Kate Fitzroy - Perfume Of Provence

“Definitely not.” Rosie laughed, washing down the last crumb of her croissant with the sweet orange juice. “I shall just finish my coffee and then I’m going back to the hotel to change. What time do we have to leave Nice?”

“Well, as soon as possible really.” Jean-Michel looked at his watch. “It depends…you wouldn’t consider going on the back of my motorbike, would you?”

Rosie opened her eyes wide. “Motorbike… er…I have ridden pillion once before. Well, why not? I shall just have to keep my arms tight round you!”

“Fantastic!” Jean-Michel’s face was alight with enthusiasm. “I’ve got a spare helmet and I’ll take it really slowly — it’s a great road!”

“Not another vertical road!” Rosie laughed. “OK, I’ll dash round to the Windsor and change straight away.”

“Just wait whilst I shower and I’ll take you round.”

“No, I know the way — I walked into the market yesterday. The walk along the prom will wake me up and it’s a wonderful day.”

“It certainly is.” Jean-Michel pulled her close and kissed her tenderly on the forehead. “It’s the best day of my life. I’ll miss you — what time shall I pick you up?”

“An hour from now? Say eleven o’clock?”

“Fine, I’ll see you in the lobby of the Windsor. No need to rush — you are supposed to be on holiday!”

“That’s exactly what the concierge said to me yesterday. But imagine, if I hadn’t dashed off to Eze I would have just missed you and been totally miserable for the rest of my life!”

They kissed again as if they were to be parted for ever and finally Rosie pulled away from Jean-Michel and ran out of the flat. The market square still had an early-morning atmosphere. The cafés were beginning to open their umbrellas; the stall-holders were lazily spreading out their goods and chatting to each other. On the north side the paving slabs were running with water as the fishmongers hosed down their white marble slabs, making way for the baskets of lobsters and shellfish waiting in the shade. Rosie made her way across to the stone archway towards the promenade. Once again her mind reeled at how quickly her life had changed since yesterday. Less than twenty-four hours since she had walked under this same arch, lonely and unsure of her future. She gave a wide smile to no one in particular and looked up to the sun.

“Bonjour, ma belle!” a voice called out from behind her.

And another added, “Ciao, bellissima…e in amore?”

She turned and blew a kiss into the air towards the two stall-holders that had called out to her. They replied with whistles of approval as she swung out of sight and along the promenade.

The concierge she now knew to be Henri was still on duty in the lobby. He greeted her with a friendly smile, his bushy eyebrows raised slightly in amusement.

“ Bonjour, Mademoiselle Fielding! Il fait beau, n’est-ce-pas? Are you doing more of the rushin’ about?”

“Oh, yes, I’m still rushing around like mad…someone I think you know is picking me up at eleven. I must dash!”

“Is the dash like the rush?” he asked with a smile.

“Exactly, you’ve got it!”

“Then I think mademoiselle is very good at it, non ?”

“ Oui , Henri, very good indeed — à bientôt !”

She ran across to the lift and, by the look of bemusement on his face, she knew he was speculating just how she knew his name and exactly who would be collecting her at eleven. Well, people who didn’t rush or dash about had plenty of time for speculation.

CHAPTER FIVE

Rosie was back in the lobby at precisely eleven but Jean-Michel was already there waiting for her. He was talking to Henri, his hands waving wildly as Henri listened intently. As though sensing she was near, Jean-Michel broke off abruptly and turned towards her.

“Et voilà — elle arrive!” He kissed her on both cheeks and then once more on the first cheek again. Then he handed her a large leather holdall, saying, “I’ve brought you a helmet and some clothes to put on over your own. I’m afraid they’ll be rather big.”

Rosie peered into the bag and saw the studded cuff of a dark leather motorbike jacket. She wrinkled her nose.

“Do I have to?”

Both men answered as one.

“Oui!”

Rosie sighed. She had thought her white jeans and pink cotton sweater sufficient cover for the ride — it was such a hot day.

“OK — I’ll put this lot on top of what I’m wearing. Can you find room for my handbag on the bike?”

“No problem — it’ll fit in the box behind the seat. I’ll wait for you outside.”

“I won’t be a moment!”

Both men laughed as though sharing a joke and Henri said, “We are just saying how you are good at this rushing about… Now I understand this word so maybe I use it every day.”

“As long as you don’t start rushing around yourself, Henri. Remember this is the South of France.”

“You’re right, I don’t think it would be good for me…and by the way, before you rush off…” He drew nearer and said discreetly into her ear, “Congratulations, felicitations! Un vrai coup de foudre — this is surely the love at first sight, and somehow I know you are made for each other. For so long a time I have been hoping my good friend Jean-Mi would find true love.”

“Thank you, Henri.” Rosie became serious for a moment. “Thank you very much. That visit to Eze — well, it was all your idea and we have you to thank.”

“Maybe, but I think it is more the destiny…and all this rushin’ around ’ere and dashin’ about there, bien sûr .” He smiled. “But thanks to Jean-Michel, I shall be pleased to drink your health with my wife tonight.”

He winked and reached under the desk and showed her a bottle of champagne.

Back in the lift again Rosie regarded herself in the mirrored wall. “Felicitations!” she said to her reflection. “What a delicious word!”

As the sun soared towards its zenith they were high above the coast, winding slowly through the Sunday quiet of small villages and roaring between the silver-grey olive groves. Rosie soon became accustomed to the throb of the big bike and the warm air rushing past as she held Jean-Michel tightly encircled in her arms. She was just about to shout at him to try and find out how much further it was when Jean-Michel slowed down and turned to the left, between two rough-hewn pillars supporting an arch. Rosie could just make out the name ‘Château de Fleurenne’ chiselled into the worn corner stone. The tall gates of intricate, wrought ironwork had the air of being permanently open as they gently rusted into the red earth. Tall, leafy plane trees lined the sandy driveway. As the bike throbbed slowly forward through flickering shadow and sunlight she caught brief glimpses of the view between the pale-flecked tree trunks. Quick snapshots of a heavenly landscape under an azure sky.

Jean-Michel steered the bike carefully between the potholes and bumps and then drew to a complete standstill and turned off the engine. The heat and silence enfolded them and Rosie drew in a breath of delight at the sight of the château spread out before them, basking in the sunlight that had faded it for centuries. Pale pink-washed walls and chalky grey shutters, bleached terracotta roof tiles and…there was someone on the terrace at the top of the crumbling stone steps. Standing tall and imperious, metallic grey hair pulled into a chignon, a pale grey dress, one hand raised to her eyes and the other holding a walking cane — there could be little doubt that this was Grandmère.

Jean-Michel pulled off his helmet and helped Rosie to unbuckle hers. Her hair spilled loose and he ran his hand lightly over it.