La Vie en Bleu (11 page)

But then, Vivienne didn’t know her like Pippa did. There was only
one person who came close to it. Someone she really needed. “I should go and
see Babs.”

Not waiting to look at Vivienne, she hurried out of the door and
strode away. The claustrophobic secrecy squeezed at her chest.

As she rounded the corner from the apartment, she fought to suck
in the hot humid air. She pulled her mobile from her pocket and dialled
Rebecca.

“Berne?”

“
Oui
. She is okay, really?”

Rebecca sighed. “Yeah, I mean. She’s freaked. Which she needs to
get over by the morning or she’s gonna face some uncomfortable questions.”

Barmy summer heat, moon glow overhead, Berne made quick work of
the journey to Babs’s place. Hopefully her old friend would be alone. It was
wishful thinking but maybe she was. “Why would they question her?”

“Because . . .” Rebecca sighed. “Look, I know that whatever
happened between you was epic but she’s supposed to be marrying prince
charming.”

Berne heard the sound of clanging and Rebecca huffing.

“I mean, he’s like
the
dream for her parents. He’s rich,
he’s handsome and they want her breeding future heirs.”

“That is her dream too?”

“No,” Rebecca said. “You and I both know that Pippa’s dream would
be to own some kind of wood-crafting business and eat chocolate.”

Again more clanging. What was that noise?

“Thing is, she’ll do what her parents want and what Doug wants . .
. and regret it every single day.”

“Why?” Berne stared up at Babs’s window. She was in, the light was
on, the main light. Maybe she was alone?

“Manners, politeness . . . social expectation. Her brother is a
colonel in the army, her sister is married to some barrister. Pip wouldn’t dare
rock that image.”

“That does not sound like the woman I know.” Berne had no doubt
that she knew the real, indefinable, raw passion that was Pippa. Her laughter,
her wish to dance under the moonlight like they did in the movies simply to
feel the romance of it.

“Probably because you bothered to fall in love with who she really
is.”

Rebecca clanged something again and swore under her breath.

“What is happening with you?”

Rebecca grunted. “Stupid car broke down.”

“Where are you?”

“Haven’t the foggiest. I got off the motorway or whatever you guys
call it and I’m somewhere between there and Ajoux.”

Guest or no guest, Berne decided that she would have to break up
the interlude. Babs would love the adventure of it anyway. “Stay with the car.
We will come get you.”

“Look, that’s lovely but I’m sure you and Vivienne want some peace
and quiet—”

“I am not with Vivienne . . . I leave . . . I . . .
alors
.
. . My friend, Babs, we will be there soon.”

Rebecca chuckled and a car door closed. A second later the lock
sounded. “I’m more than happy to get off the spooky country road then.”

She disconnected and took the steps to Babs’s apartment two at a
time. Anything but wander around staring up at the moon.

She hammered on the door. Perhaps it was too late for such noise
but she didn’t care. She felt like she was breaking free. It felt good.
Vive
la liberté
.

“What the—?” Babs face broke into a grin and she hurled herself
into Berne’s arms. “You are too long away from me!”

Berne offered the double-kissed greeting, walked in, and grabbed
Babs’s keys. “You fancy rescuing someone?”

“She worth my time?”

Berne smiled. “Let’s just say that she is a friend of someone who
you may wish to see again.”

Babs picked up her door keys without even casting a glance at the
mess behind her. She was much like Pippa in that sense, organised chaos.
“Renee?”

Berne shook her head, searching for the little Clio.

“Stephanie?”

“We need to get to Ajoux-Sur-Rhône,” Berne said, opening the
door to the little red car. They’d had some great
adventures in her.

“Emilie?”

Berne got in the passenger side and handed the keys to Babs. “
Non
.”

“I cannot think who.” Babs started the car and screeched out of
the parking space. “I have not seen you this happy in years—” She slammed on
the brakes. “
Non
?”

“Keep driving.”

Berne couldn’t hide her smile even when the driver behind them
held down his horn for nearly a minute.

After hurling expletives out of her window, Babs roared the car
into life, whipping in and out of the traffic like always. “Could it be . . . ?
Pepe returns?” She scowled and wagged her finger. “I am still angry with her.”

“I know.” Berne squeezed Babs’s knee. “And you will forgive her as
quickly as I did.”

“So she is back for you?”

Swallowing back the answer, Berne concentrated on the city
whipping past.

“Bebe?”

