A ROMANCE IN CANNES

Chapter 8

My first day over, I passed the door of my apartment with pleasure. At least the stress relief of knowing I was home lasted a few minutes. The time for me to realise that finding myself here wasn’t perhaps better for clearing my mind.

The place still seemed so sad and impersonal to me. There was no noise, and I didn’t even have enough to give the place a semblance of life. No TV to turn on, no internet connection. I decided, failing to put on at least a little music, to take a good shower. Maybe with that, I would forget the worries of the day?

In truth, using worries in the plural was overkill. There was only one element that disturbed me after this first day of work: a tall dark man of one metre eighty-five, with eyes as black as the coffee he adored, Georges Orsoni, the chef of Western Palace. Because the rest of my day had gone relatively well, apart from the fact that I still hadn’t managed to find out what the famous mission that I had accepted without realising was. All because of him.

The hot water dripping down my face didn’t help, maybe it was even worse. Indeed, believing that showering will ease our minds is false. It’s such an automatic act that it leaves far too much room for thought. So I didn’t linger under the jet.

Despite the days getting longer, the night was beginning to make its appearance and, with it, the almost ghostly blue glow of the pizzeria sign across the street. I needed to get out. But what to do? It wasn’t like I had my best friend around, living next door.

I then had the idea of getting my phone and launching one of my dating apps. After all, I was going to have to have a minimum of social life here. And maybe that was what I needed: a one-night stand to remind myself that Georges didn’t have the power to ruin my evening. Since his departure, I have taken good care of myself and I’ll continue like that. Plus, I now had a whole new playground.

I got my phone, ready to launch Tinder when I noticed a slight detail… I had no Internet connection… Nothing, nada. How was this possible? I was right downtown! I began to go around the apartment with my mobile. Whether in the bedroom, in the kitchen, in the bathroom or even in the toilet – yes, I was desperate – the little access icon didn’t want to light up. I almost screamed. What held me back was the idea that the noise could easily be transmitted from my apartment to the one next door, and I didn’t want to provoke my neighbour now. Not when I felt like I was in the middle of a mediaeval nightmare.

I sank onto the couch. How was I going to spend my evening? If only I had a cat...

The problem is that I don’t like cats!

No! I was a dynamic and resourceful woman! Who laments not having an Internet connection? Certainly geeks. I was far from being one. Never mind! I was going to do what a young, confident woman does on a weeknight to take her mind off things: go for a drink.

I put on a simple little black dress with red cuffs so it didn’t look like I’d just stepped out of a funeral, matched my lipstick and was ready.

I decided to leave on foot. It would also be an opportunity to discover my neighbourhood. After several hundred metres, I noticed several things.

Above all, walking in high heels wasn’t very pleasant.

Second, although my new neighbourhood is much more lively than my Luberon countryside, I wasn’t in New York either.

The sidewalks were deserted and the stores closed, or about to close, which made sense given the time. There was a multitude of small neighbourhood businesses, but no trendy bars in sight. I didn’t admit defeat, either. I wanted a drink and I was going to have it!

About fifty metres further away, I finally discovered my place for the evening. Okay, it was nothing like my fantasy of a cool place to hang out after work, but I knew you shouldn’t always judge a book by its cover. I walked to the door and peeked inside. My first thought was of my grandfather. Yes, I know, this was a little strange. But this place resembled the bar he liked in Gordes. A long wooden bar ran along the left wall with a multitude of coloured bottles piled up on shelves behind it. A few regulars, surely, leaning on wooden stools. Small tables scattered right and left, in a room painted yellow from another decade. Alcohol brand posters, certainly offered by representatives, as a thank you for the patron’s loyalty. Finally, in a corner, a television which broadcast some sports channel, and whose sound had been cut.

The few people who looked up to see who the newcomer was didn’t pay much attention to me. It was perfect. I took a seat on one of the bar stools, leaving a free place between me and another woman who seemed to be alone, too.

The bartender approaches, sporting a charming smile on his lips and tattoos on his forearms. He must have been around forty years old.

“What can I get you, honey?”

“A white Martini,” I replied, smiling at him too.

I hated it when a stranger called me honey, but when it was a hot stranger, I could be accommodating.

“That works.”

He gave me a wink that could have warmed an ice pack.

“Don’t bother, my dear, he’s married and as faithful as a Labrador.”

I turn to the author of these words. It was the woman sitting next to me.

“It’s not for lack of trying, believe me,” she added, bringing to her lips what seemed to me to be a glass of whiskey.

I had trouble giving her an age. She had curly red hair, no doubt the work of a perm, which Madonna in her youth wouldn’t have denied. Her foundation, far too dark for her complexion, made a nasty line on her neck; a blush, probably bought in the same store as the foundation, was applied to her cheekbones. Her eyes were underlined by way too much mascara that was piling up on her eyelashes. Her leopard-print dress hugged her body like a koala cuddling a eucalyptus; she wore it with rhinestone-embellished tights and wedge heels. There was a word to describe this kind of woman, and it was in force both at home and in the rest of the south of France: a cagole.

“Veronique, but everyone calls me Vero,” she told me, holding out her hand.

“Danielle,” I replied, grabbing it with a squeeze.

“So, Danielle, what brings you to this dump on a Monday night?”

I glanced nervously at the bartender; if it turned out it was his place, I didn’t want him to take my brand new girlfriend’s thoughts badly and spit in my drink. Vero detected my discomfort since she said:

“Don’t worry! Tony knows this isn't Baoli Miami!”

