It Started With A Note: A brand-new uplifting read of love and new adventures for 2018!. Victoria CookeЧитать онлайн книгу.
at ease.
I draw a breath to reboot my system. ‘Good afternoon. You speak English?’ I smile, relieved. My rehearsed French has vacated my brain; likely it ran away with embarrassment. ‘I have a room booked under “Darlington”.’
He clicks away at the keyboard. ‘I have it right here. It’s ten nights with breakfast?’ I hadn’t booked more than that because of the expense, and I wasn’t sure if I’d want to stay somewhere else and see a new place once I’d completed my great-grandfather’s journey, though I’d no idea where. My plan is to use the Airbnb app that Kaitlynn told me about to find something cheap, but I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.
I nod, and he hands me a key before he passes on some information about breakfast times and how to find my room. I’m about to head to the lift when I hear some American accents coming from the small bar area. There are two older couples drinking beer and, strangely comforted by their familiar language, I drag my case to the bar where they’re sitting, just to listen for a while.
‘Une petite bière—’ deep breath ‘—s’il vous plaît,’ I say slowly but confidently as I perch on a stool at the bar.
The barman, whose name is Kevin according to his badge, looks up at me and smiles. ‘A small beer coming up.’
‘Thanks,’ I reply, once again deflated by the fact my French was so painful he couldn’t bear to humour me. Still, I’m only half a day into learning French. I can only get better, right?
‘You’re English, huh?’ One of the older American ladies turns to me with a broad beaming smile. She’s tall and slim with a sleek silver bob and is wearing a green matching pants suit.
‘Yes, English,’ I give a half-wave, ‘Just over on holiday to visit the war memorials and museums.’
‘Us too. We’re fascinated by the history of it all. My husband, Harry, over there, was a vet.’ She points to a crinkly, affable-looking man in a navy baseball cap. ‘Not in the First World War, though, obviously. I mean, I know he’s old but …’ She winks, and I warm to her recognisable Southern-belle charm straight away. ‘He had a British uncle killed in the First World War and he’s wanted to take this trip for so long.’
‘Me too. My great-grandfather was killed in the war. In Belgium actually, but he was posted in France too. He was close to Arras when he fought in the Battle of the Somme. I’m here retracing his footsteps. Sort of.’
She gives a sympathetic smile. ‘So, are you here with your family?’
‘Oh no, it’s just me. My son is away at university and my brother wasn’t really interested in coming with me,’ I say, not entirely untruthfully.
‘No husband?’ she asks, with unmasked surprise.
‘I don’t have a partner.’ Kevin places my beer in front of me and I take a big glug of it.
‘Oh, well that’s too bad, a pretty girl like you. Harry and I are fifty years in, and he drives me mad some days, but he’s my Harry and I wouldn’t have him any other way.’ Her eyes twinkle with affection as she gazes over at him and I mumble a ‘congratulations’ that I’m not sure she hears.
‘I’m Martha, by the way.’ She holds out a papery-skinned hand to shake and her pale blue eyes rest on mine.
‘Cath,’ I reply, taking her hand.
Martha proceeds to introduce me to the other couple, Roland and Cynthia, who say a cheerful ‘Hi, Cath’. Cynthia’s voice is hoarse like a smoker’s and sounds almost as though someone is stood behind her cranking it out. I give a shy wave. Roland is in a sports jacket and chinos and he has a maroon baseball cap on. Cynthia is a little shorter than Martha with a fuller frame. Her hair is chin-length, snow-white and wavy.
‘If you’re alone, you should come and get dinner with us – we’d love for you to join us. We’ve found a pub in the square that sells decent hamburgers so we’re heading there soon.’
Eating alone was something that had always daunted me a little and some company would be nice. They seem like a friendly bunch and the familiarity of burgers is welcome, so I say ‘yes’. We agree to meet in the lobby half an hour later, which gives me time to dump my bags and freshen up with a quick shower.
When I return to the bar, the four of them are already waiting for me. A man is stood talking to them. As I near the group, my chest thumps with recognition. The man who freed me from the revolving doors is stood drinking a glass of water and he has them all engrossed in whatever he’s saying. As he catches sight of me he grins and takes a bow with an elaborate hand-twirling gesture in reference to my earlier faux pas. Heat immediately floods my cheeks.
Unfortunately, Martha spots me before I have the chance to dart back into the lift or hide behind a pillar or do some kind of tribal dance in the hope the ground might open up and swallow me whole. ‘Cath, this is Olivier. He’s our tour guide and we’ve badgered him to join us for dinner.’
‘Pleased to meet you. Again,’ he says, his gravelly voice beautifully iced with that rich French accent.
I glance at him, looking away at the exact same moment our eyes connect. My cheeks are still on fire. Realising I’m being rude, I mumble a quick hello and thank him again for freeing me earlier before turning back to Martha to make polite conversation about hamburgers.
‘Ahh, about those. I was just telling Olivier how I’m a bit of a connoisseur of French cuisine. Ever since Julia Child released Mastering the Art of French Cooking back in the Sixties I’ve dabbled in French cuisine and I’ve gotten pretty good even if I do say so myself. Olivier said there is a place near here I’d love. You don’t mind, do you Cath?’
‘Not at all.’ My mouth is dry and the words feel thick and chewy. A burger had sounded safe, both to the palate and to the purse, whereas fine French dining doesn’t sound safe or affordable at all. It sounds terrifying. Excuses not to go whirl through my brain and whilst I surprise myself with my creativity at such short notice (I’m someone’s ‘phone a friend’ on the Who Wants to be a Millionaire? reboot; I’ve discovered I’m highly allergic to the French air and must stay inside indefinitely; I’m OCD and have to eat a burger on a Sunday; eating French food in France seems so cliché) I don’t actually get any words out in time.
‘So, it seems you two have already met?’ she says, looking from me to Olivier.
Olivier nods. ‘I bumped into Cath as she was checking in,’ he says, with his eyes fixed on mine. He’s being polite by not telling the story, and I appreciate that but decide to come clean anyway because laughing at myself has gotten me through some of life’s toughest challenges.
‘Actually, I got my bag stuck in the revolving door and Olivier here kindly freed me.’
‘Ahh, so you were her knight in shining armour,’ Cynthia says, and I wince a little with discomfort.
‘It happens all the time,’ Olivier says, playing it down and I’m thankful.
‘Well, I do like a girl who can make an entrance,’ Martha says with a glint in her eye.
We’re all chatting about food as we come to a stop before the road outside the hotel, and, instinctively, I glance right and put a foot forward. Something firm comes out of nowhere and pelts me in the stomach. I look down, surprised to see Olivier’s tanned arm stretched out in front of me. The contact causes me an unfamiliar flutter in my lower abdomen.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘It’s a force of habit. I’m so used to getting British people on my tours who forget to look left.’ The tips of my ears burn and I’m not sure if it’s in response to the fact I can’t manage to cross the road or the fact I had unusual feelings for a stranger’s arm.
We walk for about ten minutes before entering the huge square, the Place des Héros, which is much bigger than I’d expected it would be and much more impressive with its Flemish-Spanish baroque-style buildings.