Bordeaux Housewives

by Daisy Waugh

  Maude and Horatio listen to this. Without doubt, he is out of line, acting far beyond any official remit he may have – and yet he is standing here. Refusing to move. Demanding answers. And he is right, of course. They have a great deal to hide. For the moment neither can think of any kind of explanation or any kind of response that might satisfy him, that might finally make him go away.

  A silence. A long silence.

  ‘They had to build the room, Monsieur Bertinard,’ comes a soft voice from behind them. It is Tiffany, still standing there, taking it all in. She gazes at the Mayor, unblinking, very calm. ‘They had to build it because of the film crew which is coming.’

  ‘The – what?’ frowns Bertinard.

  ‘So when the telly people come here and film about our lives, which is what they’re going to do very soon…You can probably be in the show too, if you ask. When they’re filming us, you see, we’ll need to have that secret room where we can hide and where they won’t know where to find us. Otherwise Mum and Dad say they’ll go crazy, you see. But it’s a secret. That’s the thing. Now you know, Monsieur Bertinard, you mustn’t tell anyone.’

  Maude and Horatio can only stare, lost in admiration, lost in gratitude. Lost for any words at all.

  ‘It’s true, isn’t it, Superman?’ Tiffie says, noticing her parents’ stunned expressions, and not yet trusting them to speak.

  Superman looks at her and nods.

  ‘…This is the truth?’ asks M. Bertinard, full of scepticism. He turns to Horatio.

  ‘It’s –’ Horatio hesitates. ‘It’s – well. More or less. Yes.’ He looks at his fingernails, too horrified at his children having to witness this, too ashamed at the situation he and Maude have put them in, to be able to look anywhere else. ‘Isn’t it, Maude? A sort of reality TV show…The small man downstairs…in the bicycle shorts – he’s very keen. He’s a television producer.’

  ‘He puts the people actually in the televisions. OK?’ explains Superman, demonstrating with both hands. ‘So that’s going to be us.’

  Bertinard turns to Maude. ‘An entire television programme? About you?’

  She nods. Shrugs.

  ‘Mais, c’est bizarre!’ he exclaims, torn between scepticism and violent jealousy. He can’t help but be a little impressed. ‘Mais – pourquoi? Why is anyone requiring to make a programme about you?’

  Maude smiles. ‘I quite agree with you. But if we all went downstairs together and asked the small man in bicycle shorts – instead of standing here like sardines – we could probably find out. I think it’s part of a series about English people living abroad. Or something…Anyway. What was it you came here to discuss with us, Monsieur Bertinard? I never found out.’

  But M. Bertinard has no interest in even feigning an interest in detritus recyclable any longer. He spins sharply away and strides as fast as his small feet will carry him back towards the kitchen.

  ‘Only remember,’ orders Superman, as Monsieur Bertinard sweeps past him, ‘you’re banned from saying anything about the COOP. OK?’

  Bertinard doesn’t bother to reply.

  PERMISSION TO SHOOT

  ‘Mum,’ whispers Tiffany, tugging on her mother’s sleeve, pulling her aside as they all trek down the stairs behind Bertinard, ‘we’re not really having a telly show made about us. Are we? I mean I just said it because –’

  ‘Shhh! No, no. Of course not, darling,’ whispers Maude. ‘Don’t you worry.’ She grins at her daughter. ‘And incidentally, you’re a little genius, my darling. Thank you. Thank you. God knows how you came up with it…’

  Tiffany looks at her mother as if she were stupid. ‘Because it’s all Rosie and Simon ever go on about. Even when Superman and me –’

  ‘– Superman and I –’

  ‘– even when we’re still in the room. I think they think children are mostly deaf. Or just very, very stupid. Like theirs are.’

  ‘Well. Anyway, Tiff. You saved our bacon, you and Superman. Thank you…’

  ‘So can Superman and me take our bikes into the village?’

  ‘Superman and I. Yes. Of course you can…But when you get back I think you and I need to have a conversation, Tiffie. Later on. There are quite a few things –’

  ‘I know. I know all about everything.’

  ‘You do?’

  She nods. ‘Dad told me.’

