“Marius doesn’t do domestic work,” Agathe said grandly, drawing herself up to her full height, which was barely more than Pascale’s, even in six-inch heels. And she was easily three times her girth.
“Well, he may have to, if we have to stay,” Pascale warned her, and her eyes were blazing, as she went downstairs to use the phone. There was only one, in the kitchen. Pascale was almost afraid to touch it, it was nearly as greasy as the stove. And when she reached the woman who answered at the realtor’s office, she let her have it in a blaze of outraged words. “How could you … how dare you …” She threatened lawsuits, mayhem, murder, and told her she had to find them another house, or suites in a hotel. But staying in a hotel wouldn’t be nearly as much fun, not to mention the expense. She cringed thinking of John, and lashed into the realtor again. “There is absolutely no way we can stay here, it’s unlivable … filthy … disgusting … deguelace … Have you seen it? What were you thinking? The place hasn’t been cleaned in twenty years.” And as she said it, Agathe stomped off in a huff with her flock of dogs. Pascale was on the phone with the realtor for half an hour. She promised to come by in the morning, to see how she could help, but she assured Pascale that there wasn’t another rental to be had in St. Tropez. And she insisted this was a good one, all it needed was a little going-over with a vacuum and some soap. “Are you crazy?” Pascale shrieked at her, no longer in control of her temper. “This place would need an atom bomb. And who is going to do it? My friends are arriving in two days. And they’re Americans. This is exactly what they think of France. You’ve just proven everything that people say about us abroad. Sending us those photographs was dishonest, you robbed us, and this house is a pigsty. We are dishonored,” Pascale waxed poetic. “You have betrayed not only me, but France.” Pascale wanted to kill her, and the woman kept reassuring her that her friends would love it, and it was really a great house. “Maybe it was once, but not in a very long time.”
“I’ll send a cleaning team in tomorrow to help them,” the realtor tried to calm her, to no avail.
“You be here tomorrow, yourself, at seven o’clock in the morning, with a check refunding us for half the money, or I’m going to sue you. And bring your team with you. You can work here with me for the next two days in fact, and your cleaning team damn well better be good.”
“Of course,” the realtor said with a slightly supercilious air. She was a friend of the realtor Pascale knew in Paris, and Pascale had already assured her that unless she wrought a miracle, her reputation with the agency in Paris would be instantly as over the hill as the house. “I’ll do everything I can to help you.”
“Bring a lot of people, a lot of cleaning equipment, and a hell of a lot of soap.”
“Whatever I can do to be of service,” the realtor said haughtily.
“Thank you,” Pascale said through clenched teeth, trying to control her temper, but it was a little late for that. She had let the woman have it, and she deserved it. She had misled them completely, to the point of fraud. And as Pascale wandered out of the kitchen, she jumped. She was staring at a man who looked ten feet tall. He was tall and thin and scary, with a long beard and long hair, and he was wearing American denim overalls, with no shirt and a pair of patent leather dress shoes. He looked like a homeless person who had wandered into the house. And with a final sinking of her stomach, Pascale guessed who he was. He was carrying one of the French poodles, still barking, as he lovingly adjusted the pink bow. He could only be Agathe’s husband, Marius. When Pascale asked him, he bowed.
“At your service, madame. Bienvenue.” Welcome. Hardly. She wanted to kick him in the shins for the state the grounds were in. He was supposed to be the gardener and chauffeur.
“You have a lot of work to do,” Pascale said bluntly. “Do you have a lawn mower?” He looked blank for an instant, as though she had asked him for some obscure and rarely heard of tool.
“Yes, I believe so.”
“Then I want you to start cutting the grass at six A.M. It will take you all day to clean up these grounds.”
“Ah, but madame … so much charm …”
“Weeds are not charming,” Pascale said, glaring at him, as he stroked the dog. “The garden is not charming. And the front lawn is a disgrace. I am not asking you, I am telling you to do something about it. And after you do that, we are going to need your help in the house. We have a lot of work to do.” She saw a look pass between Marius and Agathe, and they did not look pleased.
