“You never really told me what was going on.” Maddy rummaged in her bag for Pasco’s dummy. “What sparked off that huge row?”
“It was coming here actually.” Izzie shook her head in exasperation. “He hasn’t been as bad as this for ages. The last time was when he was made redundant. That was hell but—well, I suppose I felt he had a right to be furious with the world. He says I neglect him, I always put him last. That’s not true, is it?”
Maddy snorted in disgust. “Honestly, Izzie, he’s acting like a spoiled brat. He’s a big boy—leave him to stew—he doesn’t appreciate you anyway.”
“So you don’t think it’s me? I was beginning to wonder. Well, now he’s giving me the polite stranger treatment.”
“God, that one! That sulking act drives me crazy. Maybe it’s good that you’re getting away for a while. It’ll give you both time to think. You know, it’s funny—in some ways he reminds me of Jean Luc’s wife.”
Izzie had wondered about her but hadn’t dared ask. “Yeah? What went on there?”
“Oh she was a piece of work all right. A really spoiled brat. Gorgeous looking—exquisite really—but cold as ice. We all hated her from the moment we met her, but he was besotted. Pascale, her name was. He did everything for her, spent a fortune on her, and she always wanted more.”
“That doesn’t sound much like me and Marcus.”
“No, that was more extreme. But it was another relationship out of balance, with one partner doing all the giving. It’s not healthy.”
“No, I don’t suppose it is . . .”
They broke off as the plane began to taxi, Jess and Charlie squealing with excitement as it picked up speed and lifted into the air. Will, blasé to the point of ennui, never took his eyes off his Game Boy.
“Tell me more,” urged Izzie, once they’d settled the children with drinks.
“Well, La Pascale never took to the country life—she was a Paris girl all the way. Started spending more and more time there until—well, you can guess. He called up one night and a bloke answered the phone. He’s never told me what happened and he never talks about it—or her—now. And there are no pictures of her anywhere in the house. It’s as though she’d never existed.”
“Gosh, that’s quite romantic in a way. He’s clearly got hidden depths. If I did that to Marcus now, I reckon he’d just spend his time in the pub slagging me off.”
“Well, Jean Luc’s very Gallic and passionate, in his way. When he falls for someone, he falls big time, I reckon. Even though he’s such a big flirt, I think he’s still very idealistic about luuurve.” She winked extravagantly at Izzie. “Maybe he’s just waiting for the right woman!”
Izzie’s outraged retort was cut off by Florence’s wail as Will opened her little sachet of black pepper all over her cake, and the conversation had to stop for a while, but Izzie was pensive for the rest of the journey.
“Aren’t small airports great?” enthused Maddy, as they quickly cleared customs at Montpellier and plunged through the arrivals gates. “Ah, le voilà!”
Jean Luc’s face lit up as he saw them all, and he pretended to reel and stagger under the impact of the children’s little bodies as they flung themselves at him. He greeted each one individually, teasing them and making them laugh. “And where is my little Pasco? No—you’ve swapped him for a big boy! Izzie!” He whisked her off her feet and spun her round, before planting kisses on each cheek, and one just grazing the side of her mouth. “I’ve been looking forward so much to your arrival,” he said softly against her cheek, then turned to Pasco. “Come on, little man, I’ll carry you. Your mother has enough to manage. At least you, Izzie, had the good sense to travel light. I hope we will all fit in the car—Pasco on the roof, maybe?”
Izzie had never been so pleased to see anybody. Straight away she felt better, and the contrast with the Marcus she’d left was overwhelming. In spite of herself, Izzie revelled in spiteful comparisons. “Sod you, Marcus!” she muttered to herself as she followed the group. “There are people who treat me well, even if you’ve forgotten how.”
Izzie threw herself into flirting back at Jean Luc as though her life depended on it. At first she wondered if it was wish fulfilment but, as the day wore on, she realized he too was taking every opportunity to touch her arm, make private jokes with her, or talk very quietly so she had to stand closer to hear. At times she caught him watching her with narrowed, speculative eyes. Even Maddy commented on it. “Blimey, you two are giving it plenty. Is this your bit toward the entente cordiale?”
