Chapter 13
The next day was Monday. The rain came down in stair rods and Maxine stayed in the cottage, reading and staring through the window at the long rivulets that twizzled down the glass pane.
In the evening, she curled on the sofa and started a second book.
It was still drizzling at nine o’clock, so she took a cup of tea up to the bedroom and had an early night.
Tuesday was no better. The skies were tinfoil grey.
Maxine ventured out in the car for some shopping at the supermarket in Chapellin and came back with lots of vegetables and a bottle of brandy.
She’d be ready if Béa – or J-F – turned up unexpectedly.
But the day stretched into the evening and no one came.
The cottage had started to feel a little chilly and she wondered if she shouldn’t make a small fire in the hearth.
That night, it was hard to sleep. The rain pounded on the roof as a storm rolled in, thunder rumbling nearby, flashes of light illuminating the room and then leaving it in pitch darkness.
Maxine reached for her phone – it was past three – and checked her messages.
There were several: Terry said all was well at the flat and he hoped she was having a good holiday. He’d heard nothing from Jo.
Gráinne had finally seduced Dylan and was completely loved up. Both he and his little boy Cian were the centre of her world. But there was nothing from Russell and Maxine hoped he’d given up.
She rolled over, her mind jumbled. She had a little more than three weeks left of her holiday in France.
So far it had been fun, meeting Béa and listening to her crazy marital problems, and she was looking forward to seeing Fliss when she arrived back in France – perhaps she was here already?
And Maxine liked J-F – his warmth and spontaneity were wonderful.
She had to admit, she was looking forward to seeing him again.
Only as friends, of course.
She fell asleep just as dawn was breaking.
When she woke, it was past nine and a blindingly bright sunbeam streamed onto the bed from the crack between the curtains.
She leaped up and whisked them open, blinking.
The beach was bright with sunlight, the ocean glittered.
Impulsively, she decided to go for a swim.
She hadn’t swum in years – probably on holiday two years ago, her first one with Russell – but weren’t there great health benefits to diving into the cold ocean?
The plan was to run down to the water’s edge, have a quick splash about and then get breakfast.
Outside, on the sand in her red swimsuit, her pale hair tied back, Maxine imagined herself as a lifeguard from Baywatch.
But running hard along the beach towards the splashing surf made her realise that she was no Pamela Anderson.
She was tired out, breathing rapidly, and one of her calves had cramped.
She slowed down to a more sedate jog, ran straight into the sea and dived in.
She knew immediately it had been a bad idea.
Her skin prickled as if stabbed by hundreds of icicles and she shrieked with the sudden shock.
Her head was cold, her brain frozen, and for a moment she trod water, listening to her teeth clatter.
She plunged beneath the waves again and began to settle to the temperature, laughing aloud when she surfaced, a high, hysterical sound.
The sudden exhilaration, the power of the sea, was thrilling.
She thrashed hard, determined to enjoy the exercise.
Then she rolled on her back and floated, staring at the shifting clouds overhead.
Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to breathe out slowly. It felt good.
Maxine was buoyed by the waves, bobbing about.
Seconds later, she’d had enough. She was cold and a hot drink suddenly felt like the best thing in the world.
She looked around at the ocean and was surprised how far out she had come.
Swimming vigorously, she struck for land.
It was really hard work and she was tiring fast. Her feet touched the ground and relief flooded through her.
She stood up, the surf whooshing around her ankles, and blinked. She’d certainly never be a Baywatch lifeguard. Her thighs felt like jelly. She staggered around, dazed. A jogger was passing on the beach, a man in a black vest and shorts.
Her head numb with cold, her body freezing, she wobbled towards him, arms out, and her legs gave way. Confused and gibbering, she fell, sprawling on her face with a low groan.
The man stood over her. ‘êtes-vous blessée, madame?’
‘Non – merci.’ Maxine looked up; she wasn’t hurt. The front of her swimsuit was covered in wet, gritty sand. She put a hand to her face and it was smeared with something that felt like cement. She brushed the grains away.
Kneeling awkwardly, she stared at the jogger, the one she’d seen several days ago, the one she’d given a nine or a ten out of ten.
He had a kindness that twinkled in his eyes.
Pale hair over his collar. Tanned, weathered skin.
He was probably a little older than she was.
In a vest and shorts, he looked as if he belonged on the beach.
He offered her a hand and she let him help her up. Sand was glued to her thighs and her hair stuck to her face in clumps. ‘I was swimming…’ She opted to save the situation with her perfect French. ‘Je nageais – je suis un peu fatiguée.’
