New year, Nouveau Jessica!

If you’d asked Jessica a year ago, she would have told you that her life was pretty near perfect. But one year – and one very messy divorce – later, she’s not so sure. Which is how she found herself boarding a plane to the south of France, determined to put her past behind her… preferably via some deliciously chilled rosé.

Meeting a new man was never part of the plan. Yet when she meets Nino, her new neighbour’s impossibly sexy nephew, steering clear of romance seems easier said than done. Suddenly, Jessica finds herself right back where she started: with her heart on the line. But now she’s made a new start, perhaps it’s time for Jessica to throw caution to the wind, take a few risks… and learn to regrette rien!

Also by Jennifer Bohnet

I’m Virtually Yours

You Had Me at Bonjour

Jennifer Bohnet

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2014

Copyright © Jennifer Bohnet 2014

Jennifer Bohnet asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2014 ISBN: 9781472096500

Version date: 2018-07-23

JENNIFER BOHNET

is a West Country girl now living in the wilds of rural Brittany, France. She’s still not sure how she ended up there! The saying ‘Life is what happens while you’re deciding what to do’ is certainly true in her case. She’s always written alongside having various jobs: playgroup leader, bookseller, landlady, restaurateur, farmer’s wife, secretary/p,a. – the list is endless, but does provide a rich vein of inspiration for her stories.

For three years she wrote a newspaper column in The South Hams Group of Newspapers (Devon) where she took a wry look at family life. Since living in France, it is her fiction that has taken off – with hundreds of short stories and several serials published internationally.

Allergic to housework and gardening, she rarely does either but she does like cooking and entertaining and wandering around vide greniers (the French equivalent of flea markets) looking for a bargain or two. Her children currently live in fear of her turning into an ageing hippy and moving to Totnes.

To find out more about Jennifer visit her website:

http://goo.gl/xviqQp

or chat to her on Twitter: @jenniewriter

To Jenny Saville-Sneath a much missed friend who, when we ran away to France, introduced us to a life très different.

To anyone dreaming of changing their life - I say Go Live the Dream!

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Dedication

January

February

March

April

May

June

July

August

September

October

November

December

Endpages

About the Publisher

JANUARY

Antibes Juan-les-Pins.

I’m forty-two years old and I’ve run away from home. There. I’ve written it down so there’s no denying it. It’s the honest truth behind the falsely cheerful announcement I made to friends and family before Christmas. “I’m having a belated gap year. Such fun.” Running away though, is actually my default position for coping with the hell of the past months.

At least I hope I’m going to cope, and that’s what this blog is really all about. Keeping this diary is my way of getting all the angst out of my system - apparently this method is highly respected and much recommended by psychologists everywhere. Write down the angst and let it all hang out.

Does writing a private blog count as a diary? Because that’s what I’m planning to do. Not expecting anyone to read it. Just want to write it all out of my system. Not committed to paper obviously as I’m writing on my laptop. I hope it works because right now I’m still very angsty.

(Please note all names have been changed to protect the innocent in the unlikely event of somebody actually reading my ramblings.)

So, today is officially the start of the rest of my life. I know that’s a cliché but hey, it’s my blog so if I want to use a cliché I will. It’s not as if Mrs Singer (my old English teacher) is standing over me, muttering “find some original words”. I expect there will be some rude words too, creeping in alongside the clichés.

Of course I’ve not run away permanently. I’m just having the gap year I never had when I was younger. In my family you left school and either went to college or got a job. I did a Business Diploma at our local polytech and then went to work on our regional newspaper.

Twenty-three years later I was the women’s page editor, mother of Katie and wife to Ben. Ah, Ben. The love of my life.

I turned out not to be his. Six months ago we had, I thought, a great holiday in Cape Town. Got home on the Sunday night, unpacked my case and started to throw things into the washing machine. Suggested Ben did the same… only for him to shake his head at me.

“Sorry Jessica, but I don’t want to be married any more,” and he picked up his still packed suitcase and left. Just like that. Didn’t even give me the chance to scream abuse at him.

Of course I went to pieces at first. Cried for days, weeks, kept telling people he’d be back. It was just the male menopause. It wasn’t until the divorce papers arrived that I finally began to accept my marriage was over.

I didn’t know until then either, that he’d shacked up with Samantha from Sales. His not wanting to be married any more apparently only applied to being married to me. He was keen to marry Samantha as quickly as possible – the fact she was now pregnant and was applying pressure might have had something to do with it of course.

Anyway, the day the divorce papers arrived was also the day that – after one glass of wine too many (actually it was bottles not glasses) with my best mate Bella – I said “Stuff him. I’ll get a new life too.” Which was when the plan to do a ‘Shirley Valentine’ and have my long delayed gap year in the south of France was conceived.

Bella was all for coming with me a la Thelma and Louise – not that we planned that kind of adventure – but then she was headhunted for her dream job in TV and no way could I let her turn it down just to keep me company. So, she’s got her new job, earning bucket loads of money and a great social life, while I’m here in Antibes Juan-les-Pins having to kick-start the rest of my life, on my own, without a fabulous job, and a social life that isn’t.

I’ve never actually lived alone before. I lived at home with my parents until I got married. Ben and I bought our first house together.

Can’t help wondering if I’ve actually made the right decision coming out here. Oh, I’m looking forward to having the total freedom to do what I want, when I want – it’s just the thought of doing it all alone. In a foreign country.

Bella did fly down with me to help find an apartment, and we saw the New Year in together – sitting at a crowded pavement cafe down on the bord de mer with the obligatory bottle of champagne. And would you believe it – Bella pulled!

