A Spell in France

By M. S. Clary

When Trevor suggests a vacation in the South of France, his young wife Sylvie is thrilled, and sees it as a chance for the two of them to re-invigorate their marriage. He has become distant, her step-daughter Harriet's hostility has proved a divisive force, and Sylvie hopes that a spell together in Nice will bring excitement and romance back into their relationship. However, shortly after their arrival she is faced with the possibility that Trevor has not been truthful about his reasons for the trip. The vacation turns into a nightmare when he vanishes in mysterious circumstances....  
Following the investigation and its aftermath, Sylvie makes a fresh start in London, and romance beckons. However, the past keeps intruding, and eventually erupts back into her life with shocking revelations. She is confronted with the pain of betrayal and forced to re-examine her marriage. She wonders if the past will ever go away, and if she will ever embrace the happiness she longs for …

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Jan 16, 2017
• ISBN: 9781788035002

M. S. Clary

Born in London, M. S. Clary was employed by the BBC as a trainee on leaving school. She studied Social Sciences at Manchester College Oxford, and the LSE as a mature student. Clary has worked in Social Services and later developed own fashion business. Since starting to write, she has won several prizes for short fiction and published first her first novel A Spell in France (Matador) in 2017. M. S. Clary is married with two adult sons, and lives in Oxfordshire.

Book preview

A SPELL IN FRANCE

M. S. CLARY

Copyright © 2017 M. S. Clary

www.msclary.t15.org

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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ISBN 9781788035002

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Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

Contents

PART 1

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

PART 2

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 23

PART 3

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

PART 1

NICE

I believe I lost my husband outside the Church of Miracles. I know he had been there at the time in the gardens, which were dark green and dismal after rain. I was trying to use up the end of a long roll of film and called out to him. He looked back at me and I think he smiled. But when the photographs came back from the developer, he was no longer there. You could just about make out some distant shape, almost a shadow at the end of the avenue of cypresses, but it no longer resembled a person.

CHAPTER 1

The drive to Nice had taken nearly ten hours. Before we set out, Trevor was confident we would do it in six. I used to believe that if we hadn’t chosen to stop, things might have turned out differently. But I no longer think that. It would have altered nothing.

What time are we expected? His voice sounded hoarse and rather curt, which I put down to fatigue.

I said we’d call when we were nearly there.

Yes. Give them time to chill a decent bottle, he replied.

We had been sight-seeing for a few days and I had read about it in the guide- book. Trevor hadn’t been keen, but I insisted.

The Church turned out to be much larger than expected for such a remote place, its dark interior illuminated by soft amber lights and many candles.

My eye was drawn to hundreds of plaques packed tightly together on the stone walls. Along-side hung a number of elaborate bows frozen into glass frames, carefully embroidered and ornately tied. No doubt once a perfect shade of white, now tinged pale brown like paper left too long in the sun. The wording was always the same. Merci, a date, and some initials. A tribute to the dead or to the living? It wasn’t clear. But the sight of them made me shiver.

I fumbled for a euro, picked up a candle and moved towards the flickering lights in the little side chapel where the Madonna was displayed. My way was awkwardly barred by two elderly women sitting totally still, one looking straight ahead, the other with her head in her hands. Not wanting to push past, I placed my candle on a ledge and sat down on one of the pews. Did the lighting of a single candle allow for just one wish, or prayer? I wasn’t sure. Maybe I was asking for too much. I wondered if I should light another candle and reached for my bag, then remembered I didn’t have any more change. I turned round and caught a glimpse of Trevor walking away down the aisle towards the door. He had no time for such symbolic gestures and would pull a face, as if questioning my intentions. I used to explain away the candle business as a form of donation. Someone has to pay for the cleaning, I’d say. And the candles, he would reply.

Wherever else my thoughts drifted away to that afternoon, I had no fore-warning of the changes that lay ahead for us, and it would be a very long time before I set foot in any church again.

The two women had left the side chapel and I was now alone, I lit my candle with a taper and placed it with the others before bobbing my head hastily as I had seen others do. Then I walked swiftly away down the aisle and out through the heavy door to join Trevor.

I’d like to take a photo I called out to him.

Why do you always carry that heavy thing, he’d said. I said you should get yourself something more up to date.

