I can see Amandine is waiting for an explanation why I would want such a big quiche. I do not enlighten her.
“If you are having lunch guests, what about an amandine, Miss?” asks Olivier.
He has stepped from the backroom, and looking like a ghost with his face, hair, hands and arms covered in flour.
“Yes, why not? It will be nice with coffee afterwards.”
After what asks Amandine’s face while she transforms a piece of cardboard into a pretty box for the amandine which she ties with a pink string.
“Hold it by the string. It won’t snap,” she tells me.
The quiche too she puts in a box, but not a pretty pink one, and I put both boxes on the Merc’s rear seat for the drive back to Le Presbytère.
-0-
The two men are in the front garden. Colin is also now wearing a green plastic apron - must be one of the spare ones Fred keeps in his neat gardening shed at the bottom of my back garden. Both were down on all fours when I drove through the gate, but they rise to their feet as I drive by. Fred never wears a hat, but Colin is wearing a baseball cap with the words Big Apple across the front; must be his own because Fred would not even know a baseball cap exists. I am happy to see Colin is not wearing his back to front as the youths do these days.
I park the Mercedes, next I go tell the men I have something for their lunch.
Fred smacks his lips.
“Thank you very much, Miss, feeling a bit peckish I must admit.”
Colin stands with his feet a little apart, looking at me. He looks so assured, so confident what he was doing, when I arrived, was done well. He has a heap of dead leaves at his feet. He is wearing Wellingtons like Fred. They must be his own because I know Fred has just the one pair.
“I will leave the two of you - Fred … Colin.”
“What time would you like us at the table?” asks Colin.
He transfers his weight from one foot to another, suddenly not as confident as a moment ago. I wonder why.
Overhead clouds have started to form. I point at them.
“As soon as these open up, or should they pass us by, you can come through to the kitchen in … shall we say … about an hour?”
“It won’t rain, Miss, so Colin and I will be with you in an hour.”
Colin and I. They are indeed getting on well.
-0-
As I said, Fred did not like Jean-Louis. None of the staff did. As for my mother, uncertain about whether he would become her son-in-law and therefore treading carefully, tried not to reveal she did not like him either. Marius and Marion liked him. Marius, because of his guilt at distancing himself from my parents’ health problems and letting me deal with those, and using Le Presbytère as a place for free weekends for him, his wife and children when they wanted to be served hand and foot. Marion, because she is a romantic.
“He is so charming, so dishy, dear sister-in-law. You should fence him in.”
Jean-Louis was not to be fenced in.
Charissa and Carmen, his two daughters, told me so.
Jean-Louis decided to have a few friends over to his apartment.
“Will this be a party?” I wanted to know.
If so, I wanted to know what I should wear because at that stage of our relationship I had not met any of his friends and I wanted to make a good impression.
“Sort of a party. Yes.”
“Do I therefore not have to wear a dress, but just a sort of dress?”
“You will steal the show, no matter what you wear, and should you wear nothing at all, even more so.”
His eyes were fixed lovingly on me.
Jean-Louis’ apartment was marvellous. I am sure many of his girlfriends would have wanted to move in with him just for the view of the Eiffel Tower from his windows, to wake up at night, the tower’s dark shape at the foot of the bed like a sentinel. The apartment itself was a marvel too and I am sure when he gave it up to return to the family’s apartment in the Paris suburb of artificial, boring and dull Neuilly, the hearts of its wealthy residents beating to the tick tock of the clock on the trading floor at Paris’ Bourse, he missed, what he always dismissed as, three hundred and thirty metres of wrought iron: the tower.
The apartment was a split-level penthouse.
Of course he would be able to afford a split-level penthouse, he’s a lawyer, Marius had scoffed.
The first time I went to the apartment - a few days after our return from Geneva - I thought I had walked into a dream orchestrated by Salvador Dali. The living-cum-dining room on the lower floor was vast. In one corner stood a light-grey corner sofa, a large, bare window behind it. In another corner stood a black Chesterfield sofa and a scarlet-red dining table with white upright café chairs around it. In the middle of the room stood a silver-white love chair and scattered across the black-and-white tiled floor were plastic poufs in every conceivable colour, the light from metal bow lamps reflecting off the plastic. On the wall facing the window hung a huge star-shaped mirror; I could not help thinking of the giant holes Jean-Louis had to make in the wall to hold the mirror in place and wondering what his landlord would make of those. On the other walls hung huge seri- and -lithographs of abstract landscapes and also a huge reproduction of Andy Warhol’s Marilyn Monroe. In the bedroom, over a super king-size oriental platform bed with a dark blue fusion mattress, flanked on both sides by a bonsai tree, hung another huge reproduction, a serigraph of Salvador Dali’s blue and grey Sacrament of the Last Supper. I thought the Dali so unsuitable for a bedroom and always, in our most intimate moments, I wished I had covered Jesus’ face with a sheet, and silently did I always thank the twelve apostles on the painting for hiding their faces. Much more acceptable did I find Andy Warhol’s Che Guevara which hung in the kitchen. Che was so very manly: I am sure he would have loved our nocturnal activities in the bedroom.
