Her Mediterranean Makeover

She learned that he liked art—a lot—and was very proud of French artists whom she only knew by name, and vaguely at that.

‘French people like to look at beautiful things,’ he said.

‘But that’s a generalisation. I mean, you can’t say that other nationalities don’t like to look at beautiful things. How are the French different?’

His face twisted in thought. ‘I don’t know how to explain it, but we are different.’

She laughed. She could well believe it. ‘I know nothing about art.’

‘But you must know whether you like a painting, or not?’

‘I suppose I would know, but I’ve never really looked at any.’

His horrified expression made her laugh again. It was going to be fun learning all the differences between them. Like turning to page one of a new book, so much to discover.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so excited about a new friend. At one point she caught herself practically skipping with childish enthusiasm, and shook her head, smiling.

‘What?’

‘Nothing. Just that I haven’t been out so early before, and it feels good. I like it.’

And she liked not being alone, she added silently. She had to be careful not to take advantage of Jacques’ good nature. It would be very tempting to hint at other sights she wanted to see. But putting him in that position wouldn’t be fair.

When they reached the cours, the streetlamps were still on, but a pink glow above the buildings promised that the sun would soon be with them. Market awnings stretched in front of Leonie. Stripes everywhere. Yellow and white, blue and white, yellow and green.

Cut flowers perfumed the fresh morning air, but it was the beautifully presented fruit and vegetables, and the herbs and spices, that surprised Leonie.

‘I thought it was only flowers.’ She pointed at one of the stalls. ‘Look at the way that fruit has been arranged. Now, that’s like a work of art.’

They walked the entire length of the market, a hundred stalls or more, seeing everything from golfball-sized stuffed olives to live chickens.

Her stomach jumped when he touched her back to steer her out of the way of flailing elbows, and towards an item he wanted her to see.

Leonie tried to put her reaction out of her mind. She’d been taken by surprise, that was all. She took her time over choosing a mixed bunch of flowers to brighten her apartment. Dominated by yellow lilies and white daisies with touches of orange and purple, it made her smile as she joined Jacques, who was waiting without any sign of impatience.

‘Isn’t it gorgeous? It will look lovely on my little table.’

She strolled at his side, acutely aware of him despite the mingling scents, the noise and jostle of the market.

She wanted him to touch her again so she could see if she’d imagined the electricity that had zipped through her. But at the same time, she didn’t want him to touch her because she hadn’t reacted like this to a man in…well, in for ever, and it was scary.

She couldn’t even remember feeling such a strong response to Shane in the early days. But maybe it was her memory that was the problem. It had been a very long time, after all, since she and Shane had gone from classmates to boyfriend and girlfriend.

Yes, a long, long time.

And Jacques would probably be horrified. He was being friendly to her because…well, just because he was a nice man. Not because he saw her as anything other than a middle-aged woman who was trying to learn his language.

She tried to jolt herself out of her disturbing awareness of him, because there was no way she was going to let Jacques see what his presence was doing to her.

When they’d finally seen enough, they stood for a moment in front of the tall, washed-out yellow house where Jacques said the artist Henri Matisse had lived early in the previous century, then he pointed and said, ‘What do you think about climbing la colline du château?’

‘Hmm?’ She turned around to see the hill that rose from the edge of the old town. ‘There’s a château up there?’

‘No. There was, once, a long time ago. There’s a waterfall, and a park.’

‘I like waterfalls.’

‘There are lots of steps. We can use the lift, if you prefer.’

‘One minute you’re telling me not to say I’m old, and the next you’re implying that I’m elderly and infirm.’

‘I did not.’ He frowned. ‘That was not what I meant.’

She laughed at his consternation. ‘I’m only teasing. Come on, let’s go. But we’ll walk.’

As they weaved their way slowly up the side of the hill, Leonie took in the increasingly breathtaking views of Nice below. At the top, they made their way straight to the viewing platforms.

‘Oh, my word,’ Leonie gasped. It was the first time she’d seen the harbour, and the number of three-storey yachts, millionaires’ toys, moored in the neat rectangular harbour stunned her. For the first time since her arrival it sank in that this was the Riviera, the playground of the rich and famous.

Turning a hundred and eighty degrees, she gazed across the red roofs of the old town to the city and the more distant mountains. After a long, spellbound moment, Leonie sighed. ‘I’m glad we made the hike. It was worth it.’

