By the time I was strolling past the shops alone,
Nico and Louise had left,
a week of days lazy by the pool,
I had collected a cackle of girls from
the airport,
the bus stop,
late the same day.
It meant school friends of Petra, of Padme from Porto,
taking over my house,
sandals kicked off in the hallway,
half-sung songs floating in the kitchen,
cooking, serving, hugging them over and over,
bundling them into our car,
driving them to the beach in Biarritz.
I had left my little one at home with him.
I left the girls to explore the streets and beaches.
I entered a shop I had walked past many times,
never entered,
minded by a woman, French.
Hair blonde like sun,
eyes bright, ocean blue.
Younger than my mother would be now.
We talked.
About living in Biarritz.
Not visiting.
Living.
By the time I had lunch alone,
I had called him to see how they were doing.
He and Pheby had been
to Isshin for ramen,
to the reflecting pool,
to the river in Bordeaux,
to Amorino for ice cream.
He sent me photos by messenger,
her fully clothed, rolling around in the fountain water,
children splashing and cartwheeling in the same frame.
Back in Sai Kung, when babies one and two were small,
when they jumped into puddles laughing,
splashing water everywhere,
muddy shoes,
muddy everywhere,
I used to protest and flinch.
“No!”
He and the nanny would say to me,
“That’s their job!”
When the photos arrived on my phone in Biarritz, I texted back:
“WOW! That looks like fun!”
By the time I had left Biarritz,
I left with two new cotton dresses, floating, pink.
One shoulderless, gathered, enhancing breasts, Greek.
One with loose sleeves to my elbows.
In the morning I said to him,
“You know that shop with the Jesus figurines?”
He said,
“The one with the tall green plastic figure of Jesus displayed on the pavement outside?”
I said,
“Yes, I went in.
I bought two dresses.
I spoke with the lady minding the shop.
I asked her about her collection,
the colours,
the prints.
“She told me about her life in India and around the world.
About divorce,
returning to France,
choosing Biarritz to make her home,
about finding small flats and rentals.”
I modelled one dress for him,
collar turned up,
long, bold necklace down to my navel.
I said,
“Is it age-appropriate on me?”
He said,
“Yes, it’s you.”
I said,
“I want to talk to you.”
He said,
“You want to buy in Biarritz now, not in Bordeaux,
rent here,
live there on weekends while the kids are still at school.”
I said,
“How do you know?”
He said,
“Have you found any rentals in Bordeaux you would consider?”
I said,
“Yes, we have a viewing tomorrow at nine.”
He said,
“Have you found any flats or houses in Biarritz you would consider?”
I said,
“Yes, I couldn’t sleep.
I was up until three.”
By the time we saw the rental in Bordeaux,
by a park,
affordable,
a steal,
I told the agent we’d take it.
By the time he was halfway through the rental application,
by the time I had grilled him for hours about
our girls,
their university,
schooling for my little one,
forest fires at the cape,
where in the world we really wanted to live,
whether we had really made the right choice moving to Bordeaux.
By the time he said,
“It’s on the Bay of Biscay we’ll find our Sai Kung.”
By the time he said,
“Let’s plan on letting Pheby stay in her new school.
Let’s find our home as locals,
not as tourists.
Let’s take our time.”
I had called the agent who showed us the house by the park
to cancel a second viewing he had suggested.
I haven’t worn the skimpy pink dress yet.
