This is a stand-alone story, although I may return to some of these characters in the future. I hope you enjoy it.
It had been a bad year; divorce, depression and disruption; I was due a reprieve. The fact that some solace came was wonderful; how it came was beyond my wildest imagination.
I should introduce myself; I'm Sam, a 38 year-old from London. I was married for fifteen years to a woman ten years my senior who already had two kids when we met, when I was twenty-one. To be honest, I realised that I'd made a huge mistake within the first eighteen months of our marriage. She went from the funny, bubbly, attractive person I'd met to a rather dowdy, insecure woman who didn't want me to leave the house. I guess my Catholic upbringing meant that I just swallowed my mistake and stuck it out. Eventually she had an affair with her son's work-colleague and deceived me for a year, using her daughter as a cover-story, before I was told. The confrontation was horrible and messy and I left the marital home, ending up on a psychiatric ward before being released to the care of my poor mother, who had never liked the woman in the first place. I had to agree to all sorts of lies to get the divorce done quickly and ended up in a tiny one-bedroom flat for a year, licking my wounds and swallowing my pride.
Now, coming out of the other side, I had lost some weight, upgraded my wardrobe and was about to move into a lovely little house close to work. Reprieve felt just around the corner.
It came during a phone call with my mother. We spoke every week and while this one had been nothing out of the ordinary, the sudden left-turn caught me off guard.
"When's your holiday this year, Mum?
"October, as usual," she replied.
"Are Tom and Angela going with you?" I asked, knowing that, as they had all gone away together for the past ten years, the answer was probably, 'yes.'
"Yes, of course. Actually, we want you to come this year too. It will make me feel less of a gooseberry and you've always got on well with your aunt and uncle," she replied. I didn't quite take it in, already asking the next question,
"Where are you going?"
"The south of France," she replied, "we thought it was about time we had some guaranteed sun on a holiday and you know how much your dad loved it down there."
I did. Dad had died at just 55, liver cancer, when I was 24, but he and Mum had spent their last three holidays near Nice and I was pleased that, after all these years, Mum felt it was time to go back. Fourteen years is a long time to be on your own, with your memories.
"Oh, great," I said, "that'll be lovely." There was a short silence, like she was expecting me to say something else. Eventually, she said;
"So? Will you come?" I was side-swiped. I had missed the significance of what she'd said a few seconds earlier, and now I was cornered.
"Er, yes, I guess."
"Well don't sound too enthusiastic, darling," she giggled.
"Oh, sorry," I said, "No, you took me by surprise that's all. Yes, I'd love to come."
"Wonderful! That's settled then. Why don't you come over for lunch on Saturday and we can make plans?" she said. I knew I was rota'd off on Saturday and I hadn't made any arrangements, so I agreed to lunch at her place.
For a few hours after the call I beat myself up, metaphorically speaking, for agreeing to the holiday. Going away for a week with your mother, her sister and her sister's husband, when you're 38 years-old, seemed such a ridiculous idea that I nearly called Mum back, twice, and told her I'd changed my mind. However, as I calmed down with a glass of wine, the idea stopped being quite so ridiculous.
Mum had had me when she was 21, so the age difference wasn't huge; and, since Dad had died, she'd gone from being a mother and a housewife to this vibrant, vital woman, travelling, going to the theatre and even having her own show on local radio. She was great company and fun to be around, as was her sister, Angela.
Angela was five years younger than Mum and, at 54, was the kind of looker who turned heads in the street. Tall, elegant, with legs which went on forever, she dressed beautifully. Her signature was short skirts and heels; not the short skirt that makes a 54 year old look slutty or 'mutton dressed as lamb' as Dad used to say, but classy, classic lines which accentuated her figure. Yes, classy is the word.
Oh, and fabulous tits. I had often wanked myself dreaming of Angela's tits.
Uncle Tom was every nephew's dream uncle; funny, naughty, sporty and drunk; those are my happiest memories of childhood adventures with Uncle Tom. He had married Angela in '62 and they'd been there, together, my whole life. The two couples had been very close; Dad and Tom were best friends even though they had only met through Angela and Susan, (Mum,) and often went to the rugby, football or horse racing together, while their partners went shopping. The evenings with Tom and Angela at our house were filled with music, laughter, dancing and lots of wine, throughout my childhood.
So, a week in the south of France with these three? Why not?
At lunch on the Saturday Mum showed me a video of the villa they had rented in Villefranche-sur-Mer, on the coast between Nice and Monaco. I had been there once before when a work-trip had taken me to Nice. On a day off I had bought a train ticket to Villefranche and had lunch on the harbour at La Mere Germain, a wonderful fish restaurant which had black & white photos on the wall of Roger Moore, Liza Minelli, Charlie Chaplin and JFK all eating at the restaurant, back in the day. The little town was everything a foreigner wants from the south of France but without the tourist-hordes. The villa was on the hillside overlooking the bay but was low enough for it to be a short walk down to the sea and the beach. I loved the look of it and suddenly became excited about the holiday. Early October meant that the tourist season was over but the daytime temperatures were still warm enough to be outside all day. Perfect.