She looked back at the harbour, then turned away. ‘Even if there is no château, which is a pity because I would love to see a real French château.’

‘Then you need to go for a drive,’ Jacques said as they walked away from the platform and wandered through the park.

‘I know.’ She shrugged. ‘Never mind.’

‘What do you mean?’

Leonie had stopped to watch some children on the playground, their laughter carrying to her as they scrambled up a rope climbing frame. She looked over her shoulder. ‘What do I mean?’

‘I don’t understand. Don’t you want to visit anywhere else?’

‘Oh, well, yes, of course I’d like to, but I’m not going to drive a car on the wrong side of the road, and I have no sense of direction, and besides…’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t enjoy sightseeing on my own.’ Rolling her eyes, she said, ‘Now I sound pathetic.’

‘No, you don’t. I can understand that.’ He hesitated, then said, ‘I could take you.’

‘What? No.’ She flapped her hands at him. ‘You’re too busy. You can’t do that.’

‘I can. My staff can manage on their own for a day. I’ve left them before, occasionally, when I’ve needed to take Antoine to an appointment, for instance.’

‘But that’s different. I don’t want to put you to so much trouble just for me.’

He nodded. ‘I’d like to take you for a drive, but it’s your choice.’ He lifted his shoulders, his eyes glinting in the sun. ‘If you don’t want me to, I’ll understand.’

‘Well, of course it’s not that I don’t want you to…it’s just…Are you sure?’

He shrugged. ‘Of course. Why would I have said it if I wasn’t sure?’

She tilted her head to the side as excitement bubbled inside her. ‘Would you really take me to see a château?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then, I’d love to. It won’t matter if I miss a day’s lessons tomorrow.’

‘Not tomorrow.’ He grimaced. ‘I should have said. Tomorrow I’ll be with Antoine. I’m sorry, he’s expecting me. I don’t like to disappoint him.’

‘Oh.’ Leonie smiled brightly to hide the fact that she was ridiculously disappointed. ‘No, of course you don’t. No problem.’

He put one hand on his hip and pushed the other through his hair. ‘You’re disappointed.’

‘No. Goodness, I’m not a child. Whenever you can spare the time will be fine.’

She took a deep breath. She wasn’t sure whether her disappointment came from having the trip postponed, or from the thought of not seeing Jacques for a couple of days. But, either way, she certainly didn’t begrudge him the chance to spend a day with his son. Not at all.

They walked on through the park, saw a museum that had been built to resemble a Roman ruin, and the impressive waterfall, but best of all Leonie loved the stepping stones with intricate mosaics which Jacques told her depicted scenes from Homer’s Odyssey.

‘Sam and Kyle would have loved these when they were kids,’ she said, stepping from one to another.

He smiled, sadly, she thought. Then she remembered that his son would never have been able to use them as stepping stones. Her heart hammered and her stomach rolled at her insensitivity. She made a mental note to think before she spoke in future, because the last thing she wanted was to be hurtful to Jacques.

Half of the morning had gone by when they stopped at a lawned area where Leonie sat on the ground, put her flowers down beside her and stretched out her legs. She wasn’t used to so much exercise. ‘Cripes, I feel unfit.’

She watched Jacques as he sat down near her. He had such a smooth, fluid way of moving, nothing awkward or clumsy about him. She enjoyed herself for a moment, just watching him, then looked away, embarrassed that she’d been staring.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Jacques check his watch, and guessed he’d soon have to be making tracks.

‘Come to La Bergamote for lunch,’ he said suddenly.

She blinked. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Do you have other plans?’

‘No.’

‘It’s Sunday. You shouldn’t eat Sunday lunch alone.’

Sunday had always been a family day. Shane had loved his Sunday roast, and the kids had always made sure they were home for this one, even if they didn’t make it for all the other meals she cooked during the week. She wondered if Sam and Kyle would eat together while she was away. She hoped so.

No, she didn’t want to eat alone, and it would be very interesting to see Jacques’ restaurant, she thought as she moistened her wind-dried lips. ‘Thank you. I’d like that.’

‘Good.’ He smiled and her stomach twisted itself into a knot.

