Free George's Grand Tour by Caroline Vermalle Page B

That’s the crazy thing about it. Everyone said he was on his last legs. But I haven’t told you the funniest part: he’s been surgically attached to his slippers for twenty years and now all of a sudden he decides he’s going to do the Tour de France.’
    â€˜The Tour de France? On a bike?’
    â€˜No, in a Renault Scenic. But still …’
    Adèle briefly summed up the story for him, not without a hint of pride. They carried on whispering and laughing under their breath until the cast and crew came out of the drawing room more than two hours later. They talked about their misguided hopes, all the unbearable waiting, how hard it was to make real friends, how cynical the industry was – but they also discussed their future plans, eccentric relatives, holidays in Brittany and faraway countries. There was a little gossip, but this time Adèle found it funny. It was the first time since her conversations with Irving Ferns that she had opened up to someone on set. And even if she never saw Alex again, this hadn’t been a bad evening at all.
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    When George returned to his room in the Hôtel du Centre, the walls were no longer the urine-yellow and concrete-grey of the night before; they now looked like sunshine and soft grey cashmere. The room was no longer anonymous, but welcoming. Beyond the uPVC window, the night was filled with future promise, with things that had long lain dormant but were coming back to life, full of energy and vigour. The source of this unexpected jubilance was, amongst other things, the memory of a baby girl in a maternity ward twenty-three years earlier, and his joy at being a grandfather for the first time. But a whole host of other thoughts were also contributing to his happiness as he sat down on his bed.
    George had been an atheist, and occasional opponent of the Church, ever since his catechism lessons with Père Françoissome seventy years ago. So what was behind this sudden urge to thank someone who was not an actual person? Someone who would understand and who knew where he came from, someone who made the rain fall and the sun shine, who had control of his body and the events that affected him. All his life he had avoided churches; he was not the sort to go asking God favours. He, or perhaps Arlette, was the ship’s captain, and he never asked anyone, not the Father, the Son or the Holy Ghost, for anything (even if Arlette, he knew, had occasionally done so in secret, especially towards the end). And after all, he had lived no worse a life than most, far from it. And yet in these moments it was tempting to be grateful to someone other than his own pile of flesh and bones, which, he mistakenly thought, hadn’t been responsible for any of it. He was content and grateful. He had to admit, there was something straightforward and cheering about thanking the angels, in whom he had never believed, but who existed that evening just to share in his new-found happiness.
    The next morning, he felt the full effects of the night’s good cheer.

Monday 29 September
    Brest (Finistère)–Guémené-sur-Scorff (Morbihan)
    George and Charles reconvened the following morning in the hotel breakfast room. There was no avoiding it: they were both hung-over. Charles was groaning and complaining, while George was trying as hard as humanly possible to hide his discomfort. In the buffet area, the appetising aroma of the pastries mingled with waves of woody aftershave and a heavy dose of lady’s perfume. The guests approached the buffet as if walking on stage, shyly muttering, ‘Morning, morning’, and standing up very straight. They all put on their best manners, neatly cutting the cheese and taking care not to overfill their plates, fighting off the desire to try everything and make the most of the ‘all-you-can-eat’ buffet. Charles and George, on the other hand, were not concerned in the slightest with keeping up appearances,