“He has a bad back,” Agathe explained, “he cannot exert himself. It’s very tiring for him.” He was all of forty-five years old, and he looked more lazy than tired. In fact, Pascale suspected that he was either drunk or stoned. He had a kind of goony smile, and a dazed expression, and when he bowed to her for the third time, he looked unsteady on his feet. But Pascale didn’t give a damn. She was going to pour coffee into him, if she had to, or give him speed. He had to do the work. For the moment there was no one else. And God only knew who would be on the realtor’s cleaning “team.”
“We have two days,” Pascale said ominously, “before the others arrive. And when they do, this house will be clean.” It was obvious, as far as they were concerned, she had lived in America for too long. But no matter what they thought, she was determined to get what she needed out of them. And as she looked at them, she drew herself up to her full height, and she was every inch the ballet mistress, and the tyrant she knew she would have to be. “Do you cook?” she asked Agathe then. The brochure had said she did.
“Not much,” Agathe answered with a shrug, dropping ashes all over her chest. She brushed them away so they didn’t get on the dog she was clutching to her. The third one was on the floor and yapping as loudly as it could. Pascale had a massive headache by then. And as she contemplated a meal prepared by Agathe, she decided it was just as well she didn’t cook. She could do that much herself. And they could go out to the restaurants in St. Tropez, if John was willing to.
“Would you like me to bring in your bags?” Marius asked pleasantly, exhaling wine fumes at her. He was like a dragon breathing fire as she looked at him. She wanted to tell him that she would prefer to go to a hotel. But she realized that if she did, if she could even get a room, the work would never get done. These two needed a watchful eye, a firm hand, and a stick of dynamite to get them moving. And putting the dogs to sleep would have helped. But they were the least of her problems, as she handed Marius the keys to her car.
A moment later, he was back with her bags. “The master suite, madame?” he asked, holding two of her bags, with his long stringy hair, and his overalls and ridiculous patent leather shoes. She wanted to laugh just looking at him, the whole situation was absurd.
“Yes, that will do.” They could always give the room to the Morrisons later, but for right now, she thought she might as well. He brought her bags up to the master bedroom for her, and with a look of despair, she sat down in the only chair. And as she did, the springs gave way, and she sagged nearly to the floor. They left her after a few minutes, and she just sat there, staring out the window. The view was so perfect, and the house was a nightmare. She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. She thought for a minute about calling Diana, but what could she tell her? She hated to disappoint her and Eric, and Robert, and she didn’t even dare think of what John would say. She just prayed he wouldn’t call, because she knew he would hear it in her voice. But mercifully, she knew how busy he was before going away. All she could do now was try to make it up to them, and get the place in shape. It would take a miracle to get it done in two days. And as the sun set over the water, she leaned her head back in the ancient chair. She was utterly exhausted, and she had a splitting headache, and for the next two days, she knew she would have to make magic. It was a hell of a beginning to their month in St. Tropez, but Pascale refused to be defeated. No matter what, she was going to make it work.
6
PASCALE SET HER ALARM FOR FIVE-THIRTY, AND WHEN she got up, she put on jea
ns and a T-shirt, and went down to the kitchen, to see if she could find some coffee. She found just enough to make herself a café filtre, and with a look of very Gallic despair, she sat on an ancient kitchen chair, and lit a cigarette. She was sitting there smoking, wondering if she’d have to wake them, when one of the dogs ran into the kitchen and barked at her. And two seconds later, Agathe appeared, wearing an apron over a red bikini, from which her round ball of a body seemed to ooze.
“You wear that to work in?” Pascale asked with a look of astonished dismay. But nothing surprised her anymore. If anything, her vast bleached blond Afro seemed larger than the day before. She had even put on lipstick to match her bikini, and the heels she wore today were higher, as her three poodles clustered around her feet like so many furry little white balls. And of course, they started barking the instant they saw Pascale.
