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Got an e-mail early last week from Ben saying he wants to buy me out and keep the house. I don’t have any real objections to that, although it will be funny thinking of Ben living there with his new woman. I know my solicitor will make certain I get the market value I’m entitled to, so I hope Ben realises how big a mortgage he’s about to saddle himself with.
No I bloody well don’t! I hope he overstretches and bankrupts himself, and Samantha has to live in a rabbit hutch. I know, I know – I’m a cow really.
It makes me hopping mad to think he’s given no thought to how Katie will feel living in the house with Samantha – not to mention the baby when it arrives. Apparently he told her about the baby when he told her about buying me out and moving Samantha in. Talk about tactless.
What is it with soon-to-be ex-husbands? Are they all complete and utter.......? Or is it just mine? How come I never noticed how insensitive Ben was when we were married? Or did I just ignore it? Too busy to tackle him about it.
29th January.
Just had a frantic call from Katie crying down the phone, telling me Ben’s moved Samantha in, how much she hates her and how she can’t possibly live in the same house. Of course it’s all my fault – not sure how she worked that one out – and if I hadn’t taken off to come down here she could have just moved in with me.
I did tell her, again, that she was welcome to the spare bedroom in the apartment – but that suggestion was greeted with derision. I might be selfish enough to take off and ignore my responsibilities but she has her part-time job, college and friends to consider. There was no way she was going to run away like some people.
Her “You just don’t seem to care about me any more” jibe was hard to take though. But then in the next breath she tells me Ben has promised that if she stays and makes an effort to get on with Samantha, he’ll pay her college fees for the last two terms. Needs to keep in with him then.
No point in reminding her that I didn’t have much in the way of “responsibilities” to ignore. I was made redundant precisely three months after Ben left. No husband and no job effectively wiped out every commitment apart from looking after her – and she’s told me often enough ‘I’m all grown up now Mum, I can make my own decisions. Look after myself.’
No point either in trying to assure her I did care about her – she was past listening.
31st January.
Between trying to calm Katie down over the phone and telling Ben to tread gently with his latest plans as far as she is concerned, I’ve been a bit stymied sorting out my own life down here. But after much to-ing and fro-ing I’ve finally got a bank account – you wouldn’t believe the hoops I had to jump through for that. All to stop money laundering I was told. Cue sarcastic laughter. Why would they worry about that with me? My money is so squeaky clean it’s like one of those washing powder adverts where everything smells of springtime in the countryside – before the muck spreaders are out.
I’ve joined a French conversation class, found the quickest way to walk into Antibes from here and also signed up for the obligatory top-up health insurance which I hope I never have to use. Finally, I’m ready for my new life. Still angsty though and trying to plot a way of killing Ben without getting caught.
FEBRUARY (#ulink_8c712d3c-326d-50cd-a428-0c66155a5f2d)
This month started quietly, thank God. No more e-mails from Ben, just official letters from my solicitor detailing the final agreements and the date when it should go to court. Katie too, has at least been civil to me when I’ve phoned her – civil if short. But that’s OK. At least we’re still talking.
Well, I’m into my second month of living down here. Can’t say I’m having a wonderful time because I’m not. If I’m honest I’m finding it difficult to meet and make friends, although I’ve finally met one of the villa’s other residents.
Eliosa Accardi is my immediate neighbour up here on the top floor. She turned up one afternoon last week with more designer luggage than I’ve ever seen outside of Harrods.
Half Italian, half French, she’s one of those older women who exude charisma and is such fun to be around.
5th February.
I was leaving for my French conversation class today when I literally bumped into Eliosa. Well to be truthful her small French bulldog, Brucie, wrapped his lead around my legs and I fell over. Didn’t hurt myself and had a fit of the giggles.
‘Desolé, desolé,’ Eliosa kept saying as she finally untangled the lead and scooped up the fat bulldog into her arms. ‘Naughty naughty Brucie.’
She trilled with laughter when I told her where I was going. ‘What you need, ma petite, is a French sleeping dictionary.’
When I looked at her blankly she shrugged her shoulders and said. ‘A French lover. Is the best way. I find one for you.’
‘Non. Merci,’ I protested. ‘The last thing I need in my life right now is a man.’
Eliosa wagged a finger at me. ‘Remember this is France. Le cinq à sept. Everyone needs a lover in their life. You come for aperitifs soon. I arrange it.’
