Turning a Blind Eye to the Sun

By Christine Dias

Two parallel stories, depicting a British woman and Indian man, are linked by coincidence, business and death set in the South of France.
The book is woman ́s fiction and explores loneliness, fear and belief within different societies. The two stories, with the main characters above and subsidiary characters, interweave. The British woman, Zara and the Indian man, Suraj are brought together at the end of the book through a series of coincidental but believable circumstances.
Zara is a bitch in spite of herself. She is disillusioned with Europe yet she is the unwitting product of 21st century hedonism and self-absorption and it slowly consumes her. Suraj on the surface is the product of his Eastern heritage. He leads a balanced and successful life, but he and his family are being continually seduced by the superficial and material trappings of his Western lifestyle and he himself is prone to lecherous fantasies. Both have fears they cannot face.
It is a yearning to give some meaning to her existence that draws Zara to her past and it is the hope of giving some meaning to his existence that pushes Suraj forward to his future. But is it their idealism that keeps them out of touch with everyday life?
The fashion business, death and fate bring these two characters together in the South of France and offer them the possibility of reconciliation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christine Dias
• Release date: May 20, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476406718

Christine Dias

Christine Dias is my pen name for Turning a Blind Eye to the Sun but my real name is Christine Morgan and you can find out more about me on the "about me" link below on this profile.To read more of my work under my real name Christine Morgan including short stories here are a few links:1.Pack Instincthttps://christine.atavist.com/story/62912. Papagaio Cafehttp://koobug.com/chrismorgan?p17563.Self published paper backhttps://www.lulu.com/shop/chris-morgan/fragments/paperback/product-2525534.html?page=1&pageSize=4

Book preview

Chapter 1

I settled into my seat, clicked the seatbelt, slipped off my shoes and got out my book. Flight take offs always give me a little buzz in the stomach plus I was really looking forward to this break. It would be different this time; it had the makings of potential alternatives. I eased back and revelled in my autonomy. I had money in my pocket and no real long-term programme, only the next week booked at the Hôtel Les Orangers with its tiny secluded orchard and its gardens full of lavender bushes and terraces where I could sit gazing at the sea, sipping chilled, white wine.

But already nipping in at the side-lines of these day dreams were the usual plaintiffs: And what will you do when the money runs out? Have you gone stark raving mad? I took a deep breath and pushed on with the revelling. The nippers were not going to spoil my expectant mood or destroy the little perks I had planned for myself over the next few hours; a gin and tonic, a small doze, a relaxing read. I chased them away to the changing rooms where no doubt they would shower put on fresh clothes and come back invigorated to pester me at 4.00am in the morning. For now they were at bay.

It wasn’t the first time I had flown into Nice airport. I had been twenty-three the first time, fresh out of college and walking into a job, not leaving one. It had been my very first job as a translator for a London wine importer and the thrill of going somewhere as exotic as the South of France had been the icing on the cake. Or at least it had been till I met Louis, the commercial director of the vineyard whose wine we intended to import, and suddenly the cake, with or without icing, became irrelevant. He had been my reason for staying and practically never going back, except to organise the wedding. He had kept me here for far longer than I could have ever imagined and finally he had also been my reason for leaving.

But none of that was on my mind right now; it was deliberately blocked. I was here today as a tourist, determined see the place with new eyes. I was a different person sitting on this plane with different expectations and I was turning a blind eye to the past.

The queue at the airport car hire proved to be less stressful than expected. Soon I had acquired a nice little Peugeot with air con and I set off in pursuit of the hotel, supposedly in the old part of Cannes close to the port. I would call this evening and get it over with. Now I was here I felt a strange, moral obligation to contact them after all these years and then there was the illness. I had heard from my son David that his paternal grandmother, Rose was unwell and I was so near to the old house at St Paul’s that I couldn’t really not call. Calling would inevitably mean popping in of course but it would be a beautiful drive away from the backdrop of the coast. I was desperately trying to convince myself that I could revisit the past with a courtesy call and without it impacting on my holiday. I would call before it was too late and a malaise stopped me.

