‘You know, maybe we should be getting back upstairs,’ I suggest, hanging back slightly. Call me paranoid, but I don’t trust Felix’s hands-on approach.
‘Oh they will be ages,’ he says dismissively, ‘we have plenty of time, plus we’re just getting to know each other . . .’
Uh-oh. He gives me the kind of look that you see in wildlife documentaries where the poor little baby gazelle is being eyed up by the hungry lion. You know, that look just before the lion pounces.
‘Though I already know we both share a love of the finer things in life,’ he continues, moving closer.
‘We do?’ I step backwards. It’s like we’re doing some kind of dance.
‘Wine and antiques,’ he says.
‘Oh, right, yes, of course.’ I nod. Seriously, I am so going to kill Harriet. A favour is one thing, but what part of ‘delivering a catalogue’ includes fighting off a lecherous old soak?
Frantically I try to remember what I’d learned in those tae kwon do classes I signed up for a couple of years ago.
‘And I’m sure we’ll discover we have a lot more in common . . .’ Out of the gloom, his white linen bulk continues to slowly advance towards me, like a cruise liner.
But my mind’s a blank. Oh, I know, wear comfy clothes, yes that was it. Well, I only went to the first one, the classes clashed with Downton.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t think so,’ I laugh, trying to make light of the situation. I swear, any minute now and he’s going to be saying his wife doesn’t understand him.
‘You know, my wife doesn’t understand me.’
Argh. This cannot be happening. It just can’t.
Only it is, and as I edge backwards I realise I’m now trapped between one of the barrels and his chest. I take a deep breath. Right that’s it, this is ridiculous. I need to be firm but polite.
‘Felix—’ I say sharply, drawing myself up to my full height.
‘Claude—’
Huh, what? I twirl round to see a tall, older gentleman in a beret, holding a clipboard.
‘Claude is the maître de chai, the cellar master, one of the estate’s most trusted employees,’ says Felix, trading a few hurried words with him in French. ‘There is nothing that this man does not know about wine.’
‘Claude, hi!’ I say, manoeuvring my way out of my tight spot and clinging on to his hand with relief. ‘I’m Ruby, so nice to meet you.’
Claude looks rather taken aback by my exuberant introduction, but shakes my hand nonetheless.
‘I was just showing our guest around the cellars,’ interrupts Felix, ‘explaining the wine-making process – in case my wife should ask,’ he adds pointedly.
‘But of course,’ says Claude and a look flashes between them that tells me this isn’t the first time Felix has been caught giving a guest a private tour of his wine cellars.
‘Would you care to taste some of the wines?’ he asks solemnly, turning to me.
‘Yes, that would be lovely,’ I say eagerly. Anything not to be alone with Felix.
‘Monsieur?’
He pretends to think about it for a moment, then gives a little fake shrug of defeat. ‘Well, I suppose it would be rude not to accompany my guest,’ he concedes, and without further need for encouragement swiftly takes two glasses from Claude and passes me one.
‘The first thing you have to look at is the colour,’ instructs Claude, ceremoniously uncorking a bottle of red wine and skilfully pouring out two large glugs.
Oh dear. This is probably where I should confess that I know absolutely nothing about wine and that I buy whatever is on special at Tesco Metro on the corner. However, I’m standing in one of the most prestigious wine cellars in Provence, if not the world, in front of what is probably one of the leading experts on wine-making.
‘This is very important,’ he continues gravely, his expression serious.
Somehow I don’t think now is the right time to share my story of ‘the night I got hammered on Merlot’ or start explaining about Tesco Clubcard points.
‘What do you see?’
I stare nervously at my glass. Call me a Neanderthal, but it looks red.
‘Look for the transparency of the grape, the tones of red and yellow—’
‘—and pink and green.’ Automatically I finish off the rhyme and then feel my cheeks flame as I suddenly realise what I’ve said. Oh god.
Felix frowns slightly. ‘Green?’ he repeats, swirling his glass and peering at it intently.
‘Well . . . um – more purple,’ I say vaguely and glance at Claude, imploring him to move on. Which he does, thankfully.
