Love in a Warm Climate

by Helena Frith-Powell

  Audrey’s blonde ringlets bounce around her face like perfectly formed springs. “You English are so puritanical. What a crazy idea.” She leans closer towards me, having spotted her swaying audience. “I have had seven lovers in the ten years I have been married. I’m sure my husband has lovers too.” She takes a sip of her coffee before going on. “Here in France everyone does their own thing in their own corner.”

  At this stage I am feeling a little like Hugh Grant in Four Weddings and a Funeral. What a total lightweight I have been. I can’t even pretend to have had an affair. I haven’t even thought about it. In fact the closest I got was once very vaguely fancying the PE teacher at the children’s school for about five seconds because he looked a bit like David Beckham, until he spoke and I realised he sounded like David Beckham too. I’m even vaguely trying to discourage one of my friends from having an affair. How dull am I?

  “Are you having an affair now?” I ask her.

  “Bien sûr,” she replies, shrugging as casually as if I had asked if she was wearing matching underwear.

  We are in the bar before school pick-up. Audrey suggested we go for a drink after our sons properly introduced us a few days ago. Her son is Charles, one of Edward’s friends, the one who mistakenly thinks he is Spiderman. Although Calypso warned me Audrey is a serial seducer of other women’s husbands, I am not worried – if she seduces my husband, it’s going to annoy Cécile more than it will me. And anyway, it’s hardly as if he’s around much.

  “Won’t your husband mind?” I ask. “Who are you having an affair with?”

  She laughs again. “I’m not planning on telling him, or you in fact,” she replies in her flawless English, learnt from her British stepfather and a career in a British law firm in Paris. “And I’m sure he’s up to his own thing. As Mark Twain said; ‘A Frenchman’s home is where another man’s wife is.’”

  “Listen, Sophie,” she continues, patting my hand when she clocks my horrified expression, “you cut a French woman in half and what do you see?”

  “Lots of cheese? A croissant? Probably not, as they never eat anything. A small list of do’s and don’ts like ‘You will wear matching underwear’ and ‘You will not drink more than one glass of wine with dinner’? I don’t know, what do you see?”

  “You see three words, embedded in our genes. And those three words are liberté, égalité, fraternité. And of those three, liberté, or freedom, is the most important. For any French woman, being married and then having affairs is asserting our right to be free.”

  “But why bother getting married if all you’re going to do is sleep with other people?”

  Audrey smiles at me indulgently. I notice that her teeth are incredibly white. Must be all that snogging.

  “My dear English Sophie, marriage still has a very important place in society, it is the right structure to bring up your children in, and it is important to have a companion for life. But it gets boring. Dumas once said, ‘The chain of wedlock is so heavy, it takes two to carry it, sometimes three.’”

  I am trying very hard to digest and accept her arguments, but my puritanical English self is finding it difficult. Maybe we have got it all wrong, though; maybe infidelity is a way to keep your marriage alive, as Lucy says? After all, if everyone is off doing stuff “in their own corner”, they are unlikely to get bored in their little corner at home.

  “But what happens if you fall in love with the person you’re in the corner with?” I ask, stirring my coffee slowly. There has to be a downside to this strategy.

  “Oh, I fall in love with all of them, in a little way. But it passes, like a petite infatuation, and I am happy to go home. You have to remember that the family is very important and not to let the affairs ruin that. You just have to be grown-up about it. It’s a little bit like pain au chocolat: something to enjoy now and again but not eat every day or you get sick. Not to mention fat.”

  “So you don’t feel guilty?”

  Audrey smiles: “Do you feel guilty if you enjoy some cheese now and again or a nice walk?”

  “Well, it depends how much cheese, but in general, no.”

  “Then why should you feel guilty about enjoying another one of life’s pleasures, sex and sensuality?”

  She has a point, I suppose.

  “And think of it this way,” she continues. “If you are faithful to one man, you are being unfaithful to all the others.”

