She travelled south all the next day through heat that rose in a vapour from the roads in front of her. Finding the right direction out of Bergerac was difficult; she had made a few wrong turnings and been on the receiving end of several blaring horns. Her natural reaction was to gesticulate rudely but she thought the better of it and chose the more sedate wave and a benevolent smile, calling out, ‘Have a nice day.’
The air cooled as she drove into a busy town in the foothills of the Pyrénées. There was bunting everywhere, little triangles of bright colour announcing that the town of Marmande, famous for its tomatoes, was en fête. As she locked the campervan, she could smell the succulence of meat roasting and hear the sound of pop music played through fizzing speakers. She followed a few people who were making their way to the centre of the town where a market was bustling. A whole pig was roasting on a spit, its mouth gaping in a wide smile through its skewer as it sweated and somersaulted over the coals.
Other foods were being prepared: couscous, onion bhajis and rice, delicious cakes and cheese, the smells warm and intensifying in the air as she passed. The market was a splash of colour and a temptation of textures for Evie’s fingers to touch and try: jewellery, fabrics, and pottery. An African man greeted her in English and German, calling on her to buy belts, handbags, clothes, which hung in flashes of vibrant patterns. She bought a bowl of spicy couscous and some red wine in a plastic cup and found a wooden bench near to a stage where some men were connecting wires and testing the volume of their voices through whining microphones. She stretched out her feet and dug her fork into the grains. The first mouthful was an explosion of warm spice. She decided to look at the cakes and the cheese when she had finished her meal. The light faded to dark blues and greys, and little twinkling colours illuminated the stalls. Evie became aware of someone looking down at her.
‘Hello. Are all these seats taken?’
The speaker shouted staccato words at her like Morse code. A middle-aged woman in a powder blue jacket and trousers was flanked by a hesitant gentleman in a light grey suit. He was gaunt and a little bent over towards the woman, and his hair was thinning. The woman’s suit fitted her tightly and the bottom of her jacket stuck out like a sail as she bent forward to point.
‘Can we sit here?’ boomed the woman. Evie moved over a little and waved at the space next to her.
‘Thank you.’ The woman gestured her approval and the man extended her a courteous nod and sat down. The woman heaved a handbag onto her knee. It was blue leather, matching the shade of the linen trouser suit, which wrinkled and folded with her body as she squeezed into the space between them.
‘We are English,’ she announced. Evie extended her hand towards her.
The woman continued, as loudly as before. ‘We are from Winchester, that’s in Hampshire, although I was born near London. I adore London, especially the galleries. My husband is from Chepstow originally, that is near Wales, but he’s not Welsh. I am Margaret Knowles; all my friends call me Peggy. This is Geoffrey. You can call him Geoff.’
Evie smiled and was about to speak but Peggy beat her to it.
‘Are you French? You don’t look French. Dutch, maybe. There are lots of Dutch people around here. I think you must be Dutch, with your colouring.’
‘No, I’m not Dutch, I’m—’
‘Scottish!’ Peggy clapped her hands. ‘Oh, how charming. A fellow Brit. Lovely to meet you. I didn’t catch your name.’
Evie gave Peggy her most winning smile. She couldn’t think of a Scottish name quickly enough but she had another ready.
‘I am Eartha. Eartha Windass.’ She smothered a guffaw by compressing her lips. ‘Pleased to meet you, Peggy, Geoff.’
‘Oh how nice. Geoff, do go and get, er – Eartha, was it?’ Evie nodded. ‘Do go and get us all a bottle of wine. A nice Chablis I think, please.’
Geoff scuttled away into the crowds and Peggy beamed at Evie. Her lipstick was perfectly red, turning down with the corners of her mouth above a soft cushion of chins. Evie ran a hand through her blonde hair and thought about Scotland. She’d had a crush on Sean Connery once; it was 1962 in Dr No. He was very dashing, Sean Connery, and he was a Scot.
‘We’re having a little holiday. It’s our wedding anniversary next month. Thirty-five years. Geoff is a solicitor. He’s just finished work on a big divorce case and he needs a break. I don’t work of course, although I do like to keep myself busy. I am very good at flower arranging, you know. I have a garden full of the loveliest flowers and people always come to me for their bouquets and wedding arrangements. Roses are my favourites, and lilies. I am always telling Geoff I should have gone into business.’
‘That’s grand.’
‘Oh, what a lovely word, grand. How Scottish. It’s so nice to meet you, Eartha. And what is it you do? I don’t suppose you work now, do you?’
Evie’s mind was searching for a good story to tell. Her mouth was only seconds behind. ‘I am an actress,’ she confided. ‘Well, we say actor for both men and women now, don’t we? I’m very up to date with all the PC. I am here in France making a film just at the minute.’
‘Oh I love how you say film, fill-um, and such a nice accent. Ah Geoff …’ The thin man in the suit had returned: he bent long legs and flourished a bottle of wine. There were cool drops of moisture on the neck and label. Geoff poured generously into three glasses.