‘Next are the legs,’ he continues, ‘which is an indication of the alcohol.’
‘Oh, yes, I know all about that!’ I interject. Maybe it is OK for me to tell my wine story, if we’re talking about what wine does to your walking ability. ‘You should have seen me the night I drank a bottle of Merlot,’ I exclaim. Rolling my eyes, I do an impression of me wobbling all over. ‘Honestly, I could barely stand up! I was legless!’
Claude stares at me blankly. As does Felix, who I notice has downed most of his glass already.
‘You know, legs, legless,’ I repeat, only this time in my best French accent. It mustn’t translate well, that’s why they’re not laughing.
‘“Legs” are what we call the streaks of wine that appear on the side of the glass, like so,’ intones Claude sternly. Expertly he swirls the wine and holds it to the light.
‘Oh, you mean . . .’
Oh bloody hell. How embarrassing.
‘Next, we smell the wine,’ he says, sticking his nose deep into the glass. Personally I wish I could stick my entire face in the glass, I’m so mortified, but I breathe in while he talks about scents of melon and peaches and freshly cut grass.
‘Now we taste a sip—’
Finally, I take a grateful gulp.
‘—Allowing the air to be drawn over it—’ Claude makes a gurgling sound.
Fuck. I’ve already swallowed mine. Hastily I take another sip before anyone notices. Somewhere deep in my memory I seem to remember something about spitting out the wine when you’re tasting, but after my earlier faux pas I’m not about to start spitting. I glance sideways at Felix and briefly consider whether I should ask him if I should spit or swallow, then, as he smiles lecherously from the shadows, I hastily think better of it.
‘How was that?’ I turn back to see Claude looking at me expectantly. His glass appears to be empty as well.
‘Mmm, yes delicious.’ I nod, and glug the rest of it back. Well, I don’t want to look rude.
In fact I don’t want to look rude for the several more wines that we taste and so I spend the next thirty or so minutes swirling and sniffing and swallowing. It’s only when we’ve reached the last bottle that I notice a bucket in the shadows behind Claude.
Hang on a minute. I point at it. ‘Is that—?’
‘For the wine, yes,’ he finishes my sentence, before turning away and reappearing with an empty glass.
I stare at him open-mouthed. How did I not notice that before? But then it is quite dark in here and I’ve been mostly keeping my eye on Felix, who’s been surreptitiously refilling his glass between tastings.
‘Thank you Claude, that was most educational,’ he slurs, thumping him on the back.
‘Yes, thank you.’ I smile gratefully, inadvertently distracting him while Felix swipes the rest of the bottle.
‘I think I should double-check the legs on this Pinot,’ he says, realising he’s been caught red-handed, ‘quality control and all that.’ Pouring himself a large glass he, swirls it enthusiastically and pretends to inspect it in the light.
I see my chance to escape. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I need the ladies’ room,’ I say hastily and, before Felix can protest, I quickly dash out of the wine cellar and leg it back up the stairs.
Back in the bright safety of the hallway, I breathe a sigh of relief. Actually, I feel quite tipsy. Steadying myself against the wall, I head ba
ck towards the main salle, but it’s still empty. There’s no sign of Xavier whatsoever. Disappointed, I turn to walk back out of the room.
‘There you are!’
And bump straight into Felix.
‘Oh, yes, here I am,’ I say, forcing a smile and noting the wine stains down his linen shirt and the Cabernet fumes that are wafting towards me.
‘Can I can show you round the rest of the vineyard?’ He pins me in the doorway.
‘No! I mean, thanks, but I think I’ve taken up enough of your time,’ I say, a little more tactfully, and try to move past him, ‘I’ve troubled you enough—’
‘It’s no trouble.’
Seriously, he’s not budging. He’s like a cork, stuck fast in a bottle.
I try again. ‘I think I might explore the village, I hear they’ve got some lovely ceramics—’
‘I can drive you, I have the Porsche outside.’
My heart sinks. An old man in a Porsche. Could there be anything worse?
Felix staggers back slightly, giving me just enough room to slip past him. Actually yes, there is: a drunk old man in a Porsche.