“She is marrying someone . . . a man . . . I am working on their
house.” Berne shrugged as Babs swung the car through a gap in the traffic and
tootled up the road, leaving the city. “
Mais
. . . she told me that she
loves me still.”

“She does?” Babs honked the horn for good measure. “She does not
love him?”

Berne shook her head. No, she knew that, she could see it in
Pippa’s desperation. She was fond of him but she didn’t look at him the same
way.

Babs’s black hair whipped behind her as she rolled the window
down. “Then we need to bring her home, Bebe.”

“I cannot do that.” She wanted to. It would be heaven to wake up
in Pippa’s arms again. “There is Vivienne—”

“
Merde
to that. She is not Pippa.” Babs honked the horn
again. “We’ll get her back.”

Trying not to get carried away with Babs’s enthusiasm, Berne
attempted to turn the talk to more mundane things.

She hadn’t seen Babs in months. If she was honest, Babs and
Vivienne had hated each other at first sight and so it had been difficult for
nine years. Not that it stopped them meeting when Babs was home. It was harder
to pretend she wasn’t in the city when Vivienne wanted to see her that was all.

Nine long years of faking it.

She shook her head as the city roads became narrow country lanes.
Garish lights faded and the blissful quiet of the country made her rest her
head back. Babs was a busy woman. Head of her own business, an internationally
renowned business. Not bad for a five-foot-nothing dynamo. Berne smiled. Pippa
had dubbed her the Flying Frenchwoman. She was right and it was good to know
that energy hadn’t faded.

Babs hurtled around a bend and Berne spotted a car at the side of
the road. “There.”

“
Non
. . . I would not have guessed.” Berne tutted at
Babs’s sarcasm as they pulled over.

They both got out of the car but Berne took out her mobile.
Rebecca was in a foreign country, alone on a road. It was best to warn her. “I
will call.”

“Please tell me that’s you closing in on the car,” Rebecca said.

Tempted to tease, Berne waved into the wing mirror. “
Oui
.
You can come out. We do not bite.”

“Speak for yourself,” Babs shouted from behind her.

The door opened and Rebecca got out into the moonlight, her bright
hair evident even in this light. She was everything that Pippa had described,
and every bit as loyal as Berne had always imagined.

She was, well, English. Pale, with reddish-blonde hair, at least
under the dye. She was stockier than Pippa, more swagger in her walk. The
tattoos and the fashion made her a walking statement of, “I don’t care,” yet
under it, Berne could tell she was sensitive.

Rebecca also had a real maternal side to her too. Berne had
watched her mothering Pippa, affectionate and gentle in her chastising. She
knew that her friend was struggling and she was trying to help her.

Berne wanted to ask her why, why had Pippa left. Why had she run
if she still loved her like she did? Only pride stopped her. If Pippa wished
her to know, she would open up in her own time. She hoped.

Berne turned to look at Babs and smiled at the glint in her eyes.
Rebecca was everything Babs made impassioned vocal arguments against. She hated
tattoos, she hated odd hair colours, she hated cocky arrogance, and she often
left women when their fashion sense irritated her.

Pippa had said Rebecca didn’t date short women. She didn’t date
women who embraced fashion as art. According to Pippa, Rebecca felt they were
false, shallow, and unintelligent.

Berne smiled at that. She and Pippa had made a bet, which one would
crack first. Which heartbreaker would win the battle of France versus England?

“Hi.” Rebecca smiled, motioning to the car. “Thanks for coming to
my rescue.”

“
Pas de problème
. This is my friend, Barbara Henri.” Berne
didn’t miss the appreciative glance that Babs gave Rebecca. “Or as Pippa named
her . . . Babs.”

“Er . . .
Bonjour
—I mean
soir
. . .
bonsoir
.”
Rebecca wiped her hands on her jeans and held one out. “I’m Rebecca. Pippa
calls me a lot of things but none of them are repeatable.”

Babs’s hearty laugh made Rebecca jolt but then Babs laugh did that
to most people. “Then our girl has not changed,
non
.” She gripped hold
of Rebecca’s hand, yanked her forward, and placed two kisses on her cheeks.

Poor Rebecca looked shell shocked.

“Let’s head to the village. It is better to stay there. Maman will
wish to feed us tomorrow.” Berne doubted that they could fix the car in the
dark. It wasn’t going anywhere.

“You sound like Pip now,” Rebecca said as they climbed into the
Clio. “She is always thinking of her next meal.” Rebecca met Berne’s eyes as
Babs slammed the car into motion. “Which she didn’t do before coming here.”