Too early for me to be even thinking about dating, but I couldn’t help feeling a tad jealous. Not about her pulling a good-looking sexy Frenchman, but about me not having anyone in my life at the moment who is remotely interested in me.

Will there be anyone ever again? Or am I going to languish on the scrapheap where Ben has tossed me, slowly disappearing, unloved and unnoticed into old age?

Must, must, stop thinking like that. I’m at the beginning of an adventure – even if right now it feels more like the biggest mistake of my life.

Jacques, owner of the cafe, couldn’t do enough for us on New Year’s Eve. Insisting on giving us the bottle of bubbly when Bella went to pay, telling her she had beautiful eyes. At least that’s what we think he told her – Bella’s French is worse than mine and Jacques’ English appears to be limited. He “‘opes to see her again when she visits with her friend.”

3rd January.

Took Bella to the airport this morning and returned the hire car. For the first time in years I’m going to be without a car of my own – something I’m quite relieved about, seeing the way they drive down here. They. Are. Mad. Honestly, for a nation that virtually reinvented the roundabout, the French appear to be remarkably clueless about how to negotiate them. French men in particular seem to regard indicators as an optional extra as they rarely bother to use them.

Sitting having a croissant and coffee before her flight was called, Bella said, ‘You going to be OK on your own?’

‘Of course. Next time you’re down it’ll be a non-stop social whirl introducing you to all my new friends.’ Under the table I crossed my fingers, praying it would be true.

‘Well, if you decide it’s not going to work and you want to come home, you know there’s always room at mine,’ Bella said. ‘Mind you, I’d probably call you all kinds of names for not making a go of it down here. I quite like the idea of jumping on a plane every few weeks and coming down to see you.’

‘So I’m your holiday destination of choice for the next year am I? Thanks,’ I said. ‘One more reason to make a go of things and stay then.’

A quarter of an hour later, hugging each other goodbye outside the departure lounge, Bella said, ‘Look after yourself and have a great gap year, Jessie. Remember – you’ve run away, nobody knows you down here, so you can reinvent yourself as the person you’ve always wanted to be. I’ll see you soon.’ With that she was gone.

Walking out through the busy airport concourse to wait for the bus, I thought about what Bella had said. The person I’ve always wanted to be? Surely I’ve been that person for twenty-three years: a woman happily married to the man she loved, with a beautiful daughter and a good job. All gone – thanks to Samantha from Sales.

Now I’m alone in a foreign country without a husband or a job. I do still have the beautiful daughter who – well let’s just say she doesn’t approve of my being here. Thinks it’s me having the mid-life crisis, not Ben. She’s always been close to her dad. Don’t think she knows about the new half sibling that’s on its way yet. Ben said he was picking the right moment to tell her. Right moment? Pfff.

4th January.

I didn’t bother making any New Year resolutions this year. The normal ones – like take more exercise, lose two stone by Easter etc – didn’t seem applicable seeing as how I’ve lost two and a half stone since last year. I suppose writing this diary is a sort of resolution – especially if I write regularly. I’ve also decided to brush up on my ancient schoolgirl French and take some French lessons, so that’s another thing to put on the To Do List. Find a French class.

Tried to ring Katie earlier but her phone was permanently engaged. Had to leave a voice message.

5th January.

I love the apartment I’ve found. It’s on the top floor of a Belle Epoque villa with lots of atmosphere and, from a small balcony off the sitting room, a view out over the Mediterranean. There’s also a tiny roof terrace at the back of the apartment where I can eat and where I plan to sunbathe à poil. I know I can go topless down on the beach but I always feel self-conscious doing that – even when Bella and I do it together. Couldn’t possibly do it on my own. So the terrace it will have to be if I want an all over tan.

There are some pots out there I’m planning to fill with some colourful plants to brighten it up a bit. Have to admit the garden at home is one thing I’m really starting to miss. When I think of all the hours I spent out there getting it just right… and now, I’ll probably never see it again.

Ben and I had planned to create a cosy arbour this year with a mixture of honeysuckle and jasmine and a hidden bench where we’d sit and sip a glass of wine of an evening. Wonder if Samantha is a gardener?

There’s a total of six flats in the house, two on each floor. Haven’t met any of the other residents yet. I think my immediate neighbour is away as there’s been no sign of life since I moved in last week.

The agent did tell me a couple of yachties who are rarely here rent the first floor, and the ground floor front apartment is on permanent rent to a local veterinary practice for various locums they need from time to time. The remaining garden apartment is currently occupied by a Swedish woman.

Maybe I’ll knock on a few doors next week, see if anyone is around, introduce myself and invite them up for a cup of tea – or a glass of wine. I’ve no idea whether that is the done thing in France or not but hey, they can only say “Non” can’t they? I do need to get some sort of social life going and probably get some sort of job in case the divorce money takes time to come through.

I’m going to be indulgent and give myself a bit of a holiday first though. Explore the area. Cannes, Nice, Monaco, Italy just across the border from here – they’re all on my radar to visit.

Thankfully the apartment has a TV – French channels only though – which, if nothing else, will be good for improving my language. The internet connection is already set up too, so top of my To Do List is setting up a bank account and transferring some money. Better write out what I want to say and make sure my trusty translator has got decent batteries before I venture into a branch.

10th January.

My New Year / New Life hasn’t got off to the greatest beginning due to my soon to be ex-husband starting to cock things up.

18th January.

