‘Really indeed. Major Tom they call me round these parts.’ He gave yet another, this time self-satisfied, little chortle.
‘Oh, were you in the army, then?’
‘Royal Engineers,’ he said importantly.
I opened my mouth to say my father was retired from the army and then, closing it again sharply, sneaked another covert glance at him. There was something odd about this man, not merely that he was a bit of prat with his posing and archaic slang, but something unstable or false, as if he were acting a part. The cavalry twills, the battered waxed jacket, the tweed cap. It was as if he’d adopted the sort of clothes he believed an ex-officer from His Majesty’s Armed Forces would wear. Well, he was way off beam. Hidebound by tradition as the British Army still is, its members have moved with the times. My dad spends his life in baggy jeans and even baggier sweatshirts – it drives my mother to distraction. Whatever, I instinctively didn’t quite trust this Tom, which meant I felt reluctant to tell him anything personal. It was doubtful he’d be interested anyway. All I wanted to do was get away from him – and the pong. By this time we’d reached the bottom of the hill on the outskirts of the main town, so I asked him to pull over and drop me off.
‘I’d like to walk from here if you don’t mind,’ I said. ‘I need to stretch my legs. But thanks for the lift.’
Bringing the car to a halt, he jumped down, hurried round to theatrically open my door and then, with another lot of unnecessary palaver, retrieved the shopping trolley from the back. I thanked him again.
‘By the way,’ he said as we stood on the pavement. ‘Don’t let that little girl bother you.’
‘What little girl?’
‘Nicole, Nic – whatever she calls herself – the negro girl.’
I stared at him.
‘Jealous of you, you see, a hefty dose of the pure green eye.’ He winked at me. ‘She fancies herself as the Villa Matisse chief cook, so, yep, you’ve really put her little black nose out of joint.’
‘I don’t think I want to hear this,’ I snapped, suddenly so revolted I couldn’t be bothered to be polite.
He seemed unmoved. ‘Ah, you may say that, but then you don’t know the boss, do you? You don’t know the set-up. A law unto himself, is ourMonsieurLuc Mandeville, a law unto himself,’ he repeated. ‘But I’m only warning you, that’s all, warning you out of the goodness of my heart. Good day to you, ma’am.’ And with a final flourish of his flat cap, he treated me to another of his daft little salutes, jumped back into the car and sped off.
I stood where he’d left me on the pavement. Even if I discounted his blatant racism, I could not fathom out what the hell the man had been getting at. Whatever it was, it certainly did not sound pleasant. Tom seemed to be suggesting Luc Mandeville was up to something nefarious. However, I don’t know quite why but, even given his rudeness, I could not believe there was anything weird or suspicious about Mandeville. Maybe I’m a poor judge of character and of course I was only going on first impressions, but Luc Mandeville struck me as nothing more than an arrogant, upper-middle-class prat, aggravating but never sinister. It was Tom who creeped me out. But I’ve come across this sort of stuff the few times I’ve cooked for households with domestic staff. The gossip below stairs is positively scurrilous. They thrive on it. And even if you try to ignore what’s being said, you can’t always help hearingit. Was this going to be the set-up at the Villa Matisse?
With a deep sigh, I looked about me. The sun was shining, the sky cloudless and, in between the roofs of Old Nice below me, the Mediterranean a serene blue. It was much warmer than I’d anticipated.
Yet all of a sudden I shivered.
Chapter Four
When I told Luc Mandeville I knew Nice pretty well, it was the truth. I’ve been here a number of times over the years, both as a child and teenager on family holidays and later, before I had Carl, on a couple of short breaks with a girlfriend and then once, the last time I was here, with a boyfriend. The latter was just before Covid when Carl was going to spend part of the Easter half-term with my parents. My father had promised to take him to various military attractions for children: Portsmouth Historic Dockyards, Farnborough, Aldershot – the British Armed Forces run their own tourist industry these days. Dad knew, correctly, that Carl would love it all. For my part, I was far from sure I would be quite so appreciative of watching the boys play soldiers. Besides, I was dating this guy at the time, and it was looking good, very good in fact. So, encouraged by my friends and even my mother, we booked a couple of low-cost flights to Nice. I liked the guy, more than liked him. He was good withCarl, and we seemed to share the same interests. He was even above average in bed. Not in Giancarlo’s class, but that’s not unusual; Giancarlo’s made a lifelong study of sex.
