Chapter 11
Maxine opened her eyes to the glorious sunshine streaming like melting honey through the window.
She rushed over in pyjamas and looked out.
On the beach a little cluster of people were practising yoga.
A young man in shorts was leading the activity and several others were joining in, including a woman with a toddler.
She looked very like the one in the boulangerie whom Maxine had assumed was English.
They stood on mats on the sand and were doing the downward dog pose.
Even the little toddler, wearing bright leggings, was joining in, copying the others.
Maxine wished she could be down there, stretching, inhaling the fresh sea air. She thought about being brave and joining them but she didn’t know if outsiders were welcome. For now, breakfast in the garden would be fine.
Outside, the sweetness of early summer flowers hung on the air along with heavy-scented rosemary, sage and new mint.
Maxine sipped her coffee, closed her eyes and let the sunshine filter through her eyelashes.
The brightness made her reach for sunglasses, and she was suddenly aware that someone was banging on the front door.
Béa had arrived, in a pretty floral dress and sandals, puffing hard on a cigarette. She heaved her bag onto her shoulder desperately. ‘Can I come in?’
Maxine looked pointedly at the cigarette and Béa threw it down and crushed it beneath her sandal. Maxine would have preferred her to extinguish it more tidily, but Béa blew out a plume of smoke and said, ‘I need you.’
‘Oh?’ Maxine waved her in. ‘What is it?’ By the look on Béa’s face, something serious had happened.
Béa rolled her eyes. ‘Louis.’
‘What has he done?’
‘He tells me he’s hungry. I tell him that it’s easy to open a packet and use the micro-ondes but then I think, Max – I can call you Max?’ Béa grasped Maxine’s wrist. ‘Maybe today I make him the English roast beef.’
‘Oh?’
Béa’s eyes shone. ‘One time, up at Le Shack, Joel made roast beef for everyone and Louis loved it. So I think to myself, maybe…’ Béa was suddenly excited. ‘Maybe if you help me make this, then he will let me go out. After all, it is rosbif and—’ Béa gave a shrug ‘—you’re English.’
‘I am.’
‘So you must know how to make the rosbif. Alors…’ She indicated the bag. ‘I have brought some beef, some potatoes, some eggs for the funny puddings and some vegetables. You can help me, yes?’
Maxine hadn’t intended to spend the morning in the kitchen. ‘There’s yoga on the beach.’
‘That’s Bastien and his friends – maybe you can go next time. Besides…’ Béa wasn’t interested ‘…Louis will adore me after the dinner and he will be passionate. And maybe you can walk on the cliffs instead – it’s still good for the lungs.’
‘Unlike smoking.’ Maxine couldn’t resist it.
‘I have two bad habits, Max – smoking and Louis. I’m addicted.’ Béa started unloading her shopping. ‘I can cook this here with you and take it home for Louis.’ Béa opened wide eyes. ‘Do you think it will work?’
‘It might.’ Maxine relented – she could go out in the afternoon. And Béa looked so desperate. ‘Right, so – roast beef, Yorkshire puddings, all the trimmings – and gravy.’
‘Wonderful,’ Béa said. ‘And while we cook, you can tell me all about this Russell and I’ll tell you about Louis.
We fight like the cats and the dogs. And then we make up and – ooooh, là là!
’ Béa gripped the hunk of beef too tightly.
‘Right, so – this big boy goes in the oven and we must roast the life out of him, hein?’
‘That’s about it. And then – we peel potatoes and vegetables.’
‘Oh, that’s no problem.’ Béa indicated two pairs of kitchen gloves she’d brought with her. ‘We won’t break a nail.’
Béa was true to her word. For the next four hours, Maxine instructed her how to roast a joint of beef, peel potatoes, steam vegetables and make Yorkshire puddings and gravy.
Béa stood transfixed, watching, saying repeatedly, ‘Thank you, Max – this is very good. Next time, I’ll know how to do this myself. ’
Maxine’s face was hot from the rising steam in the oven as she took out a perfectly roasted joint of beef and checked the sizzling potatoes.
She lifted the lid on the vegetables – they were done – and began to make gravy using the meat juices and the strained liquid.
She checked the Yorkshires, perfectly risen, golden brown.
When she whirled round, Béa was chewing a roast potato on a fork, waving the heat away. ‘Oh, Louis will be so happy.’
Maxine looked around for containers so that Béa could transport her feast home. She had almost finished packing the food, when Béa placed her hands on her hips and said, ‘He might like something for pudding. What do you English make?’
‘Give him ice cream,’ Maxine said quickly. She had no intention of explaining how to make a crumble and custard.
