To Provence, with Love. T Williams A
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indication as to which way to go. Then, as the car drew level with the turnoff, the frustration turned to annoyance. She definitely recognized the rusty old oilcan inverted over the top of a fence post, the red and white paint gradually peeling off in the hot Provençal sunshine. There was no getting away from it. She had definitely driven past this self-same spot only ten minutes earlier.
Giving an exasperated snort, she pulled the car onto the dusty verge at the side of the narrow road, turned off the engine, and reached once again for the map the man at the car hire desk had given her. It wasn’t the most detailed map in the world and she wasn’t the best map reader in the world, but one thing was clear: map or no map, she was lost – lost and alone.
She glanced out of the windows. There wasn’t a single sign of human habitation anywhere – just fields, hills, occasional trees, and the hot, dry road. For a moment, she felt a wave of emotion threatening to overwhelm her and shook her head angrily. She had been miserable enough over the past few months and being alone was nothing new to her. She took a few deep breaths and gripped the steering wheel, trying to work out what to do next. She was here now and she had a problem to solve. Crying wouldn’t help.
As she looked back out through the windscreen, knowing she was going to be late for her interview unless she worked out pretty quickly where she was, a figure accompanied by a big black dog appeared from a gap in the dry stone wall just a short way ahead of her. As she watched, they crossed the road, disappearing up a narrow footpath between two dusty cypress trees.
Faye didn’t hesitate.
Jumping out of the car into the full heat of the sun, she hurried over to the two trees and saw the retreating shoulders of the man a little way ahead of her. She called out, but he didn’t respond, so she cleared her throat and called again, louder. This time she saw first the dog, and then the man, stop and turn round.
‘Hello, please could you help me? I’m lost.’ Even in her best French this sounded pretty pathetic, but she was desperate. To her relief, the man started retracing his steps along the track towards her.
‘Did you say you’re lost?’ From his accent he was from these parts, but his tone wasn’t particularly welcoming. Nevertheless, Faye nodded, praying he would be able to help her. As he reluctantly walked back to her, the dog, a handsome black Labrador, came charging up to her, tail wagging. Just as he looked as though he was going to jump all over her, there was a sharp double whistle and his master’s voice rang out.
‘Viens là.’
The dog stopped dead, only a few feet from Faye, and waited for his master. She was impressed and relieved. She loved dogs, but she was on her way to an interview after all, and the last thing she needed was to be leapt upon by a dog, however friendly his intentions might be. She took a step back and studied the man surreptitiously as he approached.
He was wearing a battered T-shirt that had once advertised a Rolling Stones European tour. From its faded appearance, the tour in question had probably taken place in the years before the surviving members of the group had reached pensionable age – and that was a good while ago. On his feet were equally scruffy trainers and his strong, brown legs ran a long way up before disappearing into his sand-coloured shorts.
Sensing her eyes on him, he looked towards her and, to Faye’s considerable surprise, she realized that he was very, very good-looking. Somehow, out here in the wilds of deepest rural Provence, she hadn’t expected to meet a man whose face could have come off the front cover of a fashion magazine. She swallowed hard before answering.
‘Afraid so. Totally lost. I’m looking for St-Jean-sur-Sarde the chateau to be precise. I was told to follow the signs for St-Jean and then turn right after the restaurant in the centre of the village. Only I can’t seem to find any road signs at all and I’m just going round in circles.’
The man nodded. Satisfied that the dog wasn’t going to jump all over Faye, he released his grip on the collar and reached up to pull off his sunglasses. As he did so, Faye noted the network of lines around his eyes that would no doubt have been airbrushed away by a photographer. As it was, they only served to add character to an already remarkable face.
His eyes met hers for a second before he dropped them again and, in spite of herself, Faye was fascinated. They were the most amazing and unusual colour: a very light yellowy brown. They gave her the surreal sensation of looking into the eyes of a lion or a tiger – and a very fine-looking male of the species, although by the look of him, a rather unhappy male of the species. She was wondering why the expression on his face was so glum when he shot a glance at her, his expression not exactly hostile, but definitely lacking in warmth.
‘The chateau, eh? So, you’ve come to see our local celebrity, have you?’
Faye nodded cautiously, reaching down to pat the dog’s head. ‘I’ve been sworn to secrecy, so all I can tell you is that I’m going to the chateau.’
He nodded approvingly. ‘Quite right. She keeps herself to herself and why not?’ He ran a bronzed hand through his mop of rich chestnut hair and Faye was unable to stifle a brief image of Didier that leapt, unwanted, into her head. There had been a time, not so long ago, when that same simple action from her former boyfriend would have stirred her, but now, after all that had happened, the only stirrings she felt were of anger.
The sadness had finally begun to wear off, and in its place had come resentment and a deep mistrust of men, particularly tall, handsome men. Although she was rational enough to know it was unfair of her, she felt her expression harden towards this Frenchman, but he didn’t appear to notice. ‘Anyway, getting to the chateau’s easy. Just carry on up here for about a kilometre and then turn left by a tumbledown barn. No signs on that junction either, I’m afraid. So, just turn left. Left, okay?’
Just to reinforce the message, he extended his left arm - a strong, brown arm, covered with sun-bleached hair. ‘That’ll take you down to St-Jean and you’ll see the church on your left and the Coq d’Or on your right. Then, just like they told you, turn right straight after it and the chateau’s only a few hundred yards up the road. It’s on a little hill. You can’t miss it.’
Faye gave a sigh of relief. ‘Thank you so much. I had visions of driving round these roads for ever. I’m so glad I came across somebody with local knowledge.’ She caught those amazing tiger eyes once more, but both he and she looked away again immediately.
‘Anyway, now, I must go. Goodbye.’ He gave that same double whistle once more and the dog jumped to his feet. The man and the Labrador had already turned away before she managed to reply.
‘Well, goodbye and thank you.’ Faye stood there and watched the two of them disappear down the track. It wasn’t his fault he had reminded her of Didier. Maybe this man wasn’t a lying, deceitful cheat, but she had no intention of finding out. Shaking her head, she returned to her car and set off in the direction of the chateau of St-Jean-sur-Sarde.
***
The chateau certainly was quite a place. Faye drew up in front of an imposing pair of wrought-iron gates and climbed out to press the bell set in one of the gate pillars. There was no name, just a button. A few seconds later, a yellow light on top of the post began to flash and the gates started to open inwards with a mechanical hum. She jumped back into the car and squeezed carefully through the gates, continuing up a sweeping gravel drive, lined with colourful oleander bushes in full flower – the red, pink, and white contributing to make a striking display. Beyond them was a lush green lawn that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the gardens of Buckingham Palace. Evidently the chateau had its own irrigation system.
She drew up at the foot of a fine stone stairway leading up to the front door and sat in the car for a moment, composing herself and admiring the view. From here she could see right down as far as the limestone cliffs of the hills beyond. Just down the slope from her was the village, a collection of red-tiled roofs clustered around the old church, its square tower pierced with Roman arches.
The heat of the sun had made the air hazy, but she felt pretty sure the dusty line on the horizon might be the mighty Maritime Alps. Although it hardly seemed believable on