Love in a Warm Climate

by Helena Frith-Powell

  “How long have you been here?” asks Robert, almost before Calypso has asked what I would like to drink. I have come to expect this. This is the first question any expat Brit in France will ask another expat. For some reason, there is a competition going on among them all as to who has been there the longest, speaks the best French, has the most French friends; in short, who has become the most French.

  “Only three months,” I say. I can see from the look of triumph in his eyes that Robert has won this particular round. Naturally I refuse to hand him victory by returning the question and carry on talking about myself.

  “We moved here to make wine,” I say. “We live at Sainte Claire, just across the vineyards the other side of the school.”

  “How interesting,” says Helen, making it sound anything but. “Do you know a lot about wine?”

  “Nothing at all,” I say smiling. “But I’m willing to learn.”

  “You’ll have your work cut out for you,” Robert joins in. “We’ve been here for over twenty years, and we’re still learning.”

  At the casual drop of the ‘twenty years’ I am supposed to, according to a bit I read in one of my books about moving to France, say something along the lines of “How amazing, imagine, twenty years” as though he has completed a life sentence for some crime he didn’t commit.

  However, I am in a rebellious mood so don’t flinch but respond with: “I know. I have to start right from the very beginning, but I’m hoping I will find some friendly wine-maker to point me in the right direction. Although it has to be said I’ve yet to meet any.”

  “Well, I think you might find things in la France profonde a little more complicated than in London,” says Helen with a smirk that makes me want to punch her – and normally at dinner parties I’m a pretty non-violent person. Of course, I know it’s not going to be easy to make wine alone and bring up the children, all in a foreign country with an administration system that is enough to send anyone off their head and a punishing tax regime. But how about just pretending I might make it for two minutes to make me feel better about my life? At least until I’ve had a glass of wine to cheer me up.

  I am rapidly losing the will to live. A dinner party filled with what Bridget Jones so fittingly called ‘smug marrieds’ and chat about daily commutes and nannies seems exciting compared with this little soirée of smug expats.

  Helen’s ‘other half’ nods in agreement. “And as for friendly wine-makers, well they’re few and far between,” he adds, spitting out a piece of olive as he speaks.

  Can this get any worse? If I want to watch people spitting out food, I’ll just have dinner with my children.

  “Did someone mention a friendly wine-maker?”

  I recognise that voice. I leap up from my chair and am suddenly face to face with the man from the vineyard. I try not to look incredibly excited; after all I am not sixteen years old and this is not my first prom.

  “Nice to see you again,” I say as calmly as I can, stretching out my hand for him to shake. Being a smarmy Frenchman of course, he kisses it instead, without ever losing eye contact with me. Or rather, he ‘kisses and misses’ it, his lips hovering a few millimetres above the back of my hand. I will have to ask Audrey what this strange custom means and how it relates to ‘corners’.

  “Ah, so you know Jean-Claude de Sard?” says Tim.

  Oh no. It’s not possible. Please tell me I am dreaming. THIS is my evil neighbour? Only hours early I was slagging off this very same man to himself. Happily, the handsome Frog seems to have forgiven me and comes to my rescue.

  “Sophie and I met today briefly in my vineyards,” he says to Tim. I am amazed and more than impressed that he remembered my name. “But I think she has a bad impression of me, n’est-ce pas?” He turns back to face me.

  “Ah, well, your foreman has forbidden us from walking across your vineyards and actually once tried to shoot me,” I say, trying to ignore the seductive smell of his aftershave, which I recognise from earlier. “And he says that was on your orders, so I guess, well, no, my first impression was not good.”

  “And now?” he grins cheekily, “has it changed at all?”

  I somehow stop myself from melting on the spot. “That depends,” I say,“on whether or not you allow the children and me to walk across your vineyards.”

  Jean-Claude de Sard laughs. “It’s a deal. And for the record, I never told him you couldn’t walk across my land. But he does like to control the whole estate in just about every way.”

