Page 32 of Where Do We Go From Here?
They walk through an arch leading inland. ‘I can’t drive home, you know,’ Wendy says. ‘Not for hours. Not after those spritz things. I’m feeling quite light-headed.’
‘Who said anything about going home?’ Jill replies. ‘We’re eating here, aren’t we? We don’t even know if wecancook once we get home.’
On exiting the archway they find themselves in the vast pedestrian zone that is the Cours Saleya. It’s walled by open-air bars and restaurants sprawling across the pavement beneath multi-coloured façades in faded oranges and yellows and reds.
‘Wow!’ Wendy says. ‘This is beautiful.’
‘Gorgeous!’ Jill agrees.
They walk the length of the pedestrian zone, people-watching, before meandering off into smaller streets.
‘I always wanted to live in Brighton,’ Jill says. ‘On a sunny day it can feel a bit like this. But that’s the other problem, of course. The bloody weather. They keep trying to scare us all with their global warming, but the sad truth is most of the people in Britain are just praying it will happen within their lifetimes so they can go to the bloody beach.’
They buy croissants at a little bakery, with the intention of saving them until the morning, but Jill can’t resist sampling hers and once she does so and has encouraged Wendy to do the same, all is lost. They are fresh and warm and buttery, and within a hundred yards, they’re gone.
‘I need to wee,’ Jill says eventually, nodding at a bar/tabac on the corner. ‘Shall we sit here and have a coffee so I can use the loos?’
‘Sure,’ Wendy says. ‘I need to get more ciggies anyway… the rate you’re going through them.’
‘I’ve smoked, like, five since I got here!’ Jill protests, feigning outrage, starting to weave her way through the tables.
‘Five?’ Wendy pulls a face and takes a seat.
‘OK, ten, then.’
‘Ten?’
‘OK, a thousand, then. Whatever. Christ, I’ll buy some, OK? I’ll buy you a jumbo multipack. Calm down, dear.’
A waistcoated waiter appears behind them.‘Bonjour.’
‘Two Aperol spritzes, please,’ Jill says, not even attempting to order in French.
‘But…’ Wendy protests.
‘Shhh, you! Two spritzes, please!’
The waiter spins on one foot and leaves.
‘You said coffee!’ Wendy protests half-heartedly.
‘Oh, do bloody relax a little, won’t you, darling?’ Jill says. ‘You’re going to end up bringing me down if you carry on being a killjoy.’
Once the sun dips behind the rooftops, they start to feel chilly and decide to move indoors. Shockingly, despite an EU law that made indoor smoking illegal decades ago, smoking is exactly what everyone is doing. ‘God,’ Jill says, waving her hand in the smoky atmosphere. ‘It’s like being back in the bloody eighties.’
No sooner are they seated than a man crosses the room to speak to them.
‘Hello, ladies!’ he says in a thick, slightly drunk French accent. ‘You are English?’
‘We are!’ Jill says, smiling and fluttering her lashes, causing Wendy to roll her eyes in dismay.
‘I love the English,’ he says, already pulling up a chair to join them. ‘I am Théo.’ He holds out his hand so they shake and introduce themselves. ‘So you are here on holiday?’ he asks.
‘We are!’ Jill tells him. ‘It’s beautiful here.’
‘I like too,’ Théo says. ‘It’s… how you say… good to look at.Jolie.’
‘Pretty?’ Jill offers.