Whatever the reason, Jean Luc’s mas wove a magic spell on them all. For the children it was an irresistible playground, and they ran wild with little Pasco trying to toddle after them. There were plenty of bedrooms—Izzie counted at least eight as she wandered around, although several were being used to store paintings, books, sculptures, and old furniture—but the children had all voted to sleep in the large attic room that stretched almost the length of one side of the building. Although Jean Luc had clearly not finished renovating the house, he’d prioritized the bathrooms. Huge rooms with enormous claw-footed baths, powerful showers, even armchairs with views over the field were irresistible to Izzie. She loved to soak in the bath until her fingers and toes wrinkled up, yet she so rarely got the opportunity at home. Here she would be able to indulge herself to her heart’s content, without interruption, and she hugged herself in anticipation.
The buildings away from the main courtyard were all quite low. Stone built and with red-tiled roofs, the farm nestled into the landscape as though it had grown there, the lines of poplars stretching out like rays of light from a star. It crouched on the side of a gentle hill, like a contented, sleepy animal. Behind them the hill sloped gradually up to a distant horizon, sharp against the cornflower blue sky. Below them, a valley opened out like a beautifully drawn map in a children’s book, revealing distant villages; pale gold, very straight roads; and oddly shaped fields. The whole view was softened by a shimmer of dust and heat, through which twinkled a far off, sinuous river—the Gard, Jean Luc had told her, a natural boundary to the farm—the course of which was plotted off into the distance in both directions by a fringe of dark green trees, occasionally pierced by a bridge or the odd house.
Within an hour of arriving, the children had all had a go on Coquelicot, a sweet, patient Appaloosa pony—even little Pasco, held safely in place by Jean Luc’s big hands round his tummy. They had collected eggs from the biscuit-brown hens that scratched and huffed around the large pen in a far corner of the courtyard. They had chased each other up and down the external stone staircases, although Pasco was not allowed to join in that game, and they had tired themselves out thoroughly. By suppertime—roast chicken cooked on a spit in the functional but simple kitchen, with little potatoes roasted underneath in the fat—the children were already nodding off.
The three adults carried or guided the sleepy children upstairs and encouraged those who were still conscious to clean their teeth. They all fell asleep within minutes of being tucked into the cool, slightly stiff white sheets, despite the novelty of all being together in a strange place. Maddy went to tuck Pasco into a travel cot in her room, while Jean Luc and Izzie puzzled over the baby listener borrowed from a friend for the attic dormitory, then plugged it in before they crept downstairs together. Izzie smiled secretly to herself, hearing the soft creak on the stairs behind her as he followed her quietly down.
They sat in the firelight, finishing their wine and, for the first time in what felt like weeks, Izzie started to relax. They chatted, laughed, fell silent. Everything felt easy and natural. Even Maddy was calm and sleepy looking, and was the first to give in. Stretching and yawning very loudly, she mumbled, “I always feel this way when we come here—I reckon I could sleep forever. How do you ever get anything done?”
For a moment Izzie felt envy flicker in her at Maddy’s casual familiarity with this magical place and with Jean Luc. His low laugh rumbled. “I get things done because I like to
get things done. You know I’ve always been that way, Maddy. And you used to tease me about it when we were kids. But you were so lazy then, only living for pleasure. You’ve changed. Now you are like me. I know—in the morning you will be up at six, rushing around, hurrying everybody and making me crazy. No peace for anyone once you set your mind on something!”
They all laughed, and Maddy went up to bed, kissing Jean Luc on the top of his head as she walked past. Izzie made for the stairs a couple of minutes later, resolved she’d be up at six too. But Jean Luc didn’t move, and held her eye as she bade him good night.
“You’re leaving me all alone? I hoped you would stay with me a little.”
Her mouth went dry. “I’m . . . a bit tired tonight. Perhaps I’ll be a bit more rested tomorrow. Good night.”
He nodded and smiled, looking up at her from his chair by the fire. “I hope so, Izzie. Fais de beaux rêves.”
