Page 5 of A Riviera Retreat
‘I’ll come with you,’ Vicky said, jumping up and following Amy.
Matilda and Chelsea came through into the arrivals hall together. Matilda leaning on a stick and Chelsea with both her backpack and Matilda’s case loaded on a trolley. Amy, seeing Matilda’s stick, sighed, hoping that moving around the house and grounds wouldn’t be a problem for her. There were a few flights of steps dotted around the place. At least she’d allocated Matilda the ‘Fitzgerald’ room on the ground floor which had French doors opening directly onto the terrace at the side of the house.
Amy introduced Vicky and herself to Matilda and Chelsea before they left the airport concourse to make their way to the car, Chelsea sniffed. ‘What’s that lovely smell?’
‘It’s the eucalyptus trees,’ Amy said, pointing to the tall trees that lined the car parks and the circumference of the airport offering shade. ‘I forget the particular variety, but the heat of the sun releases the oil aroma from the leaves.’
‘The sky is so blue,’ Vicky said. ‘So different to the London I left this morning. And it’s so warm.’
Once everything was stowed in the car and with Vicky and Chelsea insisting Matilda took the front passenger seat so she could stretch her leg out, Amy began the drive back to Belle Vue. While she concentrated on the road, she hoped the other three would chat amongst themselves and slowly get to know each other, but they were all too busy looking at the Mediterranean on one side and the villas and other sundry buildings on the other.
Half an hour later, Amy turned into the driveway and they all got their first glimpse of Belle Vue Villa, their home for the next ten days.
Chelsea uttered a spontaneous, ‘Wow.’
‘What a beautiful place,’ Vicky said, gazing at the Provençal mas with its mellow stonework, the terracotta roofs on different levels and the rampant purple bougainvillea over the front and side of the house.
‘You have a delightful home,’ Matilda added. ‘I think we are about to spend time in paradise.’
‘Oh, who’s this?’ Chelsea asked, bending down to stroke an energetic bundle of white fur.
‘This is Lola. I inherited her along with the villa,’ Amy answered. ‘She’s supposed to be a pure Bolognese, but I suspect there’s a rogue gene in there somewhere.’
‘Whatever she is, she’s gorgeous,’ Chelsea said. ‘Love her curls.’
‘Come on, I’ll show you to your rooms,’ Amy said. ‘All the rooms are named after famous people who had a connection with the South of France. Matisse, Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Piaf et cetera. And you, Lola, can stay outside,’ Amy added sternly. ‘She’s not allowed in the bedrooms, but she has been known to sneak in occasionally.’
Ten minutes later and Amy had shown them all to their different rooms, pointed out the trays with tea and coffee and, after telling them aperitifs on the main terrace at the front of the house would be at 7.15 with dinner at 7.45, she left them to unpack.
* * *
Matilda sank onto the Lloyd Loom chair thoughtfully placed to take in the view and sighed with pleasure. Such a lovely room, and the view through the French doors leading onto the terrace was a meeting of intense blue sky over the green of the garden and the azure blue of the Mediterranean nudging the coastline on the horizon.
When Sheila had told her she’d won the holiday, she’d tried to persuade her to take it for herself.
‘I can’t. It’s in your name and the rules clearly state it isn’t transferable.’
In the end, Matilda had stopped arguing and replied to Amy’s email, accepting the prize. Now she was here, she was looking forward to relaxing, enjoying the break and hopefully making new friends. Chelsea had been so helpful and kind when they’d met in the departure lounge at Bristol Airport and realised they were both competition winners on the way to Belle Vue Villa. Vicky seemed a friendly woman and as for Amy herself, well, as the giver of the holiday, she was clearly a generous and thoughtful woman. And so graceful in her movements.
Matilda picked up a book from the low table conveniently placed at the side of the chair. F. Scott Fitzgerald’sTales of the Jazz Age. One of his books she hadn’t read. She knew Fitzgerald had spent a lot of time on the Riviera during the twenties and thirties when the Jazz Age was at its height – maybe there would be some tales set down here?
Hopefully her ankle would be strong enough before the end of the holiday for her to walk unaided around Antibes in Fitzgerald’s footsteps. She’d dutifully spent the last few months doing the exercises the physiotherapist had given her and trying to use her stick less and less, which had proved difficult. Her ankle was definitely better, but she was terrified of falling again and the stick had become like a third leg – one that gave her confidence and a sense of security.
Right now, she fancied a reviving cup of tea. One of the Earl Grey teabags she’d spotted on the tray would do nicely.
Waiting for the kettle to boil, she found her iPad and sent Josh a quick email.
I’ve arrived safely. Villa is wonderful. Hope all is well with you. Love Mum x
Taking her tea, she opened the French doors and stepped out onto the terrace. A small wrought-iron table and two chairs had been placed to one side of the doors. Perfect. The garden in front of her was a beautiful mixture of lawn and flower beds containing a variety of wonderful white and scarlet roses. A hedge of pink oleander stretched down the right hand side where she could see a man carefully hoeing away at the weeds.
A garden was the main thing she missed when they’d sold the old family home that William had inherited from his parents and downsized into the flat. With Josh leaving home and William wanting to shorten his daily commute to work, it had made sense, but Matilda had wept a secret tear or two over the decision. She’d loved pottering around the garden of an evening, William at her side as they caught up with each other’s day. William had promised that once he’d retired they would move to France, find a cottage with a garden and the two of them would grow old together, living the country life they’d always dreamed of living.
A heart attack had decreed otherwise, killing William one Sunday morning as they’d strolled through Clifton village towards their favourite restaurant for lunch. And just like that everything had changed.
For the past sixteen months, Matilda had lived alone in the flat, coming to terms with her loss and trying to find consolation in the numerous pots she’d jammed together on her small balcony – and failing miserably. Every time she watered and tended to the pots, in her heart she was wishing herself somewhere else – in a cottage with a proper garden. When she’d mentioned her feelings to Josh on one of his visits, he’d advised her to take her time deciding what to do, and not to do anything too drastic too quickly.
Winning the holiday here, courtesy of Sheila and Amy’s kindness, had started her dreaming again of moving to France. Thoughts she’d squashed as being an impossible dream for her to do alone. But something was beginning to niggle away in her brain, telling her she wasn’t that old, that she still had years of life left in front of her. William had left her financially more than comfortable and she knew that, more than anything, he would want her to be happy.
