No.11 Carcassonne

She had to make the most of her situation; if she looked at it too closely, she might sink into despair; once she had taken a photograph as she lay back on her bed and looking at it afterwards, was shocked by the starkness and the reality of the image. The old damp dark brown stains of years of leakage through the roof and the holes where the plasterwork had given up added to her anxiety. Sometimes when she went to bed, she would brush away the tiny bits of plaster that had fallen on her sheets.
'What a bloody existence' she would think and then silently berate herself running mental pictures through her head of people far less fortunate. Serena knew there were many and she would resolutely inform her mother that she was fine.
'I have a roof over my head, so I'm dry'
'I have sufficient food in front of me'
'I have the support of my family and those I love.'
No one needed any more did they? She would argue with herself that she had no right to expect or demand more although sometimes a little voice in her head whined that a little more would not go amiss. Serena desperately tried not to think of the people she knew that had so much more, the people who openly shot her looks of pity as they went up to her attic on the pretext of 'looking around.' Why they did so Serena would never understand but the humiliation burnt silently and furiously within her.
One woman had remarked what good taste she had, whilst admiring a few old artefacts which lay casually around the apartement, but Serena knew that what she really meant was 'How can you live like this?' as she gave her a long thoughtful look of concern. This made Serena want to shout and scream and make an ungodly spectacle of herself. Perhaps, on reflection she should have done...things were certainly stressful enough to justify an outburst.
The roof of her apartement was being totally replaced making it necessary to have scaffolding coating the whole of the building. Rather awkwardly some of the shutters were unable to be opened leading to complaints from her guests who were paying rather a lot of money to stay there. It was happening at the very worst time too; at the height of the summer season and she certainly couldn't afford to close. The constant thumping and banging proved far louder and more disruptive than she had been led to believe it would. She constantly worried that her guests would walk out, asking for a refund.
Serena did receive one stinging review from an individual that she'd gone the extra mile for. The ones with serious money were the worst, expecting everything to be just perfect for them. She could picture the pinched anxious face of the wife hovering round her sour faced husband. Their bedroom was an elegant, calm and spacious room with original flooring and a working open fireplace. A tall sturdy wooden armoire towered over the ornate wrought iron bed. It wasn't possible to install air conditioning because the house was a listed building. This vital fact bypassed many. Complaints of lack of double glazing and a lift were common especially amongst the Americans. Frankly Serena was heartily sick of pandering to these people with no imagination or sense of history.
The building work became more brutal. She never imagined that the entire apartement would shudder as they forcibly wrenched off the old wooden panelling from the thick and ancient beams, the nails screaming as they were removed from their home of centuries. Serena had to admit that the roofers were a jolly bunch though. They would wave cheerfully as they went past the windows despite the desperately hot temperatures outside. Serena found herself striving to expand her tolerance levels. She would take deep breaths and try to lower herself subconsciously into a calm place, reminding herself that one day it would all simply cease to matter.
But sometimes it could be overwhelming. She had once gone up into the attic to be confronted by the expanse of blue sky above viewed through a huge ugly black gaping hole. Two of the men stood grinning at her in an unconcerned manner as they stood in her 'bedroom.' The dust swirled around them and quickly found its way up her nostrils.
'For God's sake' she said between sneezes.
'For God's sake' they repeated and laughed, pleased with themselves for repeating her English expressions of exasperation. Serena couldn't be cross with them. It wasn't their fault the roof was in such an appalling state. She would take them buckets of ice to cool them down and they would shuffle their feet in an embarrassed fashion. They weren't used to small kindnesses, certainly not from the miserable notaire  in the office downstairs who spoke to no one. Serena referred to her as the 'sour faced puss'.
Serena was a thorn in the woman's side, as she had unwittingly thwarted her plans. If Serena had followed her instincts and made discreet enquiries beforehand, she would have been advised that to avoid inevitable conflict she should steer clear of purchasing the apartement. Randolph, whom she was married to at the time, had put paid to that by insisting that they go ahead. The notaire was using her legal knowledge and position to make constant difficulties. It wasn't clear cut corruption, the woman was far too clever and cunning for that, but rather an insidious drip-feed of difficulties and red-tape. The agents who administered the building just simpered and grovelled to the bitch. There were always heaps of endless paperwork piled high on her table, relating to yet another petty complaint from her neighbour. Serena had belatedly discovered that no one in the town had a good word to say about her, but the notaire was feared, and no one had spoken out. Unmarried and apparently unsought, she was coldly meticulous in her quest to being Serena to her knees.
The most uplifting part of Serena's day was her early morning cycle tide to the boulangerie. People would wave from the cafes and restaurants as they set up for the day. When Serena rode up to the sombre dark green front door of the house the workmen would chorus 'Bonjour Madame' and smile as she applied her screeching brakes. Every day she wondered why she hadnt bothered to squirt oil onto the bike, and why hadnt she accepted the baker's offer to cut the spindly bagette in half? Every morning the bread would swing precariously out of the flimsy bag hanging off her shoulder.
That morning the cakes she had bought for her guests were particularly soft and rounded like comfortable bosoms with a sprinkling of coconut and a cherry on top. Surely the baker must see the resemblance? Perhaps it was to cheer up the thin anxious women with greying hair and worried faces clutching onto their worn wicker baskets. Every day the routine was the same as they scuttled round the shops early to beat the tourists and the heat.
Serena liked to imagine them arriving home. 'Mon cheri' they might utter, and an elderly husband's eyes would light up as his gaze took in the sight of the proffered treat. Would he make a saucy remark or suggestion? she wondered and hoped that when she finally attained a similar age, she would be living with a man who could.
'Vous etes sportive' the roofers shouted encouragingly as her bike slid to a halt that morning. Not sportive enough thought Serena gloomily, to give her the glorious toned thighs that she desired. But later that morning, vanity was pushed aside as the pain in her leg started to increase to a worrying level. For the umpteenth time she Googled 'signs of a stroke', eventually picking up the phone and forcing herself to request, as firmly as possible, an appointment with her doctor that evening. Once the time had been set Serena felt marginally better and flicked through her diary again checking the arrival time of the guests she expected that day.
But then she felt an overwhelming desire to lie down and give her legs a rest. The air suddenly seemed too stifling and she felt light headed as the room began to swim alarmingly. She managed to elevate her leg on a lumpy feather cushion, so that it felt less painful and sent a text message to her son Sebastian who lived close by.
'I feel rather odd' it said, nothing too sensational, just to the point. She didn't have anyone else to tell and thought she ought to inform someone.
'What do you mean'? he replied instantly, but Serena couldn't explain because an odd popping had started in her head. When she tried to describe it afterwards it was like the sound of Rice Krispies as the crackled in a bowl of milk. She tried to remain calm and take stock of where she was, but alarm bells had started to sound in her head. She texted Sebastian again.
'Call an ambulance. Now Mum' he replied. Serena dialled the required number and then felt oddly fraudulent, as though she had no right to be unwell. She couldn't remember her address clearly nor imagine how they would gain entry. The notaire had refused a simple entry button which meant Serena had to run down and open the huge outer door to all visitors.
Fortunately for her, this morning one of the notaire's clients had unwittingly left it open.

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