The next day they did, indeed, wake early. It took a couple of days to get everything sorted out in the barns Jean Luc had set aside for the boiling and filtering process, but the four women he had hired for the project were capable and hardworking, and soon caught on to the shortcuts and tips Izzie and Maddy had to pass on to them. They took it in turns to keep an eye on the children and Izzie had to operate mostly with sign language, but her few attempted words of French earned her a particularly warm smile from Jean Luc. Once they had fully briefed the women and checked and rechecked the process, they were free to have fun.
Colette, who had joined them after spending a few days with her parents, was an extra pair of hands, so they passed the time taking the children out for walks, shopping in the market, and having impromptu picnics. The relaxing fresh air was having an effect, and there were no more early morning starts for anyone but Jean Luc. Izzie watched with pleasure as the shadows under Maddy’s eyes gradually disappeared. But her feelings were not entirely altruistic. Once Maddy had crawled up to bed each night around eleven, she and Jean Luc fell into a pattern of sitting in front of the fire watching the embers tumble, drinking Armagnac, and talking about everything under the sun, his voice low and mesmerizing.
It should all have been relaxing for Izzie too, but the combination of the warm early summer sun and Jean Luc’s presence made her tingle with anticipation. Something had to happen, but she knew he was leaving it up to her. She let the children make the odd duty call to Marcus, but kept her own conversations with him as brief as possible. She resented the interruption. This wasn’t the Izzie that had left, angry, resentful, and confused, only a few days ago. She felt desirable and desired. In control.
On their last full day it wasn’t until half past eight that Izzie sat back in the wooden kitchen chair, and pushed back her plate after a breakfast of fresh croissants. She looked across at Maddy, still in her pajamas, hair uncombed, and stretched like a cat. “I could take any amount of this. I’m just doing what I feel like, for the first time in years. I’m not thinking about anything or anyone else and I don’t give a stuff about any consequences.” Her eyes glittered recklessly, and she leaned forward conspiratorially. “It feels bloody fantastic.”
With plans for a huge farewell picnic under way, the children were all in a party mood, and the preparation became steadily more elaborate. There was a barn that Jean no longer used about ten kilometers away, on a tributary of the Gard that widened into a tranquil pool—ideal for bathing. From the first visit, the children had claimed it as their own, and insisted on going there every day.
“Okay, that’s everything packed. It seems like a mountain of food, but if we’re spending the whole day there, we’ll certainly get through it.” Maddy squeezed another few ficelles into a space between the seats of an old Land Rover. “Are you sure you can’t come until later, Jean Luc? We’ve got tarte aux cerises—you’ve never been able to resist that.”
“Temptress—try to keep a little for me to have later. I have to go into town, but it won’t take all day. I’ll be there as soon as I can manage.”
“I don’t promise anything. You’d better not be too long—that’s all!” She glanced at Izzie. “Are you all right, love? You look awful.”
Izzie felt it. “I don’t know. It’s come on suddenly. I’ve got a ghastly headache, and I feel really queasy. Maybe I’ve just had too much coffee.”
Jean Luc turned to stare at Izzie for a moment. “It’s true,” he said. “Your lips are pale. You should lie down.” He brought her a couple of paracetamol and a glass of water, which she swallowed gratefully. She sat hunched over on the step, feeling nauseated and shielding her eyes from the early morning sun, while the others continued their preparations. Jean Luc looked at her narrowly.
“Maddy, can you and Colette manage the children on your own for a bit? If Izzie rests now, I can bring her with me later.”
Maddy paused for a moment, and she caught Izzie’s eye. A long look of complicity passed between them. “Yes, of course, we can manage. Izzie, take as long as you like. You need this. It will do you good. Just do exactly what you feel like, you hear me?”
Izzie smiled hesitantly. “Yes, I understand. I think I’d better have a rest. I feel so odd!”
