Page 26 of The Riviera House Swap

She allowed silence to descend around them and hoped this was the end of things. A braver person would be chatting away now, sharing snippets from their plans, enjoying the company. Or would be brave enough to say,Do you mind if we don’t talk?or something equally fine and polite. But she wasn’t brave. And had a strange fear of upsetting anyone at all, which meant she often had to enter into conversation even though it was the last thing she wanted to do.

Last night, she’d saved all the details she knew about Pierre into a document on her phone. It had looked quite impressive all in all, and she’d fancied herself as quite the young Miss Marple – albeit with the help of technology, plus a few lucky breaks when it came to Pierre’s privacy settings. She knew where he worked – not in a patisserie, but in a managerial office for the chain, housed in a building not far from where she was staying. She knew what he looked like. She hadn’t been able to discover where he lived, but seeing as his work was close to Cagnes-sur-Mer it was likely that he’d live nearby. There were no details of kids or a partner, and while that didn’t rule them out, it made it less likely. Surely most proud parents would post a pic of their kids online, and there were usually wedding photos or pictures from days out to help work out a person’s marital status?

She felt a shiver of excitement at the prospect of potentially finding him, as well as spending a whole month in France – taking in the scenery, dining in style, practising her language and simply getting away from the humdrum rhythm of her normal life. Yes, the Pierre part felt a little crazy. But what if this was the thing she was meant to do? What if somehow, she was kickstarting a whole happy chapter of her life? What if, just for once, things worked out, Pierre remembered her, still had some feelings for her? They reconnected and she ended up in the place she should have always been?

‘You look happy, love,’ the driver commented.

‘What?’

‘You’re smiling. Still, can’t say I blame you. Better weather over there, right?’ He stopped to let a cyclist turn out of a driveway. ‘Can’t stand all this rain.’

She laughed. ‘It’s a bit better. Not hot, though. Not this time of year.’

‘So why you going then?’ he asked. ‘Work stuff?’

‘Oh no. Just… just a break,’ she said.

‘Meeting up with some friends out there?’

‘Maybe an old friend,’ she said, feeling herself get hot.Why all the questions?she wanted to ask. But she knew, really, he was just being polite, passing the time.

‘Ah, got ya,’ he said, tapping his nose as if she’d just revealed a huge secret. ‘Say no more.’

She managed to deflect further interrogation by aiming her own carefully crafted questions at him (aha, how the tables turned!) so that by the time they arrived at Luton airport, he was probably quite ready to get away from her. He’d told her about his wife, kids, job, even a little about his childhood. He was probably exhausted. She tapped into the app once he’d driven off and gave him five stars for putting up with her.

Then, before she knew it, she was settling into her place on the plane, drinking weak tea and watching the sky outside turn from grey to white to a light, hopeful blue.

After what seemed like a lightning-fast flight, she exited and made her way across the tarmac to the terminal. Nice airport was busy, and it took a while to get her luggage, but once she located her wheeled suitcase, she made it through passport control in record time and was finally standing outside the glass-fronted building in the deliciously warm air. The outside area was large and neatly paved, with enormous palm trees, so sturdy and strong that she wondered whether they’d preceded the airport. It was twenty degrees – a good ten warmer than it had been in London – and she’d already removed her cardigan and tied it around her waist. It wasn’t the dramatic whoosh of heat she’d experienced before when travelling to sunnier climes, butthe air felt fresh and warm, and she felt the kind of lift she often experienced when the first sun of spring grazed her arms.

Breathing deeply, she gave herself a moment to appreciate where she was, what she was doing. She thought of the others in her office, still beavering away. Of Rory, probably typing something boring on his laptop or giving yet another presentation. Of Bess, working away to deliver babies, and Sal in her teaching-assistant role. Everything from her ordinary life felt a million miles away.

She snapped back to attention when a small child rammed into her from behind and promptly fell over. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, as the mother leant over and picked the small boy up. Nina realised she’d been standing in front of the exit and had been so caught up in her own thoughts that people had had to stream around her.

Apologising again, she made her way to the pick-up point and managed to locate another taxi driver. Luckily, Cagnes-sur-Mer was only a twenty-minute drive from the airport and, luckily, this driver barely said a word. She settled into her seat, feeling quite nervous, and watched the city morph into motorway, then smaller roads as she approached her destination, remembering that seemingly endless coach ride twenty-three years ago, staring out of the window at the red-roofed houses dotted between greenery, their peach or white painted walls looking somehow more Spanish than French.

It was a weekday afternoon and people were strolling on the pavements in the centre, or sitting in cafés enjoying the last of the welcome sun. Everyone looked relaxed and cheerful; most were well dressed in light-coloured clothes – a world away from St Albans where even now, people were beginning to dig out their winter scarves and hats. She scrutinised the faces, trying to see some resemblance to some of the teenagers she’d met long ago – perhaps Brigitte or even Pierre. Although she realisedthis was bordering on ridiculous, it was hard not to be on the lookout.

Seeing some of the younger women, clustering in giggling groups or walking with shopping bags, she couldn’t help but wonder how she’d look in comparison. She was forty, but – and she might be kidding herself – she didn’t feel she looked anything like forty years old. People liked to believe that ages became ‘younger’ over the years – always saying sixty was the new forty, forty was the new thirty – all sorts of strange and wonderful maths, and she’d always thought they were just trying to make themselves feel better.

Could she pass for younger? And, if so, were her insides also erring on the side of youthful? Could she still possibly have a baby one day? She’d read articles in which women in their fifties had given birth, so surely she wasn’t completely out of time if that turned out to be something she wanted to do.

Rory had never wanted children. But that had seemed OK all those years ago when they’d had the talk. She hadn’t been sure about them herself at that point – and everyone she’d spoken to had been so confident that they’d both change their tune in future years. Besides, kids had seemed like a hurdle they’d have to clear in the future – and time had seemed to stretch on almost endlessly when they were in their late twenties.

But now here she was, in the back of a taxi, divorced and in her fifth decade, searching for a romance that had escaped her twenty-three years before – and it felt as if those years had passed lightning-fast.

She shook her head. This wasn’t helping anyone. Instead, she began to study the houses as they moved closer to the one owned by Jean-Luc. She’d seen so many pictures of it, she felt she’d know it anywhere: a gorgeous, neat, whitewashed building set in lush vegetation, with a first-floor balcony and terracotta roof. There was a pool, too, built above-ground in wood, and a deckedarea for summer barbecues. Probably only for the brave at this time of year, though.

‘Voila,’ said the driver suddenly, pulling up next to a whitewashed wall, topped with a little red ‘roof’ of tiles. Wisteria climbed over from inside the garden – some of it in bloom still from the tail end of summer. There was an audible buzz from the insect life, as if by travelling the 600 miles between St Albans and Nice, she’d also wound back the clock: time-travelled to a season that wasn’t yet completely over, which still had life, warmth and the ghost of summer in the air.

‘This is it?’ she said.

‘Yes,’ he replied, stepping out of the taxi to retrieve her case.

And suddenly, she was alone, looking up at the neat, beautiful building, suitcase on wheels at her feet, feeling warm and excited and terrified and stupid and wonderful all at once.

14

‘You are Nina?’ said a voice.

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