“Do you suppose we could put them somewhere while we’re working?” Pascale asked Agathe, as she poured herself a second cup of coffee, and realized she hadn’t eaten since lunch the day before. She would have given her right arm for a croissant from her mother’s kitchen, but in this one, she had discovered, the cupboards were bare. And she had no time to go to the store. She wanted to get Agathe and Marius started. At least Agathe appeared at the hour she’d requested, that was something. And Marius came along five minutes later. He said he had found the lawn mower, although it was pretty old.
But at least when Pascale saw it, she was relieved to see it had a motor, and she told him to start it and keep mowing, until he had cleared everything in sight.
“Everything?” He looked astonished when she nodded, and she figured it would keep him busy for hours. It was not a prospect he enjoyed. Agathe had gone to put the dogs in their bedroom behind the kitchen, and she had come back with rags and soaps and a feather duster, and she began waving it like a wand somewhere in midair, until Pascale took it from her and handed her the rag and some cleaning products, and suggested she get to work in the kitchen. Pascale was going to do the living room herself.
First she rolled the rugs up and put them in a closet. The floors were better looking than the threadbare rugs. And then she beat the cushions of the couch, and the curtains, and vacuumed everything in sight. She was choking from the dust as she did it, but things started to look a little better by the time she was fluffing up the cushions, and growling at the stains. She waxed the tables, used newspaper on the windows, as her grandmother had taught her, and cleaned absolutely every surface, and then she waxed the floors. The room did not look anything like the pictures, but it was looking better when the realtor and her “team” of minions arrived, looking hot and bored. They were all kids, the realtor had recruited them that morning to do whatever Pascale required.
Pascale had another heated conversation with the realtor, who actually agreed to return half what they had paid, and Pascale knew that John would be pleased. But he’d be even more so, as would the others, if she could also get the house clean. And then she had an idea.
She went upstairs to her suitcase and brought out a stack of brightly colored shawls she had brought with her. She tucked them in over the tired stained upholstery, and the room looked entirely different when she’d finished. The windows were clean, the drapes had been pulled back, all the cobwebs had disappeared, the floors shone like honey, and the brightly covered couches and chairs made the room look simple but festive. All it needed now were flowers and candles and some brighter lightbulbs.
The cleaning team was hard at work in the kitchen, and Pascale had sent Agathe off to do the bathrooms, and scrub them until they shone, while Marius worked in the hot sun mowing the lawns. And when she checked on him, he wasn’t pleased, but what he was doing made a huge difference. There were old broken lawn chairs emerging from the tall grasses, and two-legged wooden tables that had all but disintegrated, and she made him haul them all away. The weeds were slowly disappearing, and the wildflowers that had grown along the edges of the lawn had a certain charm.
It was eight o’clock at night before they were all finished, and the realtor looked at Pascale in stupefaction. It wasn’t perfect, and it didn’t look like the pictures, but it was a hell of an improvement over what Pascale had found there the day before. The kitchen still looked somewhat depressing, and the stove was ancient, but at least everything was clean.
Pascale was exhausted, she had been working for fourteen hours, but it was worth it. The others might be startled when they saw it, but at least they wouldn’t run screaming out the door. The realtor had brought cheese and fruit and pate, and Pascale had nibbled a little, but she had hardly eaten all day. All she wanted was to get it finished, and the realtor promised, when she left, to return with her workers the next day. And Marius would have to do more mowing. Agathe had clucked in sympathy all day, and if possible, she looked even wilder by the time she finished. The red bikini was sagging and drooping, the high-heeled sandals had vanished, and her hair looked as though she had stuck a finger in a socket, and mercifully, Pascale hadn’t seen or heard the dogs all day.
Pascale was sitting in the kitchen, staring into space in exhaustion, picking at the remains of the pate, when the phone rang and she started. And then grabbed it. It was John calling from the office, and he sounded happy and excited. They hadn’t seen each other in six weeks, and he was delighted to be seeing her in two days.
“Well, how is it? Is it terrific?” he asked, sounding enthusiastic, and she closed her eyes, trying to decide what to say.
