by Fiona Valpy
Cédric gives him a mock cuff around the ear. ‘Insufferable brat,’ he says fondly. ‘Just ignore him,’ he tells me.
In confusion, I collect up our cups and scurry back inside, blushing again as I hear Pierre recounting my mistake to his two elder brothers on the roof who both whoop with laughter.
By five thirty, they’ve patched the hole in the roof with plastic sheeting and have made a neat stack of unbroken roof tiles, clearing away the shattered debris. ‘If they’re not in your way, we’ll leave our tools here until Monday,’ says Raphael and I assure him I’m not planning on carrying out any major terrace renovations myself this weekend. They take their leave and the truck swings off up the drive, Raphael and Florian in the front and the two younger men perched in the back.
I follow on foot to go and check whether there’s any post in the mailbox on the lane. I reach into the metal box and pull out a large envelope with a coloured crest and ‘Institute of Masters of Wine’ inscribed in one corner. Great! It’s the confirmation that I’ve been accepted onto the course.
I look up as I hear a roar in the lane, and a cavalcade of vehicles pulls out of Mireille’s gate. First comes a helmeted figure on a red motorbike who sweeps by with a jaunty wave—Pierre, I surmise, heading off for his Saturday night social whirl. Next, a stately green Volvo sails by and Raphael gives me a grave salute. Then the white truck comes past and Florian waves at me cheerfully. And finally, the familiar dark blue pickup comes along the lane with Cédric at the wheel. Next to him is a young boy with the same dark hair and eyes as his father. And from the narrow back seat, a serious, heart-shaped face framed with long dark hair gazes out.
Of course. I should have known. I manage a smile, but my heart feels as if it’s just plummeted into the dust beneath my feet. He’s married.
They pull up alongside and Nathalie winds down her window. ‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle Gina. Was Lafite all right in the storm? I hope he wasn’t too frightened.’
‘Hello, Nathalie. Don’t worry; he’s fine. I think I was more afraid than he was. He didn’t like getting his fur wet much, though.’
‘Give him a stroke from me,’ she replies.
‘I will. You’ll have to come and see him one day soon. He’s missing you.’
The little girl smiles and Cédric pulls off with a wave. I stand by the postbox, watching them disappear up the road.
And am surprised to note that I feel a distinctly bitter pang of disappointment at the realisation that Nathalie and Luc belong to Cédric, and not to Florian or Raphael.
CHAPTER FIVE
More Gentleman Callers
To-Do list:
•Buy Sandpaper
Paint
White spirit
•Sand down and repaint shutters—ongoing
•Stop thinking about unattainable married men with children—ongoing
•30 mins Pilates in attempt to work off frustration at unattainability of married men with children—daily
•Practise taking deep breaths and letting go—ongoing (still).
I’m determined not to be beaten by my disastrous first attempt at painting and decorating. I put on my cut-off shorts and a vest top which has definitely seen better days, and stand, hands on hips, surveying the scabrous, flaking shutters. Sunday is cranking itself up to be another baking-hot day and so at least the soft old wood has dried out now. The peeling patches of paint are worse than ever though and there’s no doubt it all needs to be removed somehow. I’m sure I saw some sheets of sandpaper in a drawer in the kitchen during my frantic cleaning frenzy and I go in search of them and also my iPod, which I tuck into the back pocket of my shorts, fixing the earphones into my ears. A little energising music is just what I need for this job.
Now, we might as well get this out into the open up front: I freely confess my taste in music is not always the coolest. Don’t get me wrong; I have a lot of stuff by really street-cred groups like U2 and the Red Hot Chilli Peppers, which is the sort of thing I readily admit to in conversations with friends. But stashed away beneath the respectable surface of such socially acceptable works is my shameful secret library. Meat Loaf, Cher and Bonny Tyler rub shoulders with Kirsty MacColl, The Bangles and Dixie Chicks. Bryan Adams and Enrique Iglesias compete with Take That and Boyzone for my attention. And Plastic Bertrand and Johnny Hallyday add a little French culture—if ‘culture’ is the right word, which it probably isn’t.