‘I need to put these in water, though,’ she said, gesturing at the flowers. And she needed to change her clothes, she thought, looking down at her navy shorts and T-shirt. The white denim jacket she’d worn over the top, since it had been chilly at six in the morning, was now on the ground beside her. She didn’t know how classy Jacques’ restaurant would be, but she would bet on it requiring something dressier than this outfit.

‘No problem. I can wait for you.’

La Bergamote was intimate and crowded and buzzing with conversation. Leonie enjoyed watching the smart clientele who were clearly there for both the good food and the sense of being somewhere special.

What she didn’t enjoy so much was feeling unstylish and out of her league. She’d changed into a tiered cotton skirt with a plain white, closefitting T-shirt, which was about as dressy as she could manage. She made a decision right then that she would spend Monday afternoon shopping for clothes. The next time she came to eat at La Bergamote, she intended to fit right in. If there was a next time, of course. This could turn out to be a one-off invitation, but she hoped not, it was such a great place.

Located just off the Promenade des Anglais, which ran the length of the seafront, the restaurant was a long, narrow room, lit by old-fashioned sconce lamps even though it was the middle of the day, with plum-coloured banquettes along the walls and dark wood tables and chairs. It was elegant and refined, but also gave the impression of solidity. Much like Jacques, she thought with a smile.

She watched as he moved about the restaurant, looking absolutely fantastic in his dark suit, which he must have changed into in one of the back rooms. She sighed. Suit, jeans, it didn’t seem to matter…

She might as well admit it to herself. She was attracted to Jacques in a way she’d never been attracted to a man. Ever. All this heat and tingling and electricity business was new to her. But she had no intention of getting involved with another man. She’d been married to Shane for twenty years. He was the love of her life. Even if he was no longer here, she had her memories, and they would be enough to keep her warm for the rest of her life.

Still, it was a revelation to meet someone like Jacques and discover that, even now, she possessed hormones. That was where these feelings came from. Hormones doing their stuff to her nerve endings. She knew that much, but she’d thought they were a thing of her past; it was many years since she’d felt them stir, and even then…

Well, she could and would ignore them because hormones weren’t real, or, at least, their effects were only transitory. What she’d had with Shane was real. They’d had a family. And that family was waiting for her back in Australia.

This new friendship with Jacques was important to her, and she wanted it to continue because it was making her time here in Nice so much more enjoyable. A visit to the flower market would have been interesting on her own, but not nearly as interesting as it had been with Jacques. And he’d promised to take her to see a château, which was a treat she hadn’t expected to experience.

So, yes, she wanted to continue to be friends with Jacques, but from now on she was going to ignore her attraction to him. Friendship was going to be the only thing on her mind. She wouldn’t allow those silly hormones to dictate how she felt about being in his company.

‘I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Leonie,’ Jacques said when he finally approached the small table.

‘No problem. I can see that you’re busy.’ She hesitated, head tilted, while he sat down, then said, ‘What do you actually do? I mean, I know you’re the owner, but there’s a chef and a maître d’…’

He laughed. ‘You make me sound superfluous.’

‘No, no…’ She shook her head. ‘I’m interested, that’s all.’

He gave a small shrug. ‘A restaurant is a business. It needs managing. Someone has to worry about recruiting the right people to maintain a standard, about keeping the dining room full, about paying the bills.’

‘Of course. I never thought about it. I’ve never known anyone who owned a restaurant before.’

‘Also, I like to meet the customers. We have regulars—some have been coming here for many years. It is only polite to greet them personally and assure them that they are welcome, don’t you think?’

‘Oh, absolutely, but you said many years…How long have you owned the restaurant?’

‘It has been in the Broussard family for a long time. My grandfather started it, and he left it to me when he died. It’s one of the most popular restaurants in the region.’

‘Oh, how wonderful. You must be very proud of it.’

He smiled and gave a single nod. ‘I am. And now, what are you going to eat?’

She slipped on her reading glasses. She’d already looked at the menu, which was in both French and English, but she still didn’t know what to choose. ‘It all sounds so lovely. I was hoping you might recommend something.’

He pointed out a few recommendations, then leaned back and made a subtle sign to the head waiter, who hurried over to them.

Leonie smiled at the immaculately dressed waiter and carefully pronounced her selections in French.

Jacques nodded his encouragement. ‘Would you like me to order the wine?’

