The French for Love

by Fiona Valpy

  To cover my confusion, I bend back towards Nathalie. ‘And you look absolutely beautiful,’ I say. ‘Is that your new dress? It’s so pretty.’

  The little girl beams. ‘Oui. Pink is my favourite colour,’ she replies. ‘And how is Lafite? Did you shut him in safely?’

  ‘Yes, I left him listening to a little Mozart so I think he’ll be fine.’

  Nigel, who’s been chatting to some of the other members of our party, turns towards me and, to my intense annoyance, puts a proprietorial—and somewhat clammy—hand on the small of my back to usher me forward. ‘Here you go, Gina, it’s our turn next.’

  I smile again at Nathalie and Cédric. ‘Would you like to go first?’ I offer.

  ‘That’s very kind, but we’ll wait for the rest of the family,’ says Cédric, and I see that Luc, Marie-Louise and the others are getting up from their table. ‘Bonsoir, Monsieur,’ he adds politely to Nigel, who gives him a rather curt nod in reply.

  ‘Okay. Well, bonne continuation,’ I say, telling myself that the sense of disappointment that washes over me is completely out of line and must be ignored.

  As I make my way back to the table, my plate piled high with chicken and rice, I make a small detour to say hello to Mireille who has now joined the queue with the rest of her family. I kiss her, Marie-Louise and Luc and greet the brothers, including Pierre who juggles mobile phone and plate to shake my hand. But then I move on swiftly so I won’t hold them up in getting their meal. They are in the middle of a noisy, merry throng of friends and I’m an outsider here. And, besides, my food’s getting cold I tell myself, to divert the tide of self-pity that’s threatening to overwhelm me.

  The cheerful cacophony of clinking glasses, clattering cutlery and chattering voices grows louder than ever as the meal nears its end, cheeses and choc ices following the main course. Finally the mayor and his band of helpers circulate with bin bags to collect debris and plates are scraped thoroughly before being stowed carefully back into bags and baskets, the decks cleared for the evening’s main events. Darkness has now fallen and the fairy lights sparkle merrily beneath their canopy of paper streamers, replicated above, several millionfold, by the Milky Way. The DJ takes his place behind the bank of flashing lights and suddenly music floods the square and there’s a tidal surge towards the dance floor as couples begin to spin and sway to a Johnny Hallyday number. Small boys, fuelled up on ice cream and excitement now, race in and out of the dancers, while groups of little girls, in pretty dresses with their hair tied up in jaunty red, white and blue bows, hop solemnly and a little self-consciously on the edge of the bobbing, spinning throng.

  I’m chatting to Hugh and some of the others sitting around the table whose white paper cover is now festively printed with silver grease spots and pink circles of wine, when suddenly I’m aware that Nigel is trying hard to attract my attention. He’s drunk most of his bottle of wine and it hasn’t done much to enhance his charms. His face is now flushed a deep shade of magenta, clashing violently with his pink shirt, and his features, framed by their strands of sweat-slicked hair, have slackened and sagged. I studiously try to ignore this beguiling apparition bobbing increasingly persistently on the periphery of my vision. But then he puts a sticky hand on my upper arm, leaving a damp paw-print on the silk of my sleeve.

  Hugh, seeing my plight, leaps to his feet with alacrity and reaches a hand across the table. ‘Now, Gina, I believe we have a date for the first dance,’ he says. ‘Nigel, if you’ll excuse us?’

  He leads me to the dance floor.

  ‘Thank you. That was kind,’ I say.

  ‘Probably just a stay of execution, I’m afraid,’ he grins. ‘Don’t think you’re going to get away without a dance with him. But we can at least show him how it’s done.’

  To my surprise, Hugh commences an accomplished jive, leading me so that I quickly pick up the steps and am soon happily hopping and twirling. ‘This is fun!’ I shriek, as he whisks me round the dance floor. ‘Where did you learn to dance like this?’

  ‘On our five-year posting to Senegal there wasn’t much else to do. The expats, mostly French, ran Ceroc classes, and Celia and I signed up. We even won the dance-off at the Christmas party one year. First prize: a bottle of the local hooch. Second prize: two bottles of the local hooch.’

  He steers me deftly round another bobbing couple.

  ‘Shame your mother isn’t here for the party. Will she be coming to visit you soon?’

  ‘No plans,’ I shout above the beat of the music, as our orbit has now brought us alongside one of the banks of speakers that flank the disco’s flashing lights.

  ‘It’s a pity she couldn’t come more often when your father used to be over on his tasting trips, but I suppose she was quite tied up at home then, with you at school and so on.’

  I miss a turn and stumble clumsily.

  ‘Whoops—I’ve got you,’ he laughs.

  ‘So, did Dad come here often?’ I ask, hoping the question sounds casual despite the fact that I’m shouting to make myself heard above the music.

  ‘Not here so much, no. We only saw David in this neck of the woods once or twice. Mostly he was being wined and dined by the great and the good in Bordeaux. A tough assignment! But it was his work, after all, so maybe Catherine felt she didn’t want to be in the way. A pity though. Liz would have enjoyed her company.’

  Yes, I think, unless Liz was too busy enjoying Dad’s company instead.

  I want to ask him more, but the music slows as the song comes to an end and Hugh makes a mock bow and kisses my hand. ‘Thank you, my dear. That was most enjoyable and you are an excellent partner.’

  We pick our way back to the table where, I’m relieved to find, Celia has engaged Nigel in an animated conversation about the best local sources of click-lock flooring, a subject on which he apparently holds strong and expert opinions. I settle down to watch the swirl of the dancers as the music starts up again. It seems the whole of the local community is here and the full cross-section of ages, shapes and sizes is on display.

  I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to find Cédric standing there, a bottle of wine in one hand and two empty glasses in the other.

  And maybe it’s the heat or the wine or the music, but all of a sudden it’s as if the crowd fades away, leaving just the two of us in a space quite apart from everything and everyone else. I stand, feeling myself drawn to him without a word being spoken. Someone pushes past behind me and I’m forced in closer, suddenly dizzy with longing as my arm brushes against Cédric’s. I feel a jolt of heat, which has nothing to do with the warmth of the evening air and the crush of bodies around us, and everything to do with the fact that our eyes lock, in a gaze of such intense mutual desire that I think I may just melt into his arms here and now. For a long moment we hold one another with this look, naked in our unspoken hunger. It’s completely unambiguous. There’s no way I can explain it away. And surely everyone around us must be able to see it too, to sense the heat that flows between us. The language of desire needs no translation.

  I pull myself up short in the sudden realisation that ‘everyone’ includes his wife, mother and children, not to mention assorted brothers, cousins, uncles and aunts, and pretty much anyone he’s ever known. The spell is broken and he drops his gaze, downcast, as I draw away from him again, even though it takes every last shred of my willpower to make myself do it.

  I try to ignore the disappointment and hurt that are written clearly in his eyes, behind the warmth of his undeniably sexy smile.

  He gestures with the wine bottle and glasses. ‘I wondered if you’d like to try this. It’s a local wine, made by friends of mine. They’ve just won a medal for it.’ He pours a little of the velvety red liquid into each of the glasses and offers me one. To cover up the fact that my hands are shaking, in time with the trembling of my knees, I raise it to my lips and sip. My eyes widen in surprise. If it weren’t for the fact that I know it’s local, I’d have guessed this was from the Médoc. It has the complexity
and subtlety of its smarter and more expensive neighbours. Cédric grins, delighted at my response.

  ‘Your friends certainly know what they’re doing. What’s the name of the château?’ He turns the bottle so that I can see the label, which reads ‘Château de la Chapelle’ and bears the logo of the Sainte Foy Bordeaux appellation. I lean in closer to get a better look, and as I do, I sense again the heat of his body, and my head spins. He’s watching me intently, his dark eyes serious for a moment, and I get the impression he’s about to say something more.

  But the moment is shattered when suddenly we’re rudely interrupted. Nigel has materialised at my side, flushed with the excitement of yet another opportunity to demonstrate his extensive knowledge of the local DIY trade, or perhaps it’s just the effect of one more glass of wine.

