‘If you want,’ I say.
As we bump over the numerous potholes in the final stretch of ‘road’ to La Forge, the hamlet in which the house is located, I check the time on my phone. Though the drive has taken almost an hour, the torturous road and the setting sun make it feel like more.
‘You have reception?’ Victor asks, glancing over at me.
‘On and off, yes. I was just looking at the time. It’s hard to believe that it’s not even four, what with the sun setting and everything.’
‘Well it’s not really setting, is it?’ Victor says. ‘It’s just dipping behind the mountains.’
‘Sure . . . God, this road’s bad!’ I exclaim as the van bumps around.
‘Ha! You think this is bad? You just wait!’ And as if to prove his point he turns off down a dirt track – in fact, even dirt track would be overstating it. It’s a muddy wheel-stain which crosses a field.
‘Don’t you worry about getting stuck?’ I ask. ‘I mean if it rains . . .’
Victor shrugs. ‘It doesn’t really matter if I can’t get home, this being my home,’ he says, gesturing about the van.
‘No,’ I agree. ‘I suppose not.’
When we finally pull up in front of the farmhouse, words fail me. ