Page 79 of For Love or Money
The next day, Al took Lesley for a tour around Nice. First they walked up the hill to the Parc de la Colline du Château, a lush, shady park overlooking the city. It was a steep climb, but worth it for the spectacular views of the city and the Baie des Anges. Then they descended to the Old Town and spent the morning wandering through the narrow winding streets, overshadowed by tall sun-burnished apartment buildings painted in colourful shades of ochre, pink and burnt orange. Cascades of red and purple bougainvillea spilled from iron-railed balconies, and brightly painted shutters framed the windows. The tiny alleys opened out into wide squares drenched in sunlight and dotted with bustling pavement cafés, the tables shaded by colourful umbrellas.
Al was an enthusiastic guide, pointing out interesting architectural features, quirky little shops, the best gelaterie (‘their lavender ice cream is to die for’), and favourite bistros and eateries (‘We have to come back here, the pizza is amazing’).
‘What do you think so far?’ he asked as they reached the Cours Saleya, with its famous flower and produce market.
‘Of Nice? I love it. It’s pretty as a Pixar.’
The market was an explosion of colour and fragrance, delicious smells from the food stalls and cafés spilling out into the square and mingling with the heady scent of flowers. There were stalls selling everything from fresh fish and bottles of deep-green olive oil to jewel-coloured candied fruits and lavender-scented soaps.
‘Hungry?’ Al asked her. ‘This place has thebestcrepes in Nice,’ he said, leading her to a stall where a matronly woman was spreading batter on a wide rotating wheel. They ate a picnic lunch as they strolled around the market, grazing on savoury crepes and slices of pissaladière, and tasting samples of cheese and charcuterie. Al urged her to try socca, crisp chickpea pancakes cooked on huge circular pans, which tasted better than they sounded.
Al chatted easily to the stall-holders in rapid French, and many of them greeted him like an old friend, with warm smiles and hearty handshakes. Lesley felt proud to be with him, even if it wasn’t real. Everyone seemed so glad to see him, and she liked how friendly and outgoing he was. As fake boyfriends went, she could do a lot worse.
Even though Lesley was already stuffed, Al insisted she had to try the ‘best Nutella crepes in Nice’ for dessert. They sat at a small table at one of the cafés in the centre of the market and ate the most delicious crepes Lesley had ever tasted, with cups of strong black coffee.
‘Good?’ Al grinned across the table at her, licking chocolate off his lips.
‘Amazing,’ she said. ‘I just hope I can still fit into my bikini tomorrow.’
‘It still fits, then,’Al said to her the next day as she pulled her sundress over her head and hung it on the hook under the parasol.
‘Just about.’ She tugged at the bra of her bikini self-consciously. Was it her imagination or was it already a little tighter than when she’d bought it? She was grateful that everyone else was too preoccupied with putting on sunscreen and settling themselves on sunbeds to pay attention to her.
‘Well, it looks great.’
‘Thanks.’ It had been a while since she’d worn a bikini, but she felt good in it. She was relieved that she wasn’t the only one wearing a bikini top. She’d been a bit nervous that toplessness would be the order of the day on the beach at Cannes. Not that she had any intention of stripping off, but she also didn’t want to look like a fuddy-duddy. But she needn’t have worried. Stella was even wearing a one-piece, albeit a skimpy one with cut-out panels in the sides and a high cut that elongated her already endless legs.
She pulled on her sunglasses and lay back on her sunlounger. This is the life, she thought. Going to the beach with the Bradshaws was an experience. They’d piled into two cars and driven to Cannes, then set up camp at an exclusive beach bar on the Croisette in front of a ritzy hotel. Luxurious sun beds with fat white mattresses were set in the white powdery sand, and smartly dressed waiters weaved between them, bearing trays of food and ice-cold drinks dripping with condensation. It was all a far cry from the picnic blankets, sandy sandwiches and lukewarm cans of lemonade of her childhood.
The sun sparkled and danced on the water like thousands of fireflies, and blue and white umbrellas stretched along the sand in either direction. White-sailed yachts floated across the horizon, while closer to shore, paddle-boarders skimmed effortlessly along the surface of the water.
The Bradshaws looked at home among the glamorous, moneyed crowd stretched out on the sand sunning themselves. Lesley wished she could put a photo on Instagram. She’d be the envy of social media if she could post about where she was right now. But as Al’s girlfriend she had to act cool and take it all in her stride. So she had to satisfy herself with texting Romy.
She sent her a snap of the view from her sunlounger with the caption:Loving the new job so far.
Romy replied:Well, I’ve just been to Lidl, so not jealous at all.
Lesley laughed.I’ll be spending the day in a togs scenario with Rafe and Scott Bradshaw, she texted back.It’s a tough job, but it beats SEO.
And Al, Romy replied.Don’t forget your boyfriend.
Lesley texted back a heart emoji, then pulled on her shades and lay back on her sunlounger to furtively ogle Rafe in his swim shorts. From where she was sitting, he had all the qualifications necessary to play James Bond. Though her ‘boyfriend’ was no slouch either, she thought, glancing at Al beside her.
‘I think you’ve brought me here under false pretences, Lesley,’ Jane said on her other side.
Lesley turned to her. She was looking straight ahead, her face almost completely obscured by dark sunglasses and a wide, floppy hat. Lesley followed her gaze to Stella and Peter walking hand in hand towards the sea.
Rafe and Scott had wandered off together in search of jet skis, and Michael was fast asleep under his umbrella, a fat paperback open on his chest rising and falling gently with his breath. Joy was paddling at the water’s edge.
‘His girl’s tall with washboard abs,’ Jane intoned softly as Stella walked along the sand, her hips swaying, her long, sun-streaked hair lifting slightly in the gentle breeze. ‘I mean, how can I possibly compete with that?’
She had a point. Stella could be a Bond girl with her flat stomach, perky fake boobs and long, toned legs.
‘I’ll be brutally honest with you,’ she said to Jane. ‘You’re not going to win the bikini round. I’ll tell you that flat out.’
‘Al, throw this one back.’ Jane leaned across Lesley to speak to him. ‘She’s cruel.’
‘Sorry, just telling it like it is. But you have to play to your strengths.’
