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Starting Over Again	By : gallygaskins Category: 1 through F > Clocking Off (BBC) > Clocking Off (BBC) Views: 1118 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Clocking Off and I do not earn any money from this fanfiction.

Chapter List
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Chapter 1 – Another new horizon.

James Mackintosh sat peacefully on the upper deck of his yacht, cold beer in hand, watching the yellow orange sun sink through the sky to meet the water just as day was physically about to turn into night. If he were lucky he’d still be awake to see the stars twinkle in the clear indigo sky but he doubted he would be. His latest trip from the east coast of Spain had taken him to some of the busiest resorts of that country and into those that belonged to France. He’d spent the last couple of nights in Cannes, living the high life, eating some of the best seafood the French Riviera had to offer, drinking to excess as he found himself night after night in some lively hostelry, bar or nightclub and sleeping it off with an enthusiastic local female or equally enthusiastic female holidaymaker of varying nationality.

And that had been his life, since that day he’d left Manchester, telling Miranda that it wasn’t going to work between them and he was going to Majorca on his own. He’d moved from port to port leaving behind him girl after girl, never remembering for too long who they were or what they were called. He always played his cards close to his chest ensuring that he would come over as endearing waiting for some unsuspecting sap to want to mother him for 12 hours and give him what he felt he needed.

He sighed heavily, is this what it had all been about? Leaving the factory to his brother who, he’d later been told by his friend and solicitor Peter Cochran, had never taken up the challenge of running his own business and allowed the company to be taken over by another firm who were now attempting to run it. Selling that awful house that he’d never felt to be his home. Leaving behind the memory of a girlfriend, however unpleasant she actually was, and that of an equally unpleasant ex-wife and messy divorce. All he’d really wanted was to live his life a little without the worries of everyday life and eventually settle down, find a woman that wanted him for him and have a family with her. But with every passing day it was becoming more and more difficult. He’d hoped to have had everything in place before he turned 40 but as he was now approaching 43 he seemed lost to a life that he’d had a taste of with Tasha and he was unsure of how to get back to some kind of normality.

And that was why he had moored in Villefranche-sur-mer, a quiet modest seaside community that existed close to the vibrant city of Nice. He needed time to think; needed time to recuperate, needed to get himself back on track and a pin prick in a map had brought him here. He’d done what he’d set out to do, had lots of fun, doing the things that he should have done since leaving school and going straight into the family business having, he’d felt, no other choice but to take it on with the passing of his father. Now he’d had his fill and he was ready to go off in another direction; he was smart, he knew business and he still had plenty of money. But what was he going to do?

The pin had brought him here for a reason, of that he was sure, but he’d have to wait to find out what that reason was. Tomorrow he was going to see the harbourmaster and sort out a month’s mooring, then he was going to use the rest of the day to get some supplies and familiarise himself with the town, hire a car if he needed to in order to explore the outer-lying area if he found it to be a little out of reach by foot. He’d find a local café, boucherie, patisserie, delicatessen and newsagent; he’d eat out for lunch and explore some of the shops in the afternoon, before ambling back to the boat and whiling away the evening hours with a bottle of local wine or some ice cold beers.

He got up from his seat, going over his usual checks before going below deck. Within minutes he was in his bed, alone for the first time for as long as he could remember, finding it difficult to drift off even with the gentle rocking motion of the boat on the water. He never usually had trouble but then he was usually exhausted or contented or both by the time he was ready to sleep. He got up, made himself some tea, went back up on deck and sat comfortably. By this time, the only lights that were visible were the main street lights, everything else being in darkness. Nothing stirred, his neighbours were all within their boats being quiet, no one seemed to be walking around in the streets, and a deadly hush surrounded the town and its harbour. It was a complete contrast to what he was used to.

He gently sipped the tepid liquid, hoping that his energy level would stoop to a low and allow him the much needed slumber that he so desperately wanted and needed. He saw something move out of the corner of his eye and surveyed the beach to his right, nothing, he must have imagined it. Another movement as he scanned again. In the distance he could see someone setting up an easel, they’d stopped momentarily to observe the scene in front of them and their sudden movements had been as a result of them adjusting the easel to a different angle. Suddenly a small light, like a torch, was illuminated; paints were being deposited on a palette and then applied to the canvas. Mack was intrigued, was it really normal for someone to bring out a canvas at this time in the morning, beginning to paint a night sky?

