
‘So why do you drink so much?’
‘Why does any man drink too much?’ He met her direct gaze with soft brown eyes; Maxine assumed it was his puppy-dog look.
‘L’amour. My heart has been broken.’ He grinned, as if it were a joke.
‘And why does a pretty English woman come on holiday alone? Or do you have a man revving up in your bedroom?’
‘No, I do not.’ Maxine was more impressed by his command of English than his comment. She made a disapproving face. ‘Revving up, indeed.’
‘I heard the phrase from Fliss,’ J-F said. He seemed to notice Maxine’s expression. ‘Oh, but we’re not lovers. She wouldn’t put up with me. Besides, she likes rich Parisiens and I’m just a poor Breton.’
‘Right.’ Maxine liked the sound of Fliss. She shivered, hoping Fliss would text soon. The open door was letting in the cold air. She’d give Fliss two minutes to reply, then she resolved to send J-F home, drunk or not. She had no intention of inviting him in.
‘So, tell me about yourself, Maxine.’ J-F leaned forward. She was aware that he was trying to keep her talking, and she longed for the warmth of the cottage. ‘Why are you on holiday alone?’
‘Why not?’ she asked enigmatically.
He gave her a long look. ‘I think you want to forget the past.’
‘I’ve just retired,’ Maxine said simply, to cover the fact that he’d hit the mark. ‘I need a break.’
‘Oh, la retraite… And your husband? Where’s he? In England?’
‘There’s no husband.’ Maxine thought J-F had asked too many questions. Perhaps if she told him what he needed to know, he’d stop. ‘I’ve just broken up with my partner. We weren’t suited.’
‘Oh?’ J-F arched an eyebrow. ‘He was boring in bed?’
‘He wasn’t so boring when he was in bed with my best friend,’ Maxine said bluntly, hoping that would put an end to it.
‘He was a fool,’ J-F said dismissively. ‘So you threw him out.’
‘I don’t love him.’ Maxine wondered why she was telling this to a stranger.
‘I respect you for your strength, your honesty.’ J-F swayed slightly, leaning against the door post for support. ‘You’re a woman of passion. I’m a man of passion…’ He staggered a little. ‘But when I’m sad, I return to my first love, le vin rouge.’
Maxine looked over her shoulder. She was really cold now. Her teeth were chattering. ‘I really think you should go home, J-F. Isn’t there anyone else you can stay with?’
‘I feel safe here.’ He looked at her hopefully.
‘How often do you stay?’
‘Whenever I can.’ J-F gave a short laugh. ‘Once a week, at least. Fliss and her friends sometimes visit my canoeing place and rent boats. She fell in the river once…’ He laughed again.
‘She sounds great.’ Maxine remembered her message and checked her phone. Fliss had replied.
J-F is all right. One of the nice guys. Let him stay on the sofa. He’s fascinating and wildly attractive. And cheeky. But don’t put up with his bullshit, darling.
‘All right.’ Maxine sighed deeply. She said, ‘Fliss says I can trust you, so you can come in and have a black coffee. Then I’ll get you some bedding and you can sleep on the couch.’
J-F didn’t need asking twice. ‘I could kiss you.’
‘You will not,’ Maxine said emphatically.
He walked inside the cottage, taking off his jacket, sitting on the sofa, stretching his legs. He’d clearly done this many times before. Maxine noticed he was well muscled; it must be all the canoeing.
She said, almost sarcastically, ‘Do make yourself comfortable.’
‘Thank you. You’re very kind.’
‘I’ll make your coffee.’
J-F looked like the cat with the cream. ‘Just one sugar, please – I don’t want to get fat.’
Maxine left him where he was and busied herself in the kitchen, wondering why she hadn’t insisted he go somewhere else. He must have other friends who’d accommodate him. But she was tired, it was late and she didn’t feel like entertaining. Or arguing.
It occurred to her that she wasn’t being very welcoming: Russell’s bad behaviour had done that to her. His cheating ways had left her cautious. Cynical, even.
She made J-F’s coffee extra strong, extra hot, made herself a peppermint tea and carried the drinks back to the lounge, where J-F looked at home on the couch, a cushion behind his head, feet up.
She met his eyes, her expression firm. ‘Tomorrow morning you’ll have to leave first thing. I’m on holiday. I have things to do.’
‘I can bring you breakfast in bed.’ J-F’s eyes twinkled.
‘Absolutely not,’ Maxine said. ‘You can sober up and be on your way.’
‘You’re a cruel woman,’ J-F grinned. He drank the contents of his cup in three gulps. ‘But thank you for letting me crash out here…’ He made a face. ‘I learned the words from Fliss.’
‘Perhaps she should teach you the word for being sober,’ Maxine said without thinking. She saw J-F flinch and realised she’d hurt his feelings. She felt immediately sorry. There was a sadness behind the gleam in his eyes.
‘Fliss is far too nice to say such things.’ J-F stood up, ready to take his cup to the kitchen to wash.
‘Besides, she can drink like a fish too. I’ve never seen anyone like it – she can drink me beneath the table.
’ He took Maxine’s half-filled cup. ‘I’ll wash these.
Then I’ll sleep. Thank you for letting me stay.
’ He was suddenly formal. ‘I wish you goodnight. Faites de beaux rêves.’
‘There’s a spare duvet upstairs. I’ll get it for you. Then I’ll say goodnight.’ Maxine watched him walk unsteadily towards the kitchen. She was thoughtful for a moment, then a new tiredness seemed to seep into her bones. It was time for bed. She’d deal with J-F tomorrow.
Maxine slept like a log. Whether it was the fresh sea air or the Sauvignon Blanc, or simply because she’d forgotten about London and work and especially Russell, it was the best night’s sleep she’d had in a long time.
She woke refreshed, energised, ready for a walk on the beach and most definitely ready for breakfast. She stretched her limbs like a happy cat and made a loud contented noise.
Then she remembered J-F.
She’d get rid of him first and shower later. She pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt, and padded downstairs in bare feet.
The couch was empty, the throw folded. In the kitchen, two mugs had been washed and dried. J-F had disappeared but there was a note, in large handwriting, written on the back of an envelope.
Merci – à charge de revanche.
J-F
Maxine’s French was good, but other than the thanks, she had no idea what the note meant. She grabbed her phone to look up the phrase. It was a colloquial expression: I owe you one.
She understood. He’d left early – it wasn’t yet nine – and promised to repay her kindness.
She imagined herself in a life jacket, in one of his canoes, paddling down the river past weeping willow trees.
Then she pulled herself together and reined in her imagination.
He’d left a note. He hadn’t even waited until she’d got up to say it himself.
He could have stayed for a chat, even taken her for breakfast.
Maxine wondered if she needed company more than she’d realised.
After a shower, Maxine took herself off to the beach for a walk.
The tide was out, and the sand was zigzagged with footprints.
Someone had even been riding a bicycle or some sort of wheeled boat in a straight line.
The beach extended towards Plouvannec, just an expanse of sand and the silver shimmer on surface water from the early summer sun.
There was no one around, except for an older man wearing sunglasses, jogging in shorts and a T-shirt.
He was extremely handsome, Maxine thought – definitely a nine out of ten. Maybe even a ten.
She shook her head and wondered what on earth was happening to her. She’d come on holiday and now she was suddenly sex mad. She laughed at the thought.
Turning round and heading back for the cottage, she decided that a trip into Plouvannec to buy some croissants and a baguette was just what she needed. After all, she was in France – buttery pastries were the answer to everything.