  It’s an interesting concept.

  “So having sex with someone who is not your husband is just like eating a piece of cheese? And on top of that, a humanitarian act?”

  “Exactly,” she laughs, carefully applying a rather subtle pink Chanel lip-gloss at the same time. “You finally understood. I will make a French woman out of you yet. Come on, let’s get the children.”

  As we walk out of the bar she flashes the drunkard a shiny smile and he promptly falls off his stool. It’s a red-letter day at the Boujan bar: even the dog stops pacing to watch us go.

  My husband may be off enjoying Cécile’s seductive French accent and I may have a whole wine estate to run and a harvest to organise by September, but since I made my decision to stay in France I feel strangely calm. I feel as if although many things are beyond my control – for example, Nick’s preference for Cécile and the fact that the vines are growing so quickly – and although I am struggling to keep up with everything I have to do, I am at least in charge of our life here.

  There are times when all the hurt and anger wells up – when he phones the children for example – and I am reminded that he is not here with them, as he should be. But actually apart from that I am feeling quite mellow.

  This Zen feeling may also have something to do with the fact that I am adding serene moves to my daily yoga routine. At the moment I am in a tree pose on my terrace, surveying my vines and staring hard at the tree opposite me at the edge of the field. My eyes are, as always, drawn to the beautiful château to my right, but if I stray from the tree I inevitably fall over, rather like the alcoholic in the Boujan bar.

  I gaze at the landscape. If this were Provence, Cézanne would have painted it. I breathe in deeply while focusing on not toppling over. I can smell the thyme in the air; you could marinade a leg of lamb by waving it around on my terrace.

  My body is so much more toned than it was when I still had a husband. OK so I have a way to go before I am Elle McPherson, but my infallible and yet to be copyrighted ‘lose your husband and your midriff’ diet is working a treat and I have been following Sarah’s yoga routine every day with amazing results. Who would have thought yoga could be so effective at toning your muscles? Apart from the awful stomach one I am big into the Warrior Pose, where you stand like a warrior with your arms outstretched. An amazing way to work every muscle without moving. Then there is the bridge, which is fabulous for your buttocks and the most exhausting of all, the plank, where you are still and flat like a plank, balancing on your arms and toes. If I’m feeling really strong I ease my way down into chaturanga. There is no better way to tone your arms.

  I am in a very good mood because tonight I am invited to my first ever dinner party in France, at Calypso’s house. I am not quite sure what to wear, apart from perhaps a bulletproof vest – although I guess as it is a calm spring day, the old Gulf War Syndrome will be dormant.

  It really is glorious at the moment, warm but not yet hot, and everything feels so fresh and new and fecund after all that rain we had in February. I am getting more and more into the work in the vineyards; there is something really satisfying about working in nature, and I think that is also contributing to my calm mood. The kids are now eating lunch at school as I try to learn as fast as I can, as well as actually do the job I need to be doing.

  Sometimes, when I think about the enormity of the task that awaits me, I do feel nervous. I am a woman who has been a wine drinker for as long as I can remember, but my expertise ends at choosing which bottle to buy at Sainsbury’s. Lucy sent me a book to encourage me. It is called The Co
mplete Idiot’s Guide to Growing Vines and Making Wine – so thoughtful of someone to write it for me. This is now my bedside reading. I am learning about building a good trellis and the dangers of mildew – things I had never before encountered. And studying is all very good for the neural pathways too

  We are now in March. If I were planting new vines, this would be the time to do it, but I have decided, as the new châtelaine around here, to delay all the planting plans until I actually have some money.