“It’s a little different from the pictures,” she said, wondering what he’d say when he saw it. At least it was clean now, and it looked a lot better, but it was certainly no palace, and it bore very little resemblance to the elegant photographs they’d seen.
“Is it better?” John asked, sounding elated, and Pascale laughed as she shook her head. She was so tired, she could barely think.
“Not exactly. It’s just different. A little more informal maybe.”
“That sounds great.” Great was not exactly the word Pascale would have used to describe the house called Love at First Sight, but she had done the best she could. “Have you talked to the others?”
“No, I’ve been too busy,” she said, sounding exhausted, and John laughed at what she’d said.
“Doing what? Lying on the beach?” He had envisioned her swimming and sunbathing all day, not scrubbing floors and bathroom walls.
“No, I was just busy organizing the house.”
“Why don’t you just relax for a change?” She would have loved it, but if she had, he would have had a stroke when he walked through the door.
“Maybe tomorrow,” she said vaguely, through a yawn.
“Well, I’ll see you the day after that.”
“I can hardly wait,” she smiled, thinking of him, as she sat in the dilapidated kitchen. As she sat there, she could see a spot of grease they’d missed on the stove.
“Get some sleep, or you’ll be exhausted when we arrive.”
“Don’t worry. I will. Have a safe trip.” After they hung up, she turned out the lights, and went up to bed. She had made Agathe change the sheets, the others had been gray and frayed, and she had finally found a pair for each bed that looked relatively unused. The towels looked tired too, but at least now they were clean. She fell asleep almost the minute her head touched the pillow, and she slept until the sun came up the next day. The shades didn’t roll down, and the shutters were broken too. But she didn’t mind the sun filling the room.
And she worked just as hard that day. The workers the realtor had provided were worn out by then, and grumbling, but Pascale managed to keep them there all afternoon. And when she went outside to see what Marius had done, the front lawn looked impeccable, and all the broken lawn furniture had disappeared. What was left was serviceable, though in dire need of a coat of paint. She wondered if she had time for Marius to tackle that too. But when she looked for him, she found him in his room, snoring and sound asleep, with all three dogs draped over hi
m, and three empty beer bottles on his bed. It was obvious that, for the moment at least, she wasn’t going to get much more work out of him. And Agathe was wearing out too.
At five o’clock, Pascale drove into St. Tropez, and came back with the car full. She had bought candles and flowers, and huge vases to put them in, and arrangements of dried flowers too. She had bought three more colorful shawls to use in the living room, and three cans of white paint for Marius to tackle the lawn furniture the next day. And by the time she was through, at nine o’clock, every inch of the house was immaculate, the lawns had been mowed, the weeds pulled, and there were flowers and magazines in every room. She had bought wonderful French soaps, and spare towels for all of them, and every room of the villa had been magically transformed. It may not have been love at first sight, but it was drastically improved.
She couldn’t even imagine what they’d say when they saw the house now. It looked better to her, but it was still not what any of them had thought it would be. And she was afraid they would all be angry at her. But there wasn’t much more she could do, without a house painter, a contractor, and a decorator. And when she finally went down to see the boat at the dock that night, she wondered if it would even sail. It looked as though it had been tied up for years, and the sails looked tattered and stained, but she knew that if there was any hope at all, Robert and Eric would get it under sail.
She fell into bed exhausted again that night, but with a sense of accomplishment. She was enormously relieved that she had had the foresight to come down two days before their lease began. If she hadn’t, she was sure the others would never have stayed, and now she thought they would. At least, she hoped they would. She didn’t want to give up the month in St. Tropez.
She slept like a rock that night, and it was ten o’clock when she woke up the next day, the sun was streaming into the room, and the flowers she had put on tables everywhere added splashes of color and life to the room. She made herself coffee from the supplies she’d bought, and ate a pain au chocolat as she read an old copy of Paris Match, and then moved on to The International Herald Tribune. When she was in France, she liked reading Le Monde too, but John always insisted on having the Herald Tribune, and she had bought it for him the day before.
Sunset in St. Tropez Page 8