Quietly, he put on a jumper over the shorts set he’d been wearing to bed, found a pair of scruffy deck shoes and closed up his boat before walking the jetty and reaching dry land. His feet sunk into the soft sand as he made his way across the beach toward the light source, stopping suddenly as the person spoke in hushed tones, “Qui est là?” Whoever it was was female but what had she asked, he’d never been that good at French and it wasn’t like he’d needed much of any language over the past few years, a few words learnt in any language and all of those women had all fallen at his feet. But then she couldn’t even see his feet not that he could either. “Qui est là?” She repeated hesitantly, “who’s there?”

She’d picked up the torch and shone it in his direction, shining it right into his eyes. His hands immediately went to his face shielding the bright white xenon glare, “Jesus, I’m a friend not a bloody foe!” He bit out; annoyed that she was still shining the light directly into his face.

“How the hell am I supposed to know, I don’t even know who you are and as you’re English and obviously on your own.” The glare drifted down his torso, tracing his body, “and a holidaymaker,” she scoffed.

“What difference does that bloody make? Besides I’m not a holidaymaker, I’ve been living on my boat for nearly 5 years.”

“Mid life crisis, that figures.” She let out a sarcastic laugh.

“Sorry?” He tried to make her out, moving forward in order to get his face above the glare of the torch.

“You’re walking from the direction of the Marina in shorts, a jumper and deck shoes, there’s no wedding ring and you don’t speak a word of French, by your own admission you’ve lived on your boat for a while and spent 5 years sailing around the Med, picking up girls in every port I shouldn’t wonder. So, mid life crisis!” She exclaimed.

He had to admit, she wasn’t far wrong, but would he have called it that? Yes, if anyone he’d known had done what he had done then he knew he would have said they were going through the same, “well, I’m not after taking you to my bed.”

“Thanks very much!” Was that a huff he’d just witnessed? “Not that I’m surprised, not like I’m stick thin with loads of lovely long luscious blonde hair.”

“I couldn’t tell you, I’ve been blinded by that damn torch light of yours. Not sure if my eyesight is ever going to recover from that.” He inched closer. She lowered the light back to its place on top of her bag.

“Sorry, its just I’m not used to company when I paint and you surprised me, put me on tenterhooks. Besides, when you do get your eyesight back you’ll wish you’d stayed blind.”

“What?” He asked, wondering how bad this vision in front of him was going to be when it appeared. “You can’t be that bad.” He walked closer to her, a figure beginning to materialize as his eyes readjusted. From the way she’d carried on he’d been expecting some Shrek like figure only painting after dark because she knew she’d be left alone, but what he eventually saw was unexpected. Had Rembrandt still been alive Mack believed the artist would have used her as a model, he likened her toward a classical female figure. She was right, she wasn’t thin but she wasn’t fat either and although her face was fuller than most women he’d dated, she was still beautiful even in the glow of the orange light. Her eyes were dark and large, her lips full and her shoulder length dark hair framed her head. She certainly wasn’t the type of woman he normally went for but then none of them had ever been stayer's, had they? He stepped in closer and turned toward the canvas, his grey eyes surveying her work. “What medium are you using, oil is it?”

“Yes. I’ve been at this sky for 5 nights now and still I’m nowhere near happy with it.”

“I think it’s beautiful.” Mack said with meaning, from what he could see she’d captured it perfectly.

“You’re just saying that.”

“No, I’m not. I might not know much about art but I know what I like and I like this. Are you always so critical of yourself?”

“Yes,” she returned determinedly. “Always, I’m my own worst enemy.” She put down the palette and lent forward, Mack catching a whiff of her perfume as her actions caused her to pass closely by him. She tore the canvas from the easel and extended the painting to him. “It’s yours! If I still know you in 12 months then maybe you’ll let me finish it off.”

“I couldn’t,” she nodded her head her eyebrows knitted together with frustration, of course he could. “At least let me pay you for it.”

She put up her hands, “it’s yours, and I don’t want anything for it.”

“Let me take you sailing then.” He flashed her a warm smile.

