Page 76 of The Last Kiss

Shaking her head she stalks for the kitchen. “So we can google cheese.”

Well, that makes much more sense than turning up in Perpignan and knocking on doors until I find that perfect specimen of Man Mountain.

Am I doing this, really doing it?

My gut tells me yes and my heart is nodding along. Both in perfect sync for the first time.

I’m really doing this. Adrenaline hammers my veins hard and fast.

“Will you look after Barney?” I call after her.

Later when I’m home, after I’ve played my favourite role of Aunty and put Paige to bed, smelling her clean and combed hair as we snuggled for stories, I pull out the peacock diary. At the bottom of my bucket list, I write: Find Henri.

Right at the top, I poise my pen, waiting for the right word. Then in capitals I put: Live.

18

The Sun is a many splendored thing

Sweet Jesus. I cling onto the handle attached to the ceiling of the taxi as it weaves through the streets. I’d love to be able to look at the town, but it’s a blur through the window. My non- English cab driver appears to be a Formula 1 racing pro, while the rest of Perpignan seem to be Sunday drivers. I screw my eyes shut as we zoom up to the rear end of a red Renault.

I’m going to die in this taxi before I even get to see Henri.

Breathe, Julia, and don’t look, it’s better this way.

Unable to decide if I should just rock up to Henri’s cheese dynasty and knock on the door, I’ve taken the slightly easier option of booking a hotel.

We pull up outside a sandstone square building with bright-blue shutters. The double-fronted fascia is covered in hanging baskets screaming an array of colours. Leaves and petals sway in a gentle, rhythmic dance. I stare out of the window of the death cab and take it in. It’s as beautiful as the man who lives in this town. Petite auberge de la ville. I only booked it because it said ‘little’ which made me think of Henri, but now I can see it rather than just a gallery of images on Google, I know I’ve made the right choice.

Beautiful. How had Henri even managed to smile coming to London from here?

This is the place for smiles.

The cab driver flings open his door, not all that concerned whether it stays on its hinges and saunters around to the boot, cranking it open and tossing out my small cabin bag. Scrambling out, I get my purse ready.

“Combien?” I ask, using the last of my remaining French after, yes, no, and thank you.

He rattles off an intelligible string of words, but I just about catch “Vingt.”

Diving into my purse, I peel off the fare and a tip. He nods his head and lowers back into his cab, screeching away from the curb. Twenty seems cheap for an airport ride to me, but I guess if you drive that fast you can fit in unlimited trips a day. He must be loaded.

Taking my time, I turn around. I’m actually here, although I can’t quite believe it. Right up until I got on the plane, I wasn’t quite sure I would. Now I’m here, it’s the best decision I’ve ever made. The air is warm, sweet with flowers, and a hint of fresh coffee. Voices are chattering, birds are singing, and my god the sun is shining. Lifting my face, I seek the golden rays.

According to Google, Henri’s cheese empire is out in the countryside, so todaywell until I’m brave enough to go and knock on his doorI’m going to relax, recharge, and do some exploring.

A little spark runs through me. I’m here, I’ve done this. I’ve stepped out of the box to life. Hauling up my bag, I walk into the cool reception of the hotel. The marble floors are slippery under my sandals and I almost ice skate myself to the reception desk. Trying to be discreet, I slide open my phone and glance down at my ready primed screen. “Bonjour comment vas-tu? J'ai une réservation.” I do not in any way make it sound French. The lady, sixties and smart as a shiny new pin, shoots me a spearing, shrewd look.

“Would English be better, Madame?”

Wouldn’t it just. With a thankful smile I nod. “Please. Sorry, did that hurt your ears?”

“I’ve heard worse,” she clips in heavily accented English.

“Oh, I don’t know. I might succeed them all yet.” I grin in a vain attempt at friendliness. In vain because this woman can only be friends with blocks of ice.

Tapping fuchsia nails on a keyboard, she glares at the screen. “Mademoiselle Brown?”

Ah, I’ve been downgraded from Madame. Oh well.