  ‘There you are, Gina,’ he slurs, putting an overly familiar arm round my shoulders. ‘That was quite a display you and old Hugh put on, on the dance floor. Care to put me through my paces next?’

  ‘That would have been lovely,’ I say, smiling politely whilst firmly removing his arm, ‘but the music seems to have stopped.’ I turn back to Cédric, but he has gone. I catch a glimpse of him as he picks his way back through the throng to his family, and my throat constricts with disappointment.

  The mayor has re-taken the microphone and is announcing that the firework display is about to begin, if everyone would like to make their way to the viewpoint.

  Chattering and laughing, the crowd flows through the gap at the end of the square and regroups where the hillside falls away steeply to the darkened valley floor below. I try to manoeuvre so that several other members of our party are between me and Nigel, but he’s sticking to me like glue (‘sticking’ being the operative word), persistently edging rather too far into my personal space. I catch sight of the Thibaults over to our right. Pierre has lifted Nathalie onto his shoulders so she can see and she’s giggling and holding on tight to his dark curls. Cédric, standing next to them, catches my eye and raises a hand in faint salute, but he’s unsmiling now, his face expressionless. Luc has joined a gang of young boys who are buzzing with excitement at the front of the crowd. They are repeatedly shooed back by the mayor, although it’s like trying to herd a swarm of flies.

  The first rocket explodes above us and all faces turn to the starlit sky. All except one, that is. Out of the corner of my eye, in the flashes of coloured light that illuminate the scene, I’m acutely aware that Cédric is watching me, rather than the fireworks.

  The only sounds for the next quarter of an hour are the cracks of gunpowder and the oohs and aahs of delight. They’ve put on quite a show in this little town, and the same thing is happening all across France as, for one night at least, her people unite to celebrate the liberté, egalité and fraternité of their Republic.

  When the display is over, the music starts up again in the square, enticing the partygoers back to the disco. Some people begin to drift homewards and I head back to our table, intending to retrieve my basket and make my way back to the car parked in the Everetts’ drive. But I’m intercepted by Nigel, who grabs my hand and pulls me onto the dance floor.

  One of my favourite songs of the summer begins to play; I’ve heard it often on the radio. It’s a pulsing tune that has everyone up on their feet. Its words are a poignant invitation to all who are alone to come and join the dance and they seem to be directed at people like Liz used to be, or like my mother is now, making their way on their own through life. People like me.

  Or, indeed, like Nigel, who is now gyrating energetically in front of me. He appears to have no inhibitions on the dance floor, although sadly he also appears to have no sense of rhythm. All around us, couples have taken to the floor and all ages, shapes and sizes whirl by in formation. Little old ladies dressed in black dance past in decorous pairs. Hugh and Celia Ceroc on by in perfect harmony. The Carla Bruni ballet dancer and her dishy husband whirl past elegantly. And the tall lady novelist waltzes by clutching Monsieur le Maire to her ample bosom. And in the middle of it all, Nigel and I hop clumsily, out of sync with the music and with each other. What he lacks in style he makes up for in enthusiasm, though, and I duck to avoid his flailing arms, at the end of which his fingers are clicking, a move that’s straight out of the Austin Powers School of Groovy Dancing.

  He moves in closer, so I step back to try to maintain a bit of distance between us, and in doing so tread heavily on the foot of the dancer behind me, who staggers and bumps into his own partner, almost sending her flying. And my mortification is complete as I realise the couple are Cédric and Marie-Louise. I shout an apology, but he has caught her and they whirl off, orbiting in their own accomplished jive, he with a smile and a shake of his head and she laughing as she spins away and back again into the steadying embrace of his outstretched arm.

  The music finishes and, before it can segue into the next song, I thank Nigel and firmly turn and walk off the dance floor. He trots happily behind me, obviously pleased with his performance. We reach the table and he ensures my chagrin is complete with what is—as far as I’m concerned—his parting shot. ‘You know, Gina, you’re really not at all a bad dancer.’

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Hugh, Celia and I walk back through the quiet streets of the village, the music and lights in the square fading behind us, and pick our way carefully the hundred yards or so along the darkened country road to the driveway of their house. They’ve left lights on, which shine welcoming golden squares onto the gravel in front of the house.