She shook her head, “No way. I want nothing; just promise me you’ll look after it.”

“Ok, but on one condition.”

“Yes?”

“You’ll finish it off some time.”

She merely nodded. She began putting her stuff back together as he slowly walked away from her. He stopped, “what’s your name?”

“Why?” She asked impatiently.

“You haven’t signed it yet and I’d like to know who the artist is?”

“Oh, it’s Sophie.”

“Thanks, Sophie,” he went to walk away again but stopped and turned back, “I’m …” But she’d gone, fleeing back to wherever it was she’d appeared from earlier. He shrugged his shoulders still holding onto his prize before turning back toward the harbour. He was soon back on his boat trying to stifle his yawns as he carefully placed the painting onto one of the bench seats. He thought back over the impromptu meeting with the painter and decided that there was only one place he could hang it. ‘Another job for tomorrow,’ he thought. He pulled off his shoes and jumper, leaving them in a pile on the floor of the main living area before finding his way into his cabin and crawling under the covers. Sleep came quickly and dreaming too, he was sure that Sophie had something to do with his reason for being in Villefranche-sur-mer; he only hoped he would find out why and soon.

He awoke to the bright warming sunshine as it filtered through the tiny porthole. A smile traced his lips as his first thoughts were of the mysterious Sophie and his early morning encounter with her on the beach. He would make finding her another one of his jobs, maybe they could become friends. He certainly didn’t imagine anything else could happen between them, her condescension of his lifestyle would put pay to that, but wasn’t he supposed to be stopping all of that in favour of a more normal relationship with that special someone?

He looked through what supplies he had left, there wasn’t much and he only hoped they had some kind of English shop in Villefranche-sur-mer where he could buy tea and marmalade, the thought of having to get that sent over from Blightly by Peter signalling a big NO in his head. It hadn’t quite worked out as planned before, the marmalade jar breaking mid shipping and spilling its contents all over the already open box of tea bags. He decided to get breakfast in a local café and then go and speak to M. Renard, the harbourmaster.

By 2.30 pm Mack had finished his list of jobs, including hanging the painting in pride of place over his bed. He’d even managed to find a launderette that did service washes. As he walked through the shaded thoroughfares of the town he found the small shopping centre that he’d been directed to by the café owner he’d spoken to whilst having lunch. He’d asked the middle aged man behind the bar about Sophie but had received nothing more than a grunt and a ‘that mad English woman?’ for his trouble. When his meal had arrived the man’s wife had whispered to him that there was a gallery in the new shopping centre that specialised in landscapes and that Mack might have better luck there.

He ambled around finally spotting the gallery in the furthest corner of the square. He made his way around the tables and chairs that were positioned in the middle of the arcade to where the shop was situated and looked in through the window, various sized canvas’s displaying richly coloured scenes of poppy, sunflower and lavender fields caught his eye and he took a closer look at the signature in the corner – S Walker. ‘S Walker,’ he mused, ‘Sophie Walker?’ Could it be her?

He stepped through the door, the bell that was attached to it ringing and signalling his arrival over the threshold. A willowy man with black hair and olive skin stood in the corner of the gallery talking to someone in French on the telephone; he turned to greet Mack and signalled for him to take a seat whilst he finished his conversation. “Bonjour, monsieur. Peux je vous aide?”

Mack shook his head, “Anglais? I’m English,” he shrugged, “sorry.” Offering his hand to the younger man.

“Oui, monsieur. Of course, how can I help?”

“I was wondering what you could tell me about the artist featured in your window.”

“What does sir wish to know?”

“Well, are they local, do they live around here?”

“Ah, she is local, she has her studio here but she is not around at the moment.”

“Really? It’s just that I think I met her last night, on the beach. She gave me one of her paintings and I’d like to get in touch with her.”

“She left for Provence last night; it can not be the same.” His brows furrowed.

“She told me her name was Sophie.” Mack continued.

The younger man nodded, “perhaps she did not go until this morning, and I am not her keeper. The artist of those paintings is Sophie, Sophie Walker. She is English, like you. And she gave you a painting?”

Mack nodded, “yes, a night sky she’d been working on for a little while. She didn’t like it, gave it to me because I said I did.”