‘No, it’s OK, I could do with the exercise, I’ll walk,’ I say hastily, striding towards the entrance.
‘It’s quite far,’ he protests, shuffling after me in his monogrammed slippers.
Determined, I step out on to the gravel driveway, then pause. Oh crap, he’s right, we’re in the middle of nowhere. I glance around me and spot an old yellow Renault reversing out of a space. For a moment I think about trying to hitch a ride, but it’s too late; before I’ve had a chance it’s disappeared in a cloud of dust and exhaust fumes.
‘It’s too far to walk,’ Felix calls after me from the entrance.
He’s right. It is. And yet . . .
As the dust settles I spot a bicycle leaning against the wall where the yellow car has just been parked. It’s rusty. I have no idea who it belongs to. And I haven’t ridden one in years.
‘Ruby!’
Still, you never forget how to ride a bike, right?
24
Wrong.
That’s absolute rubbish. In fact, whoever said it should be forced to ride a bike after drinking about eight glasses of wine, in thirty-degree heat, with a semi-flat tyre and a seat that goes right up your—
Ouch.
Wobbling down the gravelly path, I jig up and down on the hard leather saddle. I can’t remember it ever being this difficult to keep my balance. Or this painful. I grimace, wishing more than anything that I had chosen not to wear a G-string today. I’d rather have a visible panty line than bits that are being torn to shreds. Imagine a cheese grater and your labia and— actually, no, on second thoughts, too much information.
Wincing, I try standing up on the pedals, then lose my balance and collapse back down again on the razor-sharp seat. Argh! If I didn’t know where my pubic bone was before, I certainly do now. It’s probably not helping that all that wine’s gone right to my head and I feel a bit – well, tipsy would be one word. Rattling down the path, I clutch the handlebars and try to focus. It’s really weird, but it’s like there are two paths, almost as if I’ve got double vision. I close one eye. Ah, that’s better, now there’s just one path.
Another word would be pissed.
Well, no one told me I was supposed to spit, did they? And I didn’t want to be rude. Not when I’m here representing Harriet . . . I sway dangerously as I go round a corner and hang on for dear life.
The path winds upwards and I press down hard on the pedals. I’m not sure at the moment that the person who invented the bicycle really thought it through. I mean, why skimp on wheels and only have two? And why sit so high up? I eye the ground warily from over the top of the handlebars. It’s a long way down if you fall off. Not that I’m going to fall off of course, I tell myself firmly, I just need to get the hang of it. After all, half of London is whizzing around on those free bikes, so it can’t be that hard. I’m just a bit out of practice.
Huffing and puffing up the hill, I wipe the rivulets of sweat that are dripping down my forehead. God, it’s hot. Like a furnace. I wish I’d brought some suntan lotion and a hat. I can feel myself already getting sunburned.
I suddenly have one of those out-of-body experiences that I sometimes have. You know, the ones where you’re in the middle of doing something and you look down on yourself and think ‘How on earth did I get here?’ And not in a good way.
I mean, hello? Whenever I thought about visiting the south of France for the first time, this is not how I imagined it. I imagined wafting around St Tropez looking cool and chic, with one of those straw bags slung casually over my tanned shoulder. Or snapping selfies of myself on a sunlounger while sipping eye-wateringly expensive cocktails and spotting celebs. Or enjoying a romantic candlelit dinner in a quintessential village square with a man who’s crazy about me, sipping rosé, nibbling on gastronomic delights, kissing underneath the stars . . .
I did not – repeat not – imagine being a big sweaty lobster-red ball on a bicycle in the middle of god knows where.
Good one, Ruby. As usual, you’ve scored ten out of ten in life.
For a brief moment I think about turning back, returning to the coolness of the chateau, but then I have a flashback to Felix, and I seem to find from somewhere a renewed strength in my legs.
Plus of course, this way I get to explore the village where Emmanuelle spent the rest of her life as Madame Dumont. It’s a chance I can’t miss.
Thighs and heat permitting, of course.