Once Ben and I were on speaking terms again after the initial hoo-hah of him dumping me, we both agreed selling the house and splitting the money equally was the way to go. Katie would carry on living there with him until it was sold. So far, so good.

Got an e-mail early last week from Ben saying he wants to buy me out and keep the house. I don’t have any real objections to that, although it will be funny thinking of Ben living there with his new woman. I know my solicitor will make certain I get the market value I’m entitled to, so I hope Ben realises how big a mortgage he’s about to saddle himself with.

No I bloody well don’t! I hope he overstretches and bankrupts himself, and Samantha has to live in a rabbit hutch. I know, I know – I’m a cow really.

It makes me hopping mad to think he’s given no thought to how Katie will feel living in the house with Samantha – not to mention the baby when it arrives. Apparently he told her about the baby when he told her about buying me out and moving Samantha in. Talk about tactless.

What is it with soon-to-be ex-husbands? Are they all complete and utter.......? Or is it just mine? How come I never noticed how insensitive Ben was when we were married? Or did I just ignore it? Too busy to tackle him about it.

29th January.

Just had a frantic call from Katie crying down the phone, telling me Ben’s moved Samantha in, how much she hates her and how she can’t possibly live in the same house. Of course it’s all my fault – not sure how she worked that one out – and if I hadn’t taken off to come down here she could have just moved in with me.

I did tell her, again, that she was welcome to the spare bedroom in the apartment – but that suggestion was greeted with derision. I might be selfish enough to take off and ignore my responsibilities but she has her part-time job, college and friends to consider. There was no way she was going to run away like some people.

Her “You just don’t seem to care about me any more” jibe was hard to take though. But then in the next breath she tells me Ben has promised that if she stays and makes an effort to get on with Samantha, he’ll pay her college fees for the last two terms. Needs to keep in with him then.

No point in reminding her that I didn’t have much in the way of “responsibilities” to ignore. I was made redundant precisely three months after Ben left. No husband and no job effectively wiped out every commitment apart from looking after her – and she’s told me often enough ‘I’m all grown up now Mum, I can make my own decisions. Look after myself.’

No point either in trying to assure her I did care about her – she was past listening.

31st January.

Between trying to calm Katie down over the phone and telling Ben to tread gently with his latest plans as far as she is concerned, I’ve been a bit stymied sorting out my own life down here. But after much to-ing and fro-ing I’ve finally got a bank account – you wouldn’t believe the hoops I had to jump through for that. All to stop money laundering I was told. Cue sarcastic laughter. Why would they worry about that with me? My money is so squeaky clean it’s like one of those washing powder adverts where everything smells of springtime in the countryside – before the muck spreaders are out.

I’ve joined a French conversation class, found the quickest way to walk into Antibes from here and also signed up for the obligatory top-up health insurance which I hope I never have to use. Finally, I’m ready for my new life. Still angsty though and trying to plot a way of killing Ben without getting caught.

FEBRUARY

This month started quietly, thank God. No more e-mails from Ben, just official letters from my solicitor detailing the final agreements and the date when it should go to court. Katie too, has at least been civil to me when I’ve phoned her – civil if short. But that’s OK. At least we’re still talking.

Well, I’m into my second month of living down here. Can’t say I’m having a wonderful time because I’m not. If I’m honest I’m finding it difficult to meet and make friends, although I’ve finally met one of the villa’s other residents.

Eliosa Accardi is my immediate neighbour up here on the top floor. She turned up one afternoon last week with more designer luggage than I’ve ever seen outside of Harrods.

Half Italian, half French, she’s one of those older women who exude charisma and is such fun to be around.

5th February.

I was leaving for my French conversation class today when I literally bumped into Eliosa. Well to be truthful her small French bulldog, Brucie, wrapped his lead around my legs and I fell over. Didn’t hurt myself and had a fit of the giggles.

‘Desolé, desolé,’ Eliosa kept saying as she finally untangled the lead and scooped up the fat bulldog into her arms. ‘Naughty naughty Brucie.’

She trilled with laughter when I told her where I was going. ‘What you need, ma petite, is a French sleeping dictionary.’

When I looked at her blankly she shrugged her shoulders and said. ‘A French lover. Is the best way. I find one for you.’

‘Non. Merci,’ I protested. ‘The last thing I need in my life right now is a man.’

Eliosa wagged a finger at me. ‘Remember this is France. Le cinq à sept. Everyone needs a lover in their life. You come for aperitifs soon. I arrange it.’

Not quite sure what she’s going to arrange – a lover or aperitifs – but didn’t dare ask.

Did ask at French conversation what cinq à sept was though. And blushed as everybody stared at me when Marc the class leader explained exactly what it was. And that was before Tatienne the Tart slyly asked if I was personally planning to adopt the custom?

Couldn’t wait for the conversation to move back to translating useful phrases like ‘What time does the train depart s’il vous plait?’ Although the French for ‘I wish the floor would open up and swallow me’ would perhaps have been more useful.

Le cinq à sept literally translated means five o’clock to seven o’clock. Basically it’s like Happy Hour in English. For the French though it’s apparently time for an illicit rendezvous with your lover after work before going home to the bosom of your family. Who knew?

Wonder if that’s when Ben and Samantha got it together? Like an after work activities club.

6th February.

Hadn’t heard from Katie since last week so I rang to make sure she was all right. Almost wish I hadn’t bothered. Ended up feeling even more guilty than normal about not being there for her.

She did nothing but moan at me for five minutes about living in the same house as Samantha. Hates it. Told her it’s Ben she needs to talk to, not me, as there’s nothing I can do from down here. Can’t even tell her it will get better because the chances are it won’t. Weeks will turn into months, life will go on but whether the situation will improve is debatable.