“Then you have already won her over. She is very critical of herself but only wishes to make people happy with her painting. It doesn’t pay her much but she sells well, getting a bit of a name for herself here on the Riviera.”

“How much are those in the window?”

“They range from 135 to 160 Euros each. Would sir like to purchase any of them?”

‘And she gave that one to me for free,’ he thought. “Have you any other’s?”

“Yes, of course. She is obviously a favourite, even after only knowing about her for 12 hours.”

The sales assistant took him over to a spiral staircase, “her paintings occupy the first floor, and I’ll be down here if you need anything.”

“Thank you,” he began climbing the stairs stopping on the third step. “Can I ask you something?” The man nodded, “how much commission do you take?”

“10 to 15% normally.”

Mack nodded, climbing the rest of the stairs. Upon reaching the top step he walked out onto the mezzanine and began scanning the walls at the paintings. Most of them were landscapes similar to the ones in the window and when he looked at the price tags many were already sold. For some reason, his heart skipped a beat; maybe at the prospect that here he was, stood in front of the imaginings of a somewhat successful artist. Most of her paintings had been snapped up and she had obviously made her way back out into the countryside in order to paint more. “At least she can look after herself,” he muttered.

He zigzagged through the partitions finding a couple that he liked and were unsold. One was of a vineyard, the rows of vines reaching up to the cream and white blocks of the house in the middle, a daytime view of the red coastline against the bright blue sea and finally a night time view of the harbour, the boats bobbing on the calm sea as the moon’s reflection sparkled over the slowly moving ripples of the water. It was a perfect partner to the one he had already been given. He looked at the sticker, 185 Euros; he did a quick calculation, “about £145, not bad for the pair.” He noted the number.

Finding his way back down the stairs he was quickly met by the sales assistant. “I’d like to purchase 367, please.”

“Very good, sir. A nice choice for the one you already own, no?”

He nodded and grinned, “yes, when can I have it?”

“We normally keep them until Sophie comes back with replacements.”

“And how long will that be?” He asked, filling out the form and handing over his credit card.

“She’s never away longer than 7 weeks at a time.”

“7 Weeks? Better go and organise some more time for my boat then? Whereabouts is she?”

“I’m sorry she never tells me but her brother may know.”

“Her brother?”

“Yes, they were left a vineyard by their grandparents. The one in her paintings, actually. Her brother and his family look after it whilst she paints. I could give you the address, the vineyard itself is open to the public, they do wine tastings there and they put on activity holidays. I believe Sophie also does some painting master classes over the summer months too.”

“That would be very helpful, thank you.”

“My pleasure.” He handed Mack a piece of paper with the address on. “Here are your documents and your credit card. It’s a pleasure doing business with you.”

Mack found his way back to the hire car and pulled out the road map he’d purchased. He knew that the satnav would get him so far but didn’t dare trust it to take him all of the way. Scanning through the pages he realised that if he gave himself half an hour to pack a few things into a bag after retrieving his washing, he would be able to reach the address near Tavernes in a couple of hours, just in time for dinner.

He drove toward his destination attempting to keep his mind on driving on the wrong side of the road especially considering he was in a left hand drive car, but finding it hard as the km sailed by quickly, the breathtaking scenery kept expanding outward in front of him and he could think of nothing else but seeing those eyes again.

He finally reached the village and asked a young woman where the address was, she pointed in the general direction and kept saying “straight, straight.” He continued along the narrow street, through the village of white and cream buildings eventually finding a cobbled track with a small sign, ‘Chateau Collines Roses, Vigne pour l’échantillon de vin et classe principale de pienture de paysage. Gites disponibles – Vacances d’emploi.’ He looked up toward the buildings on the hillside, those were definitely the ones in the paintings he’d seen earlier but should he go up. The clock on the dashboard read 6.54 pm and he wondered if he was pushing his luck or not, he looked back at the sign. He knew the word gites meant some kind of accommodation but he wasn’t sure about the rest, if only he’d bought himself a dictionary for translations. But the last thing he was going to do was turn tail and head home, “here goes,” he said to himself, turning the car into the drive and slowly taking the track up to the house.

He turned off the engine as he got to the house and was met by a young, slight, mousey haired woman with bright blue eyes that he assumed to be Sophie’s sister in law. “Bonjour,” she remarked.