  ‘Did he?’ Maude frowns. ‘When did he do that? And when you say everything –’

  ‘I know all about the people whose families disappear, and then they find piles of bodies which are really made up of people’s whole families. Because there’s a country – there are lots of countries – where the governments always want to torture people. And you and Dad secretly help them, and Mum, I don’t care what anyone else thinks, I think it’s…amazing. I think you’re amazing.’

  For the second time in a few minutes, Tiffany’s words leave her mother dumbstruck.’…You think so?’ she mutters eventually, smiling, feeling the prick of tears at the back of her eyeballs. ‘You think it’s OK, even if…But one day, Tiff, it’s possible – there might come a day when the four of us just have to pack our bags and disappear…Did Dad tell you that? Did he explain?’

  She shakes her head. ‘He didn’t say that…But it doesn’t matter, does it?’

  ‘Well!…Well, Tiff. No it doesn’t. Not really. As long as we stick together.’ She bends and kisses Tiffie’s sweet, round cheek. ‘And I think you’re amazing, too, by the way…So thank you.’

  ‘HEY TIFFIE!’ Superman yells from downstairs. ‘HURRY UP! Dad says we can take our bikes to the village!’

  ‘Go on,’ smiles Maude. ‘Only don’t be too long. Come back for lunch. And can you get some milk at the Co-op while you’re there?’

  Maude floats on her cloud of maternal love and pride to join Horatio, Olivier Bertinard and the Mottrams, confident that the matter of the TV documentary will already have been dealt with and disposed of. It hasn’t occurred to her that there was ever any real danger of Simon and his film crew invading her quiet life.

  But she has underestimated the will of the Mottrams. In the few short minutes she has been absent matters have accelerated out of Haunt control. Simon Mottram has already whipped out his telephone and is busy mobilising his troops to move in.

  Rosie is shrill with the surprise triumph. ‘Maude!’ she says, grasping her hostess by the shoulders and lunging for a tight embrace. ‘I had no idea! I thought you were so against it! To be honest, Simon and I were only saying, weren’t we, Simon – Oh. He’s on the phone. We were only saying last night – Simon was on the loo – that it was so unlike the Haunts we remembered from Brixton to be so narrowminded. I mean, to be so closed to new experiences…And now here you are, and you’ve changed your mind!’

  ‘Have we?’ says Maude. She glances across at Horatio in amazement. ‘I’m not sure I have –’

  ‘Of course we bloody haven’t,’ snaps Horatio. ‘We just said we were thinking about it. Jesus Christ, Maude. She won’t listen to me. You try and get through to her.’

  Rosie chortles, gives Horatio a playful pat on the shoulder. ‘Simon has a little crew just wrapping up on the Costa Brava – he’s talking to the director now. So it’s perfect. It couldn’t be more perfect. And now we’ve got Monsieur B. on side,’ she says, turning towards him. Mayor Bertinard is glowing. ‘We’re going to make sure Monsieur B. plays a pivotal role. Don’t you think, Simon? Oh, he’s still on the phone…But – I mean, the local mayor!…Seriously. I mean how much more français can you get? We love you, Mr B.!’ she shouts at him, grinning.

  ‘Rosie –’ says Maude. ‘Can you please…Look, I don’t want to disappoint you, but really, we need to slow down.’

  ‘Absolutely!’ Horatio nods. ‘So, anyway, Monsieur Bertinard, I think you wanted to talk about the rubbish? In the meantime would anyone like something to drink? Isn’t it bloody awful weather? Perhaps we should take the children to a restaurant for lunch.’

  But Rosie explains that Sim
on, who has a finger in his ear because he’s talking to his director over on the Costa Brava, has already suggested to M. Bertinard that he might like to stage a celebration for the cameras to mark his electoral victory. A village feast, perhaps, in the village square, featuring some of the Haunts’ delicious organic vegetables. ‘…We can’t do anything without Mr B.! Mr B. is going to play a major role. Aren’t you, Mr B.? We’re going to make you a star!’

  ‘Well, certainly,’ puffs Bertinard, ‘I would hesitate to disappoint, of course. I shall perhaps require a liaison of the press to aid me in any related administration…But these sorts of things can be of great benefit to a region. Encouraging tourists to our beautiful village, and so on…’

  ‘That’s right!’ calls Rosie delightedly, getting the gist. ‘So good for tourism. Plus there’ll be all the English people wanting to buy houses round about! When they see what bliss it is! They’ll be coming here by the shipload, Mr B. Pouring their cash into your little economy!’

