Chapter 26
There were no texts at all on Tuesday. Russell must have given up, Jo hadn’t messaged, so perhaps she and Terry were talking now. Gráinne was too loved-up to chat.
And there was nothing from J-F. That was worrying.
Maxine tried again with a simple message.
Lunch soon?
She waited all day for a reply. In the morning she went to the supermarket. In the afternoon she swam in the sea. There was hardly anyone on the beach. No handsome jogger. And still no phone messages.
On Wednesday, she decided to go out in the car.
The trip to Keroulien-sur-Mer led her to Café Pointe de Pen Glas, where she sat for half an hour with a coffee.
She recognised the young owner, who clearly didn’t remember her but, in steady French, Maxine asked her if she’d seen J-F, the man who rode the Harley-Davidson.
The woman knew who she meant, but she shook her head. She hadn’t seen him for days.
On the way back, Maxine took a detour to Chapellin.
She drove through the town and turned up the track that led to Kastell Canoe-Kayak.
There was no Harley in the car park; instead, there was an empty school minibus, the river full of children paddling furiously, having a whale of a time in kayaks.
For a while, Maxine paused, engine idling, searching for any sign of J-F.
There were a couple of instructors on the bank, both young men, but J-F was nowhere to be seen.
Perhaps he didn’t want to talk to her. Perhaps she should respect his wishes and leave him alone. After all, she was just a holidaymaker whom he’d met briefly.
And slept with.
After visiting a crêperie and devouring a crêpe citron sucre, she drove back to the cottage and had an early night.
The rain woke her at four o’clock. There was a drumming sound; at first she thought it might be someone at the front door, but she quickly realised it was simply the downpour banging against the window.
The wind buffeted the panes and Maxine hoped the weather would blow through and it might be dry the following day. She wanted to go horse riding again.
But on Thursday morning the deluge was incessant.
She went outside for a few minutes to take out the refuse sack and gaze towards the beach.
The air was ice cold and a volley of rain came in fast from the sea; it flung itself in her face.
The beach was deserted, the sand dark and sodden.
She glanced towards the cliff house and wondered how the renovations were going.
Then she closed the door, her hair dripping.
Maxine decided she’d sit over breakfast and improve her French, looking up colloquial phrases on Google for bad weather.
She wanted to speak French just like the locals.
A few of the phrases made her smile. Il pleut des cordes meant it was raining ropes.
Un froid de canard translated as duck cold.
Pleuvoir comme une vache qui pisse was easily translated.
Maxine had never seen a urinating cow, as far as she could remember.
She imagined herself walking into the boulangerie and making conversation: ‘Bonjour, Gisele. Il pleut comme une vache qui pisse.’ The thought made her laugh.
But what to do on a wet Thursday? It was the middle of May and the coldest day yet.
She made herself a cup of tea, found a playlist on her phone and read a book until lunchtime.
It was a new one – she’d finished the one about Elizabeth I – recommended by someone at work, so she’d brought it on holiday.
It was about a teenage cancer patient who fell in love with another cancer patient at her support group.
Things were not going well for the characters and Maxine felt her energy plummet.
At that point, ‘Love Is a Losing Game’ by Amy Winehouse began to play and tears filled her eyes.
Feeling emotional, she closed the book and pressed stop on the playlist.
She found some Caribbean music on Spotify to help her get in the mood for the following evening.
She’d already chosen what to wear – a colourful dress and flat shoes that she could dance in all night.
Now, she wanted to cook something cheerful, with a Caribbean vibe, for lunch.
The ingredients in the larder were limited, but there was some chilli powder, thyme, garlic, a small bag of rice.
In the freezer there were frozen peas and a few pieces of chicken she’d bought from the supermarket.
Rice and peas in Caribbean food meant rice and beans, but she had no kidney beans or black-eyed beans. Peas would have to do.
Fried chicken with garlic and rice with herbs and spices. There was a bottle of cider in the fridge. Lunch would be the perfect antidote.
It was past one. The rice was almost cooked; the chicken smelled good and Gregory Isaacs was crooning ‘Night Nurse’.
As she tested the rice again, there was a loud thump on the door.
Maxine hoped it might be Fliss. Or J-F. If so, he’d be just in time for lunch.
She opened the door to see Béa, her hair cropped short and dyed black, munching sugar-coated sweets from a huge bag.
She held them out. ‘Pastille de fruits?’
‘Pardon?’
‘The blackcurrant ones are nice. The green ones are horrible. Have one.’ Béa marched inside and threw herself onto the sofa.
‘No, thanks.’
‘I always eat pastilles when I’m in a bad mood. I’m not allowed to eat them at home.’
‘What happened to your hair?’
‘Louis thought I looked like a salope.’
‘You most certainly did not.’ Maxine was shocked. Salope meant slut.