  Suddenly this dinner party is looking a whole lot more interesting. I can even make pleasant conversation with Mr and Mrs Smug-Francophiles without feeling irritated. We sit around drinking the champagne Jean-Claude has bought and chatting. Tim, Calypso’s husband, who is just as posh as she is (or pretends to be), tells us tales of playing rugby for the Harlequins and life in the Army. He seems perfectly sane. I can’t imagine him trying to shoot his wife, or anyone else for that matter. He is one of those classic ‘Tim-nice-but-dim’ types that the English middle classes are so good at producing. Not the gun-toting madman I imagined at all.

  Dinner is lasagne and salad.

  “Calypso only has two dinner-party menus,” says Tim, laughing as he serves us. “The other one is shepherd’s pie.”

  “Lucky I didn’t come on a shepherd’s pie night,” says Helen. “I don’t eat lamb.”

  I make a mental note to only cook lamb if I ever have a dinner party at Sainte Claire.

  “So, Jean-Claude,” says Helen’s ‘other half’, “what do you think of all these English invading your country?”

  Jean-Claude twirls his wine around in his glass and for a moment I wonder if he might take offence at the question. But he smiles his most disarming smile and says, “We are all invaders. It’s just a question of when we came.”

  “But what about the effect on house prices?” asks Helen. “Aren’t you angry that the English are driving up the prices, especially here in the south?”

  “Is it the fault of the English that the French are selling at inflated prices?” he counters. Can nothing rattle this man? He is as smooth as a full-bodied Merlot and just as drinkable.

  After dinner I carry some plates into the kitchen where Calypso is preparing sliced oranges with syrup for pudding.

  “Thank you,” I say. “It was delicious.”

  Calypso takes the plates from me. She is looking very pretty; her dark hair is tied up and she’s wearing a pink tie-dye dress.

  “Is everything all right with, you know?” I ask gesturing towards the dining room where Tim is sitting. “No more scares?”

  Calypso smiles. “No, all fine thanks. It only happens about once a year. Our charismatic M. de Sard seems quite taken with you,” she adds, changing the subject.

  Rather annoyingly I blush.

  “Oh, and it seems you’re quite taken with him. Whatever will your husband say?”

  “He doesn’t really have a say any more,” I begin. “He’s been having an affair. I told him to go back to England.”

  “God, I wish my husband would have an affair. It’s one of the main reasons I moved to France.”

  This was not the reaction I was expecting. Once again Calypso has turned my dramatic moment into something concerning herself. How typical is that?

  “Why?” I ask. “It actually was quite a shock when I found out about Nick. I’m not sure I’d wish it on anyone.”

  Calypso looks astonished for a moment. “Oh, yes, I understand,” she says. “I’m sorry, but things are just so irritating right now. One day I’ll have to tell you about it. Meanwhile it looks like you may have found someone to console you?”

  I smile. “Well, it is quite odd. Maybe it’s the champagne, but I haven’t felt this way for years. In fact, I thought I had stopped having these sorts of feelings, like they died in childbirth or something. But I feel like a sixteen-year-old.”

  “Maybe part of it is that until now you weren’t really looking until your husband buggered off wi
th someone else?”

  Fair point.

  “How is it all going anyway?” she continues. “How is Colette doing?”

  “Great. Thanks for putting her in touch with me. I will need someone else too once it all gets busy, but heaven knows how I’ll be able to afford it.”

  “Let me know if I can help with anything,” she says. “I have harvested every year since we got here so know a bit about vineyards. And I like the work. There’s something therapeutic about working the land, using your hands; it stops you thinking too much. Colette always says the best relief for stress is trellising – the mix of strength and precision needed, being outside in the fresh air, listening to the sounds of nature.”

  We go back to the dinner party carrying pudding and plates. Jean-Claude looks up and smiles as I walk into the room and for a split-second I feel like there is no one else there.

  Sadly, that feeling is rudely interrupted by Robert, who is keen to tell me all about his latest property-rental venture, ‘Pet Your Pets’: holiday rentals where people can bring their pets.

