One Day in May - Catherine Alliott [87]
17
The weather held for the fair, and the following morning found me having breakfast on the hotel’s terrace. It was slightly raised and fronted the bustling square, an excellent vantage point and one I knew of old. I was perfectly placed. Dipping my croissant into a bowl of café au lait, I watched as under a milky blue sky, trestle tables formed in a giant horseshoe on the cobbles, then steadily filled up as, bit by bit, treasures appeared from the back of old Citroën vans and trucks.
At the stall nearest me, an old man dressed in bleu de travail staggered under the weight of a huge and elaborately carved mirror, almost tipping him backwards. The glass was badly pitted, but it was clearly original, and worth a look, I decided, as he set it down shakily. Some terrible old carpets appeared next from his motorized Aladdin’s cave, principally, it seemed, for his mongrel dog to curl up and sleep on; but then, not a bad wall clock with a decorative, chinoiserie face. I made a mental note to go there first. Already, though, I felt my mind wandering.
At five to nine we were under starter’s orders. I drained my cup and got to my feet. The next few hours were spent in a mechanical and practised fashion, darting from stall to stall, arguing, haggling, expressing surprise and disgust at the prices, walking away as arms were raised behind me in disbelief, returning to haggle some more, and eventually, securing some beauties. A seventeenth-century lit bateau, a wrought-iron campaign chair, a marvellous pristine set of monogrammed linen sheets – these were amongst my finds. But for all my delight in securing them at decent prices, I knew my mind was chiefly on the evening ahead. Supper with an old friend: a much overdue catch-up. What could be nicer? Why, then, was I already wondering what to wear? How smart the restaurant would be – I had only jeans or my denim skirt – if I had time to nip to Aix for a skirt. Wondering what he’d wear, and generally feeling like a girl on a first date.
Get a grip, I told myself as I got out of the bath sometime later, rubbing my hair with a towel. Being short, that was all it needed, but nevertheless, I wished I’d brought a hair dryer. I’d already searched the room to no avail – it wasn’t exactly a hotel, more a bar with rooms – and I wondered if I could nip downstairs and ask Madame? Don’t be silly, no need, I told myself sternly. I none the less paid special attention to my fringe, which happily flopped dutifully into my eyes, poker straight.
How changed would he find me, I wondered as I gazed critically at my reflection in the mirror. Of course, men matured nicely, and he had, but surely my eyes, which I’d outlined with a touch of mascara, were still bright? My skin clear and mercifully unlined? Surely I’d pass muster? I pressed my lips together as I applied some gloss: left it at that. There. At least I didn’t need the Ivan faceful. At least I knew Hal well enough to know he didn’t like make-up, favoured serious, well-scrubbed girls, or at least, he had. I found myself wondering about Céline, though, as I dressed – no time to go into town, so jeans and a white smocky top. A lawyer. A Frenchwoman. She wouldn’t be scrubbed, would she? I seized a jacket nervously before I went down, even though it was warm, and caught a glimpse of myself in the long landing mirror as I went. Well, what he was getting tonight was an old friend: jeaned, espadrilled, no frills.
He was waiting in the bar downstairs, as somehow, I knew he would be, talking easily to Monique, the patronne: fluent French, of course, which even after all these years I still hadn’t mastered. But then he lived here. Well, had a house here. He turned as I approached.
‘Hattie, hi.’
How easily he got up from the barstool, put an arm around my shoulders, drew me in to lightly kiss my cheek. Not the awkward Hal of old, hunched