“Food is more than just to sate the appetite,
non
?” It was
good to know that she’d made an impact on Pippa’s life, on her passions. It had
been a joy to show her France. Watching her experience it and fall in love with
it stirred something inside her. She hadn’t meant to fall in love.

The eighteen year old who had wandered into her flat during a
summer storm had stunned her. Drenched from head to toe, she had a dreamy look
in her eyes, as if she understood the feeling in the music.

Eighteen and way too young for her. Berne was ten years older, she
was training to be a gendarme. She’d waited until then to help out her father
but had found herself in the city more and more.

Pippa had wanted to learn everything she could about France, about
working with wood and stone, about the language. It had been hard to ignore the
lingering looks, the feelings etched across her gentle, soft features. Pippa
didn’t even realise she was doing it half the time.

It just made her all the more pleasurable to be around. She cared,
really cared, about the mundane to the profound. She wanted to know how Berne
felt, what she was thinking. Pippa reached her in a way that no one had ever
come close to. And, she had been eighteen.

Berne had been given a gentle warning from her father when he met
Pippa that Berne was to do her job, tutor the girl, and make sure she had a
wonderful time.

That was it.

Yet, her parents had been delighted when Pippa wriggled her way in
to Berne’s heart. She’d never seen them as happy for her. Of course, they had
to keep it away from the friend of Pippa’s family.

He had given them a huge contract that had given the family much
needed money. It had taken seven years to complete the Gite village but it had
secured her parents retirement years. Pippa had always been mindful of the risk
their relationship could have. Berne often wondered if that was the reason why
Pippa had left.

They hurtled over the humpback bridge at the bottom of the
village, jolting her back to the car. Babs whooped and Berne laughed at the
tickle in her stomach.

“Dumb question but one, is this car stolen?” Rebecca asked and
Berne turned to her. “And two, where are the seat belts?”

“Relax, my little English lightbulb,” Babs purred. “You are in
safe hands with me.”

Berne noticed a slight blush creep over Rebecca’s cheeks or was
that just her eyes in the dim light?

“She thinks she is amusing,” Berne offered in case Babs had caused
offence.

Rebecca winked. “Only if you slow down, my little French lunatic.”

Babs roared with laughter once more and Berne relaxed back into
the seat as Rebecca grinned her way. Berne smiled to herself as she looked from
Babs to Rebecca and out of the window.

The competition was on. Interesting . . . very, very interesting.

Chapter Nine

SUNLIGHT STREAMED THROUGH the open windows and roused me into
consciousness. I had fallen asleep to the sound of lovers giggling in the
street below and woken to the buzzing rumble of a city on its way to lunch.

Staring up at the white ceiling, I let myself doze to the beeps
and roaring engines. It felt to me as though Paris was almost a country of its
own in some respects. There was no doubting that this was France, yet Paris
embodied a unique spirit all of its own.

A tapping on my door swept my thoughts from the vibrant world
below to the mess of a life I had found myself in. For the first time in years
I seemed to wake up to the fact that I was living someone else’s life. This
wasn’t me, this place I’d ended up wasn’t me. Not that it was a bad place but
nevertheless it wasn’t where I felt happy.

Groaning, I put my hands over my face with the admission. I wasn’t
happy. What did I do about that?

“Phillipa Grace Saunders, you open this door right now!”

Uh oh, my mother was in a rip. What a way to start the morning. I
glanced at the window and thought about scaling down the side of the hotel.
Anything was better than dealing with hurricane Daphne Saunders.

Another thundering knock made me roll out of bed and I yanked open
the door, sending my mother sprawling. She’d obviously been listening at the
lock.

Oops.

“Is there something wrong?” I thought about helping her up but she
was faster than a sprinter on an Olympic track, leaping to her feet like a
starter pistol had fired.

“You lock yourself away like goldilocks, give us all a scare, and
you ask me if something is wrong?”

“It was Rapunzel,” I said, attempting to help her to straighten
out her clothes.

“What?” She batted my hands away.

“Rapunzel was the one in the tow—Oh, never mind. Is Doug around?”

My mother shook her head. “No. Your father has gone with him to
the new centre. You’re lucky that he is so patient with you.”

The relief of not having to face him made my mother’s words take
until I’d half dressed to sink in.

“What?” I asked, yanking up my too tight dress. Had the stupid
thing shrunk overnight?

“He’s gone to the—”

“Not that, why am
I
lucky?” And why wouldn’t the dress
budge?