The man gave her the sunshine smile of a Greek god. Or a French one. ‘You’re English?’
Was her accent so obvious? ‘Oui – yes.’
‘Ah – you’re the English woman who’s renting Clotilde’s Cottage?’
‘That’s right.’ Maxine groaned. This wasn’t the introduction she’d wanted with the handsome stranger. She looked a mess. Worse still, he spoke great English – she had wanted to stun him with her schoolgirl French and here he was, speaking confidently and looking at her quizzically.
‘J’ai besoin d’une douche,’ she said miserably, making one last effort to impress him.
‘You have a shower at the cottage.’ The jogger was still supporting her.
‘Exactly.’
He glanced down at her knee. ‘I think you hurt your leg.’
‘Oh.’ Maxine noticed that the skin on her shin was grazed. ‘It’s nothing.’
They walked back across the sand with him guiding her elbow. She wobbled a little bit and he held her firmly. Maxine tried to make conversation, to show she had a magnetic personality – any personality. ‘I’ve interrupted your morning run…’
‘It’s no problem,’ the man said. ‘I run every day. And do you swim every day?’
‘I’m from London – there’s no sea there.’ Maxine was horrified – she sounded silly. Of course there was no sea in London. She tried again. ‘This is a beautiful part of the world.’
‘It is. I’m retired here.’ His smile was enchanting. ‘Some years ago, I worked in Paris.’
‘Do you like being retired?’ Maxine blurted.
‘Of course. It’s the most wonderful thing to own your own time.’
‘It is,’ Maxine agreed. ‘I’ve just retired too.’
‘Is that why you’re in Plouvannec?’
‘Oh, yes – I’ll be around for the whole month.’ Maxine sounded too hopeful.
‘I hope you’ll enjoy it.’
‘So do I,’ Maxine blurted. ‘Do you live with your family?’
‘With my younger brother. He’s a dentist in Paris but he’s semi-retired.’
Maxine didn’t want the jogger to go, not yet. She took a breath. ‘Are there lots of interesting things to do?’
‘The beach, the sea, lovely walks.’ The man paused. ‘I’ve seen you walking on the cliffs.’
‘I love being outdoors. Swimming, rambling, jogging… I do all the healthy things.’ She was overselling herself.
They had reached the gate of the cottage. He gave her another questioning look as they walked towards the front door. ‘You’ve come to Brittany alone?’
‘Oh yes, I’m very independent.’ She met his eyes. She’d have swished her hair but it was full of clumps.
‘Well, I hope you have a nice time. I recommend the restaurant close by – Le Shack.’ He smiled and Maxine wondered if he’d invite her there. But instead he said, ‘So – are you all right now?’
‘Oh yes, I’m absolutely fine, really.’ Maxine’s voice rose high. ‘But thanks for – picking me up – I mean – escorting me home…’
‘It’s no problem.’ The man’s eyes twinkled.
‘Right, well – it was lovely meeting you – really lovely.’ Maxine was overegging it again.
‘I must go… there’s lots to do,’ she blurted.
She’d left the door unlocked, and it opened easily.
Hurtling forward, she almost lost her balance as she staggered through.
‘Goodbye – thanks – nice to meet you – merci…’
She closed the door behind her firmly and shook her head in disbelief. She imagined he’d be jogging back to the beach, smiling at the silly English woman covered in sand he’d had to help home. He’d probably tell everyone he knew all the gory details.
‘For goodness’ sake – what’s wrong with you?’ she asked herself. Was this who she was now? Sixty-one and single. And embarrassing?
She’d certainly made a mess of meeting Mr Nine-out-of-Ten. Maxine had never been awkward, not even as a teenager. Now she was gibbering like a schoolgirl. What on earth had turned her into this nervous wreck?
Water and blobs of wet sand dripped from her swimsuit onto the tiled floor. Perhaps it was a good thing she hadn’t asked him in. She hadn’t even introduced herself.
‘Right. Stop it!’ Maxine told herself to get a grip. She’d come to Brittany to wind down from her job, to escape Russell. The last thing she wanted was to spend time with a gorgeous French jogger who reduced her to jelly.
What was she doing anyway, behaving like this? Where was the cool professional who’d just retired from The Hopeful Group? The independent woman who dined alone at great restaurants in – what had Ayeesha called them – nang shoes?
Was this what she’d become?
No!
Maxine resolved to start again. If she was going to find out who she was, she’d find someone she wanted to be.
Still shivering, her flesh pimpled like a turkey’s, she hurried up the stairs to the comforting embrace of a scalding shower.
That was the only embrace she needed.