Chapter 14
A mug of hot coffee between her palms, Maxine peered at the map of the peninsula on her laptop.
Not far from Plouvannec was a small cove called Luzéoc with a sandy beach leading to the coast up to Pointe de Luzéoc, at the top of the cliffs.
It looked stunning, and she definitely needed to blow away the cobwebs.
Her phone was full of messages. Gráinne had sent a selfie with Dylan and Cian, looking deliriously happy. Two other friends from The Hopeful Group had invited her to a party at the weekend, saying that they were looking forward to a good catch-up – they clearly didn’t know she was in Brittany.
And there was a text from Jo, a brief apology.
Can we meet for a chat when you’re back? I feel so bad. x
Maxine replied to them all, dealing with Jo last, briefly saying yes, of course they could meet. She wished her the best.
A quick glance through the kitchen window told her that the sky was overcast; she grabbed a light jacket, packed a water bottle and a snack and made her way to the car.
It was an easy drive to Luzéoc, where she found a tiny beach, with two houses set back from the road at the top of the hill.
She drove down and parked the car. There was no one around except for a solitary black cat with white paws taking himself off for a walk.
She shrugged on her backpack and locked the car.
As she walked along the beach, her feet soon found a rhythm.
Despite the morning swim and the tumble – she shuddered to remember how she’d sprawled at the jogger’s feet – her legs felt stronger now.
She felt stronger. To the right, the grey sea stretched to a silver sky, the colour of iron meeting the soft shades of a pigeon’s feathers.
The sun was trying to filter through thick clouds; it might be sunny later.
Maxine began to climb the stony path towards the cliff top.
There were wild flowers and bright gorse, and the steep rise felt as if she were clambering towards the clouds.
The wind was stronger here, and she had to work hard to move up the steep incline.
The path levelled out near the cliff top, which was a sheer drop, the beach below curving in a gentle arc of gold-dust sand.
The scenery filled her with a sense of calm.
Immediately, images and memories started to flood in.
She remembered her family with fondness; her mother, especially, had encouraged her to go to university, to ‘make something of herself’.
She had died a year ago. She’d been an inspiration, with a sharp tongue and keen wit.
She’d rarely been wrong about anything. She’d met Russell once and said, ‘He thinks he’s Lord Muck, that one. ’
Yes, Maxine’s mother had always talked sense. She’d adored Andy. She’d said he was Mr Right the day she’d met him. Maxine knew what her mother would say now.
‘You have to turn over a new leaf.’
Maggie Sweet had had all sorts of old sayings.
Each day, she’d felt ‘happy as Larry’. Maxine had no idea who Larry was.
Mrs Postlethwaite across the road was a ‘curtain twitcher’.
And young Christine Temple from number fifty-one was always ‘dressed to the nines’ and ‘no better than she should be’.
Maxine had never understood that one either.
‘The change’ was one of her favourite euphemisms, meaning the menopause.
Maxine’s mum would put on a shocked face and say, ‘Poor woman – she’s going through the change, you know.
’ Maxine had always thought her mother was treating something perfectly natural as an inevitable disaster that would make women’s lives unbearable, but now she thought about it, some changes were really hard to manage.
The next stage meant letting go of the old one and taking up new opportunities.
Like retirement. And leaving Russell.
It was about embracing what a new life had to offer. And enjoying it.
She could do that.
Maxine looked up at the sky; a dark cloud had crossed the path and she shivered. The path dropped steeply away to the beach again, so she followed it, quickening her pace. It was getting cold now and she felt hungry. But her mind was clear. She had got her mojo back. She knew she’d be all right.
It was almost six o’clock when she arrived back at Clotilde’s Cottage, ravenous.
She’d eaten little since breakfast. There were plenty of vegetables in stock, eggs, rice; it would be easy enough to cook something, have a quiet night in with a glass of wine.
But tonight, she felt like being among people.