The room at the hotel was small but comfortable with crisp, cotton sheets and a little balcony with a view of the Mediterranean in the distance. I assessed the twin beds and opted for the one near the window. First come, first served and Marcia wouldn’t put up a fuss about which bed she had, not outwardly anyway, not at first. Marcia, my long-standing friend, was the catalyst who had forced me to face my demons and come back. She was due to arrive in a couple of days and would soon put a stop to any unhealthy reminiscences. This, she had convinced me, was going to be a hell of a break for both of us. It was a chance to sit back and change our lives, again. The sit back part had limited appeal. I didn’t want to brood, especially not here. Carpe Diem! That was what I wanted, with as little thought process as possible.

I unpacked immediately, putting all my things in strategic places making a temporary nest and then I sat up on the top of the bed and stretched out my legs. I was more comfortable horizontal these days for practical not salacious reasons. Sometimes I found standing an effort. Now, when I looked down, I could see my ankles were swollen. Not a flattering look. I reached across to the bedside table and shuffled around in my handbag for my cell phone. My hands were puffed up too.

I called:

Hello? Mark answered.

It’s me, Zara...

Zara, how are you? Good to hear your voice- look, just give me a sec will you, I need to switch something off.

There was muffled background noise.

Sorry about that.

I almost expected him to follow that with, And what can I do for you?

He was still so typically English even after all these years out here. Not sure why I supposed he would have changed though (I hadn’t when I had been married to Sandrine’s brother) but I had hoped for a bit more surprise and enthusiasm. Then again he didn’t know I was just down the road, so to speak.

Mark, I’m here in Cannes and I was just wondering how Rose was and if I could see her?

There was a pause.

She’s bad, Zara. Sandrine is at the intensive care unit in Nice right now. Honestly, I don’t think she’s got long. Jean Jacques is there too and Carine is flying over tomorrow. Look if you want to pop over there I can give you the details? Visiting is allowed after 5.30pm.

I didn’t feel like telling him I didn’t exactly mean right now. I had planned a shower, a stroll to the harbour, followed by an aperitif. It didn’t seem appropriate somehow.

"Sure, I’ll go straight way. I expect it will be easy to find. Will you let them know I am coming?

There wasn’t much more to say so I hung up and set about putting my shoes back on and considering what I had just got myself into, not to mention the drive up the coast back to Nice. I suppose I had kind of expected the worst before phoning, but not this extreme. You always think death will stay at a safe distance, that people don’t actually die, at least not until you’ve had your aperitif. Then I cringed at my thoughts and did my usual mental smack on the wrist. What if it was you lying in the hospital? And this was Rose, she deserved better from me. I got back to the task in hand, a bit of lipstick, a ruffle up of the hair, a touch up of mascara and liner. I looked fine, under the circumstances. Now keys, phone, bag, I pulled the hotel card out of the socket and the bathroom light went out leaving the room bathed in a dusky glow, with small streaks of sunlight flickering over my bed. So inviting. Still it would be all there when I got back.

Outside, scrambling down the stone steps at the side of the Hotel that twisted down into the car park behind, I almost collided with a young couple locked in embrace, him leaning on the old stone balustrade practically smothering the lower half of her face. What had happened to all that languorous kissing? At my age it was a thing long forgotten. Lovemaking was practical if anything, a considered retreat to the bedroom where clothes were removed item by item in a semi- organised fashion so they would be easy to put back on again. In the winter you kept your socks on.

Distracted by these hardly erotic thoughts I was suddenly at a loss as to where I had parked the car. I simply couldn’t see it, then I realised it was blocked from view by a white pick up van which had decided, with all the car park to choose from, to park across my exit. Typical, a whole bloody car park and they had to stop right behind my car. I felt a surge of frustration, no doubt sparked by the lover’s embrace so I did what I had learnt to do recently in Italy in this type of situation. I opened the car door and pressed down hard on the horn several times. It worked. A tall man came running out of the garage area waving his hands around in the air:

J’arrive, j’arrive...

No further explanation though and no apology. Ah well, at least it hadn’t erupted into an Italian style spat full of invectives and expletives that it had somehow been my fault. I certainly didn’t miss that about Italy. In fact Italy had not really been a choice, more a necessity. There were a limited number of areas that exported good wines to the UK. Fortunately my experience had made up for my lack of Italian, but somehow I had gone out of the frying pan into the fire by escaping there.