Personally, I think there’s too much emphasis on the wonders of sex these days. Of course it’s great when it’s good, but if social media were to be believed, it seems we’re never satisfied; instead, all in constant search of the ultimate gratification. Hook-up sites, men sending you pictures of their equipment, demanding a snap of yours. It all strikes me as not just juvenile but infantilised. It’s not sexy at all. It’s the lisping ‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours’ of children. One of the reasons the guy I went to Nice with lasted longer than most of my boyfriends was because he had no taste for that sort of thing either.
Admittedly, there were certain things about him that I found a little irritating – the way he would tease me about my height, for example – but in general we were enjoying each other’s company. Everything boded well. I remember feeling really excited about the trip and looking forward to it. We’d planned to visit the wonderful galleries and museums, stroll along the Promenade des Anglais and wander together hand-in-hand around the labyrinthine streets of Old Nice. Niceisstreet life and it’s not just theculture. Nice is not simplynice; it’s pure romance.
In the event, I don’t know how I could have got it all so wrong – about him, that is. But then you learn very little about someone until you’re with them 24/7. At least, I assume that’s true. Aside from Giancarlo, and that wasn’t for long, I’ve never lived with anyone 24/7.
The first danger signal was that literally the very second we had landed, he whipped out his phone and started taking photographs of everything, and I meaneverything. All backed up by what proved to be an obligatory selfie. The airport, the taxi driver, the taxiitself, our suitcases, every single thing on route. By the time we’d got to our hotel, he’d taken more photographs than David Bailey and Man Ray combined. And it didn’t stop there. He photographed the hotel. Then another selfie. He photographed our room, then a selfie, ourbed, selfie. We went out to stroll along the famous Promenade des Anglais and he photographed it. Selfie. We stopped to look out at the glories of the Baie des Anges with the sun setting and he photographed it. Selfie. We went down to the beach and he photographed it. Yes, same again – selfie. I remarked the pebbles on the beach were tricky to walk on in high heels and he photographed them, the pebbles that is, although I think he might have photographed my feet when I wasn’t looking. By the time we had found a restaurant – photographed – selfie – were sitting down and about to order dinner, I felt as though I was in the company of a phone with legs. Then he started photographing our food…
So that was the end of that little dream. We went our separate ways. The last time I saw him, he was at a café in the Cours Saleya, standing on a chair to photograph hiscup of coffee and a waiter was telling him to get down before he broke the chair.
Ah, yes, the Cours Saleya. That would cheer me up.
The Cours Saleya has to be one of the most beautiful open-air markets not just in France but in the whole world. Over two centuries in age, the Cours Saleya is at the heart of Old Nice. Devotedly preserved in the classic Franco-Italianate style, the faded reds and sun-bleached ochres of the painted architecture that surrounds it are a joy in themselves before you add the cafés, the restaurants, the bars, the gaily striped awnings over stalls laden with meat, herbs and vegetables, flowers, fish and fruit, all so exquisitely arranged as to resemble a still-life painting by Cézanne. Then there are the amazing street performers at every juncture. You can sit at a café and watch acrobats, jugglers, breakdancing or simply listen to the always fantastic musicians. It’s more than a proverbial feast for the eyes; the Cours Saleya is a living experience. No face in the crowds that always throng the Cours Saleya ever looks unhappy. People these days say it’s been spoilt by high prices and the selling of tourist tat, but where hasn’t? To me, on that Saturday morning the week before Christmas, the Cours Saleya was everything I remembered and now needed. I decided that before doing the shopping I would sit down at a café and have a cup of coffee while soaking up the atmosphere. It was still only mid-morning, and it had, after all, so far been quite a morning.
‘Excuse me, but is anyone sitting here?’
I twisted back from watching a skilful and amusingact of two young women juggling ladles, soup tureens and their lids to see a man standing on the other side of my small table, indicating the empty chair opposite me.
‘It’s just that the café is full, Madame, except for this one seat.’ Glancing behind me, I saw this was indeed true but then wondered what was coming next. I gestured at the chair.
‘Be my guest,’ I said, before immediately realising that was probably not the wisest response.
‘Thank you.’ He sat down. A waiter bounced over and he ordered coffee and something else I didn’t quite catch in rapid French; authentic, rapid French, that is, not an Englishman speaking the usual clunky stuff.
