But in the morning Gabriel was up before her, standing on the balcony outside the bedroom.
“Wake up, Mrs Cobb,” he said with his familiar wide grin when he saw her sitting up in bed. “Far too nice a day for sleepyheads.”
He seemed in a very good mood and did not disturb her when she put on her clothes in the dressing room. She selected a v-necked blouse from the once-missing valise and reflected that, after all, he had been correct to spend half the night searching for it: it would have spoilt things not to have all her clothes with her on her first full day as Mrs Gabriel Cobb.
On their way down to the dining room, on the landing outside their rooms, Gabriel put his arms round her shoulders and gave her a kiss. His good humour was infectious and dispelled any lingering doubts she had about the events — or rather the lack of them — of the preceding night.
During breakfast they laughed and joked about the other guests in the hotel, trying to guess their identities. “A German Hebrew financier,” Gabriel said of one. “A millionaire from Dakota,” Charis suggested. ‘A pork-packer with his front-row tottie’, ‘two boudoir boys’. The Angleterre was, they both agreed, rather a ‘smart’ hotel, even if most of the fashionable crowd went to the Roches Noires across the street.
Later, they sat for a while on the hotel’s terrace. Gabriel read a copy of The Times that was two days old.
“It seems funny,” he said. “To think we weren’t married then.” He reached over and squeezed her hand. “It seems as if we’ve been married for ages.”
Charis wasn’t sure what he meant — she hardly felt married at all — but he said it so warmly that it seemed like the deepest compliment. Her eyes prickled with tears for a moment, so intense was her feeling of love for him. Dear, good Gabriel! She lowered her head to flick through the magazine she was holding. She heard Gabriel reading something out to her from The Times. She caught something about ‘Austria’ and ‘Russia’, but she wasn’t really paying attention.
A patch of sun inched across the terrace. She watched its slow progress towards her feet, happy for a while to be idle and still with her husband. She felt an unfamiliar pride in her new status and for a few minutes luxuriated in her contentment. But soon the sunbeam was warming her feet and she began to sense an irritation at Gabriel’s stolid absorption with the newspaper. He would have lots of time to read later, why did he have to take up so much of the first morning of their honeymoon? She saw him take out a cigarette from his cigarette case without his eyes leaving the page. He patted his pockets absent-mindedly for matches, eventually locating a box, and lit his cigarette.
Charis swallowed. The taste of breakfast coffee still in her mouth. How she longed for a cigarette! But Gabriel had told her more than once that he disapproved of her smoking. Ridiculous, silly old Gabriel. It was that family of his. He could be stuffy sometimes. Gabriel looked up.
“Everything fine, darling?” he asked.
“Of course,” she said. “Is the paper so terribly interesting?”
“It is, actually,” Gabriel said, not detecting the implied complaint. “Didn’t have a chance to catch up with the news, what with the wedding and all.” He frowned. “Serious business.” He looked back at the front page again.
“Shall we bathe?” Charis suggested, prompted by the sun on her ankles.
“Mmm,” Gabriel said, still reading. “If you like.”
“I’ll go and get my costie.”
“Darling.” Gabriel jokingly rebuked her slang.
In the hotel room Charis smoked a cigarette out of a feeling of mild rebellion. She packed her swimming costume in a cotton draw-string bag. As she walked back down the stairs she chided herself for her irritation. It was Gabriel’s honey-moon too, she reasoned, and if it made him happy to linger over a newspaper after breakfast then he should do exactly as he pleased.
Now, as they walked along the promenade, Charis linked her arm through his and felt the cosy feelings of love — and self-congratulation at her own good fortune — return. He stood so tall above her; his shoulders as high as her head. They passed another couple from the hotel and Gabriel tipped his boater.
The beaches and the promenade were thronged with people, even though it was Sunday. If anything the crowds seemed better dressed in honour of the Sabbath. The promenade, her Baedeker said, “has been pithily described as the ‘Summer Boulevard of Paris’.” It was one reason why she had chosen Trouville for her honeymoon.
“Shall we go across to Deauville?” Gabriel said. “They say the beach is quieter there.”
“Oh no,” Charis said. “Baedeker says the beach is distinctly inferior. That’s why everyone’s here. Besides it’s such a long way,” she said. “And I’m roasting.”
“As you require, Mrs Cobb,” Gabriel said with mock deference, and led her down the steps onto the beach. They walked carefully across duckboards to the Hotel d’Angleterre’s striped changing tents.
“See you dans la mer,” Gabriel said as he turned towards those reserved for men.
Inside the tent it was dark and very warm and at first Charis could see nothing.
“Bonjour, Madame,” came a surprisingly loud and hoarse shout from one corner. Charis looked round in some alarm. The speaker was a very small old woman in black who was struggling to get out of a sagging wicker chair flanked by a mound of fresh towels and swimming costumes. With operatic gestures she ushered Charis into a canvas cubicle. She helped Charis undress, hanging up her clothes with great care and much fastidious smoothing of creases.
“Maillot?” she yelled, as Charis slipped her camisole top over her head.
“What? Oh…sorry,” Charis said, self-consciously covering her breasts with her arms. “Non,” she said, pointing towards the draw-string bag. “J’ai…dans le sac…”
The old woman shuffled out and Charis quickly pulled on her costume — knee-length knickerbockers, flouncy tunic and bathing hat, in red piped with yellow. Outside she blinked at the brightness of the sun and the sand. Down here on the beach it was much noisier than it seemed to be from the esplanade. There were shouts from beach vendors, bathers and children playing, and the regular soft crash of waves on the beach. People sat in deckchairs reading. A game of cricket was in progress a few yards away. A man in a rubber bathing cap and a huge towelling beach robe flapped up the sand towards the men’s tent. “Splendid!” he shouted at her as he stumbled past.
Charis couldn’t see Gabriel anywhere, so she assumed he must already be in the water. She picked her way, gingerly at first, and then with more confidence, down towards the breakers. The sand was loose, deep and warm on the upper reaches of the beach. Charis was glad she hadn’t worn her bathing shoes, she liked the feel of the sand beneath her bare soles.
At the water’s edge stood a group of men in uniform black swimming costumes. They were very sunburnt and their hair and bodies were sleeked with water.
“Guide baigneur, Madame?” one of them asked as she approached. “Soixante centimes.”
“No thanks…Non,” she said. The waves didn’t look too big and besides she didn’t need these men to support her in the water now she had her husband, wherever he might be.