Some of This Is True! A Short Story — by Chris Harris.
A four-hour ferry crossing to France, an attractive woman in the seat in front and a Frenchman with considerably more confidence than me. What follows is a tale of romance, cowardice, Gallic charm and an unexpected ending — and, rather worryingly, some of it is completely true.
It was an annual event. Every September, our group of old school friends would meet in Rouen, France, for the weekend, where we had always rented a rather lovely house. I always looked forward to it. Normally there were ten of us, but for the last three years there had been nine, and this was the fourth time I would be unaccompanied. My friends nicknamed me Valerie, as in Valerie Singleton, the TV presenter. I had got divorced four years ago, and although I had met and dated women since, I hadn’t got to know anyone well enough to introduce into the sacred group or, frankly, simply hadn’t liked enough.
I sat on the 11 am Newhaven to Dieppe ferry for the tedious four-hour crossing at the back of the lounge, with the rows of reclining aeroplane type seats. As the ferry left, an attractive lady and her two sons sat down in front of me. Such was the angle I was able to observe her. Bored, my mind wandered- fantasy adventures and friendships with her. I knew within a week I’d never think of her again. I briefly began to connect with and understand her through conversations with her sons. It wasn’t creepy, just a bored imagination on a ferry crossing.
I observed her scrolling through her phone; crikey, she was looking at retro 70s items on Etsy. This was my preferred genre of décor, and then the Guardian; I read the Guardian too. I pictured myself chewing the fat over our joint interests. There was nothing to stop me talking to her about these interests, except she’d know I’d been prying. She left to get refreshments, and as she returned with bottles of water, she gave him a big smile as she sat down.
It turned out she was staying in Rouen on a pre-arranged group holiday; she was lovely, and her conversation revealed an excellent mother with well brought up children and seemingly not without a bob or two. I dived into my book. I was overthinking it. Sod it, why don’t I try talking to her, see if conversation flowed; if not, nothing ventured, nothing gained. She went to the toilet; we smiled at each other as she sat down again. This was serious, or was I imagining it; besides, deep down, I knew I didn’t have the balls to chat to her, but maybe something would happen, heaven knows what, that would spark a conversation.
I saw a Frenchman clock her through the glass panels, outside the lounge, giving her the eye as he walked down the corridor. Sure enough, a minute later, he simply walked up and started chatting to them. I felt so embarrassed for her, her boys, for him and especially for me, sitting there for two hours considering sparking a conversation, and here was the Frenchman diving straight in.
The son was wearing a Fender guitars T-shirt, and the cad immediately launched into a conversation with him. “Ah, you like Fender guitar? Good, I’m in a band.” They had a brief conversation before he asked the other son whether he was still in education. His own daughter was at Sussex University too.
God, this man was smooth; within five minutes, he completely unabashedly ramped up the gear and, with the cursory conversations with the sons over, started chatting up the lady in front. I didn’t know whether to laugh or squirm, but my God, she seemed to be falling for him and all his Gallic charm, bragging about how creative he was and all the glamorous things he did. She seemed to enjoy his attention, or was she just being polite?
You could see once upon a time he’d been quite good-looking, but now, in his mid-forties, every aspect of him was slightly unkempt: scruffy clothes, slightly greasy hair, not as thin as he once was, and trying to look young but not pulling it off very well. But it didn’t affect his confidence. Their conversation flowed, and I sat feeling like a hopeless fool as he clearly began to crack it. All I could think was I was worth ten of him, and if he could do that, why the hell hadn’t I?
Then he landed the coup de grâce. “Maybe we meet up in a restaurant on Saturday.” He lived in England and was going to stay in Rouen where his parents lived.
I felt crushed. How easy was that. “Can you give me your phone number?” he said. Oh man, how did he do that?
And then, straight-faced, it came out. “Oh no, just… I’m sorry. I left my phone in the car.” Inside, I was jumping for joy at her subterfuge and his rejection, which he took just as charmingly.
“Oh, not to worry. Maybe I’ll bump into you,” he said, before slinking off.
With Cupid’s coup failed, the lady told her sons they’d go and get something to eat. As they got up, I just wanted to jokingly say to her, “Make sure he doesn’t see you on your phone.” I felt I knew her well enough to know the worst case response would be a smile, since she was so polite. But it failed me.
Anyway, I had work to do on my laptop, and it was time to give up the fantasies and retreat from any thought of action. I simply didn’t have the confidence or the valour.
In fairly short order, the lothario returned, having obviously worked out he’d been sold a pup, and maybe decided to volunteer to ask her for her phone number. He looked slightly distraught to see they’d gone and went off in a huff.
I sensed their return as they walked down the corridor through the glass panels. By now my interest had waned; I told myself I’d just been passing the time, and with my self-consciousness muted, I glibly said to her, “I’d better warn you, your boyfriend came back.”
I hated myself for saying it as I said it- so cheesy- but it just came out, as I had no agenda other than giving her a warning. She smiled at me.
“Oh, I know. What a nightmare.”
We spent the next hour talking. She was even nicer to talk to than to look at, which said something.
Before long, the tannoy announced that the ferry would dock shortly. I hadn’t even noticed the incoming coastline of France; I was so engrossed in conversation.
“Anyway, it was lovely talking to you,” I said.
“Oh, likewise.”
As they gathered their clobber, I said goodbye. I felt chuffed that I’d made an impression but didn’t want to ruin a pleasant hour by fluffing it with an ill-advised advance.
But those silly little film moments really do happen. As I was about to leave the lounge, someone tapped me on the shoulder. She handed me a piece of paper and said, “Give me a call sometime.”
Ten of us sat around the dinner table a week later; I, Valerie Singleton no more, had brought Jenny along to meet my friends, whom I’d met a few times during the week. We laughed at how fate had made us collide through the advances of an overconfident Frenchman.
Part disclaimer: the events and exchanges with the French gentleman and lady in front are as described, but even more cringeworthy. I was accompanied with my wife and certainly did not pull the lady, who probably was not called Jenny!
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Something About England: Amazon.co.uk: Harris, Christopher, Turner, Louise: 9798174255661: Books
Welcome to Denham, a fictitious Sussex village where behind respectable doors, well-tended gardens and familiar faces, things have a habit of going badly wrong.
Obsession, ambition, deception, jealousy and petty rivalry run through this collection of tragi-comical and satirical short stories. From poltergeists and lottery winners to cricket club feuds and environmental disasters, ordinary people embark on discovering just how quickly an ordinary life can unravel into an extraordinary mess.
Darkly funny, occasionally poignant and populated by characters who are rarely quite what they seem, these stories explore the peculiarities of Middle England, and the uncomfortable territory between respectability and ruin.
