Chapter 8
Jackson texts me the following day, right after lunch: Are you coming to the pool today?
Am I invited? I text back.
I can imagine his frown as I read his reply: You’re always invited. You know that.
I’ll see you in a bit, I tap out with a smile.
He hearts the comment.
I ask Mellie if she’s up for a swim, but she’s having a lie-down. “It’s the hottest part of the day,” she says disapprovingly. “Have you got a rash vest?”
“No, Mellie, but I’ll—”
“Put plenty of sunscreen on.” She talks over me as I say the exact same thing. “And wear a hat.”
“I will,” I assure her, reminding myself to be grateful that she cares.
Rash vests were the bane of my life when I was younger.
While Chloe pranced around in string bikinis, I was strongly encouraged to wear what was effectively a baggy gray long-sleeved T-shirt.
I didn’t like to disappoint my grandmother, but even when I dared to risk her wrath by taking the rash vest off, all I had on underneath was the sensible one-piece my mother had insisted I buy.
Now I can wear what I want. And I added a new bikini to my shopping list when I went on my recent spree.
I’m a little buzzy as I change into the fiery-orange two-piece: the top ties at my cleavage and the bottom at my hips. The color will look better with a tan, but it’s still the sexiest swimming costume I’ve ever owned.
I also bought a long sky-blue cover-up dress with a slit up the side, gold sandals, and a wide-brimmed hat.
I’ve spent the last few years pretty much going from boring work suits straight into weekend casual wear so I feel like I’ve been tuned up to the max as I stuff my bright pink beach towel into my yellow beach bag and leave the house.
It’s sweltering today and by the time I reach Chateau Angèle, I’m hot and sweaty and my feet are filthy from traipsing along the dusty verge. If Jackson notices, however, he doesn’t show it. His grin when he spots me is blinding.
“Hey,” he calls as he gets up from a sun lounger and rakes his chestnut hair off his face, biceps on full display.
Acres of golden skin approach. He’s wearing cream swimming trunks, dark sunglasses, and nothing else.
“I’m so hot,” I say restlessly, dragging my eyes up from his six-pack as he leans in to give me a hug.
“I’ll get you a drink. What do you want?” he asks as he pulls away.
“I’ve got a bottle of water in my bag.” I avert my warm face to rummage around for it, irritated that I’ve found myself on the back foot again.
“Fuck that, you’re on vacation. Let’s live it up. How about a glass of something interesting?”
“Okay, I’ll have a Diet Coke with ice.”
“Boring, but fine. Back in a sec.”
My eyes stick to him like glue as he jogs toward the house. He’s even more ripped than he used to be.
He was distracted last night after we returned to the table. He kept looking through the window at the bar. It was extremely satisfying, but when I eventually chanced a peek over my shoulder, in place of étienne was a girl in a black tank top with a sleeve of tattoos.
“I think his shift ended,” Jackson told me. “That girl came in and gave him a hug and then he took off.” He added, teasingly, “But if you’re keen, maybe you could get his number from the waitress.”
“And destroy this illusion?” I indicated the two of us, the candle. “It would break her heart.”
He laughed and picked up his knife and fork. We’d both gone for steak frites; he’d asked for his to be incinerated.
“Much as I’d love to have a holiday romance with a hot bartender…” I let my voice trail off, secretly determining to come back to chat with étienne another time. No way was I letting him disappear off my radar again.
Jackson screwed up his nose. “You thought he was hot?”
“He is hot. That’s an indisputable fact.”
“Stop, you’re making me jealous.” He placed his hand over his heart as he said this, looking wounded.
I shook my head at him despairingly, but as we both resumed eating, I couldn’t help wondering if he meant it.
I kick off my sandals and untie my dress, throwing it onto a sun lounger as I go, and stand on the middle step of the pool. The water is cold so I need a minute to acclimatize.
The swimming pool curves away into a large oval shape, and beyond its glittering water is a hip-height stone wall that runs in a straight line across the edge of the property.
The wall is broken only by the pedestrian gate that accesses the footpath through the woods into town.
At the other end of the garden is the tennis court, and set within the expansive lawn that lies between the pool and court is a stone fountain.