Fortunately, there is a God and just when I think I’m going to have to get off and push, the path levels out and I cycle the rest of the way without too much effort. In fact, I actually start to enjoy it. The path turns into a country lane on either side of which are fields of lavender and old stone barns, hedges of wild flowers and butterflies that circle and swoop around me like tropical-coloured confetti.
Gosh, it really is gorgeous here, I muse, gazing at the landscape, which is like something you’d see in a Cézanne painting. Bright blue skies, rusty red rooftops, rich ochre earth. The colours are amazing – and the light. Oh, the light. Even in the height of summer, you never get this kind of light in London. It has a luminosity and a radiance that makes my heart sing. That makes me feel like I’ve been hibernating my whole life and suddenly bam, I’m alive.
I swear, right at this moment it’s all I can do not to log on to Zoopla and start looking at what I can get for the price of my dark little basement flat in Zone 2. Well, I wouldn’t be the first writer. If it was good enough for Peter Mayle—
Oh, I’m here already! Turning a corner, I see a small square with a fountain and realise I’ve arrived in the village. I’ve been so busy daydreaming I didn’t realise how close I was, but now I stop pedalling and slow down.
Café tables – at which are seated locals and a few tourists – spill out onto the cobbles, shaded from the midday sun by the large plane trees. Little winding streets meander up and down.
I hop off my saddle, hop being a euphemism for a groaning-wincing-dismount that leaves me walking wide-legged, like I’m in a Western, and wheel the bicycle to a small shop boasting a huge fridge selling ice-cold drinks. I buy a bottle of water and drink it straight down in one go. To say I needed that is something of an understatement.
After letting myself revive for a few moments, I feel about a million times better, and with renewed enthusiasm I set about exploring the village. Perched on a hilltop with a view of the mountains on one side, and a sweeping valley that leads down to the coast on the other, it has stunning vistas and a sleepy charm. After the frenetic pace of London and Paris, the rhythm here is much slower.
Locals sit fanning themselves in doorways, shopkeepers pass the time of day, children dangle their hands lazily into the fountain. Even the cats, so skittish in cities, roam casually around the narrow streets, stopping only to flop down on a sunny windowsill.
Which is what I’m tempted to do after my mammoth bik
e ride, but I’m not here to relax, I’m here to see if I can find out anything about Emmanuelle. I mean, there must be something here that will help explain the mystery of her apartment, surely?
I keep walking and after a few minutes I come across a small church. It’s as inviting as it is pretty and, propping my bicycle outside, I enter through the old wooden doors.
It’s much cooler inside and I relish the drop in temperature after the intensity of the sun. It’s also much darker, after the brightness of the day, and it takes a few moments for my eyes to adjust, but when they do I note the rows of small wooden pews, the ancient stained-glass windows casting prisms of coloured light, the carved stone ceilings. Did Emmanuelle come here? I wonder, casting my gaze around me.
I shuffle along one of the pews and sit down, like a thousand others before me. There’s no one else here, just me, and in the quiet I take a moment, trying to imagine what it must have been like for her to come here all those years ago, to leave Paris and her life behind. To leave Henry. I feel a beat of sadness. I wonder if she sat here and prayed to see him again. I wonder if her prayers were answered . . .
My imagination turns like a wheel. In my head I picture their reunion, a happy ending to the story, and yet I know there can’t be one. I saw the photograph in the chateau. She didn’t marry Henry, their romance didn’t last – she became Madame Dumont, wife to a wealthy landowner, and lived the rest of her days out here in the south of France. She married well, as they always used to say in those days, and lived to a ripe old age. So why does it sadden me? Why is that not a happy ending?
I gaze at the empty pulpit, at the shaft of light being cast from overhead, and search for an answer. Is it just the hopeless romantic in me? That part of me that believes in soulmates and true love and that magical feeling you have when they walk into a room and everything else disappears? In an invisible, intense, once-in-a-billion bond between two people that can never be broken, not even by death?
And who cannot let go of the conviction that in this mad, crazy, screwed-up world of ours, if you’re lucky enough to find that person, you never ever let them go?
Love From Paris Page 21