‘Yes, please.’

Jacques spoke rapidly to his employee, who inclined his head in agreement before collecting the menus and hurrying off.

‘So,’ Leonie said, ‘why hasn’t a nice man like you been snapped up?’

He turned a puzzled gaze on her. ‘Snapped up?’

‘Why haven’t you remarried?’

‘Ah.’

He said no more and his silence made her stomach tighten. ‘Or have you?’

Not that she should care. Hadn’t she just told herself there was nothing between them but friendship?

‘No. No, I have not.’ He lifted his eyes to meet hers. ‘But I came close. It was a bad time, and I haven’t told anyone else about this.’

She could believe it. In her experience, men didn’t talk about personal stuff, especially where pain was involved. She sat up a little straighter, conscious of an intense curiosity. ‘How long ago?’

His eyes flickered away, then returned to her face. ‘Around four years ago.’

Ridiculous to think he wouldn’t have been tempted to marry again. And, of course, he would have had plenty of opportunity, a man as goodlooking as him, a man who, as far as she could see, had everything going for him.

He looked down at his place setting and moved his cutlery a millimetre or so. ‘It didn’t work out.’

‘Can I ask why?’

He met her eyes. ‘Antoine.’

With a little shake of her head, she frowned. ‘He didn’t like her?’

He gave her a crooked smile. ‘On the contrary, he adored her.’ He shrugged. ‘What can I say? My son has inherited my poor taste.’

‘Then…?’

‘She, it turned out, saw me as…’ he looked up, frowning, and seemed to be searching for words ‘…a meal ticket is the expression, if I remember correctly.’

Leonie nodded, then bit her lip as she waited for him to go on.

‘When I explained to her that I would want Antoine to move in with us after our marriage, and live here in Nice, just the three of us, she decided I wasn’t such a good bargain. I think she’d expected that he would stay with his grandmother while we lived the life of a childless couple here in Nice.’

‘Oh, Jacques.’ She couldn’t help herself; she reached for his hand where it lay on the table.

‘For me, I suppose I was lucky to find out what she was like before it became too late, but for Antoine it was heartbreaking.’

Her heart ached for both him and his son. ‘But surely he didn’t know the reason—’

‘No, no,’ he said quickly, his expression horrified. ‘But even so, he took her rejection personally. He was already attached to her, and believed she would be his stepmother.’

Leonie pursed her lips. ‘Poor darling.’

‘I can’t let that happen again. He is a very sensitive boy.’

After lifting his empty wine glass and examining it, he said, ‘Well, there’s no chance of it happening again anyway. I’m too old to think about marriage now. I’ve been single for too long. Any relationships I have will be…casual.’ He shrugged. ‘No need for Antoine to know about them.’

The glass made a small thud on the tablecloth as he put it down. Like a full stop for the conversation. And with perfect timing, the wine waiter arrived.

After tasting the sauvignon blanc, Jacques nodded his approval and both glasses were filled.

Leonie took a sip from hers and smiled. ‘It’s lovely. Good choice.’

Jacques smiled back. ‘I thought you would like it.’

Casual relationships were a mystery to her; she didn’t understand why anyone would embark on one. But then, she’d been lucky.

Jacques had his reasons, the main one being his belief that he was doing the right thing for his son, but she wasn’t sure it was the right thing for him. It did seem sad that he’d never know the contentment of marriage. His first marriage didn’t count. She shouldn’t judge his ex-wife without knowing her, but it was hard not to assume that she was a horrible person. What kind of mother would leave her child like that, and for such a reason?

Her entrée turned up then. The endive in the tarte tatin had been caramelised until it was as sweet as an apple, but there was a lingering sharpness that contrasted with some creamy goat’s cheese.

She wasn’t a bad cook herself. She recalled the repertoire of nutritious meals she’d prepared from scratch, never failing to have a hot plate of food ready for the table when the family came home.

But when Shane had become sick, cooking had slipped down her list of priorities, especially as Sam and Kyle were happy to grab something while they were out, and she’d made do with a sandwich. She’d started cooking in earnest again over the last year or so. The kids might be fully grown, but they still needed a good, homemade meal to help them do their best in their studies, and she’d been determined to make up for any lack of maternal care while she’d been distracted looking after Shane.

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