It had been ridiculously hot there when I left. Now the steering wheel was hot, and I felt hot myself, flustered. I wasn’t at all happy about how events here had taken a sudden change of course, but I had best get on with it. I fiddled around with the air con buttons but they only seemed to be giving out blasts of hot air so I dropped down both windows and swung, somewhat erratically, out of the car park.

Chapter 2

I had to park the car quite far from the main entrance but as I walked over I spotted Andre , Sandrine’s elder boy, immediately. Luc was hopping around his brother like a moth flitting round a lamp whilst Andre stood there impervious. André’s hair was longer, his whole body was longer, and his fringe flopped across his face, shoulders slouched, with one leg resting on the wall. Adolescents, my favourite company! I braced myself with a welcoming smile.

Luc, who I had barely recognised except by process of association, noticed me first and raised an arm (Mark must have called ahead). He poked his brother who jerked his floppy fringe from his eyes and uttered some inaudible invective but then was quickly shown my approaching form across the tarmac and peered over at me. He was moving to take something out of his ear. He sauntered over and graciously kissed my cheeks, but his expression was apathetic. I squeezed his arm:

Good to see you again André

Did I mean that?

Luc looked on expectantly, shuffling from one foot to the other so I gave him a hug. Clearly he hadn’t yet reached that age of indifference and distaste where hugs were no longer cool.

Hi, I’m Luke, he grinned. He was still bursting with that pre pubescent energy that enabled twelve year olds to achieve outrageous feats like devouring a whole stack of sandwiches and drain packets of milk before sitting down to eat dinner. I think he saw me as a potential source of comestibles and no doubt barely remembered me. Fleetingly I thought of how David had been at that age. It seemed such a long time ago.

My phone went off right then and Luc scrutinised my mobile. I could see he was itching to get a hold of it and check out all the functions, his lips parting to say something but still not quite on sure feet. I just knew if he got half a chance he would take it off me and scroll clumsily at random whilst I flinched in fear that he would loose my messages or flick inadvertently onto those web links that consume your monthly limit in ten seconds, so I quickly silenced it and swivelled round. This was my new Samsung with a myriad of different apps, none of which I had used so far (and probably never would), but he wasn’t getting his hands on it, that was for sure. André was slowly putting his earphone back in, no danger there then. I noticed his sparkly earring à la David Beckham. André had that androgynous look about him, with his full lips, indolent stance and smooth skin. Today’s youth, what on earth had happened to potential Bond types, virile, hairy, and muscular?

I answered the call. It was Sandrine.

I’m right outside, with the boys, I said. How is everything?

She sighed:

Not great Zara. Mama had another minor stroke the day before yesterday and now she won’t eat. They are talking about force-feeding her. I’m not sure if you can even come up. They only allow two people at a time and Jean Jacques is here.

Don’t worry about me. I’m going to grab a coffee anyway.

I’ll have a word with the doctor and if it’s ok I’ll come down soon so you can come up. It’s so thoughtful of you to come

So, there I was outside a hospital building with two adolescents for company on the first day of my holidays. Thoughtful wasn’t in it.

Let’s grab a drink, I suggested.

Andre shrugged in acknowledgment but Luc’s eyes lit up with the prospect.

Great, I’ll have a coke

I waited for the please but it didn’t come so off we trotted, an unlikely threesome, although to most observers just another mum with her kids.

We found the self-service area with several of those high tables you stand around, designed specifically for people to drink up and move on. Still it was better to have Luc standing; he was already off fiddling with the automatic chocolate machine in the corner, seeing if I would take the bait. Meanwhile André slouched over the suspended table lost in the iPod universe. I struggled towards them balancing the tray with their two cokes accompanied by disgusting paper cups and a watery looking coffee. I was surprised that Sandrine hadn’t packed a lunch box, the way she normally molly coddled them but I suppose the current circumstances made her understandably pre occupied. I took a long look at them. Luc, of course, had a portable PlayStation type gadget, which he had grown tired of and left on the counter. Andre had his iPod and flicked hair. Both were kitted out with low-slung jeans, fancy trainers and branded T shirts, products of a mother who still preened and fussed like a mother hen over her chicks, as she always had done. Only they weren’t chicks any more. Had we had it that good in our teens I thought.

Unexpectedly