  March is a relatively calm month for winemakers; the nasty pruning work is more or less done and there is a slight lull before the buds start to grow and you need to panic about something coming along and killing them. In mothering terms it is like the period of relative calm when your offspring is still a baby and you can happily plonk them down knowing they will not move, preceding the toddler stage when danger lurks around every corner…

  The vines still look like small wooden chandeliers sticking out of the ground, but today the afternoon light is diffused and warm so it lights them up. Colette is busy dragging things in and out of the cave. She has made it very clear she is not interested in becoming friends with me by answering all my questions with a nod or a ‘non’, which is fine; I have Audrey, the serial philanderer, and Calypso, the tie-dye queen. Calypso seems like good fun; shame about the husband trying to kill her, but then nobody’s perfect.

  I can’t decide whether she’s is incredibly posh and trying not to be or the other way round. She talks like Princess Anne and has that English public-school horsey manner about her but she looks like a hippy. I haven’t asked her about the specifics of her background; although we have chatted a few times at the school gates and over coffee, I haven’t told her the truth about Nick. In fact I haven’t told anyone the truth about Nick.

  It sounds like a bad book; The Truth about Nick. Here was a man who we all thought was solid and dependable, and it turns out he’s a Viagra-taking faithless hound.

  I haven’t even told the children what has happened, but that will change when he comes out at the weekend. He has of course been calling them every day and explained his absence by blaming work. I hope they’re going to be all right: I guess kids adapt quite easily. Sometimes when I kiss Emily goodnight she says she misses him, and then Charlotte overhears her and says she does too. I don’t think she actually does miss him any less than Emily, but she’s more practical than emotional, and I guess her reasoning is that if Nick’s not there, there’s no point in thinking about him too much. Poor Emily is the other way around.

  I am dreading telling them. I remember my parents splitting up, even though I was so young. I can envisage my children’s little faces dropping when we break the news, and it breaks my heart. I am not sure whether to be all mature about it and say it was a joint decision or just lay the blame where it belongs: in his over-zealous lap.

  It is now three months since I found the bra. It feels like a lot longer. I could divide my life into pre-bra-in-bag and post-bra-in-bag. It is almost like two different mes. I feel like a different woman (there’s another thing Nick and I have in common).

  No, seriously, I have changed. I have gone through despair and horror and am coming out of it a stronger, more determined and (Sarah would say, most crucially) thinner person. At least that’s the plan, and it had better work because there are several small people, two pets and a hell of a lot of vines relying on me.

  “Mummy, mummy can we cycle to get some bread?” Emily yells up at me from the gravel path below. I ease myself out of the tree pose and walk to the edge of the terrace. The three of them are looking up at me expectantly. One of their favourite things is cycling to the village bakery and buying bread from the over-dressed baker’s wife. Every time I see her I wonder what a woman who wears silver glittery leggings and matching boob tube to work at 7am can possibly get kitted out in when it’s time to get dressed up? And how far away from the classical image of the French chic woman is it possible to get? Actually I would have to say that most of the women in the village veer towards the lesser chic end of the scale. The ‘Baguette Ladies’ as Calypso likes to call them; the gang that sit under the fading Dubonnet sign wearing pinafores and slippers. And some of the younger ones are clearly not following the latest fashion from Paris, but rather the latest in comfort clothing.

  “I’ll walk through the vines with you,” I say and run downstairs, grabbing my fleece on the way. It is just after 5 o’clock and a lovely afternoon. I’m sure they will be fine but there is one road to cross to get to the baker’s and it makes me uneasy

  My phone rings. It’s Sarah.

  “Lucy got laid,” she says breathlessly. “She and the preppy floppy-haired lodger finally went for it.”

  Apparently Lucy’s plans for when Patrick went to Frankfurt a few weeks ago didn’t work out as Joshua had to go back to the US to see his mother, who fell and broke her ankle (selfish woman). But now, eureka, we have take-off – literally.

  “What happened?”

  “Well, Patrick went out for dinner with some blokes last night. It was someone’s birthday or something, and the kids were asleep and Lucy was in the kitchen wiping the table and she sensed that someone was there and she turned around and there he was, just staring at her. She looked at him and she knew that this was it and so she walked towards him and they kissed and then ripped each other’s clothes off. She said it was just like that scene from The Postman Always Rings Twice.”