Béa embraced her, still wearing the kitchen gloves, although she had not peeled a single potato. ‘How can I thank you? You saved my marriage,’ she said, full of gratitude.
‘Just enjoy your Sunday roast.’ Maxine straightened, rubbing her aching back. She’d worked hard: as a reward, she reached for a single roast potato and nibbled it. It was crispy, fluffy, perfect.
‘Next week maybe we can cook the thing you English eat in the afternoons? A cream tea with jam and little cakes and lots of butter. Maybe I learn to make that. When Louis eats this, he’ll be crazy for me and then…’
‘Right.’ Maxine didn’t want the gory details. ‘Well, you’d better take this away before it gets cold.’
‘Oh, I’m so happy.’ Bea hugged her again and she seemed genuinely moved. ‘Next time I’ll do something big for you. What would you like?’
‘Just enjoy your lunch.’
‘I will – I will.’ Béa was carrying her shopping bag carefully towards the front door. ‘I’ll drive slowly, but not too slowly. But, oh, the gravy, the delicious potatoes. Maybe Louis will fall in love with you instead.’
‘No,’ Maxine said firmly. ‘I intend to be loved for something more than my Yorkshires.’
‘No, not at all,’ Béa disagreed. ‘A woman should be a goddess in the kitchen, and in the bedroom she should be a pute, and—’
‘Maybe, in your house. In mine, a man does his fair share of the work.’
‘You’re wrong. You need to trap a lover…’ Béa was outside now, staggering beneath the weight of a covered Sunday lunch. ‘Thank you, Max, my friend.’
‘Bye, Béa,’ Maxine called as Béa clambered into her little car. She watched her drive away and realised that she was both hungry and hot. She closed the door and hurried upstairs to the shower.
Beneath the running water, Maxine felt calm.
She imagined herself on an island beneath a waterfall – the coconut scent of shampoo transported her to a beautiful place in the Pacific and she found herself belting out The Beach Boys’ ‘Good Vibrations’.
In a strange way, she’d enjoyed cooking with – for – Béa and listening to her chatter about her marriage.
It made her smile, and she didn’t suppose for one moment that Béa meant a word of it.
Perspective, Maxine decided, was everything – she’d never been in Béa’s position, so deeply in love that she needed to constantly prove her feelings. What would be the point? Equality was everything, surely?
The idea of having to tempt someone with a roast-beef dinner was suddenly hilarious.
She imagined a cartoon Maxine in the kitchen with a cartoon lover, inhaling the aroma of a Sunday roast, cartoon hearts around their heads.
She couldn’t help herself: she launched into a chorus of ‘Stand by Your Man’, exaggerating the Mississippi vowels.
‘Staynd bah yo mayn…’
She stepped out of the streaming water, dripping in a towel, bawling out the chorus again, when she heard someone thumping at the door. She stopped singing mid-line and listened. The knocking stopped and she listened harder.
Someone had come into the cottage – she was sure of it: she hadn’t locked the front door.
She heard a voice shout, ‘Maxine, you are there?’
A man’s voice.
A French man.
And here she was wearing a towel, singing like Tammy Wynette. She called out. ‘Un instant – I won’t be a minute…’
She scampered onto the landing and almost bumped into him at the top of the stairs. He had slate-dark curly hair, medium height, wearing jeans and a leather jacket. He was smiling.
‘J-F,’ Maxine said, stating the obvious.
‘I apologise,’ he said, but he didn’t look at all sorry.
She glared at him. ‘I’ve had a shower.’ Obvious again.
‘I can see that. Your singing is very good.’
‘Do you mind?’
‘Mind?’ He didn’t understand.
‘Please – go downstairs.’ Maxine raised her voice slightly. ‘Make a cup of tea. Wait in the kitchen…’ She was cross. ‘What do you want?’
‘I want to see you. Besides – I smell the delicious food downstairs. But I can’t see anything to eat, so I think to myself, Maxine’s cooked a wonderful lunch and eaten it all by herself.’
‘I gave it away.’
‘Why?’
‘Do French people only ever think of food? And do you always walk into other people’s houses?’ Maxine put her hands on her hips and the towel almost fell off. She hugged it to her body.
‘What else is there?’ J-F’s eyes twinkled. ‘I’ll make a coffee and one of those funny teas that calm you down.’ His smile was infectious. ‘Then I’ll tell you the surprise I have for you.’
Maxine glared even harder. ‘I’ve had enough surprises for one day.’ She hurried past him towards the bedroom and called, ‘Chamomile tea – and a spoonful of honey, please. And if you’re really desperate, there’s some cheese in the fridge.’