Page 40 of Road Trip to the Riviera
19
SARAH
I’ve taken some painkillers, had a sleep, and am sitting back where I started by the time Hal and Sébastien arrive, looking dishevelled but pleased with themselves. I’ve dressed in canvas shorts and a floral T-shirt, and my feet – well, foot – is in a trainer.
Over the years, I’ve found that illness can be very much mind over matter. I don’t mean to say that this is psychosomatic, but unless something’s completely debilitating, I’ve learned the best way to rise above it is to ignore it, act as you would otherwise and hope that it goes away.
Before Louis, I used to enjoy the odd sick day off school – when I could convince my parents of the need. Three hours ofThis Morningfollowed by whatever DVD we had available. Treats and hot chocolate and a long, warm bath. Your classic ‘duvet day’.
When you’re a mum, there isn’t any sick day, because nobody can really step in for you. I’m not saying that I didn’t get any support – Dad, in particular, would take Louis and let me have a nap when I really needed it. But the truth is, the buck stillstopped with me. Even at seventeen. And I suppose I haven’t been ‘allowed’ to be ill since.
Now, of course, the pressure’s off. I can give in if I want. But it’s become second nature to push through. Also, I know I’ve been a bit snappy with Hal, so want to make it up to him in some way.
By evening I’ve topped up again on the painkillers, gratefully eaten a few slices of the pizza Hal ordered from the on-site kiosk, and I’m feeling pleasantly at one with the world. The leg is hardly bothering me at all, and the strange sickly feeling I developed earlier seems to have diminished. The night market in Ruoms starts in half an hour and it’s just four kilometres away, so the journey shouldn’t be too arduous, even with Sébastien’s head stuck between our seats.
We manage to park on a road just a hundred yards or so from the market square, which is a miracle in itself, but one I’m so grateful for. Both men help me clamber out of the van, which would have made me feel like a fragile maiden from days of yore if it weren’t for the enormous boot and the fact that Hal went rather red in the face with effort when helping to lift me down the final step.
Once on the pavement, we make our way towards the halo of light that hangs over the market, noticing as we draw closer the smell of roasted meat and crêpes in the air. There’s accordion music playing somewhere behind the crowds, overwritten by the sound of enthusiastic chatter and laughter.
Despite my worries about Louis and the lack of energy I’ve had since breaking my leg, I feel myself lift as we walk towards the milling crowd and the golden glow from the many stalls decked out with local produce.
Ruoms is truly beautiful – the traditional stone buildings are well pointed and smart, and the newer ones blend in, with their combination of stone and magnolia-painted frontage. Themarket square is wide and paved, and the stalls are white-tented and uniform in design. After the modernity of the campsite and its generic facilities, it feels a little more as if we’ve strolled back into the ‘real’ France.
We each begin to browse the stalls that appeal most to us: Sébastien starts sniffing handmade candles and of course Hal heads straight for the cheese stall. I almost join him, but the smell emanating from the various cheeses feels a little heady and I decide after this afternoon that it’s not a good idea.
There’s a stand with handmade jewellery, delicate slivers of precious stone set in silver designs, and I pick up a necklace to study it more closely. I’m drawn to a small pendant made of green stone, set in the shape of a heart, and lift it slightly to study its smooth surface, its delicate shape.
‘C’est pour la guérison,’ the woman at the stall says. She looked to be about twenty-five, with the kind of thick, long, glossy black hair that many women would kill for.
‘Sorry!’ I say, holding my hands up in mock surrender. ‘I’m English.’
She nods, almost kindly, as if she sympathises with my plight. ‘I think this is a good stone for you,’ she says slowly. ‘It is peridots, for healing.’
For a moment, I am stunned. How does she know I haven’t been feeling well? I’ve never particularly believed in psychic power, but a ripple of nervousness courses through me at her words. ‘How—’ I begin.
‘For your leg,’ she says gesturing, and I almost laugh. She’s right, you don’t need to be psychic to understand that I do have something that needs to be healed.
I pay the seven euros she’s asking for and fasten the chain around my neck. Moving on, I see the source of the music, a woman on a violin playing alongside a man with an accordion.The music is upbeat and vibrant, folksy and utterly French, so I stop for a minute, nodding my head along.
My phone buzzes, so I pull it from the pocket of my shorts to find a message from Peter. They’re an hour behind in the UK, so it will be 6.30p.m. there. I suppose it’s an acceptable time for a work message.
‘This’d better be good,’ I say quietly to myself as I open it.
Peter
Hope I didn’t overstep the mark the other day.
I’d actually forgotten about Peter’s declaration the last time we spoke, and wish I hadn’t opened the message. But I have, and he’ll see it, so I have to reply.
Sarah
It’s OK. Unexpected.
Peter
Want to go to dinner when you get back?
Sarah
