Page 54 of The Riviera House Swap

She laughed, not because she thought it ridiculous but because nobody had ever said that to her before, and she couldn’t believe that this handsome, popular boy even liked her, let alone loved her.

‘Sorry,’ she said, and she looked at him. What was love? She wondered. Because if it was this indescribable pull towards him, the feeling of completeness she felt when they were together, the fact that the idea of leaving him made her feel wretched, then she must feel it too. ‘Me too,’ she said, softly, uncertainly.

Then he kissed her again. Deeply and for longer than before, and she felt beautiful and grown-up and like the type of girl boys fall in love with all the time.

It was typical that she should meet a boy who loved her, whom she loved too, in a place so far away from home.

Tomorrow, they were due to leave. But she was determined to make the most of tonight.

29

NOW

After Antoine left, she sat for a while – almost stunned by what he’d said and not entirely sure how to feel. The morning, which had started so promising, had become white-skied with a hint of rain in the air. The weather was turning, just slightly, reminding her that even in this place that felt like summer, autumn was on its way.

Nina liked the autumn, ordinarily. Liked the feeling of snuggling up in the warm, gently lit cosiness of her living room, hot chocolate in hand, pyjamas on by nine o’clock and a film streaming on the TV. But here, in this strange place she’d begun to see as different and exotic, the autumnal feel was a little unsettling. It was as if the British weather had cottoned on to her plan and was saying,Hey Nina! You belong in England; what are you doing here?

Antoine’s words had made her feel strange, less certain about what she was doing. Was he right? Would Pierre be changed beyond recognition? Was she being foolish? And why had she felt so suddenly drawn to him when she’d read that old letter? Was it because she’d felt something similar beneath the surface or – and more likely – was she just so needy after the rejectionof divorce that she was ready to swoon into anyone’s arms if they expressed enough enthusiasm?

Before she’d left for pétanque, an email had arrived from Jemima – cheerily efficient even on a Sunday. Not mentioning work. More of a ‘just wondered how it’s all going?’ message. But somehow, it had thrown her – pierced through the bubble she’d been living in and reminded her that there was a real world with a job and responsibilities and the necessity to move boxes back into her childhood bedroom shortly.

She’d replied – because she couldn’t ever bring herself to ignore someone, however inappropriate it was for them to interrupt her holiday – giving a generic, cheery ‘having a great time’ response, and hoped that Jemima would now leave her alone until the end of her break. She hadn’t mentioned that she’d considered not going back at all… Although she’d composed a message along those lines a couple of times in her head, her fingers simply refused to seize the day and tell her boss. It was sensible, she’d told herself, keeping her options open.

What about taking a risk?her mind had pointed out.

But there was no point taking a risk in this situation, she’d decided. There was nothing much to be gained by flinging her safety net from under her. Not yet. She’d only been here a week and a bit – although somehow, it seemed longer – and hadn’t even spoken to Pierre yet.

Last night, she and Antoine had wandered down to the ‘boulodrome’ – she’d been terrified at the word at first. It sounded like an enormous arena or something: the kind of place that might feature in aMad Maxmovie, not somewhere an amateur would dare to venture. But Antoine had laughed and told her it was simply a rectangle of pétanque courts where people could turn up and play when they wanted.

‘Sometimes, people just go there with friends,’ he’d said. ‘Sometimes, there is a group, like the one Pierre is part of. Butdon’t worry. Nobody is professional. People are not all young and fit.’

She’d smiled at his reassurance, although later wondered whether he was suggesting that she was neither of those two things.

They’d arrived, pétanque balls in hand, and watched for a while from a café opposite the courts. The boulodrome consisted of around nine courts, laid out neatly within a slightly raised rectangle, surrounded by trees and shrubs, parking spaces and eventually a line of cafés and shops. Antoine had been right – it seemed that everyone and anyone could play pétanque. She saw groups of teenagers in jeans and a group of smartly dressed office workers. A couple on a date, who threw half-hearted shots and laughed and fell into each other’s arms after each failure. There was a family: parents, grandparents and two young children occupying another of the courts. The atmosphere felt relaxed and the play was definitely not all on a professional level.

She’d tried to imagine herself walking up to one of the groups, as she would have to the following day, and felt that she could picture it. That it wouldn’t be, after all, so very terrifying.

She’d sipped a white wine and felt herself relax a little about the prospect of the next day. And when Antoine asked her if she wanted to try the courts out, she’d felt fine about it, joining the other mismatched teams on the boulodrome, and finding a spare court where they’d flung a few boules and she’d found that she felt relatively confident about that side of things now.

‘Thanks,’ she’d said to Antoine afterwards, shortly after turning down his offer of a ‘lift’ home – she knew now what that meant. ‘You’ve really helped.’

‘Good,’ he’d said, lifting his hand as if to brush some hair from her forehead, but hesitating then dropping his arm. ‘And remember, if you do need me to walk with you or even come toplay pétanque, then I am free tomorrow and you only have to call.’

And here she was, looking at the pétanque courts and feeling slightly unsettled in her stomach. She was slightly early but a group were already gathering, standing and talking in rapid French by the entrance, one or two carrying bags that probably held boules and a target ball. Some were dressed in shorts, which seemed a little optimistic based on the weather forecast. There was an elderly man leaning on a cane, two older women, a couple of younger, and three men, none of whom was Pierre.

Part of her was relieved not to see him. She could turn up, play pétanque and go home without having to face potential rejection – scenario three of Sabine’s suggested outcomes. The other part felt disappointed – but then it was early. There was still time.

Feeling herself quiver slightly inside, she threw her shoulders back, tried to walk confidently and approached the group. She tapped one of the women on the shoulder and when she turned, said, ‘Is this where the pétanque club meets?’ with her best French accent.

‘Yes,’ said the woman. ‘Are you going to join us?’

‘I hope so, if that’s OK?’

‘Yes, we will need to get you the forms to join the club. But you can do that later. Today, you can try, if you want?’ the woman said.

‘Thank you.’

‘We will start soon,’ the woman added.

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