was watching, then he patted her bottom. ‘The first honeymoon isn’t over yet, woman. You wait till I get you home.’
Rose searched through her list of long-playing records. She hadn’t played an LP in the house since Bernard had been alive, but she knew what she was looking for. She leafed through the stacks of old records organised alphabetically; she flipped past Abba, Bach and Bizet, The Beatles, Beach Boys, Beethoven, Berlioz, Brahms, Buchner, John Coltrane, Chopin, Dire Straits, and there it was – next to Dylan. Debussy’s ‘Danse bohémienne’. Rose reached up to the record deck, lifted the arm and placed the needle at the edge. Immediately she heard the rhythmic sound of the throbbing grooves through the speakers, then music filled the room. She flopped into an armchair and closed her eyes. Piano keys bubbled with sounds light as feet stepping on air, an energetic tripping dance that transported her to Paris at the end of the nineteenth century. Rose imagined cafés, painters in berets, women in long robes and coquettish hats, a crowded room, people drinking wine and absinthe and sharing laughter. She saw dark streets, a couple in love, spilling from the busy café, the woman’s voice a soft gurgle in French; the man, his words low, strangled by desire, wrapping his arm around her as they walked down towards the Seine. The dark river swirled and they were alone and in love. Amoureux. It sounded wonderful.
Rose sighed. Paris would be a rich experience, a heady mix of new tastes and scents and stimulating sights and sounds. She would see the Eiffel Tower, the galleries, the churches. She had been to Paris before but that was forty years ago, a weekend break with Bernard, and they had argued about whether to have dinner at the hotel or in a little bistro that Rose would have preferred. She imagined a tapestry of new sensual delights that would transform her life for ever. She breathed deeply, imagining herself as the bohemian woman in the dance, her eyes dark and flashing as she swirled and seduced in a crimson dress. Her movements were confident, provocative, and powerful – she was in touch with her true self. Rose smiled. She would make herself a special meal tonight. She had found a recipe book and it was full of all sorts of delicious options – duck à l’orange, Brie en croute, coq au vin, tarte Tatin. She had bought a bottle of Beaujolais. She had no idea what it was going to taste like, but it was French – it was preparation for Paris and Rose was ready. This was going to be the trip of a lifetime.
The red clay cliffs topped with tufts of grass sprawled in the distance. Jen picked her way across the beach, avoiding the dark streak of sand that held puddles of water. Eddie took her hand in his gloved fingers. ‘No, I can’t say I’m entirely comfortable with it, Jen.’
She glanced up at him; his handsome craggy face and serious blue eyes held an expression of concern. She took a breath. ‘I’ve researched it on the Internet. We can get a taxi to the airport and a plane directly to Paris, then another taxi to the hotel. We can leave on the Wednesday morning and come back on the following Monday. That will give me four whole days here to prepare for our wedding.’ She gave him a hopeful smile. ‘And there won’t be much to prepare – the date is booked, March thirtieth, and the Olive Grove have agreed to do the meal. We’ll just pick up the ring from the jewellers on Thursday, and the flowers – that’s all there is to organise now.’
He sighed. ‘Call me a bit old-fashioned, Jen, but the idea of you in Paris with four other, well, let’s say, older women – it worries me, quite frankly. I mean – I’m just concerned for your safety because I care…’
‘Oh, we won’t go off the rails.’ Jen giggled. ‘A gallery, a show – we’ll behave ourselves.’
His frown deepened. ‘It’s not just that. Paris is a huge city – there are all sorts of people there who will see you as – basically – five naïve women whom they can take for a ride. You’ll be sitting ducks. Do you all speak the language? Do you have any idea about the price of a taxi? And what about the scammers and the thieves on the Metro? What if the hotel is awful, next to a strip club, or there are bugs in the bed?’
‘I’ve picked one out – the Sirène – it seems a nice hotel.’ Jen had started to feel worried. ‘I’m sure we’ll be all right. We’ll be very careful.’
‘Five vulnerable women in their seventies.’ Eddie shook his head. ‘I’d be worried sick. I wouldn’t even be in the UK to help you if you got into trouble.’
‘But you’re going to Las Vegas. That can’t be the safest place…’ Jen heard the whine in her voice and felt annoyed with herself.
‘That’s different, it’s just me and Harry, and we’re both capable of taking care of ourselves. We’re…’ He paused. Jen wondered if he was about to say, ‘We’re men.’ Eddie breathed out. ‘We’re more experienced in the ways of the world. I’d just be so worried that something might happen to you.’
Jen stared ahead at the cliffs, reds and ochres merging against a dappled sky flecked with milky clouds. She didn’t want to upset Eddie; she had no idea what to say next. She had already paid the deposit.
Tess sat in the bath listening to music on the tinny radio as she squirted huge spurts of essential lavender in the water. Little pools of oil floated, thick and iridescent on the surface. She lay back in the darkness, hazy candles flickering on the window ledge, the smell of sandalwood hanging on the air. She breathed in, determined to relax. She was still furious. Alan had gone out to the clubhouse. She suspected he was in the bar, still complaining to Cliff about his foolish wife.
She had told him she was going to Paris. He had replied that she could go where she liked but it was a waste of money and it would be wiser to spend it on some new curtains for the lounge. She had argued that he was always out playing golf and it was her turn to have fun. He had grunted, suggesting that the last time she went out with her four women friends she had drunk too much and he thought that once she was in Paris, she wouldn’t know where to draw the line. Basically, she was a social liability to her friends – if her friends were, indeed, the sort of women she should be going away with at all.
Tess had retorted that she never went anywhere with Alan, she seldom enjoyed herself and she was determined to go. It was Jen’s hen celebration and she, Tess, would do as she pleased. Alan had raised his hands in the air; he was not about to stop her – he wasn’t that kind of man. But he thought the whole escapade was pretty silly, if the truth were told; she was far too old to go gadding about, behaving like a foolish teenager. He added that, although he’d never met any of her new friends, he imagined them to be loud, flighty types and Tess would be a lot better off to try to pal herself up with some of the golf wives, like Cliff’s wife, Celia, who was very dull and frumpy and in need of a good friend. Tess had told him to go to hell and he’d replied that he’d go off down the golf club for a drink instead and give her time to come to her senses.
Tess closed her eyes and sank beneath the bubbles, letting the water swirl over her face and into her nostrils. Under the water, she could hear the low vibration of the sounds –moving water thudded; music from the radio thrummed, dull and low. She slid upright, blinking until her eyes were clear, and reached for a bar of scented body scrub. Suddenly, she laughed out loud, a heady peal that rose to the ceiling and filled the bathroom. Tess thought her laugh was maniacal, hysterical, a laugh of abandon. But she couldn’t help it. As soon as Alan had left, she’d phoned Jen and paid the deposit. That was it. She couldn’t turn back now – she was off to Paris.
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