She spoke with an accent that made it clear that she had spent most of her life in the South. It was a little different from my region.

“I just moved into the neighbourhood and I was doing a little reconnaissance tour.”

“Parisian?”

“No! I come from Luberon.”

“The Luberon! But you don’t have an accent!”

I shrugged my shoulders, smiling. It was funny that she made this comment. As a general rule, it was rather people from the north of France who did it. I hadn’t imagined that someone would point this out to me here. Especially coming from someone who just happened to have an accent.

“Oh, it’s okay! We’ll get along well. So, Danielle, doing a little reconnaissance, how come you’re dressed like a pin-up, and you need a drink?”

At least she wasn’t beating around the bush.

“Bad day, let’s say. Or rather, a great need to unwind after my first day.”

“Where do you work?”

I explained to her that I was the new general housekeeper of Western Palace.

“Whoa! Once, with my friend Cindy, we went to brunch there. We were borderline uncomfortable. The servers looked like they couldn’t even breathe with their bow ties!”

I imagined Vero and her leopard dress with a girlfriend, seated on the terrace of the main restaurant. In truth, she wasn’t that bad. I had spotted a specimen or two at noon that also had a style similar to hers. With the difference that their bad taste was marked by brands worth the price of a monthly minimum wage.

“And you? What are you doing?”

“I have a shop in rue Meynadier. It’s called Chez Véro. I sell souvenirs to tourists and I also have a little fashion corner. You should come to check it out. I have a new collection for spring. I have two or three things completely in your style.”

“I’ll not miss it.”

I said that more out of politeness than anything else but, after all, I’ll end up walking past her shop one day. I had been told that rue Meynadier was one of the essential shopping streets in Cannes. I was curious, in a way, to also see what Vero meant by my style.

“And then, why did you come to Cannes? Heartache? To follow your boyfriend?”

“No, rather by professional choice.”

“Yeah, you need a change of air. What do they call it again? Burn something?”

“Burnout. But no, it wasn’t about that. I wanted to change my options, and I was lucky to find this job. It’s great for my career. I’ve always dreamed of working in a palace.”

“Yes, I understand. I’ve experienced that, too. I’ve had my own shop for ten years; before, I was simply employed in a store that also sold souvenirs. But the boss wouldn’t let me do what I wanted. Me, I’ve always had good business sense. I could see he was getting tired of trying to sell stuff that nobody liked. So, when I had the opportunity to open my own store, I didn’t hesitate. I left everything behind me, my friends, my family and I came here, to Cannes.”

“Ah, yes? And where were you before?”

“In Nice.”

That wasn’t quite the answer I was expecting, since Nice was in the same area… thirty miles away? But even if I tried to hide my surprise, Vero must have understood that I was a little sceptical.

“Yeah, it doesn’t look like that, but Nice is really different from Cannes. Cannes is more glamorous, you know? People have style. Even the tourists aren't the same here as in Nice. Either way, it was that or Monaco. But Monaco, I think I would have had a hard time getting used to it. People, they’re a little too snobbish, you know?”

I can believe that Monaco will be different. But the differences between Nice and Cannes weren’t yet obvious to me. It must be said that I have only been to the Riviera capital sometimes to visit cousins. I wasn’t an expert.

“Well, I can’t wait to find out all about it,” I said, not sure what else to say.

“And on the relationship side? Let me guess? You’re single, right?”

It wasn’t very hard to imagine, given that I was having a drink alone in a bar. I nodded.

“That’s good, I’m an expert at romantic relationships. Well, except for me,” she laughs. “I’m a matchmaker. For example, Nathalie, the one who has the shoe shop next to mine. I introduced her to Paulo, my dog’s groomer. It’s been… what? Five years? Do you believe she’s knocked up with the third one already? It’s not easy, poor thing, all day standing in the shop. But hey, it’s Paulo, he has endurance, if you know what I mean.”

She punctuated her sentence with a wink, before continuing:

“But you, you need a guy with class. I don’t have anyone that comes to mind right away, but I’m sure I’ll find him. I’m sure that tomorrow, at the store, I’ll have inspiration. It always comes to me when I unpack deliveries. It relaxes me, I think, and therefore makes it easier for me to think. It’s normal, you see, when you talk to tourists, you can’t think about that, otherwise, you’ll miss the sale. I’m not very good at multitasking. But if you come by in two or three days, I’ll have found someone, it’s guaranteed.”

“That’s very nice, but I’m not looking for a man…”

“Are you a lesbian?”

Her eyes widened like saucers.

“No, but what I meant is that I’m not looking for a man for an ongoing relationship.”

She nodded knowingly, with a small smirk on her lips.

“Ah! I thought so too! I’m rarely wrong about these things. You’re a fun-loving little slut, right? We’re gonna get along, you and me. You know, I stopped being a one-man wife too. Too many complications, and then I was tired of turning into a maid. Now I’m enjoying life and I’m very happy like this. We’re gonna make a hell of a team, you and me.”

She called out to the bartender:

“Hey, Tony! Get us the same, darling!”

I wondered how my evening had taken such an unexpected turn. I was having a drink with a souvenir seller who almost wanted to become my pimp. However, despite her outrageous makeup and her total lack of a filter, I found her endearing. Maybe I’ll take a look at her shop. We just had to hope that Vero had drunk enough whiskey to forget her promise to play matchmaker for me tomorrow.