  ‘Come in and have a cup of coffee,’ the Everetts urge.

  I hesitate. I wouldn’t normally, but there is something I want to do, so I accept. While Celia bustles around boiling the kettle and clinking cups and saucers in the kitchen, Hugh opens the French doors and we settle ourselves on their terrace, the night air still warm, the noise of cicadas drowning out the distant sounds of the continuing revelry in the place.

  Nonchalantly, as if it’s a thought that’s just occurred to me and not something I’ve mulled over endlessly through the dark hours of several recent sleepless nights, I say, ‘By the way, Hugh, since I’m here I might as well take away Liz’s urn. If it’s not inconvenient for you of course.’

  ‘Why, yes, not at all,’ he replies, glancing at me astutely. ‘We’ll get it on your way out. Have you decided what you’re going to do with it?’

  Neither of us can quite bring ourselves to mention the word ‘ashes’.

  ‘Not yet, but I think she should be back in her own home until I do decide.’

  Celia appears with a tray of elegant china and the conversation turns to a review of the evening’s festivities, and some final snippets of gossip about the other members of our party (it turns out the husband of the large woman sitting next to me ran off with their cleaning lady a year ago—‘They’ve moved to Gardonne and he’s gone almost native! Poor Vanessa; so brave of her to stay on, though of course Franco-British week keeps her busy.’).

  As I take my leave, Hugh dives into his study and reappears with a cardboard box which he stows carefully on the floor of my car by the passenger seat. ‘Mind how you go, Gina,’ he says in his gruff-yet-kind manner. I hug them both goodbye.

  It’s well after one a.m. when I get home, and Lafite runs out with an affronted squawk when I push open the door, indignant at having been incarcerated for the evening.

  I set the cardboard box down on the kitchen table and open the flaps. Inside there’s a neat black casket. I close the box up again, disguising the obscenity of death behind the plain brown packaging. It’s too late to decide where to put it tonight. I’ll think about it in the morning.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  And so, of course, at four a.m. I’m wide awake and staring at the spare-room ceiling. Lafite is curled up in a neat ball at the end of the bed, sleeping peacefully. But my mind is racing. That cup of coffee at the Everetts’ was definitely a mistake.

  I can’t stop replaying that moment when I thought Cédric was going to say someth
ing more. What would it have been? Something along the lines of, ‘Fancy an affair?’ I suppose. Just like every other cheating scumbag, I think bitterly.

  But he seems so different, not at all the type, says the voice of hope. Don’t be naive, it’s the French national pastime, says the voice of realism.

  To distract myself from this frustrating cycle of thoughts which is getting me nowhere—least of all to sleep—I turn my mind to the cardboard box on the kitchen table. Where am I going to scatter Liz’s ashes and where am I going to store the casket until I get around to the act of scattering? Rationally, of course, it’s just a pile of dust. Earth to earth and all that. But you can’t get away from the fact that this dust is the last remnant of Liz’s physical presence. And something that’s been so dear and so familiar deserves—demands—to be treated with respect. No, respect is too cold a word. With love. Whatever she might have been to my father, she was a wonderful aunt—and friend—to me. One of the people on this planet who really loved me. And there aren’t very many of those left, I reflect with a sudden rush of self-pity.

  Sorry, but four o’clock in the morning really is the loneliest of hours.

  I pull myself together. Okay, forget about where to scatter her ashes for the moment. Let’s just decide where to put the damn urn in the meantime.

  I don’t think I can bring myself to put it on the mantelpiece in the kitchen. It would put me off my food to sit looking at a jar of mortal remains every mealtime. I could keep it in the study, but I’ll be spending quite a bit of time in there when I really get started on my coursework and I don’t want it to be a constant distraction. I could stick it in the broom cupboard in the utility room and try to forget about it, but that seems far too callous, so it’d be on my conscience. Which would mean I couldn’t forget about it at all.

  The sitting room seems like the best compromise. It’s not a room Liz ever really used, but it seems respectful, with the air of formality that death demands, and at the same time is slightly out of the way of my daily life.