Teaser
Everyone’s Watching The Strange New Girl in Town
I blushed, imagining complements, jokes, insults
Vermoulle was a delightful town, but on arrival I could hardly speak the language. Aglow with optimism, I met waves of hostility and suspicion.
Men saw an opportunity, women a threat. Shopkeepers saw only a customer but at least they grinned when I stammered Bonjour at their counters. I would point at whatever I wanted to buy, and was served with the insincere charm reserved for fools and strangers.
Numb in the aftermath of divorce, I would have smiled well enough given an excuse, but locals just muttered whenever I appeared. I blushed, imagining complements, jokes, insults.
However, I hadn’t moved to the sunny south of France to cower behind shuttered windows. Dressed to impress if not to suggest, most days I strolled around town, accepting their silent scrutiny. Once or twice I took my friend Raffles to Le Chat — the central cafe — which did nothing for my popularity.
Eventually, Monsieur Alphonse David — my French lawyer — drove down from Toulouse with papers for signing. I suggested meeting at Le Chat to publicly advertise my ongoing presence. When Alphonse arrived I decorated him with the kind of extravagant kisses Parisians offer their worst enemies.
Alphonse — aged about seventy — was startled. Inspired, I called for a couple of brandies in my excruciating French and was served with a smile from the appallingly handsome Georges — a waiter I had thought incapable of any expression beyond contempt.
“You two are settling in, Isobel?” Alphonse was wiping my makeup off his cheeks with a handkerchief. I laughed, delighted to hear my own language.
“Raffles loves it. Everyone’s been so welcoming.”
A ripple of subdued chuckling confirmed my suspicion that several locals spoke English perfectly well. I scribbled a few signatures at the lawyer’s command.
“Cheers!” I raised my glass.
“Salut,” replied Alphonse, tipping his cognac into the space beneath his moustache. My late aunt’s three-bedroom house was now officially mine, and my future was here in Vermoulle.
I was home by five. I never get drunk with lawyers (the last time I did, I married one) and Raffles was expecting me. I opened a bottle, dragged suitcase number three from under my bed and laid the contents on the table.
In the fading sunlight, my collection of silk underwear looked positively exquisite. My ex had taught me to dress on the line between hot and raunchy. Weren’t the French mad for lingerie? I undressed and slipped into a superb lace teddy. I put my hair up, saw my reflection in the window and posed.
Suddenly, Raffles put his head round the door, eyes wide. I blew him a kiss and hurried to the kitchen and the can-opener. He cleared his bowl in seconds. I knelt, tugged his ears.
“Have you heard the one about the English divorcee, the German shepherd and the French waiter?”
Woof, said Raffles.
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