The sound of running water mingles with birdsong as I stare at it.
The lady in the fountain has her arms raised sensuously over her head and water trickles down over her naked breasts, past folds of stone carved to look like fabric, to a circular basin at her feet.
There are lots of art nouveau influences in the art and architecture around town.
I plan to take inspiration for the rebrand.
Jackson returns with our drinks on a tray, his attention focused on keeping it steady as he sets it on a table.
“I feel like I’m at a boutique hotel,” I call over when I notice that he’s also brought out a mini ice bucket and bowls of nuts and olives.
He has his back to me, but I hear the smile in his voice as he drops three pieces of ice into my glass and says, “I can’t take credit.
This is all Marcia’s doing, but at least I didn’t call on my phone and ask for it to be brought out like Chloe used to.
” He turns around and does a double take.
“Jeez, Gracie, you could give a guy a heart attack in that bikini!” he exclaims.
I blush and cast my eyes heavenward. “Mellie has accepted that she can no longer badger me into covering up.”
He blows out a whistle. “I’m not used to seeing you like this.”
“I’m all grown-up these days,” I reply acerbically, giving him a single jazz hand as my other accepts the glass from him.
“Are you with anyone at the moment?”
“No, I’ve been too busy at work to date,” I admit as I sit down on the step.
And then it dawns on me that he just asked if I was single.
“You’re not too busy anymore,” he points out.
I glance over my shoulder to see him taking a swig of his Coke directly from the bottle.
“No, this summer I get to have fun,” I say irreverently as a shiver rolls down my spine.
He chuckles and comes to sit beside me.
“Here’s to a good one.” He clinks his bottle against my glass. His eyes are hidden behind sunglasses so it’s easier to maintain eye contact as I give him a sidelong smile.
“I’ll drink to that.”
“I know you don’t start work until next week, but I was wondering if you might come with me at some point in the next few days to take a look at the garage that my mom is interested in.”
“Sure,” I reply. “You think you’ll have better luck at persuading the old guy to sell?”
“It’s worth a shot.”
He probably will have more luck. Sandrine can rub people up the wrong way.
I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been embarrassed to be associated with her—the way she speaks to waitstaff is appalling.
She used to terrify me, but she’s mellowed with age.
Still, I’m glad I have until the middle of July before she arrives and starts breathing down my neck.
That week it’s blisteringly hot and I feel a bit wiped out after how hard I’ve been working so I’m happy to do little more than hang out with Mellie at the pool. Sometimes Jackson joins us and sometimes Albert does, but they’re both in and out of work so we don’t see loads of them.
On Thursday, Jackson and I go to visit the garage that his mum has set her sights on. There are a few old ones like this in this area, perched at the edges of cliffs with spectacular views. Some are disused, but even the working ones are pretty run-down.
From the road, the whitewashed building looks like it’s single-story—a long concrete rectangle with a flat roof—but from the side, as we approach on foot, we can see that the floor at our level projects out from the cliff and another story sits beneath it, accessed by a cobbled, weed-ridden driveway that shoots off from the main road and veers steeply downhill.
Also visible from this angle are square floor-to-ceiling windows that run the whole length of the back of the building.
Whoever built this place certainly played to its strengths. The view is out of this world. It’s completely unhindered by trees or other buildings and faces the distant tree-covered mountains with the wide river down below, running freely and glinting a clear olive green in the morning sun.
I don’t disagree with Sandrine: it’s a waste as a garage.
A three-dimensional sign made up of individual retro-looking letters spells out the words GARAGE DU RALLYE and around it there are painted advertisements, baked and bleached in the hot sun.
As we make our way to the front, we see that the two old petrol pumps are still in situ beneath a curved awning, though they appear to have long since been disconnected.
Several double garage doors with multiple square window panels face onto the forecourt, and the set nearest to us are open.
From the clang of metal against metal, it’s clear that someone is hard at work inside.
My attention catches on a painting on the wall.
Below a black-and-red advertisement for Shell that reads HUILE POUR MOTEURS is a faded two-foot-high portrait of a woman in a yellow dress.
She has waist-long curly auburn hair and behind her is a decorative circle filled with green vines, blue birds, and pink flowers.