A Riviera Retreat. Jennifer Bohnet

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      Absently scrolling on down through Facebook, Chelsea saw another competition ad – this time for a free holiday in the South of France. She clicked on the details. She’d never heard of either the book or the film called Enchanted April, but five minutes on the internet and Google had given her the author’s name, a list of characters and a summary of the plot. Which sounded decidedly old-fashioned, in her opinion. The only character she could possibly identify with would be Lady Caroline Dester – simply because she appeared to be the youngest.

      As for why she needed the holiday – that bit was easy. She simply wrote, ‘I’ve messed up my life spectacularly and need to get away, regroup and lick my wounds.’ A quick read through and she pressed the enter button. Highly unlikely she’d win, but dreaming about a holiday in the South of France was better than wallowing in the despair she was currently feeling.

      If anyone had asked her how life was a week ago, Chelsea would have replied with an enthusiastic, ‘It’s super, great.’ And it had been. Then, without warning, it had fallen apart.

      It had been a Friday lunchtime and she and Elsie had taken a late booking to do a champagne buffet lunch for twenty in one of the prestigious office blocks down on the waterside near the town centre. Apparently it was to be a surprise for the sales team after the best month ever, the plummy voiced woman placing the booking had explained.

      ‘I do hope you’re free. You’ve been highly recommended and if you’re as good as rumours suggest, you could become our regular caterers. We entertain a lot.’

      ‘It’s very short notice and we do have another buffet luncheon already booked in for this Friday,’ Chelsea had said, hating the thought of turning a prospective regular customer away. ‘But we can certainly supply an array of finger food and champagne. Our basic price for twenty people is—’

      ‘Cost is not important but quality is,’ the woman had cut her off. ‘I want the best. Be at the office with everything set up, ready to serve, by twelve thirty.’

      Chelsea went to say a polite goodbye and had realised the line was dead. What was the woman on? Barely forty-eight-hours’ notice and rude with it. Maybe she was just having a bad day. If she was as rude face to face on Friday, then catering for her would definitely be a one off; they didn’t need clients like her.

      Friday morning, Chelsea and Elsie had arrived early at the offices and a friendly receptionist had shown them into the function room. Elsie, Chelsea was pleased to see, seemed to be like her old self, happily telling Chelsea about a party she’d been to the evening before where she’d met this man, Angus, whom she really liked and was seeing at the weekend. By 12.25, the food was laid out and bottles of the already chilled champagne were in their ice buckets. Thankfully there had been no sign of the rude woman so far.

      At 12.30, the receptionist had poked her head around the door. ‘Everyone’s on their way.’

      Minutes later, the room was crowded with people and Chelsea and Elsie were busy pouring drinks and handing food around.

      Chelsea handed a glass of champagne to a woman, who thanked her before turning to the man at her side. ‘Where’s the boss and golden boy then? Isn’t it his sales figures we’re supposed to be celebrating?’

      The man had shrugged. ‘Office door is locked. Imagine they’ll be congratulating each other in the usual way. Don’t know why he puts up with it.’

      The woman had almost choked on her drink. ‘Come off it. It’s one of the reasons they’re married. She’s a right nymphomaniac. And he’s more than happy to oblige, especially after being away all week.’ Picking up a bite-size onion and fish tartlet, the woman had moved away.

      ‘Nymphomaniac? They can’t be talking about the rude woman, can they?’ Chelsea had whispered to Elsie as she carefully uncorked another bottle of champagne.

      Seconds later and the hub of chatter that filled the room went down a decibel as a blonde woman walked in purposefully.

      ‘Hi, everyone. Chris will be along in a moment. He has no idea that he’s the inspiration behind this week’s celebration,’ she said, glancing across to Chelsea and Elsie and the table where the food was laid out. She had made her way over to them. ‘It all looks delicious,’ she said. ‘I’m Marcia and I’ll have a glass of champagne please – which of you ladies is Chelsea?’

      ‘That would be me,’ Chelsea had said, smiling and handing her a glass. ‘Enjoy.’

      ‘I intend to. Ah, Chris, you’re here. I thought you deserved a surprise this week,’ Marcia had said, turning to face her husband as he appeared at her side. ‘I know you’ve already helped yourself to the caterer, but feel free to help yourself to some champagne and food. Oh, not hungry? I wonder why?’

      She had turned to look at a pale Chelsea, who was clutching the table for support and staring at the man she knew as Kit.

      ‘I rarely mix business with pleasure, but I’ve made an exception on this occasion,’ Marcia had added. ‘Two things. One: stay away from my husband. And two: don’t bother to send me an invoice for today’s lunch as I have no intention of paying you. You can sue me if you want, but I doubt that you will.’ And with that, Marcia had jerked her head in Kit’s direction and swept out.

      Chelsea had watched, frozen into silence as Kit, without a backward glance, had hurried after his wife, before she’d collapsed as the enormity of what had just happened hit her.

      3

      Slipping on a patch of ice on the pavement outside the library the last week in January and breaking her ankle meant that a disgruntled Matilda Richardson was confined to her flat with time on her hands. Even the view across the Downs, with its glimpse of the magnificent Clifton Suspension Bridge that had enticed her and William to buy the flat in the first place, failed to lift her spirits. But it was the dependence on others that irked her the most.

      She knew she wasn’t good at hiding her irritation at her neighbour, Sheila’s good natured bossiness and the taking over of her day to day life for weeks on end. She was grateful to Sheila, truly she was. Life with a broken ankle would have been a lot harder without her, but Matilda’s independent streak always made it difficult for her to ask for help from anyone. Josh, her son, being the exception, but as he was away working with the environmental group Sea Shepherd for another month or two, she simply had to submit to Sheila’s kindness – even if she did feel guilty about accepting everything she did for her.

      It wasn’t as if she and Sheila had been close friends before the accident. Friendly acquaintances, yes. Since William’s death, they’d enjoyed the occasional coffee together in the café in the mall when they happened to meet up. But friends who talked about more than the weather or the state of the country under this useless government, no, they weren’t friends like that.

      Matilda had had few close female friends since school. The idea of going on a girls’ night out had never appealed and she’d definitely prefer to go without the proverbial borrowed cup of sugar if she ran out rather than knock on a neighbour’s door. Consequently, she’d had no best friend to call on in her hour of need, but Sheila had stepped up to the mark. Matilda resolved to find her a nice gift once she was back on her feet and life took on its normal routine again. Normal routine. Matilda sighed. The trouble was her normal routine, even pre-broken ankle, had become somewhat dull and uninspiring.

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