‘I went to the hairdresser and I told her to cut it all off and dye it back to how it was.’ Béa shrugged. ‘Louis is un balai de chiotte – he can va se faire foutre…’
Maxine took a deep breath. She was fairly well versed in French swearing and it would have been funny to hear Béa call her beloved husband a toilet brush if she hadn’t looked so miserable. She took a seat next to her.
‘Would you like a coffee?’
Béa sniffed the air. ‘What smells so good?’
‘Chicken and rice.’
‘I’d like some, please. And a glass of brandy.’
‘There’s plenty.’ Maxine was glad of the company. ‘I’m sorry about your hair.’
‘I like it more like this.’ Béa sniffed. ‘And Louis is un salaud.’ Maxine understood. Béa was in the mood for throwing insults at her husband. ‘I’ll throw him and his clothes onto the street when he comes home. But first I’ll have lunch with my friend Max.’
Béa pushed her hair back with her fingers and Maxine stared at the back of her hand.
‘Is that a bruise?’
‘Un bleu? Oh, I hit the door.’ Béa brightened. ‘Let us not talk of Louis. All men are salauds.’
She had called him a bastard twice now: Maxine wondered if it was a response to his controlling behaviour. Where had the bruise really come from?
Béa was marching towards the kitchen. ‘I’m hungry.’
‘OK.’ Maxine had a plan. Lunch first, then she’d let Béa talk about Louis. After that, she’d ask about the bruise again.
Béa wanted to eat lunch from a bowl on the sofa. A half-pint of cider next to her feet, she wolfed her food as if she were starving.
‘So is Louis at work?’
Béa made a grunting noise, which meant she didn’t care. Maxine tried again.
‘Do you like Caribbean food?’
‘You can show me how to make this?’
‘For Louis?’
‘For me.’
‘Of course. It’s very easy. What do you do with yourself all day, Béa?’
‘I visit people. I paint my toenails. I smoke cigarettes and eat sweets and play games on the phone.’
‘Wouldn’t you like a job?’
‘I had one. I worked in a café in Chapellin. I poured cups of coffee for hours but it made me too tired. La ménopause aussi. Louis made me stop.’ Béa held out her empty plate. ‘Is there more of this?’
‘I’ll get you some.’ Maxine took her plate into the kitchen, refilled it with the last scrapings and came back. ‘Here.’
Béa gazed at her as if she were a lifesaving angel. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’ Maxine chewed her last mouthful thoughtfully. ‘Are you coming to Le Shack tomorrow?’
‘I am. That’s why Louis and I argue.’
‘Doesn’t he want to go?’
‘I tell him we can dance together. Louis doesn’t think men dance. He thinks they stand with their friends and talk about sport. He is un balai de chiotte.’
Louis was a toilet brush again. Maxine tried not to smile. ‘I’ll be there, and Fliss will. We can dance together.’
‘What’s the point in him if he won’t dance?’
Maxine thought about that one. ‘I’m not really sure.’
‘See – I’m right. I should find someone else.’
Maxine’s eyes flickered to the bruise on Béa’s hand. ‘What would your perfect man be like?’
‘I know at once,’ Béa said. ‘A skinny man who likes cats.’
‘Oh?’ Maxine tried not to smile. ‘Have you got cats?’
‘No, Louis is allergique aux chats – but I’d like a cat who would love me inconditionnellement.’
‘Unconditionally.’ Maxine narrowed her eyes. ‘Why a skinny man?’
‘Louis has big muscles and he’s strong, but it’s not important.’ Béa rubbed her hand.
Maxine had to ask. ‘How did you manage to hit the door with your hand? The bruise looks sore.’
‘I am maladroite.’
‘Clumsy?’
‘Exactly. I’m always falling over.’ Béa drank half the cider in her glass. ‘You’ll dance with me tomorrow?’
‘Of course.’
Béa looked suddenly pleased with herself. ‘And I’ll dance with Manu then Théo, then someone else.’
‘J-F Kastell?’ Maxine thought she’d ask.
‘I heard he was very sick.’ Béa pulled a face.
‘Oh?’ Maxine wanted to know more.
Béa shrugged. ‘Louis said he was at home in his bed and couldn’t get up. He has a broken heart.’ Béa was suddenly interested. ‘Do you like him?’
‘I worry about someone who’s unwell,’ Maxine said honestly.
‘You’re a nice person. You worry about me and give me a nice dinner.’ Béa finished the last of her cider and stood up. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Maxine watched as Béa placed her plate on the floor and made for the door. Bea reached for the handle, turned back and waved, almost colliding with the door post, and was gone.
Maxine bent down to pick up the empty plates and carried them to the kitchen. She placed them in the sink, running water from the tap, but her mind was elsewhere as she pulled out her phone.
She thumbed a message to J-F.
I’m sorry to hear you’re unwell. Can we catch up soon?