  “It’s a huge niche market,” he insists, leaning forward in that rather unstable way that people do when they’ve drunk more than their body weight, which for him wouldn’t be too difficult – he’s awfully scrawny.

  “Never trust a man whose shoulders are smaller than yours,” Carla always says. I couldn’t agree more.

  He talks about his venture as if he were talking about something that would really change the world, or a favourite child. I try to muster up some enthusiasm but find it difficult. This is more tedious than someone telling you the plot of their unpublished novel. And there’s only so much I can contribute really; I can’t imagine ever taking Daisy, the peacocks or Wolfie on holiday. The children are bad enough on their own.

  “If you will allow me Sophie, I could walk you home across our vineyards.” Jean-Claude de Sard is standing by my chair with his hand outstretched, waiting for me. I love the way he says ‘our vineyards’. I wish Robert the best of luck, thank Calypso and Tim for a lovely evening, and within minutes am out in the starlit night with the world’s most charming Frenchman.

  “So how is the vineyard?” he begins. “All under control?”

  “No, not at all under control,” I tell him, sighing and looking up at the clear star-lit sky.

  “What I need really is for someone to come in and wave a magic wand and make it all okay.”

  The moon is a delicate thin crescent – or a banana, as the children would call it. I still can’t get over how bright the stars are here compared with London

  “I am basically going to have to run it alone,” I carry on. “Nick, my husband, has gone back to London to…well, work and, another woman.”

  “I see. I am so sorry. What a fool he must be,” he says looking at me. “But you will stay?”

  “Yes, I am really trying to get to grips with it all, I have a helper, Colette, who is showing me the ropes. And I am reading a lot, learning about the wine-making process.”

  We are walking perfectly in time with each other even though his legs are much longer than mine. It feels very comfortable. And it is so nice to be outside in the clear air, away from the smug expats, listening to the gentle breeze and talking to someone who understands wine-making, unlike me.

  “But to be honest I really haven’t the first clue what I’m doing,” I continue. “It could all be a total and utter disaster and we will all be homeless.”

  “There is only one thing you really need to know,” he says, nodding towards the vines we are walking through. I hope it’s not too complicated; I’ve drunk far too much red wine to remember anything technical. We stop by a vine and he gently caresses one of the leaves with his thin, elegant fingers.

  “You have to know when to pick the grape,” he says looking at me and smiling.

  “When they’re ripe?” I guess.

  Jean-Claude smiles enigmatically.

  “But how do you know when they’re ripe?” I ask.

  He laughs. “That, my dear little vigneronne anglaise, is the real question. But don’t worry, I am here to help you.”

  Is this man too good to be true?

  “To produce a good wine, you need to start with good grapes,” he goes on. “And this you have. Your terroir is excellent, in fact better than mine, even though it is just next door. I know and love Sainte Claire, it used to belong to my grandparents, I practically grew up there.”

  “Really? How amazing.”

  “Yes, we were very sad when they sold it to the Grécos, but it was all part of an unpaid debt. Anyway, you don’t need to worry, wines have been cultivated here in the region since the first century before Christ. It is the oldest wine-growing region in France. You are just continuing the tradition. There is nothing to fear.”

  We walk on and are home far too soon. He leads me up the steps of Sainte Claire. I feel like a teenage girl. What is the protocol for this? I mean, I am still married. Is he married? Oh help, I haven’t even asked him that. Not that it seems to matter in France. And happily all my windows have shutters. The baker should have thought of that before he got in such a dough mix.

  Or maybe I should ask him. I don’t want to make enemies with my neighbour’s wife, assuming there is one. But now might not be a good time to do so; if he says yes then there is no chance of a kiss, and if he says no it might look like I am hinting for more. Oh God, how do single people cope? It’s all far too complicated.

  We stop on the steps. He takes my hands in his. They feel warm and comforting. I’m not sure if it’s the effect of the wine, but I start swaying gently towards him as if I’m being drawn by a magnet. I try to remember if I flossed my teeth. Then I’m ashamed of myself. What a trollop. Talk about getting in touch with your inner French woman.

