Chapter 15
Maxine had absolutely no idea how it had happened. It was completely out of character for her to behave so recklessly. But she had.
Yes, she’d drunk far too much wine. Then she’d staggered back with J-F, almost tripping over someone’s feet at the next table, giggling loudly.
Back at Clotilde’s Cottage, they’d drunk two glasses of cognac, and they’d definitely been flirting.
She remembered sitting on the sofa, their bodies close, telling each other that they’d never fall in love again, that they were both far too wise.
J-F had met her eyes and whispered how wonderful it was to speak to someone he understood, someone who understood him.
‘You have a kind heart, Maxine,’ he’d murmured in her ear, his voice thick as syrup. ‘You’re a strong woman, someone I admire more than I can say.’
‘Really? I mean – isn’t that just—?’ Maxine had almost used the word bullshit. But his eyes had met hers and they had gleamed in a way that she’d found irresistible.
‘A woman like you is more precious than a diamond.’ J-F’s voice had been a breath in her ear. A sigh.
That had been it. She’d been in his arms and they had been exchanging brandy kisses as if there were no tomorrow.
Her fingers had smoothed his hair, his face, grabbed at his clothes, and J-F had been murmuring sweet things in French, leading her to the stairs, kissing her mouth.
Their clothes had suddenly been strewn on the landing like litter; there had been more kissing, a magnetic unwillingness to pull apart, then she had been in his arms on her bed.
She’d closed her eyes and clung to him in the darkness, grasping at every moment as if it were the breath that kept her alive.
They had made love, then Maxine had snuggled in the warmth of J-F’s embrace, her mind confused: was it the drink that had made her act impulsively or had the moment simply felt right? Certainly her judgement had been fuzzy round the edges. Her guard had been down.
She’d allowed one moment of intoxicated affection to lead to another. In his arms, weakened by pent-up emotion and alcohol, Maxine hadn’t held back.
It had been wonderful.
Warmed by his body and soothed by his soft breathing, she closed her eyes and sleep hugged her as if she were a child.
She woke late, the bright sunshine illuminating the pillow next to her. Maxine put a hand to her head and groaned.
What on earth had happened last night?
Then it came back to her like a thunderbolt – she’d spent a pleasant evening with J-F, drunk too much and they’d ended up in bed.
Maxine held the thought; she’d never had casual sex. Many of her friends had, all the time, and Maxine was not one to judge – other people did as they wished, but it hadn’t been for her.
Maxine sat up straight in bed, a little shocked.
She was alone: J-F had gone. For a moment, the thoughtless abandon of it all made her smile – the recklessness and pure joy of falling into bed on a whim with an attractive man she didn’t love was exhilarating.
She’d followed her instincts, and that was fine.
In fact, it had been empowering.
Then a thought came to her and she shivered.
In truth, she knew very little about J-F.
She had simply shared drunken, irresponsible sex, which made her no better than Russell and Jo.
What if J-F had a wife at home, one who was checking the clock anxiously, wondering where he was?
Maxine couldn’t even remember if she’d asked him if he was married – she’d assumed he wasn’t.
He’d told her he’d lost someone, that was all.
She couldn’t recollect if they’d ever spoken about a wife.
The image of the handsome jogger on the beach came to her and for a second Maxine imagined falling into bed with him too. She pushed the thought away.
What was she like?
She’d be chalking up numbers on the bedpost next.
And where was J-F now? She checked the time: it was past ten. Perhaps her new lover was downstairs whipping up omelettes in his boxer shorts. Perhaps he’d gone out for pastries and coffee.
Or perhaps he’d simply gone home. Was that how J-F lived his life, seducing women, disappearing into the shadows at dawn? What was the phrase Maxine’s mother used to say? ‘He’s got what he wanted – and now she’s soiled goods.’
Outdated views, Maxine said to herself as she took off for the shower, with the thought uppermost in her mind that she was sixty-one years old; she’d been a ‘good girl’ all her life, living by a moral code inherited from her parents, but now she could do as she wished.
And if that included making an enjoyable mistake with a handsome French man, then that was fine. She wouldn’t blame herself for it.
That was all J-F was – a mistake. A holiday fling. A moment’s madness, now a vague drunken memory.
Nothing more.
By the time Maxine had showered and dressed, she felt slightly cross with J-F. What kind of man slept with a woman and then left without so much as a goodbye? He should at least have woken her with a kiss, told her he was leaving, made an attempt to be affectionate.
No, Jean-Francois Kastell was a cad. A Casanova.
Wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am.
She didn’t respect that.
Maxine decided to enjoy breakfast in the sunshine. J-F was history. She hurried downstairs.
In the kitchen, she made coffee, humming far too loudly, like a child pretending she didn’t care. Then she saw the note, words scribbled on the back of an envelope, and she picked it up as if it were dog poo, holding it away from her, and examined it. It was a mobile phone number, and the words:
Call me some time?
Your friend,
J-F.
Maxine was still unimpressed. She had no idea what the note meant, but she had a good idea of the subtext – message me again when you’re up for round two. We’re friends with benefits.
Maxine felt a wriggle of irritation. There was no warmth, no declaration of affection, no desperation. Just the expectation of an occasional hook-up when they had time.
The cheek of it! He was bold as brass. That was another one of her mother’s sayings.
No way would she ring him. No way! That was the end of a beautiful friendship, benefits or not. She left the note where it was, wondering why she hadn’t thrown it into the bin, and took her coffee into the sunshine to sit among the flowers.
