Provence
Lying awake at 3.30 the other morning, I thought about a V.S. Pritchett quote: ‘Once one has got used to the big wrongs of life, little ones wake up, with their mean little teeth.’ These past few weeks ‘little ones… with their mean little teeth’ meant another chest infection, laryngitis, baffling spreadsheets, a painting I couldn’t get right which was holding up studio work, two new tyres, losing my glasses and almost daily migraines. But worse, with regret and a heavy heart, a few days before I’d ended for good an on/off long-distance and occasional, but fond, ‘situationship’. Horrible word but apt in this case. It was never going anywhere, neither of us wanted it to. We could hardly be more different in terms of background and interests, but I was grateful to him for making me laugh, and feel loved and alive again while it lasted.
It was too early to message a friend and too late to pour a drink or smoke. And because I’d been reading for a couple of hours, was bored by my phone and wasn’t well enough to exercise, the only recourse was work. Lovely work. For more than 40 years, either nursing or running a stressful business over which I had little control, and later in France out of necessity cleaning and caring, I envied people who could say that.
After I made coffee, I sat at the table, handwrote a long journal entry, then went downstairs and looked and looked at the painting until I saw the problem. By now I felt better and noticed a slight pool of pearly brightness appearing in the east – proving that the Mamas & the Papas were right and ‘the darkest hour is just before dawn’.
In the afternoon my phone pinged. It was a message from an air-conditioning engineer chap I know slightly and had seen earlier that day at a house I look after. Sebastien’s about my age, a bit grubby and unshaven but fit, not bad-looking, and comical. I’d refused an invitation earlier in the summer to go for a swim in his pool. ‘It was very good to see you earlier. Would you like to come over for apéro dînatoire some time?’ I groaned. I really couldn’t be bothered entertaining the idea, never mind the reality, of sharing wine, olives, crisps, hummus and too-thick slices of saucisson sec with a man I hardly knew. It was obvious he liked me: the twinkly smile, the standing a little too close, the work messages signed off with kissy, winky emojis – very French. Most older workmen down here sign off like that; British men never do. From most you’re lucky if you get a reluctant ‘x’.
This message was swiftly followed by, ‘but of course we can keep it professional…’. I thanked him for the invitation and told him I would prefer to keep things professional. Not quite ready to give up, he came back with: ‘Perhaps you prefer women?’ It wasn’t the first time in my life a man has asked this when I’ve refused a overture. Pragmatic or arrogant maybe, but funny.
I ignored the question. Ten minutes later, another text: ‘My girlfriend likes women, she likes to ‘share’ with her women friends… I don’t mind…’ which amused me so much I screengrabbed it and sent it to a friend knowing she’d laugh too. What could he mean?
I had to ask. ‘What does your girlfriend like to share with her women friends? Gossip? Sexual intimacy? Recipes? Remember, I’m Scottish.’ I went on to explain that, fearing complications, since Jeremy died I’ve generally been wary of accepting the few invitations I’ve had from interested men, but didn’t tell him that the one exception I made to this, exciting and fun as it was, proved me right and had just ended badly. The exchange with Sebastien concluded with: ‘I’m sorry Catriona. I hope you are happy now. It takes time to recover from the loss of a loved one.’ I never did find out what his girlfriend’s proclivities were.
Not quite ready to give up, he came back with: ‘Perhaps you prefer women?’
The rest of the day was spent down in the studio wresting paint off canvas board and reworking a simpler composition. What a relief. There’s a long way to go but I could just about see the finished work in my mind’s eye and hoped the client would be happy.
Later, in bed, I picked up a book I’d found at American Cathy’s, Enid: The Scandalous Life of the Formidable ‘Lady Killmore’ by Robert Wainwright. What a story. A welcome distraction with all its glitter: diamonds, casinos, haute couture and ill-advised marriages to much older and usually wealthy sick men. The inevitable scandals. A timely reminder that wealth doesn’t always shield against world events. Edith and her young daughter, despite fabulous riches, spent an uncomfortable period under Vichy/Nazi control in their vast mansion, La Fiorentina, on the Côte d’Azur, aiding escaped Allied prisoners. With little food and few toiletries to be bought, they had to keep goats and even made their own soap – a necessity given that Edith was also nursing her terminally ill third husband, a fantastically wealthy heroin addict.
I woke to find Jeremy beside me in bed. Joy! We tumbled about in each other’s arms laughing. He used to mock: ‘Treen, I’ve never met anyone who has such prosaic and obvious dreams as you.’
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