“You have so many faults, darling. You know that. Most women
without as many would be lucky to bag a man like him.”

I blinked a few times as I stared at her. Wow, it was good to know
how much she thought of me. “And what faults are they?”

“I’m your mother. It’s my job to be honest—”

“What faults?” I yanked up my dress and closed my eyes at the
ripping sound.

Wonderful. Just wonderful.

“Now look what you’ve done.” My mother tutted as she hovered.
“Can’t even dress yourself.”

I threw the dress onto the floor. “Then I’ll just wear something
that
I
want to wear.” I stomped into the apartment-like space of the
main room, greeting the maid who was lurking, to my overnight bag. I pulled out
my comfortable cargo shorts and a shirt. My favourite shirt.

“We are in Paris,” my mother said. “Have some decorum, girl.”

“It’s a French rugby top. I’ll fit in just fine.” It was silly to
feel such defiance lifting me but so good. “And I’m not pregnant.”

My mother frowned. “Pardon?”

“I’m
not
pregnant. I know that you wanted another
grandchild but I’m not.”

If I’d expected her to mourn, I was quite taken aback by her sly
grin. “Atta girl.”

“Excuse me?” I looked at the maid who raised her eyebrows and went
into the bedroom. At least
she
could escape.

“Sometimes you need wiles to keep them honest. Good way to hurry
his commitment too.”

Never before had I actually smacked my palm to my head but that
moment was the first. When did I wake up in the dark ages?

I strode to the window to check what kind of vehicles there were
down below. No, that was definitely a brand new Merc pulling in. We hadn’t gone
into a time warp.

“What are you doing?” My mother peered over my shoulder. “Has he
come back?”

“No, I’m looking for horse and carts.”

My mother put her hand to my forehead. “Maybe you’re coming down
with something?”

I wriggled free and picked up my bag. “Is Doug coming back here
tonight?”

My mother nodded. “He has booked the opera.”

“Good,” I said. “You’ve always loved the opera.”

I needed to get away. I needed to think without distractions,
without anyone influencing me. I needed to remember who I was again and
understand what
I
wanted.

“Tell Doug that I am going offline for a few days. I’ll give him a
call when I’m ready to talk.”

“Phillipa—”

“I will call him then. Have fun.” I hurried out of the door and power
walked to the lift.

In the reception, the sweet lady behind the counter bid me a
cheery good morning. I smiled back then skidded to a stop on the shiny marble
floor.

The woman raised a bored Parisian eyebrow at me.

“Can I ask you a question?” I said in French.

“You already did, Madame.” Her lips twitched in a smile.

I cocked my head. Rebecca smiled like that quite often. “It’s a
personal question.”

Again that smile. “Madame?”

“Do I look happy to you?” What a stupid thing to come out with. I
needed a straightjacket not a wedding ring. “I mean, do I look like I should be
with Doug?”

“Madame, I—”

“I’m asking you as a person not a service provider.”

She looked into my eyes with deep brown ones. Every bit Parisian
elegance but no doubt there was Spanish or Italian in her genes. “Honestly?”

“Please.”

“
Non
.”

And cold water seemed to drench me from head to toe. “Will you
tell me why?”

She wagged her finger in the air. “Madame, the fact that you ask
me
of all the people here should tell you something,
n’est pas
?”

Should it? I looked around at the other staff members.

“What do you mean?” She looked perfectly reliable and helpful. She
was friendly. “You’re the receptionist.”

“
Oui
, Madame.”

The third time she’d smiled at me in that knowing way. When did
Rebecca use that smile? Why did it make me think of—?

I looked at the porters, the maids, the staff buzzing around, and
back to her.

“You’re gay, aren’t you?”

Her smile turned to a charming grin.

Uh oh.

“Is this your way of telling me that you think
I’m
gay?”
Okay, so I was in love with Berne but that had never registered as anything
other than, well, I was in love with Berne.

“Madame, if my girlfriend was not the security guard, I would
happily speak of it to you all day.”

The laughter burst out from my lips before I could hold it in. She
was beyond charming and now I knew why I’d liked her. She was like Rebecca,
being gay had nothing to do with it but being a cheeky charmer did.

“In that case, I’d better not ask too many questions.” I smiled at
the rather intimidating security guard watching us like a hawk. “She’s a lot
taller than me.”

The receptionist laughed. “Pay no attention to it. She is nothing
but a big bear.”

Leaving her with a smile, I headed out into the busy Parisian
afternoon. I dodged the line of Spanish students yabbering on about seeing the
Eiffel Tower and over to Doug’s driver.