Later, Maxine walked the length of the beach towards Plouvannec, passing Le Shack, where there was some activity; a van parked outside, light voices. Perhaps Joel was preparing for a party.
She realised with a jolt that diners at Le Shack would have seen her leave with J-F.
It was embarrassing: the English woman who drank too much, who picked up men.
She’d been in Brittany for only a week and she was already developing a reputation.
Even the handsome jogger would hear about it – Maxine imagined him thinking that he’d had a near miss when she’d hurled herself at him.
Maxine decided she needed retail therapy: a little shopping, a coffee, and she’d feel right as rain. She’d had enough of French men.
As she strode towards Plouvannec, she put her sunglasses on and felt better for the anonymity.
A little market had gathered in the square, and she approached a bread stall.
The loaves were rustic – épeautre, complet, pain aux figues, pain de campagne.
She did her best to work out the different types – spelt, wholemeal, with figs, a sort of sourdough.
Maxine asked for a pain au miel et aux flocons d’avoine and felt pleased with herself when she was handed a rustic loaf with honey and flakes of oats on top.
There was a stall that sold local produce and Maxine bought cider, Saint-Paulin cheese and a large slice of Far Breton, a custard flan made with brandy and prunes. She’d eat it all for lunch back at the cottage.
Alone.
She hesitated at a jewellery stall and a small woman in a floral dress offered her a bracelet that she claimed was just right for her.
It was a silver chain, the stones turquoise, the charm a half-moon of silver.
Maxine held it up and the woman said, ‘La vague d’argent. Le bleu des yeaux d’un amoureux.’
Maxine translated. ‘The silver of a wave. The blue of a lover’s eyes.’ She recalled Andy’s deep blue eyes and produced two twenty-euro notes from her bag. ‘Je le prends. Merci.’
‘It will look good,’ the woman replied in heavily accented English and Maxine placed it around her wrist, fastening the clasp carefully.
She’d cheered herself up, rewarded herself. Moved on. Last night was forgotten.
She walked further into Plouvannec with the intention of sitting outside a café at a table for one, but the town was surprisingly busy.
A crowd was congregating outside the church and Maxine paused to watch.
The tall gothic building had a bell tower and an elaborate calvary sculpture that comprised three carved crosses.
The group was huddled together talking; some of them were wearing dark clothes and hats, others were dressed brightly.
The conversation was French mostly, but Maxine could hear a clear English voice above everyone else.
She picked out a slim blonde woman dressed in Paris fashions, a pale tiered dress with a brown belt.
She had a wide-brimmed hat, a brown leather clutch bag and cream-coloured shoes with spiked heels.
She was talking to an imposing man in a black suit who said in steady English, ‘I expect soon that the cadaver will arrive in the conveyance for the entombment. It is a most mournful juncture.’
The woman patted his arm. ‘We’ll miss him, Bérnard.’
Maxine watched the woman take a handkerchief from her clutch bag and dab her eyes beneath sunglasses.
Another man came to join them; he was dark-haired, sombre-suited.
A long black car turned the corner slowly and paused by the church.
Everyone turned to look at the coffin inside, covered in flowers: one wreath spelt the word Papa.
Two tall men in black clothes emerged from the hearse and turned to speak to someone in the crowd.
Maxine examined each face and recognised the young woman from the bakery, her toddler in her arms, talking to an older woman in a yellow floral frock and a straw hat.
The young woman handed the little girl to the woman in yellow, who shifted the child easily on her hip and continued talking.
The men in black attire moved serenely to the hearse to lift out the coffin.
A church bell tolled high in the tower and Maxine shivered. She’d never liked funerals.
A perfectly English voice at her side said, ‘Hello – you must be Maxine Sweet?’ The woman wearing Paris fashions thrust out an elegant hand. ‘I thought I recognised you from the photo attached to your email.’
Maxine studied the woman in the pale dress. ‘Are you Fliss?’
‘I am – I’m so pleased to meet you, although it’s a sad occasion.’
‘I didn’t mean to intrude.’ Maxine wasn’t sure what to say. The whole town appeared to have turned out for the funeral.
‘We’ve lost a wonderful man. He died just over a week ago. I was in the UK, but I had to rush back, of course.’ Fliss moved closer. ‘The congregation’s about to go in.’ She added hopefully, ‘You’ll come, won’t you?’
‘Oh, no, I don’t think so.’ Maxine held back. ‘I mean – I’m not dressed for it.’
‘No one will care. Besides, Maurice loved English ladies. He’d have been delighted with an extra one at his leaving bash.’
‘I don’t know anyone.’
‘He was a good friend of Clotilde Moreau. She used to own the cottage you’re staying in.
I bought it after she passed.’ Fliss lowered her voice.
‘I think it’s the perfect opportunity for you to meet the people of Plouvannec.
You’re a resident for the next few weeks. Come on in and pay your respects.’
‘Do you really think I should?’
‘Of course, darling – it’s de rigueur,’ Fliss said confidently. ‘Hark at me – I’m almost fluent now.’ She laughed. ‘That’ll be the day, when I know any French words not connected with alcohol or fashion.’
Maxine responded immediately to Fliss’s warmth. ‘Well, if you think I should.’
‘I do. Then we’ll eat and drink to his memory afterwards. It’s the right thing.’ Fliss took her arm. ‘Come on, darling. It’s about to start.’