Rosie peered into the bag and saw the studded cuff of a dark leather motorbike jacket. She wrinkled her nose.
“Do I have to?”
Both men answered as one.
“Oui!”
Rosie sighed. She had thought her white jeans and pink cotton sweater sufficient cover for the ride — it was such a hot day.
“OK — I’ll put this lot on top of what I’m wearing. Can you find room for my handbag on the bike?”
“No problem — it’ll fit in the box behind the seat. I’ll wait for you outside.”
“I won’t be a moment!”
Both men laughed as though sharing a joke and Henri said, “We are just saying how you are good at this rushing about… Now I understand this word so maybe I use it every day.”
“As long as you don’t start rushing around yourself, Henri. Remember this is the South of France.”
“You’re right, I don’t think it would be good for me…and by the way, before you rush off…” He drew nearer and said discreetly into her ear, “Congratulations, felicitations! Un vrai coup de foudre — this is surely the love at first sight, and somehow I know you are made for each other. For so long a time I have been hoping my good friend Jean-Mi would find true love.”
“Thank you, Henri.” Rosie became serious for a moment. “Thank you very much. That visit to Eze — well, it was all your idea and we have you to thank.”
“Maybe, but I think it is more the destiny…and all this rushin’ around ’ere and dashin’ about there, bien sûr.” He smiled. “But thanks to Jean-Michel, I shall be pleased to drink your health with my wife tonight.”
He winked and reached under the desk and showed her a bottle of champagne.
Back in the lift again Rosie regarded herself in the mirrored wall. “Felicitations!” she said to her reflection. “What a delicious word!”
As the sun soared towards its zenith they were high above the coast, winding slowly through the Sunday quiet of small villages and roaring between the silver-grey olive groves. Rosie soon became accustomed to the throb of the big bike and the warm air rushing past as she held Jean-Michel tightly encircled in her arms. She was just about to shout at him to try and find out how much further it was when Jean-Michel slowed down and turned to the left, between two rough-hewn pillars supporting an arch. Rosie could just make out the name ‘Château de Fleurenne’ chiselled into the worn corner stone. The tall gates of intricate, wrought ironwork had the air of being permanently open as they gently rusted into the red earth. Tall, leafy plane trees lined the sandy driveway. As the bike throbbed slowly forward through flickering shadow and sunlight she caught brief glimpses of the view between the pale-flecked tree trunks. Quick snapshots of a heavenly landscape under an azure sky.
Jean-Michel steered the bike carefully between the potholes and bumps and then drew to a complete standstill and turned off the engine. The heat and silence enfolded them and Rosie drew in a breath of delight at the sight of the château spread out before them, basking in the sunlight that had faded it for centuries. Pale pink-washed walls and chalky grey shutters, bleached terracotta roof tiles and…there was someone on the terrace at the top of the crumbling stone steps. Standing tall and imperious, metallic grey hair pulled into a chignon, a pale grey dress, one hand raised to her eyes and the other holding a walking cane — there could be little doubt that this was Grandmère.
Jean-Michel pulled off his helmet and helped Rosie to unbuckle hers. Her hair spilled loose and he ran his hand lightly over it.
“Come and meet Grandmère!”
Rosie got off the motorbike, her legs feeling distinctly wobbly. She unclipped the large leather jacket that Jean-Michel had insisted she wear over her sweater. The lower half of her body was clad in the equally enormous pair of matching trousers and, emerging out of the bottom, looking ridiculously small, were the famous loafers. “Well, my appearance should certainly impress Grandmère anyway!” said Rosie, mostly to herself, as she followed Jean-Michel up the steps.
“Bonjour, Grandmère!” said Jean-Michel, kissing the tall, elegant woman three times.
“J’ai le grand plaisir de te présenter, Rosie Fielding — ma fiancée! Rosie, je te présente, Madame de Fleurenne — ma grandmère.”
The two women shook hands politely. Rosie had the absurd feeling that she should bob a curtsey, an idea made even more ridiculous when she thought of how she must look in the huge motorbike leathers.
“Enchantée.” Madame de Fleurenne smiled courteously and then turned back to Jean-Michel, continuing in fluent English, “Really, Jean-Michel, you are quite extraordinary! First you telephone to say that you are bringing your future wife to meet me and then you bring her all the way from Nice -— in this heat — on the back of your monstrous bike.” She turned with a sweet smile to Rosie.
“My dear girl, you must be exhausted. Come inside and recover from such a ridiculous journey. Really, Jean-Michel is quite impossible.”
She placed a cool hand under Rosie’s chin and then kissed her lightly on both cheeks. Her smile changed from sweet to impish as she inhaled, her nostrils quivering.
“Hmm, Jean-Michel’s favourite soap — verveine — and is that an overtone of your own perfume?” She sniffed the air like a bloodhound, her long Roman nose held high. “Yes, definitely 24, Faubourg by Hermès! An interesting choice for one so young.”
Rosie stood still on the spot, dumbfounded, her eyes wide. Before she could say anything, Grandmère was continuing.
“You must forgive me, my dear, terrible manners, of course, and only a party trick. I meet so few new people these days, especially with a fine taste in perfume. Now, you will want to freshen up, yes? Then you must tell me all about this sudden news. Jean-Michel is a wicked boy to telephone on a quiet Sunday to tell me he is bringing his fiancée to meet me — just comme ça!” She waved a delicate, beringed hand in the air and moved slowly through the front door ahead of them.
Rosie glanced at Jean-Michel and whispered, “I don’t need to tell her that you are a bad boy — she knows it already.”
As she moved ahead of Jean-Michel he slipped his hand down the back of the loose waistband of the leather trousers and lightly pinched her bottom. Rosie suppressed a yelp and a dreadful desire to burst into helpless giggles. But Madame de Fleurenne was speaking again.
“Jean-Michel, do go and find Celine — she is probably in the kitchen. She will show Mademoiselle Rosie to the guest rooms.”
“No need to disturb Celine, Grandmère, I’ll take Rosie upstairs and—”
Madame de Fleurenne interrupted. “Jean-Michel, please do as I ask.”
“Oh, and, Jean-Michel, could you fetch my bag from the back of the bike?” added Rosie in as arrogant a voice as she could manage without bursting into laughter.
Jean-Michel sighed and raised his hands in the air. The two women looked at each other in satisfaction.
“You speak wonderful English, madame,” said Rosie. “I wish my French was as good.”
“I lived in London for two years when my husband was alive. We both adored London — and nowadays it is essential to speak English, or maybe I should say American! Who needs to speak French any more?”
“But it’s the most beautiful language,” said Rosie, adding, “And your château…it’s simply incredible!”
“I may agree with you about the French language but