Not the jogger, of course. Just people, even if on different tables in the same restaurant.
In a flash she remembered that Le Shack was highly recommended and an hour later, wearing a dress and a warm wrap, she arrived at the restaurant on the beach front and waited to be seated.
The tables were under light canopies, like pergolas, and a few guests were already eating.
Maxine recognised the young woman from the boulangerie and presumably her little girl, sitting with the man who taught yoga on the beach.
They were talking to a tall man who stood at the table wearing chef’s whites.
He had long hair pulled back in an elastic band, and was animatedly waving his hands, as if telling a story.
The chef looked up, noticed Maxine and pointed to a table with a quick, ‘Asseyez-vous, madame. Dans un instant…’
Maxine sat down, looking out at the sea.
The sun was sinking now, but the sky was still bright and the air warm as a hug.
She glanced around for a menu, but there was nothing on the table except for pots of coarse salt and black pepper.
She leaned on her elbows and wondered what to eat.
The savoury aroma of cooking hung on the air.
The sea was whispering, a low breath on the wind.
Maxine closed her eyes and the sensation of calm wrapped its arms around her.
The chef came over to her table and asked her in French if she would like a glass of wine. She said she would, and that something smelled delicious. Again she felt proud of herself for making herself understood.
The man gave a slight bow as he introduced himself. He was the owner, Joel, and his partner was English but she was still in England. He’d been there himself until three weeks ago, but he’d come back to France to open the restaurant for the summer. Shirl would be joining him soon.
Maxine understood every word. She asked him what was on the menu.
‘I can offer you poulet à la bretonne, or cotriade, which is a fish stew, served with crusty bread. Or if you are vegetarian, I can make something special.’
‘Thanks. I’ll have the fish stew,’ Maxine said carefully.
‘And afterwards, you can choose from kouign-amann, which is a butter cake, or crème br?lée,’ Joel said. ‘And since you’re having the fish, shall I bring you a glass of Pinot gris?’
‘Merci – ce serait merveilleux.’ Maxine watched as Joel scurried back to the kitchen. This was just what she’d wanted, to feel independent in Brittany, mixing with the locals, speaking French.
A voice at her elbow said, ‘Salut – puis-je te rejoindre? La robe te va très bien.’
Maxine looked up into shining eyes and said, ‘Hi, J-F. Thank you… yes, please do join me.’ It was good to see him.
A young waiter arrived with a glass of Pinot, placing it in front of Maxine.
J-F reached for it, took a sip, and said, ‘Apportez-moi une bouteille de ca, Rémy. Et j’aurai tout ce qu’elle mange. ’
The waiter nodded and rushed back to the kitchen. He couldn’t have been older than twenty.
Maxine met J-F’s eyes. ‘So you approve of the Pinot gris, then? Enough to have ordered a whole bottle? And since I’m having the fish stew, you just ordered the same as me.’
J-F was impressed. ‘You understood?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘I’ll have to be careful what I say.’
‘You will.’
He leaned forward. ‘So – here you are, lonely again.’
‘I’m not lonely,’ Maxine said simply. ‘I’m by myself. That’s not the same thing.’
‘It’s good to share dinner,’ J-F said. ‘I hate to eat alone. It makes food taste bitter. I enjoy it much more with… une belle amie.’
‘And do you have a lot of pretty girlfriends to share dinner with?’ Maxine asked. There was more flirtatiousness in her voice than she would have liked.
‘No, just you – and Fliss sometimes. Her friend, Shirl, and Joel run this place together, so we eat here from time to time. Shirl’s parents were from the Caribbean but she’s from England. She’s very sympa.’
‘Oh?’ Maxine waited for J-F to tell her more, but Rémy, the young waiter, was back with a bottle of wine. J-F spoke to him in French, Rémy laughed and was gone.
J-F explained. ‘Rémy has a date with a new girlfriend. I asked him if he needed advice.’