Oh, come on, there’s a time and a place for Mozart—and sanding shutters definitely isn’t it. And anyway, let he or she who is entirely without an Abba number tucked away somewhere in their collection throw the first stone.
So now I select an appropriately upbeat playlist, crank up the volume and set to with the sandpaper. The paint, both old and new, comes off with gratifying ease. It’s good exercise too, especially if you add a few dance moves while you work, although the stepladder does tend to wobble a bit. My spirits lift as a new, smoothly uniform surface of freshly sanded wood is exposed, and I start to sing.
I’m just explaining to my reflection in the window that, ‘I’m holding out for a hero ‘til the morning light, and he’s got to be fast and he’s got to be strong...’ and I’m giving it some of my very best ladder-top moves when I suddenly realise that, just like in the song, there really is somebody out there watching me.
Luckily he’s close enough to put a steadying hand on the stepladder, as I jump so hard it lurches alarmingly. I look down from my precarious perch into the warm, laughing eyes of Cédric.
Wrenching the earphones from my ears, I scramble down to firmer ground, my neck and cheeks blazing scarlet with embarrassment. ‘Excuse me, I was just...’ I burble, waving a dusty hand at the shutters. My shoulders and arms are covered in freckles of dried green and red paint. And it’s only later that I discover the bits in my hair as well.
Why is it that whenever I’m wearing my most scruffy and revealing clothes, an unexpected Frenchman comes sailing up the drive? Perhaps there’s a whole posse of them lurking in the bushes watching and then the minute I put on an outfit that I’d prefer not to be seen dead in, they send another one along to ensure maximum mortification. I can just imagine Monsieur Dubois nudging Cédric, ‘Go on, I did it last time. Your turn next...’
And exactly how long has he been standing there? I cast my mind back to the previous song on the playlist. Omigod, did he get here in time to catch my ladder-top rendition of ‘There’s a guy works down the chip shop swears he’s Elvis’?
Cédric gallantly pretends he hasn’t noticed that I’m not really wearing many clothes, nor that he’s witnessed any of my grand command performance up the ladder. Composing his features into an expression of professional gravity (though that irrepressible twinkle in his eyes speaks volumes), he shakes my grubby hand.
I try hard not to notice how gorgeous he is.
‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle Gina. Please forgive me for disturbing you. I just wanted to pick up one or two of the tools we left here yesterday. My mother lost a couple of roof tiles in the storm and I’m fixing them for her.’ He nods at the shutters. ‘You’re doing a good job there,’ he says chivalrously, choosing to ignore the fact that I’ve clearly bodged things terribly on my first attempt.
‘However,’ he continues solicitously, ‘if you would allow me to make a suggestion, you might find it easier to take the shutters down before you sand them. You’ll probably find it a bit more stable on solid ground,’ he can’t resist adding with a cheeky grin.
I attempt to regain my composure, concentrating on the shutters with what I hope appears to be an air of competent efficiency. ‘Why, yes, of course; they’re just a little heavy for me to take down on my own.’
And in fact it hadn’t even occurred to me that this might be a possibility, but on closer inspection it looks like they’ll simply lift off their hinges quite easily.
In the space of a couple of minutes, Cédric has taken the shutters off all the windows and piled them in a neat stack on the grass. ‘I be
lieve your aunt had a pair of trestles in the shed,’ he says, leading the way.
So that’s what those wooden frames are—I did wonder.
‘You’ll be wanting to put a good primer on them after you’ve finished the sanding. Mr Bricolage has ones for exterior woodwork. Look for one marked for extreme conditions. The weather here can be pretty wild, as you’ve already discovered.’
Ah, so that’s where I went wrong. Primer.
‘Yes, of course. I was intending getting just that,’ I say.
‘The large shutters on the doors are very heavy,’ he continues. ‘But you have enough to be getting on with here, and then tomorrow, when my brothers and I return, we’ll lift the others off for you.’