Not quite sure what she’s going to arrange – a lover or aperitifs – but didn’t dare ask.
Did ask at French conversation what cinq à sept was though. And blushed as everybody stared at me when Marc the class leader explained exactly what it was. And that was before Tatienne the Tart slyly asked if I was personally planning to adopt the custom?
Couldn’t wait for the conversation to move back to translating useful phrases like ‘What time does the train depart s’il vous plait?’ Although the French for ‘I wish the floor would open up and swallow me’ would perhaps have been more useful.
Le cinq à sept literally translated means five o’clock to seven o’clock. Basically it’s like Happy Hour in English. For the French though it’s apparently time for an illicit rendezvous with your lover after work before going home to the bosom of your family. Who knew?
Wonder if that’s when Ben and Samantha got it together? Like an after work activities club.
6th February.
Hadn’t heard from Katie since last week so I rang to make sure she was all right. Almost wish I hadn’t bothered. Ended up feeling even more guilty than normal about not being there for her.
She did nothing but moan at me for five minutes about living in the same house as Samantha. Hates it. Told her it’s Ben she needs to talk to, not me, as there’s nothing I can do from down here. Can’t even tell her it will get better because the chances are it won’t. Weeks will turn into months, life will go on but whether the situation will improve is debatable.
‘Perhaps you ought to see if you can find a place of your own,’ I suggested. ‘Just until the end of the year when I return. I’ll be getting somewhere big enough for the two of us then.’
‘That’s ten months away,’ Katie snapped. ‘You should be here now.’
Before I could respond, she’d hung up. Hadn’t even asked me how I was.
In dire need of talking to somebody who might care the teeniest bit about me, I phoned Bella. Another mistake. Unlike Katie she was bubbly and cheerful – but couldn’t stop telling me about how well her new job was going, all the contacts she was making and how much fun her new life was.
It was a good ten minutes before she finally asked, ‘How’s life down on the Riviera then? Met any sexy Frenchmen? How’s Jacques?’
‘Oh you know. Life’s a beach down here. Jacques is still in lust. Asks about you every time I see him. Me? I’m still looking to meet that sexy Frenchman,’ I said, not wanting to admit to Bella how miserable I felt when she obviously didn’t really care. Couldn’t believe how insensitive she was being, gloating about her life to me when I don’t have one.
8th February.
Couldn’t stop crying today for some reason. Must pull myself together. Just got to get on with things. After all, I’m not the first woman to have been dumped for a newer model. Or to have family problems. Going to take the camera and go out for a walk along the bord de mer. Breathe in some sea air. Take a few photos.
10th February.
Saw Eliosa today. She’s arranging aperitifs for the twenty-sixth so that’s something to look forward to.
15th February.
Seem to have got into the habit of popping into Jacques’ bar in the early evening and having a glass or two of rosé with him. Helps to pass the time.
25th February.
Wish I knew what people wear to aperitif parties in France. Dressy? Casual? Come as you are? No, definitely not the last. I don’t know Eliosa very well but I do recognise her as someone who always makes an effort to look her best. Remembering her offer of finding me a French lover, I’m more than a little apprehensive about tomorrow evening. I just hope none of her male friends have been primed to offer their services. At least the invitation is for seven o’clock not five o’clock.
26th February.
Thankfully all the men, with one exception, at Eliosa’s tonight had their femmes firmly attached to their sides like limpets, determined to keep them from so much as clinking glasses with this strange, on her own, English woman. This, despite the fact that they were all, with the one exception, well into their seventies. Alone I might be, but desperate I’m not.
The lone exception made no effort to socialise with me and stood clutching his pink champagne, staring moodily out to sea.
‘Zat is my nephew Nino,’ Eliosa said. ‘The family ask him to look out for me when he is here.’ She shook her head. ‘He is not good dictionary for you. He is all at sea.’
Nino clearly had the ears of a hawk because he turned at her words and made his way over to us. ‘Merci for the champagne Tante Eliosa. Duty calls. Look after yourself.’ He kissed her goodbye, gave me a brief smile and left. Shame really. At least he was in the right age group.
‘All at sea?’ I asked Eliosa.
‘He is the capitane of a yacht. At sea more than ashore,’ she said.
I’d asked Jacques what the etiquette was with aperitif parties and he’d reckoned one should stay no longer than an hour, so at eight I said goodbye to everyone, thanked Eliosa and returned to my own apartment across the landing.