It’s true, it was heavy, but I liked my old Olympus, the one my mother had given me years ago when I was still at school.

It won’t take a second.

Hurry up, then. We’ll never get there at this rate he replied, striding away down the avenue of cypresses.

Our detour had cost us time, and it took a while to get back onto the main auto-route. We were well past Sete when I realised I hadn’t thought to bring anything for Caroline. This was to be our first meeting, and I so wanted her to like me. I wish I’d remembered to bring some English tea, something all ex-pats seem to welcome.

We’ve got those bottles of Blanquette, that’ll be enough, said Trevor.

No. We should stop in the next town and I’ll see if I can find some flowers.

It’s really not necessary you know.

For you maybe, but for me it is.

We exchanged no further words on the subject.

It was mid afternoon before we reached the next village. The local shops were still shut, except for a small Spar where all I could find was a fresh tarte-aux-pommes. At least it was something. I could see Trevor wasn’t too impressed, though he said nothing.

We drove swiftly on, past a hundred miles of sloping vineyards, grateful for the air-conditioned comfort that cocooned us against the heat of the day. Anticipation grew as the road would suddenly swerve, offering up its tantalising views of the ocean and the coastline beyond. I remember my first thrill of excitement as the spectacular curve of the Baie des Anges came into view. We finally reached the city’s outskirts, and slowed to join the stream of cars on the Corniche. The ocean sparkled in the late afternoon sunshine.

I’ll call them now, shall I? I took special care, slowly keying in their number, but there was no answer.

Are you sure you’ve got the right number?

I’ve only got the one you gave me. It must be their land line. Perhaps they’re out on their balcony.

Started the aperitifs early, I should think.

Is that all you ever think about? I said, trying to keep my tone light.

The rental car came to a sudden stop as we narrowly avoided hitting the car in front. I was flung hard against the seatbelt, and the apple tart spilled out of its box and upended in a sodden yellow mess over my skirt and under our feet.

Well, that was a brilliant idea of yours, wasn’t it.

Trevor’s face had turned a dark, blotchy red, and I decided it would be pointless to respond. The ripe smell of squashed pastry was clinging to our nostrils, and I knew he would be wondering how he could wriggle out of the excess the rental company would charge for the stain on the car seat. We drove on in silence after that until at last we reached the edge of the Old Town, and saw arrows directing us towards the entrance to an underground car-park.

Try them again, will you? said Trevor, his voice weary. Perhaps Tom will come down and give us a hand with the bags.

I tried again, carefully taking my time, and double checking the numbers. Still no reply.

They’re not answering.

That’s odd.

You did let them know we were coming today? Trevor ignored this, then said, We’ll go on up anyway. They’ve probably been delayed somewhere.

We left the car, and made our way towards the exit. The lift was broken and we had to walk up a number of steep, urine-stained concrete steps, before finding ourselves out on the street. There was an oppressive low layer of cloud and it felt clammy and airless. I could see the back of Trevor’s shirt was dark with sweat. My clothes were crumpled and sticking to me. Remnants of apple tart stuck to my trainers and I was longing for a shower. Pulling our overnight cases behind us, we trundled our way through the narrow alleys of the Old Town until we reached 9 rue D’Antibes. There was a sudden crack of thunder from above, and a few large spots of rain fell, then just as suddenly stopped. We rang the bell, and waited.

There must have been a misunderstanding, Trevor said at last. He sounded exhausted. his shoulders hunched. I think we should make some other arrangements for tonight.

We could go and eat somewhere and try them later.

There’s no point in leaving it any later. Trevor was already consulting the guidebook. If we’re not careful, we’ll end up sleeping on the beach.

Will we find anything decent at this time of day?

Hmm. Hang on, we could try the Hotel des Palmes. We stayed there once before, remember?

No. Not with me, I thought. It was probably with Harriet’s mother.

My thoughts were immediately taken back to the last time we saw Harriet. It was less than a week ago we dropped by on our way to Heathrow. What a mistake that had been. We were hardly through the door before Harriet announced that she was about to be evicted.

But I thought we’d sorted out the rent muddle weeks ago. Trevor said. I put all that money into your account.

Yeah, well, I had debts, didn’t I.

What sort of debts?