‘Perhaps you ought to see if you can find a place of your own,’ I suggested. ‘Just until the end of the year when I return. I’ll be getting somewhere big enough for the two of us then.’

‘That’s ten months away,’ Katie snapped. ‘You should be here now.’

Before I could respond, she’d hung up. Hadn’t even asked me how I was.

In dire need of talking to somebody who might care the teeniest bit about me, I phoned Bella. Another mistake. Unlike Katie she was bubbly and cheerful – but couldn’t stop telling me about how well her new job was going, all the contacts she was making and how much fun her new life was.

It was a good ten minutes before she finally asked, ‘How’s life down on the Riviera then? Met any sexy Frenchmen? How’s Jacques?’

‘Oh you know. Life’s a beach down here. Jacques is still in lust. Asks about you every time I see him. Me? I’m still looking to meet that sexy Frenchman,’ I said, not wanting to admit to Bella how miserable I felt when she obviously didn’t really care. Couldn’t believe how insensitive she was being, gloating about her life to me when I don’t have one.

8th February.

Couldn’t stop crying today for some reason. Must pull myself together. Just got to get on with things. After all, I’m not the first woman to have been dumped for a newer model. Or to have family problems. Going to take the camera and go out for a walk along the bord de mer. Breathe in some sea air. Take a few photos.

10th February.

Saw Eliosa today. She’s arranging aperitifs for the twenty-sixth so that’s something to look forward to.

15th February.

Seem to have got into the habit of popping into Jacques’ bar in the early evening and having a glass or two of rosé with him. Helps to pass the time.

25th February.

Wish I knew what people wear to aperitif parties in France. Dressy? Casual? Come as you are? No, definitely not the last. I don’t know Eliosa very well but I do recognise her as someone who always makes an effort to look her best. Remembering her offer of finding me a French lover, I’m more than a little apprehensive about tomorrow evening. I just hope none of her male friends have been primed to offer their services. At least the invitation is for seven o’clock not five o’clock.

26th February.

Thankfully all the men, with one exception, at Eliosa’s tonight had their femmes firmly attached to their sides like limpets, determined to keep them from so much as clinking glasses with this strange, on her own, English woman. This, despite the fact that they were all, with the one exception, well into their seventies. Alone I might be, but desperate I’m not.

The lone exception made no effort to socialise with me and stood clutching his pink champagne, staring moodily out to sea.

‘Zat is my nephew Nino,’ Eliosa said. ‘The family ask him to look out for me when he is here.’ She shook her head. ‘He is not good dictionary for you. He is all at sea.’

Nino clearly had the ears of a hawk because he turned at her words and made his way over to us. ‘Merci for the champagne Tante Eliosa. Duty calls. Look after yourself.’ He kissed her goodbye, gave me a brief smile and left. Shame really. At least he was in the right age group.

‘All at sea?’ I asked Eliosa.

‘He is the capitane of a yacht. At sea more than ashore,’ she said.

I’d asked Jacques what the etiquette was with aperitif parties and he’d reckoned one should stay no longer than an hour, so at eight I said goodbye to everyone, thanked Eliosa and returned to my own apartment across the landing.

Standing out on my tiny balcony watching the rest of the world living their lives, it hit me again how completely alone I am in a foreign country. The evenings are the loneliest. It’s fine to do daytime activities like shopping or going to a conversation class alone – but evenings are different.

Evenings are for couples to stroll along hand-in-hand, enjoying each other’s company, pointing out things of interest, relaxing, meeting up with other couples.

What the hell am I doing down here? I could be back home planning a spa weekend away with Bella. Enjoying some retail therapy with Katie. I’d probably have found myself a new job and a new home by now and be busy settling in and getting it to my liking. Instead I’m down here… “Mrs Bertha No Mates”. A life with no real purpose.

I watched the lights twinkling along the shoreline as traffic wove its way along the bord de mer, to-ing and fro-ing between Cannes or Cap d’Antibes. It might only be February but the pavement restaurants had plenty of customers enjoying meals and wine under the warmth of industrial gas heaters. People were out there living their lives. People with friends. People with a purpose.

I grabbed my jacket and went out, determined to lose myself in all that action. Become a part of the scene to another casual onlooker.

27th February.

Usually the only bar or cafe I go to is Jacques’, but last night I wasn’t up to being continually questioned about Bella. Honestly, he’s obsessed. Even got me to post a Valentine’s card for him. He wanted her address really but I wasn’t sure about that, so I offered to post it for him. I won’t think about the fact that La Poste didn’t deliver any Valentine’s cards for me this year. Can’t think why.

I walked past Jacques’ cafe and made for the other end of Juan. Found an empty table at a bistro opposite the Casino entrance, treated myself to a carafe of house red and settled down to watch the comings and goings of the glamorous twenty-first century Gatsby set. And boy, weren’t they glamorous.

Luxury cars, designer clad women – well girls mainly – clutching the arms of tuxedo wearing men. Didn’t spot any celebrities – maybe need to go to Cannes or Monaco for that, but it was a fun people-watching session.

Walking back to the apartment an hour or so later I felt better. More energised and focused on making my life down here work. Window shopping in the various designer boutiques that line the main street of Juan-les-Pins, I saw an advert for a part-time assistant for the season in one of them. Part-time would be fine for me so I’m thinking of applying. Working would put some routine and purpose into my life.