Maxine pressed her lips together. ‘Are you the local expert?’
‘No,’ J-F said. ‘I am an old man. Nobody will love me now.’
‘Do you really think that?’ Maxine asked.
‘Who knows?’ J-F gave a short laugh. ‘We must all get older. It’s a good thing. It means we’re alive.’
‘Ageing’s easier for men.’ Maxine met his eyes. ‘A sixty-year-old man is still attractive. A sixty-year-old woman is only attractive to older men.’
‘That’s not true.’ J-F raised an ey6ebrow. ‘Look at Brigitte Macron. She’s over seventy and her husband’s in his forties. She’s a beautiful woman, très chic. And he became the president of France.’
‘That’s not the norm though,’ Maxine countered, drinking a mouthful of wine. She was hungry and knew it would go straight to her head. She took a smaller sip.
‘Maybe not – but you don’t need to worry,’ J-F said. ‘You’re very beautiful.’
Maxine said, ‘Are all French men full of shit?’ She covered her mouth – she hadn’t meant to be so forthright.
J-F lifted his glass, smiling. ‘French women accept a compliment from a man as a gift. English women think a man says nice things so that he can get them into bed.’ He took a large swig. ‘That’s a phrase Fliss taught me. To get someone into bed means to want to—’
‘I know.’ Maxine stopped him. ‘Why are we talking about sex?’
‘You think that’s all French men think of? That’s a stereotype,’ J-F raised an eyebrow. ‘Like the stereotype that all English women pretend not to be interested, then when the lights go out at bedtime, they are at it like rabbits. That’s another one of—’
‘Fliss’s expressions.’ Maxine couldn’t wait to meet her. Rémy arrived with two steaming bowls of stew and crusty French bread, and she was relieved to talk about the food instead. The wine was making her dizzy.
The fish dish was delicious – apparently Joel added butter to everything and often won competitions for his cooking.
Maxine had to admit that his food was exceptional.
The conversation sparkled too. J-F talked about his childhood, how much it had broken his heart when his father had left his mother, and how he’d sought refuge in Devon, enjoying canoeing and learning how to teach others.
He encouraged Maxine to talk about her family in Manchester, her time as a student in London.
After they ate quietly for a while, J-F reached over the table and pressed her hand. ‘I’m sure you had many lovers, when you first came to London.’
‘I did not.’ Maxine was offended. ‘Why would you say that?’
‘A beautiful young girl in a big city?’ J-F frowned. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude. Just that – you were young and alive…’
‘I had one boyfriend.’ Maxine didn’t want to say more.
‘And he was special?’ J-F’S eyes glowed. It was dark now. The sea’s murmur seemed closer somehow.
Maxine reached for her glass. ‘Very.’
‘And it ended badly?’
‘For us both.’ Maxine finished her wine and J-F filled up her glass. Instinctively, he seemed to realise that she didn’t want to talk about Andy. He raised a hand and Rémy was at the table. ‘Encore une bouteille, s’il te pla?t, Rémy. Et pour le dessert—’
‘Can we try the Breton butter cake?’ Maxine asked. ‘And I don’t want any more wine…’
‘We can drink slowly with the dessert. Kouign-amann. Merci, Rémy.’ J-F turned his attention back to Maxine. ‘Thank you for sharing dinner with me. I don’t want it to end.’
Maxine didn’t want dinner to end either.
She had drunk too much and the conversation had been good.
She felt that she and J-F had some sort of connection.
He made her smile. He was spontaneous and funny, yet there was something lonely about him too.
Instinctively, she liked him: he could become a friend.
She felt warm, fuzzy, relaxed. It was good to be on holiday, eating beneath the stars, so she said, ‘When we’ve eaten dessert, why don’t you come back to the cottage? I’ve got a bottle of brandy.’
‘I’d like that very much,’ J-F agreed eagerly. ‘Or as Fliss would say, yes, I’ll bite off your hand…’