Dinner with Tamara

So we have dinner, Tamara and I.

Her restaurant is in the main thoroughfare that stretches alongside the River Sorgue. Here there are many restaurants cafes and bars – perhaps too many for them all to succeed? When I arrive it’s early evening and the place is deserted. Tables are laid in anticipation, menus are chalked up, but as yet no customers. I venture into the adjacent building and find Tamara seated at the bar reading the latest Midi Libre.

We sit outside consulting the wine list. I tell her of my experience in the wine trade, and she is quite impressed.
I could do with somebody who knows their wine, she says, suggesting I order the drinks. I choose a bottle of rose from Bandol. I also recommend Etienne’s vineyard, which she has heard of, but not done business with.

Soon the wine has loosened our tongues. She’s giving me a potted history. The story so far.
Like me, Tamara never graduated from university, but dropped out from classics studies to spend time drifting around the Med with her boyfriend. They married at twenty, too early says Tamara, and it soon turned sour.

The husband stayed in England, but Tamara returned to the Midi, looking for a job in catering. It was, she says, the turning point. She discovered she loved cooking, and worked her way up from the bottom.Now she’s in her late thirties, and her second marriage seems to be less than secure. But it’s difficult to leave, she explains, because of Sebastian, her son.

Normally, I’m a bit reticent, with people I’ve just met. Yet for some reason, I’m inclined to be totally honest with her.

I tell her about Sandrine, and Krantz, and what happened to them. How Etienne took over my life, after the accident. About my love affair with Helene. I even tell her about Batignolles – Anouk, Erotic Amy, Lucien, things I’d buried deep. How Gerhard helped me during my mental breakdown, and subsequent recovery.

I even tell her about David, the English painter I met on the internet, a few years back. She seems genuinely interested, and uncannily, she has a page on the same website. I suggest she writes to him.

Tamara covers the bill and we walk across to her car. She leans back in her seat.
I glance at the steering wheel, wondering how far over the limit she is. The needle is hitting speeds of over one hundred along the road towards Apt.
You’re so pretty Sandrine. How come you never married?
Haven’t you guessed yet, I say.
She just sighs. Come on, let’s get you home. Where is it?
Next right, just follow the signs for Menerbes. Keep going past the village and I'll tell you when to stop.
Soon we’re hurtling along the tree lined roads and the wind is playing havoc with my hair.
Tamara glances at me and smiles.
I’m so glad we met, she says.
Tears are streaking my face as the car takes a bend too fast. She laughs.
Whoops, good job there’s no traffic.
For the first time in years, I feel great. I’d be quite happy if it ended right here, right now, on this stretch of road, with the wind in my hair and Tamara next to me.
That night, I dream of Sandrine, and her wonderful smile. I realise, that’s what Tamara’s smile reminds me of. It all comes back to that, in the end. Sandrine.
I wake up and wonder if it was all a dream. A terrible, beautiful dream.