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.
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