4. ALISTAIR
1427 Words
I go down the few steps in front of my front door and across the garden. It’s hot, I’m in a T-shirt and, as I so often do, I have a thought for my friends in London who must be in the rain.
I push open the iron gate that opens onto the sidewalk. It squeaks, I have to remember to oil it one of these days. I go on my left towards the city centre. Walking the streets of the small village of Locron to go shopping is one of my favourite moments of the week. I love this little corner of Provence, far from the stress of big cities. That’s why I decided to go into exile in the country house owned by my parents to finish my thesis. Well, at least, that was the original plan. It turns out that my stay, which was only supposed to last a few weeks, is dragging on. Officially, I need more time to refine my topic. Unofficially, I have already sent my thesis to my supervisor, and I have a defence date scheduled for December.
I have the impression that these few months away from my daily life have taught me more about myself than all the years of my adult life. One question remains: what am I going to do next? Follow a clear path? Or give up years of hard work to pursue a sudden desire, a vocation discovered late in life?
I check my watch, I have an hour before I have to go to a local architect who gives me small projects. We got to know each other over a beer at the Café de la Place one evening, and I told him about my wish to set up my renovation company. He came by the house one morning so that I could show him what I did there, and since then he has entrusted me with a few projects.
I decided to start with the bakery because I haven’t had a single moment for breakfast and a croissant looks good to me. In truth, I didn’t want to find the time to do it, knowing that I would have the opportunity to go out. This is one of the other advantages of being in France: having at hand all kinds of pastries which supplant, by far, our sad pudding.
In front of the shop, a tiny terrace hosts three small tables that allow regulars to drink a coffee in the sun while enjoying a brioche. There’s still a free place. I can already see myself occupying it in a few minutes. But first, I walk through the door, about to say hello to anyone, when I’m stopped by a most delicious sight. A curvaceous backside faces me. Its holder is bent over, doing I don’t know what, and honestly, I don’t care as long as I can enjoy the view. I’ve always had a soft spot for rounded bottoms, and this one is just right for me. I could stay here, watching it for hours, but since I still have a minimum of education, I signal my presence.
“Hello!”
Undoubtedly surprised, the woman with the adorable posterior gets up suddenly. The movement stretches her pants and reveals for a second a hint of red lace. My favourite colour. She turns around, a dustpan and a brush in her hand, and stammers:
“Sorry, a customer broke a glass, I was picking up the pieces.”
I’ve seen this woman before. I think she’s the owner of the place. But this is the first time I’ve had the pleasure of observing her so closely. She couldn’t go unnoticed in the area, with her flamboyant red hair. It’s held up in a bun at the top of her head, and I wonder how far it would cascade if I tugged on her rubber band. She smiles at me, and I say the first thing that crosses my mind:
“It’s always a pleasure to be greeted by a baker’s buns.”
Her milky skin blushed immediately. Her eyes widen and her mouth opens, inevitably drawing my gaze in that direction. Her lips are luscious and red like cherries. And now I suddenly want to taste them. I shake my head to come to my senses. I went to the bakery to treat myself to a French breakfast, not to practice my best imitation of the Eiffel Tower in my boxers.
Am I embarrassed by my somewhat insolent remark? Absolutely not. I usually tell the truth, and you have to be honest: this girl has very appetising buttocks, completely to my taste. My way of expressing it may be unconventional, knowing that we don’t know each other, but it’s still a compliment, right?
Once the shock has passed, the young woman takes refuge behind the counter without saying a word. She pretends to be very busy and avoids my gaze. I’m aware that I made her uncomfortable, and I still blame myself a little for that.
“Hello, Alistair,” her blond colleague calls out to me, who is the assistant I usually meet. “What did you need?”
She gave me a bright smile.
It has to be said that she remembers my first name – I don’t even remember having given it to her – even though I don’t know – or didn’t remember – hers.
I place my order, she serves me, and I’d bet she wouldn’t try so hard to be nice if I was thirty years older or a woman. Am I complaining? Absolutely not. It’s always nice to be noticed by a pretty girl.
“Goodbye.”
I reward her with a wink, she simpers even more. But before leaving the shop, I turned my gaze to her boss. In truth, I haven’t stopped doing it. She seems to be focusing all her attention on a row of lemon tartlets which she’s realigning.
“Goodbye, and thank you for the welcome!”
She lifts her head, surprised. So, to add a little layer of it, I say:
“I love red, and it looks great on you.”
While she’s visibly trying to control the most violent pigments of her complexion, I see the moment when she understands that I’m not referring to the colour of her cheeks, but to the piece of lace that I glimpsed a little earlier. Her face flushes crimson, and I walk out of the bakery. I forgot my idea of breakfast in the sun, my mind too busy replaying the scene that just happened. Do I really need a dose of vitamin D when my day has already been bright?
Later in the morning, I push the door of a shop on which is written soberly in black letters: Leo Chorro, architect.
Leo is seated behind his computer, he raises his head to watch me approach, then motions for me to take a seat on one of the chairs facing his desk.
“Hi, Alistair. That’s good, I’m just working on the project I told you about.”
I like Leo. He didn’t take much notice of me when I confessed to him my idea of setting up on my own to do renovations. On the contrary, he encouraged me to continue on this path, and even more importantly: he entrusted me with my first projects. If I’m still at Locron, it’s thanks to him – or because of him, depending on which point of view one adopts.
He shows me the plans of the apartment on which I have to work.
“I also have another project that I would have delegated to you, but it won’t start for another month or two, so…”
He leaves his sentence hanging and stares at me through his tortoiseshell glasses.
“I haven’t made a decision yet,” I sigh. “I’m supposed to go back to London in December and…”
“I understand. You already know what I think, now it’s up to you to make a choice.”
I nod my head. I’m well aware that I will have to make this decision, sooner or later. The days pass, and the strategy of the ostrich is appropriate for a time but not in the long term. Even though I’ve never admitted it to anyone, I’m scared. It’s not the courage to take the plunge that I lack, it’s living with the consequences of my choices that worries me. And sadly, I know how expensive those choices can be…
- Writer
