It Started With A Note. Victoria Cooke
walk for about ten minutes before entering the huge square, the Place des Héros, which is much bigger than I’d expected it would be and much more impressive with its Flemish-Spanish baroque-style buildings. The restaurant is a similar bistro style to the others in the square and given the fair weather, we decide to sit outside.
‘You sit there, honey.’ Martha directs me to the seat next to her, which is opposite Olivier. Obviously, I don’t know her very well, or at all actually, but I suspect she’s done it on purpose even if it is just because Olivier and I are similar in age. I take the menu from the waiter and study it to look busy. There’s a drought in my mouth once more as I scan the unfathomable offerings. There are a few recognisable words such as ‘fromage’ and ‘poulet’ to the more obvious ‘crabe’ and ‘porc’ but I’ve no idea what they come with. Whilst I’m not a fussy eater as such, something awful like tarragon sneaking into one of the sauces could come as a nasty surprise.
My hands are clammy on the menu and I glance up for some respite only to rest my eyes on Olivier who isn’t looking and I get that strangely pleasurable flicker in my lower stomach again. He has messy light brown hair that is sort of styled in a floppy ‘Hugh Grant’ style circa 2003 (after the curtains but before the grey). It’s in great condition too, and the light from underneath the parasol glints off it like it does off the hair in those shampoo adverts.
I try to refocus on the menu. It’s definitely unusual, but what is also unusual is the depth of blue to Olivier’s eyes. They’re hypnotic. I don’t think even David the weatherman could lose the entire British navy fleet in his oceanic eyes.
I become vaguely prickly, aware of someone watching me, so I glance up from the menu. Sure enough, Olivier is looking at me. So are Martha and the others and then I notice a presence looming to my left: the waiter, who is looking at me expectantly in his smart black and white attire protected by a chequered apron. Suddenly, the thought of messing up my order or ordering something weird (‘oh, Cath, that’s a palate cleanser’) panics me but I’m out of time.
‘Oh, pardon, I’m sorry.’ My voice croaks. I skim the entrees one last time. ‘The porc please.’ I daren’t even try to pronounce the full title ‘Filet de porc sauce Normande’ even though it seems fairly simple. I can’t help but wonder what Normande sauce is. Is it garnished with fibres from the Bayeux tapestry? Seasoned with the ground bones of William the Conqueror perhaps? That would certainly explain the price. The others have gone for the filet mignon but at thirty-three euros a pop, I decide to give that a miss since I could buy two evening meals in a more low-key place for that.
I don’t even feel that hungry since a thousand butterflies have taken up residence in my stomach, filling the cavity entirely.
Taking a deep breath to try and neutralise them, I turn to Olivier, who looks relaxed, sitting back in his chair easily, resting his head on one hand. The underside of his forearm is turned outward and I can see the veins in his wrist like a map of his body leading back to his heart. In an attempt to look relaxed too, I mimic his position but something about having my arm exposed like that makes me feel naked so I turn it inward and eventually place in my lap. I must look noticeably odd, as Olivier asks if I’m okay. I nod but I’m uncomfortable, and I don’t really know why because I was fine earlier. Olivier’s presence has changed the dynamic somehow.
Martha and the others have entered into conversation about something they’re all ‘in on’ from back home, and since I’m sitting on the end, I don’t even attempt to join in because I’m worried that if I say something and they don’t hear me, I’ll look foolish.
Olivier doesn’t seem to suffer the affliction of inner turmoil as he looks around, soaking up the vibrant atmosphere of the square. I once again attempt to follow suit, glancing around, trying to appear nonchalant and comfortable, but I can’t shake the feeling of Olivier’s presence. My senses are heightened and I’m on edge, like I’ve entered an electric field or a flagship Primark store in the mid-afternoon.
‘Cath?’ Martha’s questioning tone brings me around, but I can’t tell whether or not she’s asked a question because sometimes Americans add that questioning infliction to anything they say, don’t they?
‘Sorry, I was miles away.’ I smile. Trying to appear normal exhausts me, and a part of me starts wishing I was back home in Berrybridge where I am normal and so is everything around me.
‘We were talking about our tour tomorrow, dear. The coach is going to Thiepval and Albert and we wondered if you wanted to tag along. If that’s okay with you?’ She looks pointedly at Olivier.
‘Of course,’ he says to Martha before looking me directly in the eyes. ‘There’s space on the coach so I don’t see why not.’ A tingle spreads across my back. Although Thiepval isn’t part of my great-grandfather’s documented journey, it’s in the heart of the Somme Valley and I’d perhaps see some of what he’d seen. I want to go but I haven’t looked into the costs yet. Having to fork out for this expensive dinner and a coach trip wasn’t budgeted for. My money is vanishing quicker than the frozen turkeys do at Christmas.
‘How much is the trip?’ I can’t look anyone in the eyes as I ask as casually as I can but inside my stomach is rolling with waves of embarrassment.
Olivier bats the air with his hands. ‘Nothing. Like Martha said, there are spare seats and we’re going anyway.’
‘Thank you but I’m more than happy to pay the going rate.’ I hope nobody else notices the subtle rise in the pitch of my voice.
‘Please, be our guest,’ he says in a way that feels final and a warmth fills my chest.
‘So how long have you been a tour guide?’ I ask, feeling braver.
‘I’ve done this for almost twenty years now. I wanted to utilise my English and most of the people who use our tours are either British or American. Plus, I love history and travel and since the company is Europe-wide, I get to see more than just northern France.’ He takes a sip of his beer.
‘I’ve always loved history too, and seeing different places has to be a bonus.’
His features lift a little. ‘Definitely.’ He nods. ‘So do you travel much?’
I shake my head. ‘Hardly ever. I wasn’t brought up in a family of ambitious travelling types and we never really had much money. My mother was a single parent and just a regular hard-working, working-class person who enjoyed relaxing at home on her days off. She took me and my brother on minibreaks to Wales and for days out and was great in the sense that she could create adventures for us without even leaving the house.’
I smile. ‘One time, she turned the lounge into Loch Ness. She covered the floor with blue flannel sheets from my brother’s bed, and our big brown sofa was a sailing boat. She used a snake puppet as the Loch Ness Monster.’ I stop talking, remembering how my mother used to make us close our eyes and imagine the gentle swaying of the boat. I can still feel it now if I really concentrate and it wasn’t too dissimilar to the ferry crossing to Le Havre considering there wasn’t any water or a boat in sight. ‘Sorry, you probably have no idea about what I’m blabbering on about.’
He looks bemused by my expression but smiles warmly. ‘Everyone knows of the Loch Ness monster. Not too many have seen him though, hey?’ His eyes glint mischievously before a more sympathetic smile forms on his lips. ‘Your mother sounds like a wonderful woman.’
‘She was.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ He holds his eyes on mine for a moment too long, and I fight the urge to move my hair off my face. I’d read in some ‘women’s’ magazine in the staffroom at work, that doing that can be seen as a sign you’re attracted to someone, and I certainly don’t want to give off those types of signals, thank you very much.
‘Were you just talking about Loch Ness?’ Cynthia’s gravelly voice cuts through the tension that I’m ninety-five per cent sure I’m imagining.
‘We were. Have you ever been?’