“Bonjour, er, hi. You do speak English, don’t you?”

She nodded. “Hello,” she extended her hand out, “it’s nice to finally have an Englishman visit our estate. Especially one from my neck of the woods, how is Manchester?”

“It was ok when I left it 5 years ago. Been busy sailing around since then. I was wondering if you had a gites I could hire.”

“How long would you be staying?”

“I don’t know, I’m interested in the painting classes. I’ve driven up from Villefranche-sur-mer; I saw Sophie’s paintings in the window and got chatting to the man in the shop. He told me about the classes.”

“Ah, Sophie isn’t here at the moment but she will be back at the weekend. It’s 300 Euros a week to include breakfast, either continental or full English or the best that we can do for one anyway, and that’s in the farmhouse. Does that sound ok?” He merely nodded. “Good, well Mr …”

“Mr Mackintosh, James Mackintosh but most people call me Mack.”

“Well, Mack, its nice to have you stay with us, if you just follow me into the farmhouse then we can sort out all the boring stuff and if you’re hungry perhaps you would like to join us for dinner.”

“I couldn’t, that’s not included in the price. I’ll go and find somewhere in the village.”

“Spending time with a northerner, Mack, will be enough payment indeed. Had too many southerners around me for far too long, I could do with a change of accent.”

“Then it will be my pleasure. You said that Sophie wasn’t here?”

“Yes, she’s gone out into the lavender fields with her tent, probably won’t see her till late Friday night, I’ll introduce you to her when she arrives.”

“Thanks, are you related?”

“I’m married to her brother, for my sins.” She smiled, Mack returned it as he began filling in more forms and handing over his card once more. “But he has been generous and burdened me with our three adorable children who you’ll meet when he brings them back with him, in …” she looked at her watch, “a few minutes I hope. Right, everything seems to be fine, I’ll just show you to the gites and then you can come back for your dinner when you’re ready.”

She showed him up to the first floor gites, “one thing, you see the boxes in the windows?”

“Yes?”

“They have lavender in them; I keep them topped up regularly. If you like to keep your window open the lavender in the box wards off scorpions, so I’d suggest you don’t move them.”

“Great,” he gulped, “do they ever get past?”

“Not if you keep the boxes in place,” she warned. “See you for dinner.”

He surveyed the studio apartment; it was clean and fresh looking. The original stonework of the outer walls was visible, whilst the inner walls were all brushed with magnolia paint, a black wrought iron bedstead stood in front of him, the crisp white sheets looked inviting and a canopy of a fine muslin type material hung from a central pivot of more wrought ironwork, which was then folded down behind the bed head. An old dark oak armoire stood in one corner with a matching chest of drawers close to it under the window. A grey silk covered chaise sat behind the bed and in front of that was another cupboard which he believed contained a television. In a small alcove to his right was an even smaller kitchenette, with only just enough room for him to make himself something to eat. He was glad he still had his purchased provisions with him.

To his left was an open doorway, he walked over switching on the light as he went through. The en-suite, tiled from floor to ceiling in grey, cream and white made it the perfect wet room, as he noticed a shower attachment mounted in the furthest corner of the room, but he was surprised at finding a free standing bath as well. He touched it, his hand creeping over the old enamel; he knew he’d be able to relax in it. It had seemed like forever since he’d had a bath as his boat only had room enough for a shower. He was going to enjoy spending time in that.

He unpacked, found his key that Sophie’s sister in law had left on the side for him and retraced his steps back up to the farmhouse. He knocked on the door only to be greeted by a young girl with hair like her mothers and eyes like Sophie’s, she smiled. “You must be Mack?”

“I am, and you are?” He asked, taking her small hand in his and kissing the back of it.

“I’m Madeleine.” She smiled, “come in, dinner’s ready.” He followed her through to the large farmhouse kitchen. A prominent hardwood table stood in the middle of the room as Madeline and her sisters fussed over who was going to sit next to the strange ruggedly handsome Englishman that hadn’t long arrived at the vineyard. He smiled to himself, “sit here, Mack.” He complied with the little girls request as another sat to his right.

“I’m Camille, and I’m 6.” Same hair but slightly wavy, no mistaking the eyes though.

