Page 9 of Summer on the French Riviera
‘I’ve been singing your praises by the way, saying how talented you are, and I know Hugo’s keen to see your work as soon as possible.’
‘Hugo?’ Harriet looked at her puzzled.
‘The art gallery friend I told you about at Christmas. The friend who is going to give you an exhibition.’
‘I didn’t think you were serious,’ Harriet admitted. ‘I thought the friend you mentioned was called Harry anyway. Is this someone else?’
Jessica sighed. ’Did I say Harry? Blame it on my menopausal brain fog. There are days when I can barely remember my own name. I do have a friend called Harry who is lovely, perhaps I ought to introduce you to him as well. Anyway, it’s Hugo who is really keen to see some of your work, so I hope you’ve been busy doing some?’ Jessica’s voice trailed off as Harriet bit her lip. ‘You haven’t done any, have you? Oh Harriet. Paint pictures not walls.’
‘I’m sorry. I just haven’t been in the right frame of mind and until we’re settled in here properly,’ she shrugged. ‘I did stumble across a wonderful art gallery in town that sells artist supplies and I have promised myself to go and have a look around the next time I’m in town.’
‘Well, that’s something, I suppose,’ Jessica said. ‘Be warned I shall nag you at every opportunity to start sketching and painting. You are so talented.’
Harriet gave her a sheepish smile. ‘I really want to try,’ she said. ‘But I saw some very good paintings in town. There are people a lot more talented than I ever was here.’
‘Stuff and nonsense, as my old dad would say,’ was Jessica’s answer. ‘You’re as good, if not better, than most.’
Harriet shrugged. Starting to paint again was one thing, showing her efforts to anyone, let alone someone with a professional interest, was quite another thing. She wasn’t sure if she was brave enough to take that step. As for an exhibition, no way. It would be a long time before she was ready for that kind of exposure, if ever.
9
The next morning, Gabby paused as she walked under the arch into the brocante courtyard and surveyed the scene before her. This place had been like a home from home to her. Sometimes more. A refuge that she’d been reluctant to leave whenever Tante Marie, Colette’s mother, gently suggested it was time for her to go home. The two mothers were friends and, like their daughters, there were no secrets between them. If it hadn’t been for guilty thoughts about how her own mother needed her, Gabby would happily have run away to live with Colette many a time.
Alongside the brocante, the cottage with its red-tiled roof and olive-green shutters, oleander bushes either side of the open front door, looked shabbier than Gabby remembered. Perhaps she’d never noticed the cracked paintwork when she was younger. Perhaps it was a sign of the economic times they lived in now.
‘Coucou,’ Gabby called out as she walked through the open doorway into the cottage.
‘Come through. I am in the kitchen,’ Colette answered.
The kitchen Gabby remembered had changed. The walls had been tiled with pretty Provençal colours, a light modern fitted kitchen had taken the place of the dark free-standing cupboards and dresser, a La Cornue stove had replaced the old range and a large fridge-freezer stood in one corner. The oak table and chairs standing in the centre of the room were all that remained of the kitchen she’d known years ago.
‘This has changed,’ Gabby said. ‘But I do envy you your stove. I’m hoping to have a similar one but not a fitted kitchen. You must think we’reinsensétrying to recreate a traditional kitchen in Villa de l’Espoir.’
Colette shook her head. ‘The kitchen was Maman’s choice. To be honest, apart from the modern stove, I miss the old kitchen here, it was comfortable. I wish more people would go for the vintage stuff. These days, people drive along the coast to Ikea at the drop of a hat. They forget we exist.’ She shrugged. ‘C’est la vie. Coffee?’
Gabby placed a paper bag on the table. ‘I hope palmiers are still your favourite?’ She watched as Colette scooped coffee into the stovetop Italian-style espresso coffee maker, screwing the two halves together before placing it on the hotplate, something Gabby had seen Tante Marie do hundreds of time in this kitchen. Both their mothers had traditionally worn the all-enveloping floral overall like the good French housewives they were. Today Colette wore a scarlet plastic apron with a picture of the Eiffel Tower, but the resemblance to her mother was nevertheless absolute. The way she stood, the quick movements of her hands, the smile she gave Gabby as she turned. ‘Three minutes and the coffee will be ready.’
Seeing Colette busy with the coffee, Gabby couldn’t help wondering, did she resemble her own mother now she was old? When she’d left all those years ago, she’d thought of her mother as old already, but in reality she’d have only been in her mid-forties. It was only as she herself had grown older that she realised how hard life must have been for her mother. Her father had not been an easy man to live with.
Sitting out in the enclosed yard at the back of the cottage with its many pots of geraniums, lavender and a bushy oleander a few minutes later, Gabby glanced at Colette.
‘So, how long have you been back here? And why?’
‘Fifteen years. No single reason, just life ganging up on me, like it does sometimes. I got married, divorced, became a single mum. I’m guessing my son, Hudson, must be about your daughter’s age and my granddaughter, Lianna, is twenty-two, similar to Elodie.’ Colette picked up a palmier and took a bite. ‘Mmm. And nobody but nobody makes these like us French. Another reason to come home.’
‘You met Lianna yesterday. She helps me here. Hudson works in Nice, so isn’t around much during the day, but you’ll meet him soon.’
‘They both came with you?’
Colette nodded. ‘They had no reason not to.’
‘Your ex in America? Does he not want to see them?’
‘Oui, but he’s not in America. I went all the way to the U S of A and ended up marrying a Frenchman. He’s in Marseille and they visit him. He comes here sometimes too. Life after divorce is civilised these days, non?’ Colette paused and regarded Gabby thoughtfully. ‘You had a happy marriage in the end?’
Gabby nodded. ‘I lost the baby that forced me to leave here soon after I arrived in England.’ She paused, remembering how hard those early years had been. ‘But a couple of years later I met Eric, married and had Harriet. And until he died, life was good. The regrets were still there, obviously,’ Gabby paused. ‘But in the end you learn to live with them and don’t let them define you.’
Colette nodded in agreement. ‘About a year before he died, your papa came here to see me a couple of times,’ she said quietly. ‘By then, he was not physically the man you remember, and he’d changed in other ways too. Especially after your maman died. He could still be difficult, but on the whole he was easier to get on with.’