Worrying about Katie and the Ben situation isn’t going to solve anything. She’s twenty, currently at college and living her own life. Once she’s finished college this summer and gets a job she’ll want her own place anyway. She’s very unlikely to want to live with me when I get back and buy somewhere.

Haven’t done any of the exploring I promised myself I would do yet, so Friday I’m going to take a train ride along the coast to Italy and go to the market in Ventimiglia. I’m told it’s the market to go to down here. Might even indulge in some proper retail therapy, rather than just window shopping.

Thank God February is a short month. With a bit of luck things will start to perk up during March, especially when we get to Easter.

Whatever you call it – having a gap year, or doing a Shirley Valentine – it’s turning out to be a lot harder than I thought it was going to be. But then Shirley Valentine was fiction and this is my reality. And let’s face it, Tom Conti is hardly likely to turn up in my life is he?

MARCH

The train to Italy was packed but it was a lovely journey along the coast, watching the glittering surface of the ever-moving Mediterranean out of one window and the countryside out of the other.

I managed to grab a window seat and enjoyed daydreaming about the villas and apartments we flashed past. Small bijou cottages, large tower blocks, lavish villas… they’re all here along this bit of coastline. We passed the famous Baie des Anges with its marina and apartment blocks built to resemble waves. Too modern for me, I decided. I’m definitely a Belle Epoque villa type of girl. In my dreams!

The tunnel from Cap d’Ail down into Monaco seemed endless. As the train finally pulled into Monaco I was half tempted to get off and spend the day there exploring, but decided to stick with my original plan.

Ventimiglia market is huge. I found it quite disorientating. So many people jostling to find a bargain. Lots of kitchen equipment, leather, pasta, handbags, cheese, clothes, oh you name it there was a stall selling it. I could have spent a fortune. There was one pair of leather shoes that positively had my name on them.

Stupidly I’d forgotten to take a shopping basket, so I treated myself to a straw one to hold the pasta, the olives, the Parmesan cheese and some lovely shiny aubergines I couldn’t resist buying. I did resist a fake Chanel handbag though – something I was glad about on the way home.

Had lunch in a lovely restaurant with a covered terrace overhanging the edge of the beach. I was surrounded by Italian and French families and the noise level was unbelievable. Italians are so vocal when they get together. Luckily the waiter spoke a bit of both French and English so I managed to ask questions and order the food I wanted. And a glass of Prosecco, of course.

The main course was good – tagliatelle with basil – but O.M.G. the tiramisu dessert was to die for. Promised myself I’d be strict for the rest of the week to make up for all the calories I was eating.

The train journey home was exciting. We were raided by the customs contraband police – would you believe!

Seeing the faces of the women on the train as they watched the police tear apart their recent purchases with sharp knives, I was so glad I hadn’t succumbed to temptation and bought that fake Chanel handbag. Eliosa had warned me about buying stuff like that when I told her I was coming here.

‘It’s not worth the risk,’ she’d said. ‘Save up for the real thing.’ At least my cheap straw basket was safe from the knife wielding cops.

6th March.

I’m really not sure about this conversation class I’ve been going to for the past few weeks. If it doesn’t improve soon I think I’ll drop out.

I seem to spend all my time talking – in English – to Colette, who is desperate to improve her English so she can get a job in London, where apparently “eet is all ‘appening.”

There are two or three English couples there who treat the morning as an excuse for a gossipy catch-up and a bitch about their French neighbours. Been tempted to ask them “if you don’t like it, why don’t you go home?” So far I’ve managed to restrain myself.

The two French women I try to talk to don’t understand my accent so that gets pretty fraught. Beginning to think I need a more structured class with a teacher setting pages of verb homework to be learnt. One to one tuition. Must pluck up the courage to ask Marc if he can recommend anyone. I’ve been avoiding asking him anything since my faux pas with le cinq à sept.

I keep thinking about Eliosa’s sleeping dictionary suggestion. Finding one of those though, even if I wanted one, is clearly not going to happen in a hurry. It’s not as if I can walk into the local bookshop, find the section marked “Dictionaries” and have a selection to pick one from.

Seen Nino visiting Eliosa a couple of times this month. Nice that he keeps an eye on her, although it always seems to be very brief visits. I guess he’s busy with the yacht.

Walked home via the market after the class and bought some red geraniums for the roof terrace pots and a couple of trailing white ones for the balcony baskets. Finally bumped into the Swedish woman from the garden flat in the entrance hall. After we’d introduced ourselves, Lotta invited me in for a coffee.

7th March.

Turns out Lotta’s a life coach and a keen gardener. Her garden is an oasis of calm and immediately had me nostalgic for my – soon to be Samantha’s – garden. Lotta’s lived here for five years and speaks four languages fluently – Swedish obviously, English, French and Italian. We seemed to be on the same wavelength from the word go, and I found myself telling her about my split with Ben and how worried I was about Katie.

Maybe it’s just that she’s easy to talk to, but I even found myself voicing the fact that I was considering giving up on my gap year and going home. I feel a bit old to be taking a gap year if I’m honest.

Her advice was simple and to the point: get rid of the negative thoughts; concentrate on getting on with life down here. You’re only here for a short time so make the best of it – don’t waste time worrying. There are heaps of opportunities to enjoy life. Basically, her rallying cry is “Think Positive.”

Back at chez moi, planting up my pots, I resolved to do just that – think positive and enjoy life. Ben could sort out the Katie mess – it’s all his fault anyway. Hopefully Katie will eventually stop blaming me for the break-up and realise it was Ben who wanted his freedom, not me.

9th March.

Plucked up the courage today to go and apply for the job in the boutique I saw the other evening. What a hoot! A waste of time but a hoot.