  ‘Anyhow…’ M. Bertinard waves a plump hand, swatting away her predictions, determined, at this exhilarating point, not to focus on the negative. He clears his throat.

  ‘If Simon gets his way,’ says Rosie, leaning towards Maude, ‘which, between you and me, he usually does…we should start filming within a couple of days!’

  ‘Rosie,’ Maude says again, ‘for God’s sake. We can’t possibly start filming in a couple of days! Heck and I don’t even – I mean I don’t think we’re even…’ She turns to Bertinard. ‘Monsieur Bertinard, when we said we had agreed to doing the show, we meant we were considering it. We haven’t finally decided…Have we, Heck?’

  ‘That’s what I’ve been saying for the last ten minutes,’ he says. ‘But Simon’s been on the fucking telephone –’

  ‘Hey-ho!’ sing-songs Rosie, not so flirtatious this time. ‘Excuse me, Horatio, but there happen to be kids in this house. Could we please mind our language?’

  ‘– and Rosie,’ he continues, ‘will never let anyone get a word in edgeways…The fact is, five minutes ago, in a private conversation with the Mayor, Maude and I suggested taking part in the show was a possibility. The next thing we’ve got a fucking film crew halfway to Bordeaux. And Monsieur Bertinard’s employing a press officer! Maude and I are still a very long way from being certain that this is what we want. So perhaps,’ Horatio says, raising his voice and turning to glare at Simon, ‘if your husband could get off the telephone –’

  ‘But if it’s not what you want,’ interrupts M. Bertinard beadily, ‘then why you have built the little secret room upstairs? You tell me it’s a secret room for exactly this purpose, for the family Haunt to hide away from the cameras. Now you explain to me you have built the room but you are not certain the cameras will be arriving. It fails to make any sensible mathematic, Monsieur Haunt.’

  ‘Here, here!’ shouts Rosie. ‘What secret room, anyway?’

  Bertinard shrugs. ‘De toute façon, this project is excellent news for the village. This is a most excellent opportunity for one of our English neighbours to offer something to Montmaur. To France.’ He stares at the Haunts, and they stare back at him. A moment’s silence follows.

  …Broken, of course, by Rosie, who misses all this, whose senses, always acute when there’s an opportunity for easy, low-budget programme-making in the offing, are focused exclusively on the closing of the deal. If she’d had a contract with her she would have got them all to sign it there and then. In its absence she is determined to press on with the flattering, the cajoling and the steamrollering. Whatever it takes.

  ‘You’re so right, Mr B.,’ she says. ‘Come on, guys. You have to admit. Us English flock into the beautiful French countryside. We eat the food, soak up the sunshine…What do any of us ever actually give back? I think this show offers a fabulous opportunity for a member of the English community –’

  ‘Oh shut up,’ snaps Horatio.

  ‘– Sorry, Horatio, if what I’m saying happens to be uncomfortable for you, but I must be allowed to express an opinion. I think it’s a great opportunity for you to repay your French hosts for their hospitality.’ She glances across at Simon, still nodding enthusiastically into his telephone. It looks, she thinks, as though he’s about to wrap up. ‘And it’ll only take a few days of your time. Three or four days next week. And then another couple of days a month or two down the line…We’re only looking to fill thirty mins. Twenty-four mins, actually. Minus commercials. We’ll do a morning with the kids at school – the kids’ll love it! We’ll do a morning with you two tilling the soil, so to speak. Getting down and dirty in the mud. Where is your soil, anyway? I’ve not even seen it.’

  ‘Why should you?’ snaps Maude. ‘You’ve been flat out beside our swimming pool for the last five days. I’m surprised you even know which country you’re in.’

  ‘All right,’ says Rosie. ‘No need to be narky with me. I was only asking –’

  ‘We have an acre of land just outside St Clara,’ Horatio says smoothly. ‘It was the closest to home we could get.’

  ‘One acre?’ Rosie gasps. ‘You support the entire family on just one acre of land! How do you manage it?’

  ‘But we’ve got the gîte. The B&B. We’re a registered B&B, don’t forget,’ Horatio says, glancing at Bertinard. ‘We plan to have a fairly steady stream of paying guests later on this summer. Don’t we, Maudie?’