He was one of two men I’d seen who Doug used on business trips or
left to babysit me when he thought I’d get lost in a foreign city. It was sweet
and irritating all at once. I still wasn’t sure if I liked the fact he was
attentive or annoyed that he thought I couldn’t cope.

I could cope.

I was adept and in contr—

“Careful, Madame.” The driver caught me as I tripped over my own
foot.

“Thanks. You fancy dropping me at the station?”

He smiled. “I can take you anywhere, Madame. There is no need for
the train.”

And that way Doug could keep tabs on me. “No, thank you. I’ve got
some girlie things to do . . . you know . . . wedding and all that . . . Can’t
have you spilling the beans now, can I?”

Poor guy lost me at spilling beans, but nevertheless nodded and
beamed. “Whatever you wish.”

THE TGV WAS one of my favourite ways to see the country. France
was so beautiful and so vibrant that each moment was like gazing at living art.
No wonder the renaissance artists had found inspiration here. France was
sunshine to the creative mind, easing the depth of imagination from the soul
and basking it with light.

Each region, each department in the country was different in
personality, in accent, and yet unmistakably French. Berne was much like that,
unique in every single sense but there was no doubt that her blood ran blue.

La vie en bleu
, life in the blue of France. It had been an education for me. The
sing-song sound of
l’accent du midi
, made my schoolgirl French useless.
Factor in the multitude of cultures crammed into the packed Côte d’Azur during
the heat of summer and it was a nightmare. Berne had given me a basic overview
of stereotypes. I could never tell if she was teasing or not but I took her
word for it.

The city of Nice and the Niçois had a Latin outlook and
temperament, a zest for the good life. She made them sound Italian in a way.
Personally, I’d assumed all French people were like this, and if I was honest,
I still did.

People from Monaco, the Monégasques often were more refined. A bit
like my upbringing I guessed—posh and liked dressing up. I wondered if they had
the same odd traditions and rituals as the Brits did.

The people of Marseille were very proud of their city. A little
more rough and ready than the rest of the region and massive fans of football.
Marseille was a base for Berne because it had more of a community. At least
this is what she told me. I never ventured anywhere that constituted rainbow
flagged.

And yes, that was exactly as it sounded. I, at eighteen, was
slightly homophobic. Laughable as I fell in love with a woman but it was true.
Lesbians, or at least what I thought constituted a lesbian, terrified me. They
still did in many ways. I knew Rebecca and so I understood how she saw the
world but some of her
acquaintances
had scared the living French fries
out of me.

One woman seemed so intent on staring at me, without blinking, and
competing with everything I said that I was sure she wanted to attack me.
Rebecca had later said that she’d found me charming. I couldn’t really say I
returned the sentiment.

Rebecca, Berne, and her best friend Babs were different to me.
They had passed through my odd little fear barrier and were people. In Berne’s
case, I was also slightly biased. She found it amusing.

Instead she’d shown me the south of France from a point of view I
could understand. We’d explored art galleries, museums, little villages off the
beaten track. She’d kayaked me down the Ardèche, taken me cycling in the Alpes
d’Huez. We’d tried dishes like bouillabaisse, which I’d hated, and Niçois
salade, which I adored. I had never been a drinker and so wine wasn’t a great
idea but there had been a wine-tasting day. I still couldn’t remember much of
it.

France. Berne. Both were ingrained in my consciousness. It meant
excitement to me, it meant freedom and adventure, it meant love.

Before I’d succumbed to her effortless charisma, Berne had given
me tasks to help me learn her language. One had been to catch the TGV from
Marseille to Perpignan and get passengers on the train to teach me “La
Marseillaise
.”

Berne had sat a few seats behind me, which I hadn’t known at the
time, and had watched the chaos unfold. By the time I’d gotten to Perpignan,
the packed train was in full voice.

I’d gotten three marriage proposals and had learned every word.
Turning around at the station and seeing the smile on her face had been a
moment etched in my memory ever since.

In that moment, I had understood that I’d felt more than
friendship. I’d never been more scared in my life. The building torrent of
feeling was not something I’d ever experienced before.

Berne against the sunshine through the window, the scent of the
dusty station outside. Berne lounging in the seat, a proud smile on her face
and hunger in her eyes. It was the first time I’d caught her looking at me like
it. My heart had hammered in response. My feet had lost the ability to move.

Berne.

My mobile vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out and looked down
at the caller ID. “Hey, did you get back to Ajoux okay?”