Madame the owner – all tight white leather jeans, cropped top and gold jewellery – spoke a bit of English, so we ended up talking a broken Franglais with me trying to convince her I would be an asset with the foreign tourists. But she wasn’t having it.

‘Non, non, non,’ she said, wagging a scarlet tipped finger at me. ‘The clients Francais would no like you no speaking Francais. They would try to cheat me. They no buy from someone they laugh at.’

‘But the English would love being able to ask questions in their own language. And I’m sure my French would improve if I was using it every day.’

‘Non. Go away and learn le Francais. Peut-être in six months I give you a job.’ And with that I was firmly shown the shop door. Oh well, it’ll have to be Plan B then. Except I haven’t got a Plan B.

10th March.

On the home front, things have been quiet for a few days now. I’m holding my breath for the explosion that’s sure to happen. Katie was very subdued when I spoke to her last night, muttering something about her dad being a complete..... well we can agree on that. Didn’t realise she knew that word though!

12th March.

I’ve taken some great photos lately – think I’m getting the hang of loading them onto the computer. There’s one I took from the balcony two evenings ago that I particularly like. It’s of the sunset over the Esterel mountain range – the sky is so red it looks as if it’s on fire.

It’s Mimosa season down here. I managed to take one absolutely stunning photograph of the tree in the park. Brilliant yellow against the deep blue of the Cote d’Azur sky. It looks wonderful. Maybe I could start a new career as a photographer?

Probably not. Must admit to missing my old job though. I loved writing the women’s page features for the paper. Not that I wrote many of them in the last few years. I commissioned most of them from various freelancers.

DUH! It’s official. I am one stupid cow. Just had a light bulb moment as I typed that paragraph. I could be one of those freelancers. I don’t have to be in the UK to write for magazines do I? Next time I speak to Bella I’ll run the idea past her. Between us we should have loads of contacts.

She’s coming over for Easter at the end of the month. Jacques will be pleased. Can’t decide whether to tell him or let it be a surprise.

15th March.

Colette surprised me today after French conversation by asking me to have lunch with her. She wanted to pick my brains about moving to London. Where was the best to live. How expensive it was etc. She’s quite nice really. Gave her the names of a couple of contacts but told her not to be disappointed if they couldn’t help.

Before lunch we’d decided that she’d speak in English to me and I would answer her in French. That way we both got some language practice in.

Have to admit my head was hurting by the time we finished lunch. Only had two glasses of rosé so it couldn’t have been that giving me a headache. Must have been the effort of concentrating on finding all the right French words and phrases.

19th March.

I’ve invited Eliosa and Lotta for drinks and nibbles tomorrow evening. Definitely not just aperitifs as I’d quite like them to stay for longer than the prescribed hour. All evening would be good. This thing about having the freedom to do what I want, when I want, is all right but I do miss having family and friends to hang out with.

20th March.

Had a lovely evening with the neighbours. Must do it more often.

26th March.

Decided I’d better clean the apartment today, ready for Bella’s visit. Am now exhausted.

28th March.

Can’t wait for Bella to get here. I’ve done a proper food shop for the first time in weeks. The fridge is stuffed full with rosé, cheeses and other French delights. Including lots of green asparagus – my absolute favourite. Can’t understand the fuss the French make over the white stuff.

Bella’s doing the car hiring this time so I don’t have to go haring off to Nice to meet her. Expecting her to get to the apartment sometime after midday.

APRIL

April is turning into a busy month. It’s Easter this week and Bella has arrived. She’s managed to wangle a couple of extra days so will be here for over a week, which is great. We’ve both been surprised by how different Easter is here in France.

For a start, Easter Monday is the only official holiday – they don’t celebrate Good Friday at all. Which I find strange. But they still manage to make an extra long weekend out of the holiday.

I decided in the end not to tell Jacques about Bella coming, and his face when she walked into the bar on Thursday evening was worth it. He was cross with me though for not telling him Bella was coming. Said if he’d known he’d have arranged to have a day off to take her places. Didn’t mention me tagging along. Mmm, well sorry about that Jacques, but she’s my friend here to see me.

I did ask Bella if she wanted to spend time alone with him. She said ‘No, it’s too soon. Maybe in the summer.’ So I’ll tell him before Bella’s next visit, to see if he’s still keen. Think he will be. Kept making excuses to come over and talk to her.

We spent most of Thursday mooching around Cannes. Bella was desperate to see the Croisette and Rue d’Antibes – my god, that’s a long street! The shops though are amazing and far too enticing. Bella spent a fortune on clothes.

‘In my job I need them, Jess, and these are different to things I can find at home.’ Well that was her excuse anyway.

I bought some designer sunglasses and a pair of strappy sandals. Unlike Bella, I don’t have any excuse – other than I liked the sandals, and the sun seems to shine every day down here so shades come under the heading of necessities.

Had lunch in a small bistro tucked away in one of the back streets – moules and frites washed down with a bottle of rosé. Ran the idea of me freelancing and writing features for various magazines and newspapers past Bella. She’s all for it and has promised to pass the word around her contacts that I’m available. And of course I have a few myself in the magazine world.

When I said ‘So long as I can come up with enough ideas,’ Bella laughed.

‘You still writing your angsty diary?’

I nodded, ‘Yes. It’s definitely helping.’