“Hello Camille, I’m Mack. How old are you Madeline?”

“I’ll be 9 next week.” Well at least that meant Sophie would have to back soon; he didn’t believe she was the kind of person to miss her niece’s birthday.

He felt a tiny hand tug on the bottom of his t-shirt and he turned in his seat. “I’m Véronique.”

Another matching sibling. “And how old are you?”

“I’m 3 and a half.”

“Come on V,” a man picked up the little girl effortlessly and placed her within the crook of his arm. He extended the other to Mack, “it seems you’ve been asking after my sister?” His face was steady as he surveyed the new addition to the table.

“Yes, I’d like to learn some new painting techniques,” he lied, taking the hand and shaking it, “I’d also like to taste the wine you grow and I understand you do activity holidays here as well.”

The man deposited his load on a chair opposite Mack before taking the head of the table. “Yes. Mack isn’t it?” A smile replaced the scowl he’d worn earlier as he watched Mack silently affirm himself. “We do all sorts of activities here. I’m Steven Walker, welcome to my home.” He too had the distinctive Walker eyes.

“Thanks,” Mack smiled back, swaying slightly as he realised a plate was being put down in front of him, “this smells wonderful.”

“You haven’t tasted it yet.” For that comment Steven earned himself a swipe of his wife’s hand, and a round of giggles from the girls. He put his arm around the woman’s hips and brought her too him, despite her protestations, “Jenny is many things but the best cook she is not. My grandmother even gave up trying to teach her because she could never get the hang of French home cooking.” She managed to get away from him and sit by her youngest. “We only ever get a decent meal when Sophie stays home longer than a night,” the girls cheered, “but that’s very few and far between. However, I love my wife very much and would move heaven and earth to make sure she was always happy.”

And he could see they were, for all their banter they were as much in love as he believed they had been on the day they’d got married. Mack felt guilty as a tinge of jealousy rose to the surface, why could he never experience just a small ounce of what they’d had. “So, no Mrs Mack?” Steven asked, invading his thoughts.

“Once, a long time ago, I loved her but she never loved me back. Just loved my money and position.” The table fell silent, “never been anyone else really, until …”

“Until?” Jenny coaxed.

Mack shook his head and smiled, his eyes twinkling with the realisation that he wanted to be a part of all this. “I met this wonderful girl last night, on the beach. Not stunningly beautiful or thin or anything I would normally go for in a partner but she was honest, charming, pretty and I need to know more about her.”

“So what are you doing here then?” Steven asked, “shouldn’t you be finding out about her, where she lives, what she does for a living, etc, etc.” Mack looked over to him and then over to Jenny, he dropped his gaze as she seemed to understand his meaning. In his state of nervousness he pushed some of the food around on his plate trying to decide what to eat first.

“He is.” Jenny remarked, noticing Mack’s head shooting up in surprise at her words and softening toward her as she smiled warmly at him.

“What do you mean?” Steven asked.

Jenny looked to her husband, “I’ll tell you later. So Mack what brought you to France in the first place?”

.oOo.

Several hours later, Mack found himself wandering to his gites. He realised he’d had a little too much wine as he giddily transcended the steps up to the front door and holding onto the railing wasn’t doing much for him either. When he finally managed to get the key into the lock, he traversed unsteadily into the room and stumbled across the floor, kicking the door closed as he went. He crashed out diagonally across the sheets, his head barely reaching a pillow. The shoes came off with a thud as he pushed them off at the ankle with his toes, eventually managing to turn over onto his back.

His eyelids slid closed as he heard the calls and cries of Southern France’s nocturnal wildlife, their constant subtle noises coaxing him further into a state of sleep. Everywhere he’d been tonight he’d seen her eyes, in the faces of her nieces and of her brother, in the photos and pictures that adorned the walls of her and her family and now in his own minds eye. Big, beautiful, smoulderingly dark, almond-shaped eyes that he knew he was going to drown in. He visualised a kiss, only stopping to pull back and look into them once more before returning to love her physically. How was it that someone like Sophie could’ve touched him so much in such a short space of time? Not that he really cared; he only hoped that he would get the chance to win this most worthy of all prizes.
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Starting Over Again