On the night of the party, I stood on Quai Branly, the tower on my left, and I looked across the Seine and up at Jean-Louis’ building on Avenue President Kennedy. His windows shimmered in the half-light of evening, and I realised every bow lamp in the apartment must be switched on. I wore a new grey dress I bought on the insistence of Marion who accompanied me to her favourite Rue du Faubourg-St-Honoré boutique, and I suspected I looked elegant, even stunning, yet when I walked across the river on Pont d’Iena, my lips started to quiver with nervousness. In the elevator going up to the apartment, I could hardly breathe. What was I so nervous about? Meeting Jean-Louis’ friends?
I had a key to his apartment, but I thought it highly inappropriate to let myself in, so I rang the doorbell. A total stranger opened the door and told me to step right in. Jean-Louis, standing at the scarlet-red dining table saw me and waved to me to come over. He was talking to a grey-haired man in a dark suit and scarlet red tie which matched the table. I found it so ridiculous, that a real smile immediately replaced the quivering one.
Jean-Louis kissed me on both cheeks.
“Belle belle ma belle Bella,” he whispered into my ear.
He took my hand, led me around the room, introducing me to people as we passed them. Pierre, Albert, Annie, Victor. Mike, who was from New York - Hi Doc! I’ve got piles, was his drunken greeting - and Ilze, who was from Hamburg - Jean-Louis told me you are half German, how nice!
In the kitchen, I was introduced to a blonde dressed from head to toe in white leather, who, was she not mixing pink and purple cocktails, I would have been mistaken for a giant meringue. Her name escapes me, but she was a dancer at the Crazy Horse Saloon.
Jean-Louis left me in the kitchen to return to his guests, some of them who had started to dance to a slow sung in American English - luv sang the singer and not love - coming from Jean-Louis’ large and expensive steel and glass hi-fi player. Not wanting to dance and not having anything to say to the Meringue I made my way up the wooden staircase, the usual creak of the wood muted by the music, to go to the bedroom. I was hoping to be able to sit down there for a few moments of isolation and reflection, but a su
rprise awaited me: two dark-haired girls sat on the bed, trying to solve the mystery of a Rubik Cube. I presumed they were Charissa and Carmen and they had taken their father’s Cube from downstairs where he, having been unable to align the colours, had turned it into an ornament, its colours perfectly matching those of the room.
One of the girls looked up from the Cube.
“Good evening.”
“Good evening. Any luck?”
I pointed to the Cube.
“It’s easy to do,” she snapped.
She childishly hid the unsolved Cube in the folds of the duvet quilt on the bed.
“In that case, you should show your father how to do it,” I said.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Are you my dad’s new girlfriend?” asked the other girl.
“My name’s Bella.”
“I’m Carmen,” said the girl who had spoken to me first.
She held a small hand out to me.
“I’m Charissa,” said the other one.
“Hello, you two!”
“Are you my dad’s new girlfriend?” Carmen repeated her sister’s question.
“We know he has a girlfriend again because we could smell her when we walked into the bathroom on our arrival.”
“Huh?”
“Not like smell in stink. Like in Dior.”
“That’s a relief.”
The three of us laughed.
“What do you do, Bella?” Carmen wanted to know.
“How do you mean? I’ve come to your father’s party.”
“No. For a living.”
“I’m a doctor.”
“Gosh! Do you cut people open?” asked Charissa.
She rubbed a hand over her flat tummy.
“Depends.”
“Like who do you cut open?” asked Carmen.
“Like little girls who ask too many questions.”
“I’m twelve,” Carmen quickly told me.
She stood up and visibly pulled herself upwards to appear tall and grownup.
“And how old are you, Charissa?”
“Fourteen. I was a mistake.”
She brushed a dark curl from her pretty face.
“How do you mean?”
I wondered whether she meant what I thought she did.
“My mom became pregnant when she and my dad had not yet been to the town hall,” she whispered as if the three of us were sharing a big secret.
Been to the town hall. Been to the town hall for the mayor to marry them.
“I see.”
“Are you shocked?” asked Carmen.
“I … no … good heavens, no!”
I was shocked, yes. In a way. I was even a little angry because that was a detail Jean-Louis had not told me.
“Is my father going to marry you?” asked Carmen.
“Of course he’s not! He never marries his girlfriends because he is married to Mom, you stupid!” Charissa angrily told Carmen.
“Our mother’s name is Colette. She makes the nicest fries in the world,” said Carmen.
“Can you make fries?” Charissa wanted to know from me.
“Yes.”
“I bet your fries aren’t anywhere as nice as Mom’s.”
Just then, Jean-Louis walked into the bedroom.
“Oh, so the three of you have met.”
“She’s pretty,” said Carmen.
“Not ugly like that other one,” said Charissa.
“Come on you two, stop your nonsense,” reprimanded Jean-Louis.
The two screamed with laugher.
“Wow, she was ugly!” said Carmen.
Jean-Louis had blushed.
“I told you to stop your nonsense, so do so. Come on downstairs and sing Waterloo for us,” he told the two.
We made our way down the stairs. The Meringue and a black Adonis in tight jeans and shimmering tank-top were entwined in a fervent embrace which needed a bed, or judging by the urgency in their movements, just the floor under our feet.