As he finishes speaking, there’s the sound of car tyres coming up the drive and we both turn to see who it is. ‘Great,’ I think. ‘Someone else dropping by, just to ensure my humiliation is complete.’
My heart sinks still further as Nigel Yates pulls up beside us and jumps out. He comes round the side of the car and embraces me like a long-lost friend. ‘My dear Gina,’ he exclaims, ignoring Cédric. ‘I heard you’d had some damage in that awful storm the other night. Thought I’d come to the rescue!’
Heard how? I wonder fleetingly, the power of the bush telegraph in a small rural community still a novelty to me.
‘Cédric Thibault, Nigel Yates,’ I make the introductions so he has to turn to acknowledge Cédric, who is standing by patiently with a polite smile on his face.
‘Monsieur,’ Nigel says with a curt nod.
‘Cédric and his brothers are stonemasons. They very kindly came yesterday to patch up the worst of the damage and are coming back tomorrow to carry on with the job. So it’s good of you to come by, but thanks to the Thibaults, everything’s under control.’
Instead of sharing my delight at this fortunate turn of events, Nigel appears somewhat annoyed. He spots the pile of shutters. ‘And are they fixing shutters for you too?’ he asks.
‘Non,’ replies Cédric, who has clearly understood the gist of our conversation. ‘Mademoiselle Gina is undertaking that work herself. I was just giving her a hand taking the shutters down. In fact, now that you’re here, perhaps we can remove the larger ones too.’
‘Of course,’ replies Nigel in a tone that suggests he is man enough for any such challenge, and he removes his jacket, arranging it somewhat fussily across the back seat of his car. I can’t help but compare the slight flabbiness of his stomach beneath his neatly tucked-in shirt with the firm muscularity of Cédric’s midriff under his clean white T-shirt.
Leading the way, Nigel seizes the first large shutter beside the front door and heaves it upwards but it doesn’t budge. Cédric produces a hammer and chisel and, with a few deft taps, loosens the hinges. Taking a side each, the men lift the heavy wooden panel and carry it over to lean it against a tree beside the trestles. Cédric’s arms are tanned and muscular and he balances the weight with the easy grace of a man accustomed to physical labour. They repeat the exercise until all the door shutters have been removed, by which time Nigel’s face is looking distinctly red and shiny and the long, carefully arranged strands of hair covering his receding hairline have flopped free and are hanging down, in a somewhat alarming style, over one ear. Damp stains have appeared under the sleeves of his shirt, the tail of which has come adrift from his waistband.
Though, of course, I’m hardly in a position to criticise, given my own scruffy state.
Cédric, on the other hand, remains neatly unruffled and hardly seems to have exerted himself at all in lifting the heavy and cumbersome shutters.
When they’ve finished there’s an awkward pause. ‘Would anyone like a glass of water?’ I ask, to fill it.
Nigel accepts with alacrity, combing his hair with his fingers to plaster the wayward locks back into position.
‘Non merci,’ says Cédric. ‘I must get on with fixing my mother’s roof.’ He picks up a box of tools. ‘See you tomorrow, Gina,’ he says, shaking my hand, ‘and bonne continuation with your work. Monsieur,’ he nods and politely proffers a hand to Nigel.
Once Cédric disappears down the drive, Nigel turns to me. ‘You want to be careful about who you use to do work on your house, you know, Gina. You can’t just ask the first cowboy who comes along. And French workmen can be tricky. I’ve got an excellent English builder whom I use. I’ll phone him for you first thing tomorrow and ask him to come by and look at what needs doing.’
‘Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,’ I say firmly, trying not to let my annoyance show. ‘The Thibault brothers are extremely experienced and I’m lucky to have them.’
‘But surely it’s difficult communicating—how will you tell them what you want done?’
‘That won’t be a problem,’ I reply shortly. ‘I speak excellent French.’
As long as you ignore the occasional complete foot-in-mouth bloomer, I think. And also the fact that I haven’t the first clue about roof construction in English, never mind in French, so I have no idea what I want done. Other than the fact that I want it all put back to how it was, and preferably so that it won’t blow down again in the next storm either.