Oh you know, Dad, just stuff. Money goes, doesn’t it?

And what about your job?

Harriet had chain-smoked as she talked her way through her reasons for her lack of money. My eyes took in the vast flat television screen flickering away on the wall, the sound turned down. The huge framed black and white photograph of her mother and father prominently displayed. To give Trevor his due, he did attempt to quiz her about the job he’d found her through one of his business contacts.

It just didn’t work out. I don’t want a lecture, Dad. It’s only nine hundred, she added helpfully.

Trevor had little choice. Either he wrote a cheque, or we missed our plane. It was inevitable he would reach for his cheque-book. I’d seen it happen before so many times, and as usual I kept my thoughts to myself. Harriet leapt up and hugged her father. She had scarcely glanced my way since our arrival, but now, having got what she wanted, she gave me a cursory nod.

Coffee, you guys? Haven’t any milk, I’m afraid. We got to the airport with minutes to spare.

I dragged my thoughts back to the present. Night was closing in yet the air felt thick and soupy as ever. I wondered if Trevor thought Caroline and Tom’s absence was somehow all my fault. Yet surely the one or two stops we’d made couldn’t have delayed us all that much. In an attempt to banish away any such thoughts, I planted a kiss on his cheek and clung to his arm as we reached the car. He gave me one of those sort of sad smiles of his, lips closed tight together, then handing me the map he said, It’s O.K. sweetheart, I’ll drive, you navigate. I recall the sharp cidery smell of stale apple mingling with our sweat as we drove in the direction of the Hotel des Palmes..

CHAPTER 2

The hotel was discretely hushed and tucked away down a quiet side street. The storm that threatened the previous night had blown itself away out to sea, and next morning dawned clear and bright with a cloudless sky. We had both fallen into the soft bed and without any more words said, slept for eight hours, our bodies exhausted and entwined. I woke early and as I came out of the shower, still damp, a towel wrapped round my waist, I saw Trevor was also now awake and sitting on the edge of the bed. My hair was wet from the shower and turning slightly away from him, I removed the towel and started to slowly rub my hair with it. I knew he was watching me and after a few seconds, I deliberately let the towel fall to the floor. Come here, he said. I felt foolishly shy, but went over to the bed, knelt down in front of him and felt his hands move firmly and quite roughly across my back. Neither of us spoke, and as he lay back I pulled myself on top of him. We rocked back and forth for a few seconds. His eyes were closed and as he was reaching for my breasts, it was suddenly all over.

Sorry, he said. I kissed him on the lips, and held on to him and told him I didn’t mind. I wasn’t concerned for myself. It was the first time he had made it obvious he wanted to make love to me for a while and I felt very close to him at that moment. I was sure he must be feeling the same.

We lay there together for what was probably no more than a few minutes. Then told each other we were starving, and phoned down for coffee and rolls. We breakfasted with the windows flung wide. I kept looking at Trevor and couldn’t stop smiling. It was such a relief to be here in such a comfortable place after yesterday’s long drive and the frustrations that met us on arrival. How wonderful it would be if we could spend a few days here alone, just the two of us together. I was about to say it out loud but quickly changed my mind. If Trevor shared such thoughts, he showed no sign of it. He was already in the shower, then insisted our first priority should be to make contact with Tom and Caroline. He seemed almost obsessed with the thought of reaching them as soon as possible. For the first time it occurred to me to wonder whether for Trevor this wasn’t just about a holiday but that he had other reasons for wanting to come to Nice.

Their phone must be out of order. Is that the only number you’ve got? he said after the first attempt. I knew it was.

Let’s stop worrying. It’s still quite early. I’m sure they’ll be there this morning. It’s just some silly misunderstanding.

Trevor had never offered any proper explanation as to why he was so eager to come back to Nice, a city where he and Sarah had spent a lot of time together during their marriage. He had never really discussed it with me either, just assumed we would want to spend a few days with Tom and Caroline just as they had always done. It had crossed my mind that he might have some business matters to talk over with Tom but he rarely discussed that sort of thing with me. I assumed the main reason for the visit was to let them see how happy and settled he was now, and possibly even to show me off. To this end, I had bought some new sun-dresses and beach clothes, but somehow this morning didn’t feel quite the right moment to try them