Good morning, he said smiling vaguely.

Hello, I said smiling weakly.

And then he went back to his paper. And I looked around, feeling nauseous. Yep. I did that well. Looking around. Feeling nauseous. They were my best known talents.

Then I tried to find something to read while I wondered what to say if Harcourt and I were to speak again. Harcourt and I had worked together once. But only once. And that day it had gone well. Extremely well. I had been loose-tongued, wry and witty that day. But today was different. Today I knew I was going to spend twelve days with the Monsignor. And I wondered would he remember my behavior of that day with vengefulness or kindness. Would he even remember me at all. That’s what I wondered now.

Of course, in the future, Harcourt and I would be friends. He would even come to know me, like me and respect me. But that was in the future. This was now. And now I felt uneasy. As rotten and nervous as on that first day when he’d evicted me like a cat hacks out a hairball.

So I looked around. I saw cool people enter the lounge with cool cigarettes, cool sunglasses, cool hungover faces and cool friendly colleagues. I felt wretchedly uncool compared to them. It wasn't just my clothes. It was my profession. I wanted to be cool too. I too wanted to be easy-going, happy and cool. But I wasn't. I was sickeningly dull and geeky. With a retired bulldog interpreter for company. Oh Jesus, I thought. And predictably, all the tidal waves of self-pity I had kept deep down inside myself surged up and swirled around in my nauseated frame.

Then luckily they announced departure. And as we got up and stood in line, I felt like those bad actors who don’t know what to do with their hands. I didn’t know what to do with my whole body. So I got my passport out. I put it back in. I opened my purse. I closed it up again. I looked at Harcourt. I looked away. It was horrible.

While Harcourt, bless his heart, said not a single word.

Then we inched, painfully, slowly, step by traumatic step, towards the plane, where we were finally face to face with a legion of over-cosmeticized over-happy stewardesses who smiled like their cheeks were held apart with pincer claws. And yet, immediately I noticed how Harcourt’s manner changed. I saw how he smiled, bowed, muttered and crooned, as only a dog might do in the presence of a bitch. Or Lucipher in the presence of Eve. And I smiled as I saw him stretch forward and the stewardess flutter her lashes and actually shrink her smile down so it looked real.

Aha, I thought. Harcourt’s a Don Juan. Harcourt chases tail.

But I moved on, pretending to ignore it. And we made the long painful trudge to our seats where I hemmed and hawed idiotically about putting my bag up in the luggage hold and which seat I should take (the flight didn’t have assigned seats). Then, just to stop myself from talking, I took the window seat. But it was horrible. I felt intensely claustrophobic, hemmed in as I was between the great wall of Interpreter on my left and the over-heated wall of airplane on my right. But I sat there quietly. And we continued to do what we had done at the airport. Harcourt sat reading. I stared out of the window feeling pukey.

Only halfway through the flight did something change. It was subtle but important. The same mildly hysterical extra-skinny stewardess who had beamed at Harcourt came round with coffee, tea and Breton biscuits. The airline’s measly version of breakfast. But since my nausea still had me in a choke-hold, I refused. And Harcourt took full advantage.

And once again as I stared, I saw how he channeled his inner playboy and chatted up the hanger-thin stewardess like he were Porfirio and she were good old Zsa Zsa. He chatted and murmured, she cooed and billed. He smiled and gushed, she squawked and tittered. I almost threw up but still, I watched, sickened but strangely moved.

Harcourt was only asking if he could have my share of coffee and biscuits. But he was doing it with such poetic flourish, such seductive aplomb, such extreme antiquated boyish flirtatiousness, that I simply had to smile. And when the stewardess was done giggling and shimmying and was finally gone, I spontaneously burst into a laugh. Harcourt turned. He smiled. And asked politely if I didn’t mind him wolfing down my share of food. I shook my head.

No, I said chuckling. But I am glad it gave you the opportunity to make some new friends!

And to my surprise Harcourt chuckled. And shook his enormous head as he spoke.

Ah yes my dear, he said bowing his head. Life is too short you know!

And he held up a biscuit.

But it is kind of you to oblige!

And that was that. The iceberg between us melted. After all, I thought. The man’s a glutton. And a philanderer. We just might get along after all.

So as we circled over Nice, I felt relaxed and talked it up a little. I asked Harcourt questions. Whether he’d been to Cannes, whether he’d worked at the Festival, whether he liked being retired. I took the initiative and flattered him defenseless. It must be strange being back among us mortals, I said. It must feel unnatural to be ordinary again. Harcourt smiled. Then he chuckled. He talked. He opened up. And ever so slightly he became someone I could imagine working with. I felt ebullient. I felt relaxed. I felt good.

But all that changed when we landed. At the airport in Nice, I began to feel it. What I always felt in this city. What I always felt when we landed. Up in the air, I had been fine. Now I felt terrible. My nerves seemed to be simmering. My chest was throbbing. The agitation, the frenzy, the flurry of Cannes was taking over. As soon as we landed, I felt it. The agony and ecstasy of Cannes.