‘Well there you go then, that’s as good a starting point as anything. You could always turn it into a proper blog and send it out into cyberspace. And Jessie? You are in the south of France. Look around you. I bet I can come up with at least ten ideas sitting here. For a start, anything to do with wine and food is always popular. French markets, out of the way places for tourists to discover, the architecture, the churches, the harbours, local ski resorts, the Film Festival, Monaco Grand Prix…’

I laughed. ‘OK I get the idea. Come on, let’s go and lust over the yachts.’

The yacht quay in Cannes, while nothing like the International Quay in Antibes – known to the locals as Millionaires’ Quay – still has some pretty impressive boats tied up to it, including the one Nino skippers.

We were walking along one of the walkways when we saw him sitting in the aft sundeck of a gleaming fibreglass motor cruiser. He raised a hand in greeting and called out, ‘You like to come on board? Have a look around?’

I was surprised he recognised me to be honest, but we were up the gangplank in seconds. A prominent notice hanging from the “Private. No Entry.” chain Nino lowered at the head of the gangplank instructed us to leave our shoes in the basket provided. We duly kicked them off and we were onboard.

‘Are we allowed?’ I asked anxiously. ‘What about your owner.’

‘Relax. There’s only me and two crew on board at the moment. Bruno the owner flies in tomorrow. Want to take a look around?’

We didn’t need asking twice and followed Nino into the main salon. All I can say is, whoever Bruno is, he certainly knows how to spend his money.

The yacht was a luxurious understatement of good taste. Cream carpet throughout and light coloured paneled walls. Original paintings were hung throughout the yacht – including a couple by Picasso and Georges Braque. In the salon, a glass topped dining table surrounded by twelve chairs held a large arrangement of lilies in a huge silver gourd shaped vase. As for the three bathrooms, all marble and gold, they were to die for.

By the time we were admiring the exquisite Lalique screen in the main salon we were both – for want of a better word – somewhat gobsmacked at the sheer opulence of it all.

When we returned to the aft deck there was an ice bucket with a bottle of champagne nestling in it, three glasses and a tray of bite-sized nibbles.

‘Sit,’ Nino instructed. ‘I open the champagne. Help yourselves to the food.’

I couldn’t stop myself asking, ‘Nino, are you sure this is ok? What if your owner turns up early?’

‘It’s not a problem Jessica. As capitane, when he is not here I have freedom to welcome certain people on board. Who knows, maybe one day you may wish to charter the yacht.’

Expertly he twisted the cork out of the bottle with a satisfyingly loud pop, before pouring the pale amber liquid into the glasses.

‘If you’re sure,’ I murmured, accepting the glass he handed me. ‘But I shouldn’t hold your breath about us ever chartering the yacht.’

Nino shrugged. ‘No worries.’

Sitting out there on the aft deck in the sunshine, savouring the champagne and laughing with Bella and Nino, the real world faded away. I mean, I know people with real money live a life a world away from the rest of us – but I’d never before appreciated just how different it could be. Fancy being able to take that kind of lifestyle for granted. Not something that is likely to happen for me.

Nino told us how he spent the summer months motoring up and down the Med. ‘Bruno likes to visit Corsica and Sardinia. We see a lot of Italy too – especially Portofino. Occasionally we go to Greece but we’re always here in our home port in May for the Film Festival, before moving on to Monaco for the Grand Prix. After that, we’re all over the place.’

Bella told him about my plans to write some features for UK magazines.

‘I help if I can,’ Nino said. ‘I ‘ave lots of the contacts here. You have a Press Pass for the festival? Lots of parties. I get you invites.’

‘Thank you. Not sure how difficult it will be to get a Press Pass but I’ll definitely try,’ I said.

‘Wish I could wrangle a visit next month,’ Bella said. ‘Sounds like I’m going to be missing out.’

An hour later, when the last of the champagne had been drained, we stood up to leave.

‘Jessica, have you seen Tante Eliosa recently?’ Nino asked as we put on our shoes.

‘Not for a few days, but she’s coming to supper on Sunday evening to meet Bella.’

‘Bon. It is good she has a friend in the building.’ He pulled a card out of his jeans pocket. ‘I give you this – my mobile number – s’il y a there’s an emergency with Eliosa and you need help.’

‘Sure. Hope I never have to use it,’ I said, putting Nino’s card in my bag. Knowing my luck, he’d be out at sea somewhere and not available.

On the train back to Juan-les-Pins, Bella teased me about Nino. ‘He’s quite the hunk. D’you fancy a fling with him?’

‘Mmm. Could do. He’s probably got a girlfriend already,’ I said. ‘Must meet lots of glamorous women in his job.’

3rd April.

Been thinking about Bella’s suggestion of turning this diary into a proper blog and sending it out into cyberspace. Not sure I’m ready for that yet. I know I’d censor my ramblings if I thought other people were reading it, and the whole point of my angsty diary is to write my true thoughts down.

But she’s right when she says there’s so much to write about down here. Think I’ll start with the idea of writing some travel and lifestyle features about the Riviera.

4th April.

Today we walked to the market in Antibes to buy some treats for Sunday evening’s supper. It was crowded as usual but for once everybody was happy and polite – sometimes they are so bad tempered and rude you wouldn’t believe.

Felt a bit sad looking at all the wonderful Easter eggs displayed on the chocolatier’s stand. Normally back home I buy a large calorific one filled with chocolate liqueurs, which Katie and I would pig out on. The days are long gone when I used to organise an Easter egg hunt in the garden for her.

Ben hates chocolate so he usually got a bottle of decent wine – which we’d allow him to share with us over Sunday lunch. Felt strange this year sending Katie the money to buy her own Easter egg.