Standing out on my tiny balcony watching the rest of the world living their lives, it hit me again how completely alone I am in a foreign country. The evenings are the loneliest. It’s fine to do daytime activities like shopping or going to a conversation class alone – but evenings are different.
Evenings are for couples to stroll along hand-in-hand, enjoying each other’s company, pointing out things of interest, relaxing, meeting up with other couples.
What the hell am I doing down here? I could be back home planning a spa weekend away with Bella. Enjoying some retail therapy with Katie. I’d probably have found myself a new job and a new home by now and be busy settling in and getting it to my liking. Instead I’m down here… “Mrs Bertha No Mates”. A life with no real purpose.
I watched the lights twinkling along the shoreline as traffic wove its way along the bord de mer, to-ing and fro-ing between Cannes or Cap d’Antibes. It might only be February but the pavement restaurants had plenty of customers enjoying meals and wine under the warmth of industrial gas heaters. People were out there living their lives. People with friends. People with a purpose.
I grabbed my jacket and went out, determined to lose myself in all that action. Become a part of the scene to another casual onlooker.
27th February.
Usually the only bar or cafe I go to is Jacques’, but last night I wasn’t up to being continually questioned about Bella. Honestly, he’s obsessed. Even got me to post a Valentine’s card for him. He wanted her address really but I wasn’t sure about that, so I offered to post it for him. I won’t think about the fact that La Poste didn’t deliver any Valentine’s cards for me this year. Can’t think why.
I walked past Jacques’ cafe and made for the other end of Juan. Found an empty table at a bistro opposite the Casino entrance, treated myself to a carafe of house red and settled down to watch the comings and goings of the glamorous twenty-first century Gatsby set. And boy, weren’t they glamorous.
Luxury cars, designer clad women – well girls mainly – clutching the arms of tuxedo wearing men. Didn’t spot any celebrities – maybe need to go to Cannes or Monaco for that, but it was a fun people-watching session.
Walking back to the apartment an hour or so later I felt better. More energised and focused on making my life down here work. Window shopping in the various designer boutiques that line the main street of Juan-les-Pins, I saw an advert for a part-time assistant for the season in one of them. Part-time would be fine for me so I’m thinking of applying. Working would put some routine and purpose into my life.
Worrying about Katie and the Ben situation isn’t going to solve anything. She’s twenty, currently at college and living her own life. Once she’s finished college this summer and gets a job she’ll want her own place anyway. She’s very unlikely to want to live with me when I get back and buy somewhere.
Haven’t done any of the exploring I promised myself I would do yet, so Friday I’m going to take a train ride along the coast to Italy and go to the market in Ventimiglia. I’m told it’s the market to go to down here. Might even indulge in some proper retail therapy, rather than just window shopping.
Thank God February is a short month. With a bit of luck things will start to perk up during March, especially when we get to Easter.
Whatever you call it – having a gap year, or doing a Shirley Valentine – it’s turning out to be a lot harder than I thought it was going to be. But then Shirley Valentine was fiction and this is my reality. And let’s face it, Tom Conti is hardly likely to turn up in my life is he?
MARCH (#ulink_8b6641bb-c515-5b72-8ae6-4855da238e0a)
The train to Italy was packed but it was a lovely journey along the coast, watching the glittering surface of the ever-moving Mediterranean out of one window and the countryside out of the other.
I managed to grab a window seat and enjoyed daydreaming about the villas and apartments we flashed past. Small bijou cottages, large tower blocks, lavish villas… they’re all here along this bit of coastline. We passed the famous Baie des Anges with its marina and apartment blocks built to resemble waves. Too modern for me, I decided. I’m definitely a Belle Epoque villa type of girl. In my dreams!
The tunnel from Cap d’Ail down into Monaco seemed endless. As the train finally pulled into Monaco I was half tempted to get off and spend the day there exploring, but decided to stick with my original plan.
Ventimiglia market is huge. I found it quite disorientating. So many people jostling to find a bargain. Lots of kitchen equipment, leather, pasta, handbags, cheese, clothes, oh you name it there was a stall selling it. I could have spent a fortune. There was one pair of leather shoes that positively had my name on them.
Stupidly I’d forgotten to take a shopping basket, so I treated myself to a straw one to hold the pasta, the olives, the Parmesan cheese and some lovely shiny aubergines I couldn’t resist buying. I did resist a fake Chanel handbag though – something I was glad about on the way home.