Nigel is clearly not picking up, from the warning note in my voice, the fact that he’s seriously beginning to piss me off. ‘Well, I just hope they’re not ripping you off,’ he persists. ‘What’s their quote for the job? They tend to have one price for the French and one for the English, you know.’
I don’t want to admit to him that I haven’t had a quote, that in fact I haven’t asked at all what this is going to cost. ‘They’re giving me an excellent price and I’m more than satisfied that they’ll do a good job. They come very highly recommended.’
By their own mother, admittedly.
‘So thank you for your offer of help, but I’ve got it all under control,’ I end firmly. ‘Now, if you’ve finished your water, please excuse me. I must get back to my sanding.’
I hold out a hand to take the glass from him.
‘Well, I’ll be interested to see how you get on. Let me know if you have any problems with the work. I just hope they get it finished before they bugger off on holiday for most of August. The French do, you know. Remember, I’m always here if you need anything. Us expats have to stick together!’ And with a slightly damp peck on each cheek, he finally departs.
‘Yuk,’ I say, rubbing my face and watching his car disappear. ‘I’m not bloody sticking anything anywhere with you, that’s for sure.’ And with renewed energy, I plug myself back in to my iPod, turning the volume up high again, and take my irritation at Nigel and my frustration at the un-attainability of Mr Blue Pickup out on the next shutter.
CHAPTER SIX
A Social Life at Last
To-Do list:
•Attain balance and poise in life—ongoing
•45 mins Pilates (exercise to help ward off frustration)—daily
•Buy more paint
•Get manicure
•Think of ways to meet attainable, unmarried man, with or without children—ongoing.
By the end of the following week, my life is feeling a little more under control. Oh, I’m still upset and angry, to the point of nausea, whenever I allow myself to think about that photo of Dad and to speculate about Liz’s affair with him—no wonder she said meeting the love of her life had been an impossible situation! But I’ve pretty much managed to shrug off the frustration and disappointment of discovering that Cédric is safely married with two children. I try not to let myself think about any of it much, immersing myself in sandpaper and olive-green paint: denial and distraction seem to be by far the best strategies for coping with the train wreck that is my life at the moment.
And tonight I’ve got the welcome distraction of company for once. Hugh and Celia have come for an evening drink and we sit on the terrace with a bottle of blanc sec on the table before us, condensation forming a thirst-quenching dew on the glasses before us, even before we take the first sip.
I lift my glass in return and take the first sip of my cool wine, savouring the balance and depth of the flavour.
If only you knew, I think. The roof has been an almost welcome diversion from the discovery that my quiet, unassuming father had a secret, passionate affair with his sister-in-law at some point in his married life. And, for all I know, it may have continued until he died. I wonder how I can bring the conversation round to the subject of my father nonchalantly, to see whether the Everetts know anything about the timing and frequency of his possible visits here.
But Hugh’s more interested in the progress of my roof than in idle chit-chat. He tips his head back to look up at the scaffolding which still encases the wall of the house.
‘You know, Gina, you were terribly lucky getting the Thibault brothers, and at such short notice. They’re the best in the area, real craftsmen. Everyone wants them for their building projects. There’s usually a six-month wait. You’ve obviously charmed them,’ he smiles archly.
‘Hmm, I think it was more the fact that their mother ordered them to do it than anything to do with me. I’m very lucky to have a neighbour who wields so much clout,’ I say, hoping that my brisk tone will make up for the fact that my face has flushed scarlet at the thought of charming one of the brothers in particular.
‘Poor you, though,’ chips in Celia. ‘All that added expense—and on something as boring as a roof.’
‘Yes, boring but rather essential, as I rapidly realised once I didn’t actually have one any more. But I’ve been incredibly lucky there, too. The insurance assessor came straight round when I called him after the storm and they’re going to cover quite a bit of the cost. The Thibaults have given me a very reasonable price for the rest of the job, so thankfully it’s not going to make too much of a dent in my redundancy money.’