Couldn’t resist buying two fluffy yellow ducks holding baskets full of tiny chocolate mallow eggs. ‘One each for tomorrow,’ I said, seeing Bella’s look. ‘It’s Easter. You’ve gotta indulge in chocolate at Easter. It’s the law.’ I bought a chocolate duck wearing a top hat and carrying a cane for Eliosa. Think she’ll find it amusing.

Bella treated us to lunch in one of the posher restaurants off the Place Nationale. Sipping rosé whilst sitting out in their garden under the large pergola with the wisteria starting to flower, listening to the water gurgling in the ancient granite fountain in the centre of the garden, was bliss. Food was good too.

We just chilled out for the rest of the day really. Drank lots of wine, ate warm baguettes and cheese for lunch and listened to a lot of jazz. 1920s stuff in particular, Bella’s favourite era.

5th April.

Been thinking about what Bella said re Nino being a hunk and did I fancy a fling with him? To be honest, don’t think I’m ready yet to start dating again. Is it still called dating? Must ask Bella. I’ve been out of the loop for so long, don’t even know the correct terminology now.

If the truth be told, I’m frightened at the thought of getting involved with anyone after Ben. Being dumped after twenty-three years plays havoc with your confidence that’s for sure. Suppose I’ll get my mojo back again one day. And regular sex again.

6th April.

Eliosa was in good form when she came for supper. Think she’s had quite a life one way or another.

‘Married four times. Divorced one, buried three,’ she laughed. ‘Wonder what will happen to number five,’ she said.

‘You’re getting married again?’ I said, surprised.

‘C’est possible. I like being married. If I meet someone...’ she shrugged.

‘You haven’t actually got number five all lined up then?’ Bella asked, amused.

‘Non. But you never know who is around the next bend,’ Eliosa said, offering Brucie a piece of blini from her plate.

‘Maybe an Englishman would be nice this time,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘I’ve had two Italians, one French, and Roberto, Swiss.’ Her face clouded over and she sighed. ‘Roberto was my fourth husband and the love of my life. We only had six years together and I miss him still. He died too young. D’you know anyone suitable, Jessica? He must be richer than me of course.’

I shook my head, suppressing a smile. ‘Sorry. Rich Englishmen don’t figure in my life at all. Maybe Nino can find you a rich yacht owner?’

‘Ah Nino. Now he is on way to Genoa for a week or two. When he returns I ask him. He tells me you both had the champagne on board. You like his boat?’

‘That yacht is something else,’ Bella said, beginning to pour some more wine into Eliosa’s glass. ‘Tell me, does Nino have a girlfriend?’

Eliosa shook her head. ‘Non. But he has a wife. Back in Italy.’

I choked on my blini as Bella over-filled Eliosa’s glass. And bang went any secret thoughts I might have been harbouring about having a fling with Nino. Not that I’d seriously been considering it, of course. But an outside possibility had just become totally out of the question. My name isn’t Samantha.

7th April.

Spring down here is a beautiful season. Not too hot yet, but the sun is shining enough to draw people down to the beach. Even saw some people swimming yesterday. Despite the sun, I bet it was cold.

8th April.

The last full day of Bella’s visit we spent up in St. Paul de Vence. Thank god I took my camera with me because I think it’s going to be one of the first things I write about. It’s one of those famous perched villages with views down to the Mediterranean, and its medieval streets are now full of art galleries and bijou boutiques. Oh, and it’s home to various celebs, both French and English. Didn’t see anyone famous but we did bump into Jamie Carson, an old work colleague of Bella’s.

‘Remember I told you about him a couple of years ago,’ Bella muttered quickly as she spotted him striding down the street towards us. ‘Wife died in a hit and run. He lost the plot. Resigned from work. Became a recluse. Rumour has it there was a big insurance payout. Wonder what he’s doing here? Jamie! How lovely to see you.’

‘Bella.’ After the obligatory cheek kissing that all Englishmen seem to adopt with alacrity the moment they land on French soil, Bella introduced me.

‘Jamie, this is Jessica, an old friend who’s living in Juan-les-Pins at the moment. Are you on holiday?’

‘Pleased to meet you Jessica. I divide my time between here and the UK these days,’ he explained to Bella. ‘I have a villa up the road from here. Come for coffee and we can catch up.’

Walking through the village we stopped at the patisserie, where Jamie insisted on buying one of those hard-to-resist light-as-a-feather sponge cakes the French are so good at, covered in fruits and cream.

Jamie’s villa, set on a small private estate with views out over the surrounding countryside, was a delight. The large conservatory at the back of the house where we drank strong coffee and devoured the cake was very English, with its cane furniture and floral cushions.

I tuned out most of the conversation while Jamie was bringing Bella up to date with his news, and looked at the garden. Palm trees, oleander shrubs and pots of margaritas tumbling down the side of a flight of granite steps towards the swimming pool, passion flowers covering an archway and roof of a poolside room. Beautiful.

Six teak sun loungers, each with their own cream parasol, were lined up along one side of the pool. Wonderful.

Jamie saw me looking and said, ‘Fancy a swim? Lots of spare costumes in the pool house.’

I shook my head. ‘No thanks. I’m more of a gardener than a swimmer. I was thinking how beautiful your garden is.’

‘Thank you. How long have you been living in Juan-les-Pins?’ Jamie asked. ‘Think you’ll make it permanent?’

‘This is the fourth month. And no,’ I shook my head. ‘It’s just a long delayed gap year for me. I’ll go back home to family after Christmas.’

‘Unless of course she meets some sexy Frenchman who persuades her otherwise,’ Bella said.

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