Had lunch in a lovely restaurant with a covered terrace overhanging the edge of the beach. I was surrounded by Italian and French families and the noise level was unbelievable. Italians are so vocal when they get together. Luckily the waiter spoke a bit of both French and English so I managed to ask questions and order the food I wanted. And a glass of Prosecco, of course.
The main course was good – tagliatelle with basil – but O.M.G. the tiramisu dessert was to die for. Promised myself I’d be strict for the rest of the week to make up for all the calories I was eating.
The train journey home was exciting. We were raided by the customs contraband police – would you believe!
Seeing the faces of the women on the train as they watched the police tear apart their recent purchases with sharp knives, I was so glad I hadn’t succumbed to temptation and bought that fake Chanel handbag. Eliosa had warned me about buying stuff like that when I told her I was coming here.
‘It’s not worth the risk,’ she’d said. ‘Save up for the real thing.’ At least my cheap straw basket was safe from the knife wielding cops.
6th March.
I’m really not sure about this conversation class I’ve been going to for the past few weeks. If it doesn’t improve soon I think I’ll drop out.
I seem to spend all my time talking – in English – to Colette, who is desperate to improve her English so she can get a job in London, where apparently “eet is all ‘appening.”
There are two or three English couples there who treat the morning as an excuse for a gossipy catch-up and a bitch about their French neighbours. Been tempted to ask them “if you don’t like it, why don’t you go home?” So far I’ve managed to restrain myself.
The two French women I try to talk to don’t understand my accent so that gets pretty fraught. Beginning to think I need a more structured class with a teacher setting pages of verb homework to be learnt. One to one tuition. Must pluck up the courage to ask Marc if he can recommend anyone. I’ve been avoiding asking him anything since my faux pas with le cinq à sept.
I keep thinking about Eliosa’s sleeping dictionary suggestion. Finding one of those though, even if I wanted one, is clearly not going to happen in a hurry. It’s not as if I can walk into the local bookshop, find the section marked “Dictionaries” and have a selection to pick one from.
Seen Nino visiting Eliosa a couple of times this month. Nice that he keeps an eye on her, although it always seems to be very brief visits. I guess he’s busy with the yacht.
Walked home via the market after the class and bought some red geraniums for the roof terrace pots and a couple of trailing white ones for the balcony baskets. Finally bumped into the Swedish woman from the garden flat in the entrance hall. After we’d introduced ourselves, Lotta invited me in for a coffee.
7th March.
Turns out Lotta’s a life coach and a keen gardener. Her garden is an oasis of calm and immediately had me nostalgic for my – soon to be Samantha’s – garden. Lotta’s lived here for five years and speaks four languages fluently – Swedish obviously, English, French and Italian. We seemed to be on the same wavelength from the word go, and I found myself telling her about my split with Ben and how worried I was about Katie.
Maybe it’s just that she’s easy to talk to, but I even found myself voicing the fact that I was considering giving up on my gap year and going home. I feel a bit old to be taking a gap year if I’m honest.
Her advice was simple and to the point: get rid of the negative thoughts; concentrate on getting on with life down here. You’re only here for a short time so make the best of it – don’t waste time worrying. There are heaps of opportunities to enjoy life. Basically, her rallying cry is “Think Positive.”
Back at chez moi, planting up my pots, I resolved to do just that – think positive and enjoy life. Ben could sort out the Katie mess – it’s all his fault anyway. Hopefully Katie will eventually stop blaming me for the break-up and realise it was Ben who wanted his freedom, not me.
9th March.
Plucked up the courage today to go and apply for the job in the boutique I saw the other evening. What a hoot! A waste of time but a hoot.
Madame the owner – all tight white leather jeans, cropped top and gold jewellery – spoke a bit of English, so we ended up talking a broken Franglais with me trying to convince her I would be an asset with the foreign tourists. But she wasn’t having it.
‘Non, non, non,’ she said, wagging a scarlet tipped finger at me. ‘The clients Francais would no like you no speaking Francais. They would try to cheat me. They no buy from someone they laugh at.’
‘But the English would love being able to ask questions in their own language. And I’m sure my French would improve if I was using it every day.’
‘Non. Go away and learn le Francais. Peut-être in six months I give you a job.’ And with that I was firmly shown the shop door. Oh well, it’ll have to be Plan B then. Except I haven’t got a Plan B.
10th March.
