Summer Promise and Other Stories by Elvi Rhodes

Author:Elvi Rhodes
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Relationships, Man-Woman Relationships, Family Saga, Chick-Lit, British, Fiction, Romance, Sagas, Women's Fiction, Love Stories
ISBN: 9781446487464
Publisher: Random House
Published: 2011-08-29T23:00:00+00:00

A Little Light Flirtation

SUNSHINE INVADES THE dark pavements under the cornices of the Place Gambetta – long, strong shafts penetrating the bar of the Hotel du Centre where I await my breakfast. It is exactly the scene we were promised by the Greenwoods at their Boxing Day party, when we all had horrid sniffling colds and the weather outside was so beastly that all we could think about was next year’s holiday.

Monsieur le Patron, no doubt having heard me descend the stairs, emerges from the kitchen. He is wearing his striped apron and there is a small smudge of flour on his face.

‘I am sorry, madame, my wife has gone shopping. She will not be long, and she will make you fresh coffee on her return.’

Is there in his voice just the tiniest reproof that I am late down? Would he like an explanation as to why my husband breakfasted, and left the hotel, more than an hour ago? Did he hear us quarrelling in the bedroom? But of course he did. It’s a small place. You can hear everything that goes on.

I now have nothing to do this morning. That stupid quarrel arose because I dared to say that I was sick of looking at abbeys and refused to inspect another for at least a week.

‘It’s far too hot to be traipsing around churches,’ I said.

‘Churches are, without exception, the coolest possible places,’ my husband retorted. He is maddeningly logical. It is one of the things I hold against him.

‘Anyway,’ I told him, ‘I want to go to the market in Bergerac.’

He pretended astonishment.

‘I can think of nothing hotter than trailing around the market,’ he said. (Have you noticed that when men don’t want to go somewhere, they use the word ‘trailing’?) ‘Besides,’ he went on, ‘I thought we’d come on holiday for a change. Every Saturday morning of our lives we go shopping.’

‘Are you really comparing Bergerac market – the colour, the sights, the sounds, the smells – with the supermarket?’ I demanded. ‘Have you no soul, no eyes, no imagination, no appreciation – unless it’s for something that’s five hundred years old?’

We went on like that for some time. We’ve had a lot of practice. I thought when we got around to blaming the Greenwoods – a familiar let-out – we were nearing the end, but the quarrel took a turn and we were off again.

‘You are stubborn and unco-operative!’ my husband dared to say, ruining this lovely autumnal morning for me.

‘And you are a pig-headed bore!’ I yelled. I had to yell because he was already halfway down the stairs. And I have not seen him since; nor do I see the car anywhere. Unfortunately it is too late for me to go to Bergerac, since the only bus of the day left some time ago.

And now here comes Madame herself, crossing the Place, laden with cauliflowers, small yellow and green striped melons, ripe red apples.

‘Why don’t you breakfast outside?’ she says. ‘It is warm in the sun.

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