Page 8 of A French Adventure
‘I miss Pierre’s hugs,’ she’d admitted.
And that was how the phrase ‘I’m needy’ become code for whenever either of them wanted the comfort of a hug from someone who cared.
More and more, Maxine found herself thinking of Olivia as the daughter she’d longed to hold for so many years. Too old now to ever hold a daughter of her own, she’d started to regard Olivia as a wonderful substitute – a daughter by proxy. Of course she’d never voice that thought to Felicity.
It was a lovely spring evening and Maxine checked the rosé in the fridge before placing glasses and a few nibbles in a covered dish on the table and lighting a couple of citronella candles to keep the insects away. Finding her favourite jazz playlist on Spotify, she pressed the button and soon the gentle sounds of a Miles Davis track was drifting around the garden.
Maxine heard Olivia call out ‘Cooee, we’re here,’ from the front door and she went into the house to greet them.
She was pleased to see that Vivienne had a smile on her face. The miserable, distant person she’d collected from the airport had vanished. Replaced by a happy-looking woman who was holding out a bottle of wine.
‘Thank you so much for inviting me this evening. This is by way of an apology for my behaviour. I know I was way out of order. My only excuse is that I had some upsetting news at the airport and, of course, I spent the entire flight brooding about it, leaving me not only shattered, but in a foul mood.’
‘Mercifor the wine,’ Maxine said, accepting the bottle. ‘The rude mood? It is forgotten. We all have the days like that. I hope whatever it is has been sorted.’
‘I wish,’ Vivienne shrugged. ‘It’s a long story that can only get longer.’
‘The garden it is this way,’ Maxine said, sensing that Vivienne wasn’t going to enlarge upon what the story was.
‘I love your house,’ Vivienne said as she followed her into the garden. ‘As for your garden,’ she stopped as she stepped out onto the terrace. ‘What a wonderful place.’
‘It is unique,’ Olivia said. ‘Nobody ever expects to see a garden like this in the old town.’
‘Pierre, he did the design and the hard work,’ Maxine said. ‘And, of course, I try to keep the garden as beautiful as he would want. I miss him so much, but when I’m working out here, I feel as if he is still around and I talk to him. It is comforting and difficult at the same time somehow.’
Vivienne glanced at her.
‘Pierre was my husband. He died nine months ago.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Vivienne said.
‘Thank you. Now, you two have a wander while I fetch the rosé and the rest of the food,’ and Maxine turned away and hurried into the kitchen before Vivienne saw the tears she could feel welling up in her eyes.
When she returned a few moments later, she was pleased to see Olivia and Vivienne down by the pond watching the fish and chatting away happily.
As Maxine poured the rosé, the other two strolled back up the garden and, within minutes, the three of them were sitting companionably under the loggia enjoying the various nibbles Maxine had placed on the table – warm garlic bread, cheesy biscuits, olives, a plate of charcuterie and another with small slices of quiche arranged on it.
‘Can someone please tell me why the food here tastes a million times better than the food I eat back in England, even though I buy and eat similar things?’ Vivienne said. ‘This is so simple and so delicious.’
Maxine laughed. ‘No idea. Perhaps it’s the air? The sunshine? We’re better cooks than the English?’ She gave Vivienne a cheeky smile. ‘You’re on holiday and relaxed?’
‘Could be any one of the first three, I suppose,’ Vivienne said, helping herself to another slice of quiche. ‘Although my daughter Natalie, who is a chef, would be up in arms at that put-down of English cooks. As for the last one…’ She shook her head. ‘I’m not on holiday and I’m definitely not that relaxed.’
‘You’ll be relaxed after eight weeks here,’ Olivia said confidently. ‘Antibes has that effect on people, it’s such a laid-back town. If you’re not on holiday, though – why are you here?’
‘I’m having a one-person writing retreat. And once I’m on course to meet my deadline and have some time left…’ Vivienne took a deep breath. ‘I’d like to try to trace my paternal family roots.’
‘You have the French relations? How wonderful,’ Maxine said. ‘You know much about them?’
‘No, hardly a thing. I suspect it’s going to be like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack.’ Vivienne shook her head. It was too complicated to try to explain her family life and historyright now. ‘Anyway, enough about me – how do you come to be running a pink florist taxi?’ she asked, looking at Olivia.
‘My godmother aunt left it to me when she died,’ Olivia answered. ‘Which, according to my mother, was the worst thing that could have happened. Apparently I’m not the same girl I was before I became a florist – no, sorry, being a florist is fine. It’s the pink taxi that is the real problem. She thinks it’s common.’ Olivia took a mouthful of wine. ‘All she wants is for me to marry a suitable man and have a family. Not going to happen any time soon, especially if she keeps insisting on introducing me to men who are just not my type. Harry the other evening was typical of how desperate she is to marry me off and start producing grandchildren.’ And Olivia made them both laugh with her description of Mr Up Himself.
Maxine gave Olivia a sympathetic look before changing the subject. ‘This book you write? What is it about?’ she asked Vivienne.
‘It’s a time-slip novel about a woman who finds herself involved with the jazz scene down here in two different eras. Listening to the music you are playing here, I guess you like jazz?’
‘I do. I adore the Juan-les-Pins Jazz Festival in July, the atmosphere is amazing. Pierre and I always go.’ Maxine fell silent, realising that this year she’d be going alone. If she even went.
