Amy replied, returning the smile. ‘Good flight? I thought we’d have a coffee together while we wait for the others. Are you okay with your wheelie suitcase? Or would you rather take it to the car?’
‘Have we got long to wait?’
‘No. About half an hour,’ Amy answered.
‘Coffee then, please. My case is quite manoeuvrable.’
Choosing seats in the coffee shop where they had a good view of the ETA board in the hall, Amy told Vicky a little about the retreat and the surrounding area before glancing at the laptop bag strapped to Vicky’s case.
‘Your email said you wanted time for yourself to think about the future and to try and write,’ she said. ‘I hope this time at Belle Vue will help you with both of those.’
Vicky sighed. ‘I hope so too. I couldn’t believe I’d won when you emailed me the news. I feel guilty about accepting, if I’m honest, but time out just for me couldn’t have come at a better moment. Now the children are grown, I’d like to do something for me rather than get sucked into other things with all the free time I now supposedly have.’ She glanced at Amy. ‘My husband, Anthony, is keen for me to take on more in his constituency than I really want to. He doesn’t understand why I’m so reluctant. Oh blast!’ Vicky looked at Amy. ‘Please don’t tell the others my husband is a politician. People tend to treat me differently when they hear whom I’m married to. At least I can still manage to have the occasional private moment using my maiden name.’
‘Your secret is safe with me,’ Amy said, hoping Vicky didn’t suspect she’d immediately started wondering who her husband was. Or whether he was in the Cabinet. ‘I know how husbands have a habit of assuming and taking decisions they have no right to take, given half the chance.’ Before Vicky could say anything, Amy continued quickly, ‘Not that I have a husband any more. I left him around the time my Aunt Tasha left me Belle Vue.’
‘Thank you,’ Vicky said, clearly relieved, but not liking to pursue the matter of Amy’s ex-husband ‘Did you say the others are coming on the Bristol flight? It’s just landing, according to the board.’
‘Better get back to meeting and greeting then,’ Amy said, standing up and reaching for her name placards.
‘I’ll come with you,’ Vicky said, jumping up and following Amy.
Matilda and Chelsea came through into the arrivals hall together. Matilda leaning on a stick and Chelsea with both her backpack and Matilda’s case loaded on a trolley. Amy, seeing Matilda’s stick, sighed, hoping that moving around the house and grounds wouldn’t be a problem for her. There were a few flights of steps dotted around the place. At least she’d allocated Matilda the ‘Fitzgerald’ room on the ground floor which had French doors opening directly onto the terrace at the side of the house.
Amy introduced Vicky and herself to Matilda and Chelsea before they left the airport concourse to make their way to the car, Chelsea sniffed. ‘What’s that lovely smell?’
‘It’s the eucalyptus trees,’ Amy said, pointing to the tall trees that lined the car parks and the circumference of the airport offering shade. ‘I forget the particular variety, but the heat of the sun releases the oil aroma from the leaves.’
‘The sky is so blue,’ Vicky said. ‘So different to the London I left this morning. And it’s so warm.’
Once everything was stowed in the car and with Vicky and Chelsea insisting Matilda took the front passenger seat so she could stretch her leg out, Amy began the drive back to Belle Vue. While she concentrated on the road, she hoped the other three would chat amongst themselves and slowly get to know each other, but they were all too busy looking at the Mediterranean on one side and the villas and other sundry buildings on the other.
Half an hour later, Amy turned into the driveway and they all got their first glimpse of Belle Vue Villa, their home for the next ten days.
Chelsea uttered a spontaneous, ‘Wow.’
‘What a beautiful place,’ Vicky said, gazing at the Provençal mas with its mellow stonework, the terracotta roofs on different levels and the rampant purple bougainvillea over the front and side of the house.
‘You have a delightful home,’ Matilda added. ‘I think we are about to spend time in paradise.’
‘Oh, who’s this?’ Chelsea asked, bending down to stroke an energetic bundle of white fur.
‘This is Lola. I inherited her along with the villa,’ Amy answered. ‘She’s supposed to be a pure Bolognese, but I suspect there’s a rogue gene in there somewhere.’
‘Whatever she is, she’s gorgeous,’ Chelsea said. ‘Love her curls.’
‘Come on, I’ll show you to your rooms,’ Amy said. ‘All the rooms are named after famous people who had a connection with the South of France. Matisse, Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Piaf et cetera. And you, Lola, can stay outside,’ Amy added sternly. ‘She’s not allowed in the bedrooms, but she has been known to sneak in occasionally.’
Ten minutes later and Amy had shown them all to their different rooms, pointed out the trays with tea and coffee and, after telling them aperitifs on the main terrace at the front of the house would be at 7.15 with dinner at 7.45, she left them to unpack.
Matilda sank onto the Lloyd Loom chair thoughtfully placed to take in the view and sighed with pleasure. Such a lovely room, and the view through the French doors leading onto the terrace was a meeting of intense blue sky over the green of the garden and the azure blue of the Mediterranean nudging the coastline on the horizon.
When Sheila had told her she’d won the holiday, she’d tried to persuade her to take it for herself.
‘I can’t. It’s in your name and the rules clearly state it isn’t transferable.’
In the end, Matilda had stopped arguing and replied to Amy’s email, accepting the prize. Now she was here, she was looking forward to relaxing, enjoying the break and hopefully making new friends. Chelsea had been so helpful and kind when they’d met in the departure lounge at Bristol Airport and realised they were both competition winners on the way to Belle Vue Villa. Vicky seemed a friendly woman and as for Amy herself, well, as the giver of the holiday, she was clearly a generous and thoughtful woman. And so graceful in her movements.
Matilda picked up a book from the low table conveniently placed at the side of the chair. F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Tales of the Jazz Age. One of his books she hadn’t read. She knew Fitzgerald had spent a lot of time on the Riviera during the twenties and thirties when the Jazz Age was at its height – maybe there would be some tales set down here?
Hopefully her ankle would be strong enough before the end of the holiday for her to walk unaided around Antibes in Fitzgerald’s footsteps. She’d dutifully spent the last few months doing the exercises the physiotherapist had given her and trying to use her stick less and less, which had proved difficult. Her ankle was definitely better, but she was terrified of falling again and the stick had become like a third leg – one that gave her confidence and a sense of security.
Right now, she fancied a reviving cup of tea. One of the Earl Grey teabags she’d spotted on the tray would do nicely.
Waiting for
