Page 55 of The Riviera House Swap

They fell into an awkward silence.

‘I’m Nina, by the way,’ she said.

‘Oh, yes. Sorry. I am Anne-Sophie,’ said the woman, with a smile. ‘You are English?’

Was it really so obvious?

‘Yes,’ Nina said.

‘So you are on holidays?’

‘Well, staying here for a while,’ Nina said, not quite sure how to brand her visit and not wanting to be told the club wasn’t for tourists. ‘I have friends who live here,’ she added, which was true now, she supposed.

Anne-Sophie nodded. ‘That’s nice,’ she said. ‘And you have played before.’

‘A little,’ Nina said, shrugging her shoulders and realising she may well have reached ‘Peak French’ in that moment. Since being here, she’d noticed how modest people could be – especially when it came to their language skills. Occasionally, she’d been in a shop or restaurant speaking French, only to have the staff member speak back to her in flawless English. No matter how amazing their level was, when she asked them ‘Oh do you speak English?’ they’d always replied with ‘A little.’

The group stood together, with small conversations breaking out between various members – exchanging kisses of greeting, shaking hands.

‘OK,’ said Anne-Sophie, ‘I think this is all now.’

She said something quickly to one of the men who’d nodded. ‘Let’s start?’ he suggested, looking at the group. There were twelve of them in all now, but no Pierre. The man quickly divided them into groups of four and they moved to separate courts to start their play.

Nina had just resigned herself to the fact that this was not going to be her day when there was a screech of tyres. A small, silver convertible pulled into one of the empty spaces. Its door opened and there he was,herPierre, looking slightly unkempt and rushed. He locked his car and walked quickly to the man who’d assigned the groups, who gestured at the three teams, two of which had started their matches. Nina’s group had not quite got there yet.

Pierre nodded to the man, and walked quickly to her group.

That was the end of Nina’s game. With Pierre close, she found each time she threw the pétanque ball, it landed embarrassingly far from the target. But in her defence, she felt every sinew of her body respond to the fact that Pierre was there, playing pétanque with her. They stood together in a little group of four while the fifth had their turn, and made general conversation. But nobody had introduced her to him, and she didn’t quite know where to start.

The kind of conversation that bubbled up in their small group was the kind made out of the side of the mouth while the eyes remain fixed on the court. Comments about the player’s performance, the weather, something about politics that she got lost completely trying to follow. Still, she was a little disheartened by the fact he hadn’t recognised her yet. Then again, she told herself, making yet another disastrous throw, he’d barely looked at her so far, and the last thing he’d be expecting at a pétanque club in his hometown would be the ex-girlfriend from his teens suddenly turning up brandishing a boule.

She had to do something to make this happen. Not simply linger on the periphery of his vision and hope that he did all the hard work for her. She’d come this far – flown to his hometown, taken a month off work (or maybe quit altogether), planned and schemed and dreamed. She was right next to him, had a legitimate reason to strike up a conversation. Surely this was the moment she should seize, and if not, what had she done all the other things for?

She thought back to the wild swimming – how difficult it had been at first, how she’d almost run screaming as the icy water had lapped around her thighs. But how she’d pushed herself forward and suddenly found herself swimming.

As she returned to the group, blushing a little at her lack of skill, she made sure to stand next to him.

Their bodies were almost touching. He was wearing dark jeans and a T-shirt, his arms bare. He’d thickened since they’d met – hardly surprising that he no longer had the physique of a seventeen-year-old boy – but in a good way. He looked fit, strong, tanned. His hair was a little unkempt, but then he’d clearly rushed to the club this morning, and it had sprung into slight curls. He had a smattering of stubble where he’d had no time to shave. She looked up at him, hoping to catch his attention, and suddenly, his eyes were on her, an expression on his face that registered slight confusion.

‘You’re new, I think,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘I’m Pierre.’

She took it, wondering if he too could feel the electrical charge pulse between them. Was memory ever held in the body? she wondered. Would his skin recognise her touch even if his brain couldn’t quite place her?

‘Nina,’ she said.

He paused, his eyes studying her face so intently that she almost felt she should glance away. She tried to keep calm, hold his gaze.

At last he spoke. ‘I am sorry,’ he said, ‘but you look very familiar. Have we met somewhere before?’

30

Anyone watching from the outside probably wouldn’t know the momentous thing that had happened to Nina. Had she been seven years old, she’d probably have skipped and danced all the way home. But that sort of behaviour from a forty-year-old woman would probably lead to someone calling the police or psychiatric support.

So she was walking. But boy, inside, she was skipping. Because everything she could have possibly hoped for had happened.

‘I came to Cagnes-sur-Mer a long time ago,’ she’d said, ‘on French exchange.’

He’d done a double take, looked at her face – she hoped she’d managed to pluck that stray chin hair that came to visit every few weeks – and then said. ‘You’re my Nina?’

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