  ‘Oh,’ says Rosie, frowning slightly. ‘Yes, I’d forgotten. Well never mind. We can shoot around them, I suppose. They’ll probably confuse things –’ She notices Simon snapping his mobile shut. He looks very satisfied. ‘Are they on their way?’ she asks him. ‘Can they get here today or are we going to have to hang around until tomorrow?’

  ‘We’ve got Murray and Len and the Sony PD150 flying in at five p.m. tomorrow. I’ve told Laura to fix them up with a car. They should be with us about seven.’ He claps his hands, rubs them together, and looks expectantly around the room. ‘So,’ he says, mostly to Rosie, ‘I say we stick around, have a meet tomorrow, grab the screen-test, do a quick walkthrough, and then leave them to it. Head off first thing Friday…’ He turns to Maude, smiling. ‘Looks like you’ve got us for another night!’

  ‘Got you for another night?’ Maude repeats. ‘No! No, actually –’

  ‘Maude,’ interrupts Horatio, clearing his throat ‘Excuse us, everyone. Maude, I think you and I should have a quick confab.’ They look at each other, he and Maude, both of them thinking – knowing – the same thing: that for the moment they’re cornered. So long as M. Bertinard is squatting in their kitchen – so long as M. Bertinard is squatting in their village, he will be watching them, watching and waiting. Tiffany managed to divert him upstairs. She dazzled him with the mention of cameras…It worked upstairs. It will work again. Bring on the cameras, put him in front of them, and M. Bertinard will forget everything but his own reflection.

  ‘…Do we need a confab?’ asks Maude carefully. ‘To be honest I’m beginning to think it sounds quite…fun. I mean, why not? I’m up for it! Don’t you think, Heck? So long as Monsieur Bertinard here is willing to take a starring role…’

  Horatio nods. ‘It’s just what I was thinking. I just wanted to double-check…’ He turns to the Mayor. ‘Are you up for it, Monsieur Bertinard? Will you help us a little – if you have the time?’

  ‘Eh bien.’ M. Bertinard shrugs as if it were no big deal, but his face is ablaze with joy. ‘As Mayor of the village, I am of course at your service, my friend. Of course.’

  ‘Excellent!…I’m only worried,’ Maude continues, turning to Rosie, ‘because we can’t really put you up at the house tonight. We’re expecting paying guests. Sadly. And really –’ she glances around her, at the half-used nappies and other Mottram muck scattered through the room ‘– we’ve got a bit of clearing up to do before they arrive. So if you wouldn’t mind…I can direct you to the little bar-hotel in Montmaur…although actually I’m not sure if it’s open. There’s a new owner…’ Maude scowls to herself, s
uddenly, amid everything, remembering, ‘…and I must go and call on her. We must, Heck. Poor little thing. God knows how she’s coping…’

  ‘Oh.’ Rosie frowns. She and Simon hate spending money when there’s somebody nearby who might do it for them. ‘I must say that’s a bit of a nuisance. Especially if it’s not even open,’ she says. ‘Surely your guests won’t mind if we’re here as well? What time are they arriving?’

  ‘I’ll telephone,’ Horatio says, moving swiftly towards the phone. ‘It’s a lovely little place. Very pretty. I’m sure it’s open –’

  ‘Non, non, non!’ bursts out Olivier Bertinard suddenly. ‘Certainly not! You must stay with me tonight! It will be my great honour. Allez! It’s decided! I forbid you to start any arguing!’

  Rosie never had any intention of it.

  ENTENTE CORDIALE

  Timothy had warned Daffy during that final post-breakfast drive, before he left her at the Marronnier and headed home to London, that there was a lot of resentment among French people toward the English. It was the single piece of advice he gave to her: watch out, Daphne, they all hate you. Because we won the Battle of Britain, or something, he said (she’d watched his raspberry lips moving). The Battle of something-something and something else. Lots of battles. We’d also won the Olympic bid, the war in Iraq, and there was something about a C.A.P or a S.C.A.R.F.E or a pair of S.U.N.G.L.A.S.S.E.S (her joke). Or something. She really hadn’t been very interested. And Timothy had explained it all in his usual superior style; in a monotone, with long, technical words streaming forth and no pauses between them. Daffy had glazed over.