Chapter Eleven #2
After that, I went to the kitchen, made myself a cup of tea, toasted some stale baguette and then, realising I still did not feel remotely hungry, threw it in the bin.
I went into the salon and looked at the Christmas tree; it was shedding needles like confetti, possibly on account of being so smothered in decorations the poor thing was probably suffocating.
Perhaps I should remove some of them, but that idea did not appeal either.
Nevertheless, I surreptitiously plucked off a handful of baubles.
But this made it look worse than ever, like someone embarrassed to be surprised half-dressed.
I hung them back on quickly. Besides, destroying her handiwork might upset Nicole when she returned.
Except Nicole did not return. It became dark, the Villa Matisse a mass of looming shadows.
I returned to my room, found it colder than anywhere else in the house, and kicked the radiator – the way you do.
I fiddled around for a bit, decided I was simply suffering from acute boredom and so booted up my kindle in search of improving literature.
But I could find nothing I fancied reading despite having downloaded half a dozen tempting titles before I came away.
I debated whether to go and watch English television up in the gallery above the hall.
Nobody would mind; there was nobody around to mind.
But television would only be yapping with the usual Christmas crap, everyone behaving as though they’d totally lost it.
And that’s depressing even when you’re feeling cheerful.
I brooded over phoning one of my friends, phoning Ros or my parents.
No, they would all instantly clock how low I was and think me pathetic.
And that was unbearable to contemplate, as they’d be right. What price pride now?
***
‘Never mind. It’s the winter solstice today,’ Billy now informed me as if this were a comfort.
‘I never know what that means.’
‘Basically, it’s the shortest day. Like the summer solstice is the longest.’
‘The shortest day? Does that make people feel depressed?’
Billy considered this for a second or two. ‘Some people reckon so. They say it’s sad.’
‘Sad?’
‘S.A.D. Like, Seasonal Affective Disorder.’
‘Oh, that shit,’ I scoffed.
‘Maybe.’ Billy looked at me. ‘Why? You feeling sad, Alix?’
‘Actually, I am a bit.’
‘Perhaps you’ve just got the Christmas blues. They’re enough to make anyone want to slit their throat.’
I smiled, but Nicole scowled. ‘Not me,’ she said coldly.
Glancing at me, Billy raised his eyes to heaven. ‘Don’t be so touchy, love,’ he chided the French girl. ‘Nobody’s getting at you or your religion.’
Nicole looked momentarily mulish but then relented and muttered a grudging apology.
‘Tell you what,’ I said to lighten the atmosphere, as they too both seemed rather down and grumpy, all their engaging enthusiasm over decorating the Christmas tree evaporated.
‘Why don’t I make us a nice picnic and we slope off somewhere nice for a couple of hours?
It’s warmer today and none of us have got anything much to do here. ’
They both immediately replied at the same time, which meant I didn’t quite get what each said save it was clearly a refusal. Nicole repeated she was sorry, but she was going to the mosque. Billy simply said that he actually had, like, a lot of work on today for his, like, other clients.
‘Sweeping drives and making everything spick and span, ready for Christmas. A nice idea, though,’ he added warmly.
‘Okay. No worries.’ I glanced round the kitchen. ‘No Madam Mop today, then?’
‘She doesn’t come on Mondays.’
‘And Tom?’
‘He hasn’t turned up, but you don’t want to take him out for a nice picnic, do you, Alix?’
I laughed at Billy’s expression of horror. ‘I’m not that desperate,’ I said lightly.
Except that was precisely the problem – I was.
The remainder of Monday and then Tuesday and Wednesday were grim, Tuesday in particular.
Waking up to the prospect of having nothing to do and nobody to do nothing with is not a sensation familiar to me.
At home I’m always madly busy, what with work and Carl and trying to fit in as much social life as I can manage for both of us.
There’s never time to be at a loose end.
I have sometimes wished there was, just to have a break from the relentless round.
Stupid idea, because the less you have to do, the less you want to do, although I’ve no idea why this should be so.
I pondered the time I’d come here to Nice with Selfie Man and all the interesting, pleasant things I’d done on my own once we had parted company.
I’d walked, I’d explored the town, gone to museums and galleries, pottered round the Cours Saleya and even taken a bus up into the mountains.
Of course, it had been summer then, but the present cold snap was quickly over – ‘They’re saying it came from Russia,’ Billy told me on Tuesday morning; yes, let’s blame the Russians, that’s what they’re there for – and besides, sightseeing is actually much pleasanter when it’s not hot.
After all, I’d hoped to have enough free time from the job to go and see stuff; I’d banked on it.
In the event, however, nothing appealed.
Even the Matisse Museum had lost its charm, perhaps because I was living in a Matisse museum.
I thought of my father in Cyprus, his threatening to jump ship and clearing off for hours, bird-watching as he claimed bizarrely.
He was obviously miserable too. And I hadn’t phoned him as I’d suggested that I might to my mother.
I could phone him now, but even if he answered, I didn’t feel up to jollying him out of his personal gloom.
In my present mood, I’d probably do more harm than good.
Besides, who was paying attention to me – me?
Nobody cared about my gloom. Nobody was jollying me up.
Oh, I know. You don’t have to tell me. Being steeped in self-pity is disgusting.