Someone put Abba’s Waterloo on the player and we formed a circle around Charissa and Carmen. The two clumsily started to move their legs forward and back and to the side to the beat of the music.
My my ... At Waterloo Napoleon did surrender ... Oh yeah ...
Everyone sang along, the voices drowning those of Anni-Frid and Agnetha.
Jean-Louis clicked his fingers and motioned for us to click ours. I experienced a moment of panic in case we were all to join in the dancing. I have never been good at dancing and I certainly could not keep a tune, so I would not have wanted to commence my apprenticeship imitating Anni-Frid or Agnetha with all his chic friends watching.
Fortunately, I was saved.
Jean-Louis stopped clicking his fingers and one after the other we, his guests, also stopped clicking ours.
The girls’ movements were no longer clumsy.
In perfect harmony they sang, My my...I tried to hold you back, but you were stronger... Oh yeah ... I feel like I win when I lose ... Waterloo ... My my ...
The music stopped and Jean-Louis grabbed each girl around the waist and lifted both off the floor.
We cheered, and I could see the pride in his eyes.
At a quarter to twelve the guests started to leave. They searched through a stack of designer jackets and anoraks which lay on the Chesterfield, said ciao to the host and filed out in a row like people going for a bus, when I knew this class would have come either by taxi or in their expensive German cars.
Half an hour later, Jean-Louis, his hair tousled and wet, sat on the corner sofa, Charissa and Carmen to his left, sharing a red pouf, and once again trying to solve the Cube. He patted on the sofa for me to join him. The girls, having seen his gesture, jumped up to go to him too, but he stopped them with a pointed finger and a shake of his head.
“Bella, I hardly had a chance to speak to you tonight,” he whispered to me.
“Your party was a great success, so it does not matter,” I whispered back.
“Bah!”
“No really. I think everyone had a good time. The girls ...”
He leaned towards me.
“They’re staying for the weekend, so - so I would have to ask you to go. It’s Col ... their mother’s birthday and she’s gone up to Deauville with friends, so they are with me for the weekend. Sorry!”
I immediately got to my feet.
“I thought, with the girls visiting, you had an opportunity to meet them.”
Was he apologising to me?
“We met,” I said.
“And?”
The girls were looking at us as if they knew our whispering was about them.
“I had imagined them - I don’t know - blonde-haired, I think. Or at least having brown hair like you.”
“Col … their mother is blond.”
I did not know!
“Natural?” I asked cattily.
“With the assistance of some stuff - et puis alors? ”
I let it go.
“What do you make of them - the two?” he asked not looking at them and still keeping his voice down.
“They are pretty. Bright.”
“Thank you! They do give me a problem or two, but they are good kids, yes.”
Forthright they were too as I could have told him because through them I then knew that he did not marry his girlfriends.
-0-
The kitchen smells like the dining room of a London two-star hotel at eight in the morning - of bacon and eggs and coffee - stale coffee being kept hot on a hotplate.
Colin and Fred walk in.
“Smells interesting,” says Colin.
“Quiche,” Fred informs him.
“How do you know?”
“Am I right, Miss? Amandine?”
“Amandine,” I confirm.
The two sit down at the work table. They have taken their green plastic aprons off which lie on the ground outside the backdoor. Colin’s hair is wet and tousled and a vision of Jean-Louis sitting o
n his corner sofa at the end of his party, his hair wet and tousled, appears in front of my eyes.
“Is it true that here in France all bread is homemade?” asks Colin, addressing me.
He is buttering a chunk of baguette.
“Not anymore these days, Colin,” replies Fred on my behalf.
Colin looks at me.
“I think the invention of sliced bread in plastic wrappers is the greatest disaster to have befallen us in England.”
“We’ve got those too here in the supermarkets and in the Arab superettes which are open at all hours,” comes from Fred.
“Open all hours. That makes me laugh,” says Colin.
Fred looks puzzled.
“I am referring to one of our - the U.K’s sitcoms - called Open All Hours which is about a corner grocer who seems never to be closed. Marvellous actor in it - Ronnie Barker. It ran during the seventies,” Colin explains.
“My wife and I watch Dallas,” says Fred.
He pulls his face into a growl in imitation of J.R. Ewing.
Something in Colin’s posture of ennui tells me this vein of conversation is about to end, and it does.
We continue to eat in silence. I have cut a large wedge from the quiche for each of the two, and a much smaller one for me. Fred is eating his as one eats pizza; with his hands. I can see Colin is watching him with an expectant smile, contemplating whether a forkful of egg is going to fall onto the floor.
The quiche eaten, I ask Fred to cut the amandine.
“Have the two of you finished in the garden?” I ask.
“Ooh la la, no,” mumbles Fred.
His mouth is full of cake.
I fill three small cups with black coffee.
“So, what must you still do out there, Fred?”
“The yew and the hawthorn will have to be trimmed, Miss. As I said to Colin, it is a pity that it’s got to be done when it’s almost November but we can’t wait for spring. He and I are going to do it as soon as we’ve finished here. I’ll help you wash up first though.”
Bella...A French Life Page 14
