Provence
Midnight. In preparation for a 5 a.m. rise I’d been asleep for two sweltering hours under the ceiling fan when the phone rang. It was a video call. Without glasses I don’t see well but recognised the caller as Jacob, a man I’d met in June when I’d been invited to a fancy villa near the coast for the night with old pals who were visiting friends of theirs. Jacob and I got on well. In the heated pool, having only just met, we sang: ‘Heaven… I’m in heaven…’ At dinner I admired his string of huge black Tahitian pearls and he told me about his exotic social life in New York. We exchanged our best anecdotes. At the end of the week he called to see me at home in the cave. He took me for a posh lobster lunch during which, proving there was no end to his kindness, he commissioned a painting and invited me back to the villa for a night in August when he would be taking it for the month.
The morning after that midnight call, I was due to join him and his house guests, five adults and seven teenagers, for a day at the beach. There was talk of chartering a boat for a short trip along the coast. I’ve never been on a boat down here and although I had rental admin – spreadsheets and banking – to do and was anxious about taking a day off, this would be the closest I was going to get to a holiday and I’d accepted.
Thinking the ringing phone meant the day out was to be cancelled, I turned on my front, pulled the sheet over my back and, lying half propped on and behind a pillow, answered. In the dark I could just about see Jacob. ‘I can see your tits. You look sexy,’ he said.
‘No you can’t, I’m lying on them and there’s a pillow in the way. And in any case, you told me you haven’t been with a woman for 41 years.’
‘I like tits!’ Pulling the pillow up further, I said: ‘Really? Well, perhaps you’d like the Platonic ideal, but not these.’ He said: ‘Come at 9.15 for breakfast and we’ll go to the beach in convoy.’ Then, holding up a postcard of one of my paintings I’d given the hosts previously, he said: ‘I love the painting you’re doing for me now, but could you do me one like this too?’ Squinting at the phone, I said: ‘Anemones. Golly – yes, thanks, but you’ll need to wait until spring…’
When morning came I arrived in good time to find the boat which had been chartered had engine trouble and no replacement could be found. It was decided we would head to the beach, find water sports for the kids and then get a rib taxi across the bay to a restaurant, Le Migon, at the far, quiet end of Pampelonne beach. Even this was a revelation. I’m lucky to get to a beach twice a year and then it’s usually just for a picnic. In 17 years, I could count on one hand the number of times I’ve been to a restaurant on the coast.
To demonstrate my late-in-the-day confidence, I punched the hornet in the face
At the end of his rental, exhausted after entertaining 29 people in a month, Jacob asked if the cave apartment was available and if so could he come and have a quiet weekend here on his way to Spain to stay with more friends. It was. His visit coincided with the last village event of the summer, a weekend fête, with dodgems and other rides, and bands playing in the evenings.
After a late lunch in the village, we climbed back up the hill and sat at the table on my terrace undecided about what to do before we headed back down for the music later; whether to retreat to our respective caves for a nap or keep going. We settled for the latter at a gentle pace. After a while Jacob, engrossed in his phone, said: ‘This guy’s only 150 metres away.’ ‘Really? Let me see. I might know him.’ I looked at the photo which showed a man’s head and shoulders emerging from a pool. ‘No, never seen him before.’ ‘What about this one?’ Jacob said holding the phone up again. ‘Ew! Definitely wouldn’t know him from that angle…’
The following day, I made roast tarragon chicken and salad. As soon as we sat down to eat, a massive hornet appeared and dived towards Jacob’s plate. He shrieked and leapt aside in his chair. Then it came for me. Some years ago I decided, after a lifetime of being less than courageous, to stand up to aggressors. To demonstrate this late-in-the-day confidence, I punched the hornet in the face. It flew off but soon turned and came back, so I punched it again. Down it went. Jacob laughed and declared he should be more west of Scotland in his approach to potentially lethal stinging insects. ‘Where is it? Is it dead?’ Jacob pointed to the insect floundering on the tiles beside a plant pot. ‘No, don’t kill it,’ he said. I began counting it out: ‘One uh, two uh, three uh…’
At four, it got up and came back at me again. I raised my fist. It stopped six inches from my face, spun round and flew away. I remembered Jeremy’s words when I related a harrowing event in my earlier life: ‘Why didn’t you just punch him?’ Why indeed.
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