The villa had three good-sized, en-suite bedrooms, a huge, well equipped kitchen, a light and airy lounge area and a patio out by the pool. It looked idyllic.
"Wow," I said, "this must be costing a few quid?"
"It's not too bad split between three of us," Mum replied.
"Four of us, surely?" I asked. There was no way I wasn't going to pay my way.
"No," she said, firmly, "we decided that this was our treat. What with the new house and the divorce you could do with a treat, Sam. Now, this is not up for discussion; it's done."
I knew that tone in her voice too well to argue.
"Thank you," I said, quietly, "that's wonderful. You'll have to let me help out in other ways though.'
"Of course, darling. We'll think of something." she said. Her hand covered mine on the table and she stroked my fingers with hers. I looked at her and she smiled, blowing me a kiss.
The few months before the holiday flew by; work was busy and I was settling into my new house, decorating at night and on weekends when the work-rota allowed it; soon enough though, the date was here. I picked Mum up and drove to Heathrow T5 for the British Airways flight to Nice. We had booked Business Class seats which gave us lounge access at Heathrow and at Nice on the way back.
Angela and Tom were already in the lounge when we arrived. They were deep in conversation when I spotted them; Tom, side-on to us but Angela was face-on, sitting in a leather chair, a glass of pink champagne in her hand. As we got closer I was stunned at how she looked; I hadn't seen her for a year but she looked ten years younger than her age. Her leather skirt had ridden up over her crossed legs, her heels were to die for and her red blouse was completely elegant, with just enough buttons undone to show that spectacular cleavage. I slowed slightly as we crossed the lounge-floor, wanting to take in every detail of this gorgeous woman.
Too late; she'd spotted us.
The two of them stood and smiled, raising their glasses at us. Angela bent down to set her champagne onto the table and hugged her sister. Tom put down his glass and ignored my outstretched hand, pulling me into a huge bear-hug.
"God, it's good to see you, Sammy. I'm so sorry about everything you've been through; we both are." It was a tender, whispered moment from a loved one and it meant the world to me. He took a step back, looking me up and down.
"Bloody hell, you look great," he said, "divorce obviously suits you.' We laughed and then swapped over as Mum came to hug him. Angela's embrace was warm and tender and she kissed me on both cheeks.
"How are you, darling?" she asked, concern in her eyes, "we were so worried about you." With that, she kissed me on the lips. I nodded, saying,
"I'm much better now, Angela, and looking forward to this week," I replied.
"Good," she said, "we'll find a nice quiet corner one evening, with a couple of bottles of wine, and you can tell me all about it; pour your heart out if you like."
"I think I'd like that," I said and she kissed me on the lips again.
We drank champagne, ate some nibbles and chatted loudly about the holiday to come. Mum was sparkly-eyed and excited, Tom was funny and filthy and Angela was touchy and flirty. They were all great company and, just in that hour before the flight, I felt completely relaxed.
The flight was smooth, there was more champagne, and the Alps were spectacular when we got there; not much snow but so majestic. The approach to Nice is a tight turn over the sea and the view was amazing. Wheels-down was on time and the airport was quiet and relaxed. We emerged into the warm sun and looked for a taxi. A price was agreed and the 45-minute journey was beautiful. We turned off the road, up a secluded lane and into a small courtyard where the taxi stopped. We got out, inhaling the sea-air while the driver unloaded our bags. Tom paid him and took his card. We had decided not to bother with hiring a car as the train along the coast was so easy and cheap and we planned to mostly be around the villa and the town anyway.
We dropped the bags in the cool hallway and walked through to the lounge and the back of the house. The view over the bay was spectacular and I slid the patio doors open to go out into the garden. Tom walked around, looking up at the surrounding trees and pronounced;
"Completely secluded and not overlooked," he said, "you've chosen well, Suze." He put his arm around Mum and pulled her into him.
"I have my uses," Mum said and Tom slid his hand down, gently patting her arse;
"You certainly do, darling," he said, kissing her on the head. The four of us stood in silence for a few seconds, soaking in the sun, the view, the aroma and the intoxicating atmosphere of Villefranche.
This was going to be a good holiday.
I was awake. The room was pitch dark and it took me a few seconds to realise where I was. I lay there, listening to the sound of the waves below. It was heaven. I was so contented at that moment, like the sound of the waves was washing away the memories of deceit and devastation; of a hospital bed and isolation; of a Victorian asylum and the very word, 'section.' I felt cleansed.
"Ohh, yes."
That was it; that was the sound which had woken me. I lay still, concentrating.
Nothing.
I pulled back the light duvet and sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing my eyes. I slid open the drawer beside the bed, pulled out a pair of boxer shorts and a t-shirt and put them on.
Silence.
I opened the bedroom door and peered out into the gloom. My bedroom was over the front of the house while the other two bedrooms were at the back. I stood in the doorway listening hard.
"Fuck me, Tom." It was whispered, but a frenzied whisper, as if the speaker was in the middle of some exertion.
Silence.