  “The what?”

  “I don’t know. Some film with Jack Nicholson. Anyway, apparently it was amazing. She told me it was at least as wonderful as she had imagined it would be, that it felt as if every one of her nerve endings came to life and she would start to levitate. She is so frigging ecstatic I had to hold the phone a metre from my ear so as not to be deafened by her shrieks. If she made that much noise when they were at it I’m surprised she didn’t wake the kids.”

  “So she’s happy? Not freaked out at all?”

  “Yes, totally euphoric. I can’t believe it, not an ounce of guilt. You’d think she was French.”

  “But where is it all going to end? What will happen if Perfect Patrick finds out?”

  “Perfect no more you mean?” she says. “Who knows? Here’s hoping he won’t. Ignorance is bliss and all that.”

  “Wow, well lucky her. And how about Mr Enormous?”

  “Can you believe I have yet to find out? The sexual tension is killing me; this has got to be the longest courtship I have ever had. But this weekend his family is away and we’ve arranged to spend the night together and if it doesn’t happen then I can’t see that it ever will. I am actually beginning to wonder if he has an impotency problem. I mean why has he not just done it? We’ve done pretty much everything else.”

  “I think it’s quite romantic. And maybe he wants to be sure of you before he goes out for fully-fledged infidelity?”

  “I think you might be right, he’s testing my loyalty. And my discretion. How is everything with you?”

  I look around me. “Actually it is fine, I feel strong and good and ready for the next phase of my life.”

  “Oh God, Soph, I am pleased. But there’s no need to sound like an American self-help book.”

  “Very amusing. Nick is coming down soon and we will tell the children and then, well, I will carry on and hope an older version of Joshua or a younger version of Mr Enormous or whatever you call him comes my way.”

  “That’s my girl,” says Sarah. “Love you lots, and see you soon, just call me if you want me to come out again.”

  “Thanks, but I’m not sure I can stand any more yoga coaching,” I laugh. “Bye sweetpea.”

  Wolfie follows me into the vines but shies away just as we walk onto M. de Sard’s land. Yes, I know we’re not supposed to be on it, but it’s a lovely walk through the vines to the village and the ground is dry now so it’s easy to cycle on.

  Oh damn it. There is a man walking towards us. I can see from his elegant gait and height that it is not M. de
Sard’s irritating foreman. At least that’s good news. The children are taking no chances though and pedal off rather quickly towards the village, leaving me to face the stranger alone. They have clearly already adopted the French attitude towards conflict.

  If Nick were here, he would make one of his un-PC jokes or sayings about the French such as raise your right hand if you like the French, raise both hands if you are French, or what’s the difference between toast and Frenchmen (you can make soldiers out of toast).“We’re allowed to laugh at the French,” he would always say if I told him I thought he was being bigoted. “They’re like family.”

  I try to look casual as I saunter towards this particular Frenchman. What if it is the dreaded old M. de Sard himself? He might try to shoot me as well. But this man looks much younger than old M. de Sard. In fact, now that he is getting closer he looks like he might be what Sarah, Lucy and Carla would call a ‘babe’.

  Why oh why did I have to wear my tracksuit bottoms and faded Little Miss Bossy T-shirt and grubby fleece on the one day out of several thousand when a handsome stranger is walking across the deserted vineyards towards me?

  “Bonjour Madame,” he says as we meet. Help! I think. He really is gorgeous. His bright blue eyes are so luminous you can almost see the sky in them. His light brown and slightly curly hair makes him look a little like a Romantic Poet. He is much taller than me – probably around six foot three – but he is well built so doesn’t look lanky. He is wearing what an English gentleman on an afternoon stroll would wear: dark-green cords, a beige cashmere jumper and a Barbour-style jacket. He looks to be around forty. There is the subtle trace of a rather expensive-smelling aftershave surrounding him that makes me want to get closer.