Kate Fitzroy - Perfume Of Provence

Wearing the new little black dress from Joseph, she taxied to the Chelsea Harbour restaurant. She was carefully ten minutes late. He was waiting for her at the table, their table, looking moody. He stood up as she entered but didn’t seem to notice that she turned her head away from him as he gave her a brief kiss. He held the back of her chair for her, waiting impatiently for her to sit down. Then she looked him in the eye and told him it was over. Quietly and simply, the words fell from her lips easily. He looked startled and then confused. For a very brief moment she felt slightly sorry for him as he stood there, like an overgrown schoolboy, wondering what he had done wrong. So she told him she had seen him at lunch. His face changed from baffled to dark with guilt. Before he could reply she turned quickly on her heel and left the restaurant.

Breathing in the cool air on the riverside, she began to tremble. She quickly hailed a taxi waiting in a rank outside the harbour. She climbed in and sank back with relief as the driver made a tight turning circle. Just as he was drawing away she saw Luke emerge from the glass doors. He searched the area quickly and then spotted Rosie in the taxi and began to run after her. She shrank back from the window but not before she had seen he was waving a small, beautifully wrapped box. A box that looked very likely to hold a ring. The taxi gained speed but Rosie did not look back. She began to cry, long, dry sobs that felt as though they would never cease.

Now, sitting in the late-afternoon Niçois sun, she cried again. She cried for what might have been. But her tears ended quickly and left her feeling tired, sad and strangely relieved.

CHAPTER THREE

The next morning when Rosie awoke she sensed it was late. She focused sleepy eyes on the small face of her watch and was amazed to find she had slept soundly for more than ten hours. She crossed the dark room and slowly opened one of the shutters a few inches. Rubbing her eyes against the brightness of the day, she squinted into the distance.

It took her a moment to realise that she was looking at the sea — an impossibly blue horizontal strip behind the fronds of palm trees in the garden below. The Mediterranean. How could she have missed it yesterday? She must have been too tired to take anything in properly. Rosie sighed with pleasure, feeling her shoulders relax as she stood quietly enjoying the warmth of the sun on her skin. She reached out lazily and ran her fingers through the bright green leaves that reached up to the balcony rail. To her delight she realised the branch was laden with oranges. She gave a slow and careful inspection to the glowing fruits and then plucked the perfect one. Its tangy, citric aroma filled the air as she pushed her thumbnail into the thick skin. This was a good day to be alive — to be happy, alone or not — and a perfect day to wear loafers.

An hour later Rosie was swinging briskly along the Promenade des Anglais following the signs to the flower market. The hotel concierge had given her an excellent map of the city and some suggestions as to how to spend her first day in Nice. The sea sparkled before her in vibrant turquoise and navy-blue stripes. She glanced down at the beach restaurants and picked out one for lunch. Yes, definitely that one with the yellow umbrellas and cushioned sun-loungers spread out on a wooden deck that ran down to the gently lapping waves. She carried on towards the hillside that overhung the end of the bay and turned under a stone arch into the market place. She stopped in amazement. It was so much bigger than she had imagined. The air was full of voices, both French and Italian. Clasping her bag in front of her, she wended her way through the colourful market stalls towards a café in the shade. She was about to sit down at a table when, looking up to admire again the backdrop of the steep cliff that soared up into the deep blue sky, she caught sight of a splendid cascade of water tumbling down over the rocks.

“Absolutely fantastic!” Rosie had the dreadful feeling that she had said the words aloud. Just one day on her own and she was going mad already. She decided to give up on exploring the city and head straight for the haven of a yellow umbrella.

By four in the afternoon Rosie had finished her book. A book that she had been trying to find time to read over the last year. Stretched out on a comfortable sun-bed, served with drinks and pizza, a few lazy swims, daydreaming and dozing, she had contentedly drifted through the afternoon. A couple of attempts to chat had been made by local lads in black Armani swimwear and Rolex-or-not watches but she had remained polite, cool and made no eye contact. Why was it that most of her daydreaming had been about that guy at the airport? She didn’t even know his name and never would. Somehow his face kept reappearing as an imprint on the retinas of her eyes. He was reflected in her sunglasses, blurring the lines of her book — when she closed her eyes she could see the way he had looked at her — the way his eyelashes were spiky dark against his olive skin.

Rosie sighed with exasperation. This relaxation stuff was dangerous for one’s mental health. It must be that she just didn’t have anything else to think about. How could she be so ridiculous? Surely she couldn’t fall in love with a man she didn’t even know and who was certainly happily married anyway? She flicked up her towel and folded it neatly, ignoring the male eyes that followed her every movement…not that dismissing the crème de la crème of Nice’s male beach society made any sense either.

She returned to the coolness of the hotel. The friendly concierge gave her the room key and wished her, ‘Bonne soirée.’

Rosie muttered a polite, ‘Merci,’ in reply, thinking that her soirée was unlikely to be as bonne as he was imagining. He probably thought she would be out clubbing and generally painting the town rouge until late, late, late. Once in her room, however, she found she had seriously underestimated the efficiency of the concierge. Arranged on the bureau was a selection of brochures detailing restaurants and places to visit. On top was a list entitled, ‘Loisirs pour la femme qui voyage seule’ . Rosie’s school French just about covered that. A list of leisure activities for the woman who travels alone. Was it that obvious? Smiling ruefully, she glanced without much interest at the brochures until one caught her eye.

‘Visitez la Parfumerie Beauroma à Eze’. She flicked through the description of the tour of the perfume distillery and mediaeval village perched above the Mediterranean. Why not? Well, probably because it closed at seven p.m.? She looked at her watch. Five p.m. already! She could do it if she hurried. Suddenly it seemed to be the most important thing to do. She threw off her beach clothes and dashed into the shower. It was so relaxing to be in a hurry and hopefully a bit of stress would hold off further bouts of going totally out of it.

Fifteen minutes later she walked briskly into the lobby and asked the concierge to call her a taxi immediately. She waved the brochure at him and thanked him. “ Mademoiselle , relax — you ’ave plenty of time. The sun is not even down yet and Eze village is just up the coast. Remember, this is the South of France and you are on the holidays, yes?”

“Yes, you’re right!” Rosie smiled. “But I’m so good at rushing!”

“Rushing — what is this? I not know this word,” he replied, turning his lips down in disparagement and shaking his head.

“It’s like hurrying…” Rosie searched for a word from her school vocabulary without success. “Believe me, you really don’t want to know about it!”

She smiled at him brilliantly and ran out to the taxi that had drawn up outside. And the concierge was quite right — Eze village was just up the coast. The journey was as short as it was breathtaking and ‘up’ seemed definitely to be the key word. The taxi driver drove with alarming contempt bred from his obvious familiarity with the road that careered crazily out of Nice and in the general direction of the sky.