Page 16 of A French Affair
The rest of the journey continued in silence as Belinda resolutely dismissed her memories and thought about the campsite while Fern concentrated on driving.
Five minutes later, Fern parked alongside the river and Belinda smothered a sigh of relief as they got out of the car.
‘That’s the restaurant we’re having lunch in,’ Fern said, pointing to a complex on the other side of the river, approached by a bridge. ‘Come on, let’s walk the dogs and build up an appetite.’
With both dogs on leads, happily showing them the way, the two of them strolled along. Other people were out and about, enjoying the spring-like morning and several polite ‘Bonjours’ were exchanged as they passed. Fishermen were setting up their rods and little encampments of seats, picnic boxes and fishing nets at various points along the river.
‘I wonder if fishermen used to come to the campsite? We have the fishing rights on the river for about a kilometre,’ Belinda said, watching as one man showed a small boy how to cast his line. ‘Do you think fishing holidays would prove popular?’
‘Years ago, Alain’s parents used to organise an annual fishing festival. Laurent went the last year it was held. About thirty men and their families turned up for the weekend.’
‘I must talk to Alain about it,’ Belinda said. They continued to walk in companionable silence until it was time to return to the car.
Thirty minutes later, they were driving over the bridge and parking in the restaurant car park.
‘The dogs will be okay in the car?’ Belinda asked.
‘This place is dog-friendly. They’ll have a drink and then lay under our table. At least Lady will.’ Fern looked at Belinda.
‘BB will too,’ Belinda hastened to assure her, but crossed her fingers as she spoke. Lady was far better behaved than BB.
‘Mrs LeRoy and Lady, how lovely to see you both again and to meet your friends,’ the receptionist greeted them as they entered. They were shown straight to their table by a window overlooking the river and, thankfully, BB followed Lady’s lead and obediently lay down under the table.
Belinda smothered a laugh as she looked around. ‘Nearly every table has a dog under it.’
Fern smiled. ‘It’s good business. So many people walk the river path every day with their dog and stop off here for a coffee or lunch, they’d be silly to ban dogs. Besides, the French have never had a problem allowing dogs into their cafés and restaurants. I remember when I first came over, people used to put them in their supermarché trolley and push them around whilst they did their shopping. Brussels put a stop to that a few years back.’
Belinda smiled, a memory of going shopping with her mum and seeing just that in the nearest supermarché to home coming to mind. At the time it hadn’t seemed strange, just a normal thing to do.
A waitress appeared with a bread basket, a menu for each of them and the wine list which she handed to Fern as she spoke to her in French.
Listening to the two of them, there was something vaguely familiar about the woman that Belinda couldn’t quite pin down. It wasn’t until the waitress turned to include Belinda in the discussion about which wine they would like to accompany their meal that the name on the neat badge she wore pinned to her pristine black blouse leapt out at her. Sandrine.
Belinda quickly put her head down and studied the menu.
‘Sorry I don’t speak or understand French.’ She gave an apologetic shrug. ‘I’m English. Whatever my friend chooses will be fine by me.’ Rather than acknowledge the stare she sensed Fern was sending in her direction, Belinda reached out for the water carafe and poured herself a glass.
The waitress turned back to Fern, with her pencil poised.
Fern placed their order of two green salads for starters and two roast beef main courses, explaining that as she was driving, a half carafe of the house Bordeaux between them would be fine. ‘Merci,’ and Fern handed back the menus.
Once the waitress was out of earshot, she looked across at Belinda, her eyebrows raised.
‘I know you speak French, so what was that all about?’
Belinda leant across the table and whispered, ‘She was my bête noir at school. I’ll tell you more later. Right now I need a glass of that wine you ordered.’ She took a bread roll from the basket and, breaking a piece off, chewed it thoughtfully, registering as she did so Fern’s shocked look at her words.
Would Sandrine recognise her? If it hadn’t been for her name badge, Belinda probably wouldn’t have realised the woman was Sandrine, she’d changed so much. Yes, there had been something vaguely familiar about her, but the slim blonde she’d known had matured into a middle-aged woman with henna-red hair.
When Sandrine reappeared with their wine, Belinda kept her head averted and looked out of the window.
Fern poured a glass of the wine and pushed it across the table to Belinda. ‘Here you go. I’m intrigued about how you know Sandrine from school, but if you don’t want to talk about it, you don’t have to.’
Belinda picked up her glass and gently swirled the wine around, wondering whether to tell Fern the truth.
‘I’m hoping that she won’t recognise me and dump my lunch in my lap.’ She took a mouthful of her drink and decided the best thing to do would be to tell Fern a shortened, sanitised, version of the truth about how she knew Sandrine. ‘I grew up not a million miles from this place,’ Belinda said. ‘On the way here, we drove down lanes that I used to know every bend and pothole on. I saw cottages that people I knew lived in.’ She took another sip of wine. ‘I should have realised that sooner or later I would come face to face with someone from my past. Shame it turned out to be, not an old enemy exactly, but certainly someone who made my teenage years difficult.’ Belinda bit back on a smile. ‘But then I don’t suppose hers were trouble-free either.’
Fern poured a small amount of wine into her own glass. ‘How come you went to school in France?’