‘Eartha was saying she’s in films. How really super.’ Peggy took the glass and began to drink in small sips. She stopped between each small mouthful deliberately, as if holding a thought.
Geoff looked anxiously at his wife. ‘Do you like the Chablis?’
‘Oh yes – it is obviously a good vintage. I can smell peonies and citrus.’ She drank again, stopping to reconsider. ‘Lemon, I think, maybe a hint of grapefruit.’
Evie looked away and back at Peggy again and thought she was talking complete shite.
Geoff swallowed a mouthful, and looked hopefully at Peggy. ‘Apricot notes, perhaps? Geranium? Lychee, yes, I can taste lychee, too?’
Peggy beamed at Evie again. ‘What do you think, Eartha?’
She sniffed at the glass. ‘Lovely smell of grapes mixed with something close to cat piss. Packs a good solid punch. We Scots like that.’
Peggy turned her attention to her lapels, smoothing them down. ‘Eartha is an actor, Geoff. She is here doing a film.’
Geoff gave her a tentative smile and rubbed his chin, as if considering a menu of choices. ‘And what sort of film is it that you are making, Eartha?’
‘You’d make a good Miss Marple, I think.’ Peggy rested her jaw on the soft flesh below. She frowned. ‘She wasn’t Scottish though, was she? No. So, is it a period saga? Costume drama? Maybe the one about the Scottish policeman? What’s he called? Hamish something?’
An idea leapt into Evie’s head. She gave her most winning smile. ‘Pornography.’
Geoff swallowed breath and Peggy held her glass in the air for a second too long before taking a quick mouthful. ‘Oh dear.’
‘Oh, it’s very tasteful pornography.’ Evie waved her wine glass in the air. ‘I am the starring role. I play Lady Whiplash. I have a brothel full of girls, all ages and sizes, from all countries, even Scotland, and we beat the men for pleasure.’ She lifted her glass again, as if showing how she could beat them with a gesture of her little finger.
Peggy was horrified. ‘That’s awful!’
‘Not at all.’ Evie was in full swing; wine was sloshing in her glass. ‘It’s a great story line. I am a bit of a nymphomaniac and I control my bordello with an iron fist. Then one of the girls becomes romantically involved with a rich man – I think he is a judge or a lawyer, maybe a solicitor, yes, definitely a solicitor – but he’s found strangled naked in his bed by his braces and the police enlist my help to find the killer.’
Geoff swallowed more wine and refilled his glass quickly.
‘Oh, so it is a little like Miss Marple?’ Peggy looked hopeful.
‘Sort of.’ Evie patted her on the knee as if to reassure her that all was quite above board. ‘A kind of modern Miss Marple – with porn.’
‘Well,’ Peggy began, but her words were drowned in the thrum of a bass guitar tuning up. A drummer banged his sticks hard on every surface, twice, and then faster, in a roll. A guitar twanged and a little riff lifted on the night air.
‘Rock music.’ Evie was delighted. ‘That is grand. I love a bit of punk rock. I hope they do the one about never minding the bollocks.’
Peggy wriggled in her seat. Geoff drank the last dregs from his wine glass, but the bottle in his other hand was a quarter full. The band launched into a frenzy of screaming and leaping, the lead singer cavorting in front of them in leather and ripped denim. Peggy stood up.
‘This isn’t quite the guitar recital I was hoping for,’ she yelled. ‘I am afraid I will say good night to you, Eartha. It was so lovely to meet you.’ Peggy extended her hand and Evie took it briefly before the woman in the blue suit turned away. She heard her say: ‘Perhaps we will bump into you again.’
Geoff took her hand. ‘A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Eartha.’
Evie thought she saw him wink at her. He followed his wife; she was a shifting blue shape in front of him as she pushed through the crowds.
‘And don’t forget to catch my fill-um when it’s out.’ But her words were lost in the yelps of the vocalist who was hurling himself across the stage, his voice a frenzy of gravel and French expletives.
Evie drank her wine. She closed her eyes and the lids throbbed in time to the pounding rhythm. Once she would have stayed for the whole party, dancing, allowing the beat to bounce her on her feet for hours. She and Jim had seen some bands in Dublin: The Kinks, or was it Herman’s Hermits, and The Bachelors. She’d danced in her mini-skirt, her hair piled high, twirling until her stilettoed feet were sore. But she was tired now; and it felt different: the weariness clung to her bones and settled into an ache in her joints and behind her knees. She swallowed the last mouthful of wine, feeling its bitterness turn to a delicious tingle on her tongue.
‘Scottish, indeed. Peggy and Geoff and their complete bollocks.’ She pulled her jacket collar up and the darkness enveloped her as she left the group on stage rocking and reverberating, her eyes roving through the dim light for her little campervan.