A Riviera Retreat. Jennifer Bohnet
ever take anything a man said for granted again, and two: she’d learnt again that life could fall apart quicker than twisting the cork out of an expensive bottle of champagne.
Chelsea took a deep breath and swung her legs off the bed. She’d promised Elsie she’d enjoy this break away from the fallout. Recharge her batteries, and get ready to concentrate on work when she got home, maybe even think up some new recipes – after all, this was France, a country renowned for its culinary expertise. But above all she intended to try and enjoy this unexpected holiday.
Standing up to fetch her backpack, she saw a book on the bedside table. Lunch with Elizabeth David – a novel. Elizabeth David, an icon among chefs long before Chelsea was born, had nevertheless inspired her own dreams, making her long to be a good cook. She had a couple of novels on her Kindle for bedtime reading, but they could wait. This one looked far more interesting than those.
Glancing out through the French doors, Chelsea saw the sun glinting on a large swimming pool and she caught her breath. Of course, a pool was de rigueur down here, but this one looked so inviting. As a teenager, swimming had been her life. She’d spent so much time at the local baths, her mum had laughingly told her if she wasn’t careful she’d grow a tail like a mermaid. Both her mum and dad had proudly driven her the length and breadth of England when she was chosen to represent the swimming club in galas at county level. She’d even been tipped as a possible for an Olympic team. But that was before the accident.
It was a long time since she’d swum, either competitively or for pleasure, but that pool was so inviting. Grabbing her backpack and turning it upside down, spilling the contents on the bed, Chelsea grabbed a swimming costume. She’d thrown a couple in with her clothes at the last moment, along with her goggles.
Twenty lengths later and Chelsea felt better than she had for weeks. Swimming had always energised her and cleared her head, like going for a walk or a run did for other people. Unconsciously, decisions were being made as she did her fast crawl up and down the pool. She’d concentrate on growing the business, buying her own place and avoid any relationships with men. Kit-gate would soon be nothing more than a memory. An expensive blip in the scheme of things. And she’d start swimming again regularly.
She’d swim ten more lengths and then go for a shower before meeting up with the others on the terrace for aperitifs. Having eschewed food since that horrible Friday, existing mainly on black coffee and toast most days, Chelsea suddenly felt her tummy rumble in anticipation.
5
Once she’d settled everyone into their rooms, Amy went to her own for a shower and a change of clothes. She’d worn what she termed her ‘meet and greet’ outfit of smart white capri pants with her short-sleeved red-striped Breton top and her wedge espadrilles to go down to Nice. It was only early June, but the temperature was already nudging thirty celsius. The air conditioning in the car had been on, but Amy still felt hot and sticky from the drive.
Amy’s bedroom, the ‘Isadora Duncan’, was the biggest bedroom in the villa and Amy had taken care turning it into a relaxing personal space, as well as where she did her paperwork for the retreat. In one corner, hidden from view by a beautiful ornate baroque-style room divider screen, was a desk, comfortable chair and a small three drawer wooden filing cabinet. The three partitions of the screen in antique white, made from wood and canvas, blended in perfectly with the coffee and cream decor of the room. An exercise bar was placed in front of a large gilt mirror that was fixed to the wall by the door that led to the en suite. An eye-catching antique kissing chair upholstered in scarlet velvet placed at the foot of the bed was the real statement piece in the room. On the wall behind the bed, Amy had hung the large portrait of Isadora Duncan she’d discovered in an antique shop in Nice. Amy loved how the painter had captured the essence of how an unconventional Isadora moved her body in dance, so free and flexible, with no preconceived shapes.
While she showered and towelled herself dry afterwards, Amy found herself thinking about the three women she’d collected from the airport. She remembered realising as she read their competition answers, they all had a genuine reason for wanting the holiday. A need to get away from normal life for a while. Vicky hoping to find herself again after years of being a mother and supportive wife. Chelsea because something in her life had gone drastically wrong and Matilda, who on the face of it was simply recuperating from a broken ankle, but Amy sensed there was something under the surface worrying her.
Each woman was different, but all seemed nice and easy to get along with. At least Amy hoped they were. Personality clashes were definitely not needed. Fingers crossed, the three generations would come together happily and settle down for a fun and enjoyable holiday. A holiday that would help each of them sort out their lives when they returned home.
Amy smiled wryly to herself. The only way she’d been able to sort out her own life had been by running away from home five years ago, thanks to Tasha. For her, though, running away had been the right decision. Updating and turning Belle Vue into a retreat had kept her busy for the first year and once she’d opened to guests, business had built up steadily.
Pulling on a pair of shorts and a loose top, she glanced at her watch. Time to check on Olivia, her friend and cook for the villa, and to prepare the nibbles for aperitifs.
‘Everything smells as wonderful as ever,’ Amy said, going into the kitchen. ‘Everything okay?’
Olivia looked up from the mozzarella and tomato salad starter she was preparing and smiled at Amy before answering her in rapid French.
‘Bien sûr. Comme d’habitude?’
‘Oui,’ Amy said. ‘I’ll set the terrace table and then sort the aperitifs if you don’t want me to do anything.’
Olivia had been Tasha’s cook and Amy had fond memories of the meals she’d cooked for the family during summer holidays over the years. Tasha’s Will had stipulated that Olivia and Pierre, the gardener, were an important part of Belle Vue and were to keep their jobs. She knew that Amy would find them invaluable. And that was so true.
In the early days, the three of them had grown close as they grieved for Tasha and Amy had involved them in her plans for the house. Olivia, like her brother Pierre, had been born and bred in the village and their maternal Italian grandparents lived across the nearby Italian border. Olivia was the same age as Tasha and over the past couple of years had partially filled the void left behind by Amy’s godmother. Olivia’s daughter had married a local farmer and two years ago, much to Olivia’s delight, had made her a grandmother. When Amy had arrived to live permanently in France, Olivia had welcomed her into her own family and Amy had enjoyed many a Sunday meal at their table with their noisy extended family. These days, whenever Amy had guests, Olivia cooked the evening meals at the villa, which meant every afternoon, her pasta-loving body could be seen making its way slowly up the drive.
Pierre, a widower in his late fifties, had been a gardener all his working life. He was one of the gentlest and kindest men Amy had ever known. His knowledge of plants was legendary. She’d learnt so much about the garden from him.
The brother and sister were more than Amy’s friends – they were her French family. Olivia in particular was her sounding-board as far as the villa went – and in her personal life too.
Amy had placed the nibbles on the table and was lighting the citronella candles in their terracotta pots placed strategically around the terrace, when Vicky appeared. A Vicky who already looked relaxed and happy wearing a light kaftan-style top over a long flowing cotton skirt.
‘I’ve just had the most amazing therapeutic bath,’ she said, accepting a glass of chilled rosé from Amy. ‘Sheer bliss. May I have one every day? Or am I going to cause a water shortage?’
Amy laughed. ‘Have as many baths as you like. Our water here is spring-fed, but there is no danger of us running out.’
‘You have no idea how happy that makes me,’ Vicky said, raising her glass. ‘Cheers.’
Matilda was the next to arrive. Without her stick, Amy noticed.
‘Not