  “Sophie, I really enjoyed this evening and normally I hate dinner parties,” he says. Our faces are now less than two inches apart. “If you would allow me, I would love to take you out to lunch to talk about the vineyard and also get to know you better.”

  I gulp and nod. This is scary. I think I am about to kiss another man for the first time in almost ten years. What will it be like? Will I be struck down by lightning for adultery?

  “Shall we say two weeks on Monday? I have to go to Aix until then to see my aunt.”

  I nod again and smile. “I would love that.”

  “Sophie!”

  I hear my name being called but the voice is not coming from my soon-to-be – hopefully – French lover. It is coming from my front door.

  “Oh, hi. Sorry to disturb. I managed to get an earlier flight and sent Agnès home.”

  It’s my husband. Early as usual.

  Rule 13

  Sentimentality will cost you; never keep any evidence

  The French Art of Having Affairs

  I spring away from Jean-Claude de Sard as quickly as Daisy does from the children’s leftover Weetabix when I catch her snacking. There is nothing like the sight of your husband when you’re about to snog someone else to sober you up.

  “This is Nick,” I say to Jean-Claude. “My…” I’m not quite sure how to describe him, but Nick interrupts me.

  “Soon to be ex-husband,” he says confidently, stretching out his hand for Jean-Claude to shake. I am not sure how to react to this news. I certainly don’t want to let Jean-Claude know I had no idea we were getting divorced until a few seconds ago.

  “Yes, exactly,” I add with more vigour than I feel. “He’s here to see the children.”

  “Bonsoir, Nick,” he says, shaking my husband’s hand. I look at them together. Nick is shorter than Jean-Claude. The latter, though obviously a few years older, doesn’t suffer in comparison. He is so very elegant, almost regal.

  “Now if you will excuse us, I need to say goodbye to Sophie.” He turns away from Nick and focuses his whole attention on me. I love the way he is doing that; it makes me feel like a princess. The Princess and the Frog – ha, that would make the girls laugh.

&
nbsp; He takes my hands in his. He clearly isn’t as bothered by the presence of my husband as I am.

  “So, see you in a couple of weeks?” he asks, smiling.

  “Yes,” I nod. He kisses and misses my hand, nods to Nick and then saunters off back to his château.

  Nick and I go inside. He looks tired but more or less the same. Cécile is clearly feeding him though; he seems to have put on some weight.

  “Why are you here already?” I ask him. “You weren’t meant to come until tomorrow.”

  “You look great. Soph,” he says. “Really great. Wow – amazing in fact. How are you?”

  “Fine, no thanks to you,” I snap.

  “You’re wearing that dress,” he adds. I don’t react.

  “You’ve even had your nails done. Christ, are you turning into a French woman?” he laughs. It’s nice to hear that laugh again and his Irish accent, but I’m not about to forgive him. “And getting your hands on a Frenchman?”

  “So I hear we’re getting divorced?” I say.

  “Yes,” he says. “And it seems just in the nick of time,” he adds, gesturing to the door. “You certainly haven’t wasted any time making friends with the locals.”

  I think about defending myself but am suddenly too upset to even go into it all. Since when did we agree to a divorce? So instead I do what most of us do when we’re hurt; I snipe at him.

  “Well, as we’re now officially getting divorced it’s no longer anything to do with you, is it? And why are you here so early anyway?”

  “Your mother asked me to come. She says she has arranged for you to go away for the weekend so she asked me to be here to take care of the kids. She says she sent you a text with all the details. Did you not get it?”

  No I didn’t. And bugger – I really don’t want to go anywhere with my mother. Where is she taking me? Why does she insist on organising me as if I were still seven years old and just about to lose my gym kit? I’m now in my mid-thirties and have lost my husband; you don’t get more grown up than that.

  “Did you see the kids?”

  “They were all asleep by the time I got here, but I looked in on them,” he says. “It was grand to see them, really grand.”