The children left her with barely a backward glance, and she watched as Maddy drove out through the arched gateway that led from the courtyard. Silence fell heavily between Izzie and Jean Luc, and they went back inside together. She sat down slowly on the window seat and Jean Luc leaned back against the huge porcelain sink and folded his arms, looking at her. She felt as though she had never been so thoroughly studied in her life. His face was impassive, but his eyes were roaming over her body, taking in every detail. She smiled a little. Normally, this intense scrutiny would unnerve her, have her twitching and fussing, chattering to try to dispel the tension. But she felt relaxed, powerful even, and reveled in the electricity that arced between them, filling the whole of the cool, stone-flagged kitchen. Her headache had receded—had already started to do so before the others left—but she had made a calculated decision. Dare she take the opportunity?
Still he watched her, looking almost amused at her cool returning stare. She was determined not to make the next move. After what seemed like hours, he stood up. “I think I’m going to take you to bed.”
“Good idea. I’m sure I’ll feel better.”
“You must treat these sudden headaches with respect. I’m glad I’m here to look after you.”
“So am I. I need to be taken care of. And you’re the very person.”
“Can you walk by yourself?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Would you like me to help you?”
“Mmmm.”
He crossed the room almost before she had replied, and held out his hands to her. She could see he was breathing rapidly—so was she. She slowly raised one hand to take his, deferring as long as she could the moment when they touched. Then he simply took her in his arms, lifted her off her feet, and carried her upstairs. After a moment’s resistance, she let her head rest against his chest and closed her eyes. She felt his breath on her face as he took the stairs calmly, not hurrying, and his lips brushed her brow then settled on her head. She could feel him inhaling the scent of her hair and she shivered.
“Right,” said Pru, sweeping into the restaurant ten minutes late, looking glamorous in browns and beiges and wafting perfume after her. She ordered a glass of wine—“Well, you’re the only one who has to look pure and sweet”—and settled herself in her chair. “Let’s talk work first, then we can get back to being like it was in the old days. Much as I love Izzie, it’s fun to have you to myself again.”
From her Mary Poppins-type bag, she produced a bulging file and handed it over. “I’ve had Emma, my latest recruit, put together your press cuttings to date. I have to say it’s staggering.” Maddy flicked through the pages. Some cuttings she’d seen and others were new: small pieces in the Sunday Times, Independent, and Telegraph; larger features in the women’s press; the big spreads from the Daily Mail and Countr
y Lifestyle; Izzie and Maddy looking goofy in OK!, mentions in the trade press.
“Pru, was all this from the initial press release?”
Pru blew out smoke from her cigarette, and Maddy leaned forward to breathe it in. “Some of it, but you’d be amazed. We are actually getting unsolicited calls and I’ve had to put one of my girls onto it virtually full-time. The word just seems to be spreading.”
“Like a rash.” Maddy skim read the glowing praise, the confirmation that the product really was effective, but what struck her most was the theme all the copy kept coming back to: “What this product proves,” one beauty writer had eloquently put it, “is that we have invested too much in all that man and his endless capacity for invention has created. Too often we are blinded by the promises, often unfulfilled, of what can be achieved from a test tube. We need to readjust our perspective and look back to the earth from which we all emerged.”
“Bloody hell, this is heavy stuff.” Maddy’s eyes were wide as she looked at Pru’s rather self-satisfied expression. “All we did was boil down a weed and put it in a jar.”
“Maybe, but you boiled down something else when you did it. You managed to pop the balloon—if I’m not mixing too many metaphors—that is man’s relentless search for perfection.”
“Christ, Pru, you’re talking to me, Maddy, not writing your next press release.”
“Darling”—Pru picked up the menu—“most of the gumph in those features didn’t come from me. I think I’ll have a Thai prawn Caesar salad.” She dismissed the waiter and put the menu down again. “No, as I said to you right off, you have managed, whether you both meant to or not, to hit a nerve at a time when a nerve was ripe to be hit. We are on the verge of being able to reinvent ourselves by cloning, all in an attempt to achieve the only thing we haven’t yet—immortality. Thank you.”—She took a slug of wine the waiter poured for her—“Suddenly we are scared by the speed of things, and along comes a product not just made using the basest ingredients the earth can provide, but invented by a woman who was a real earth mother—”
Goodbye, Jimmy Choo Page 24
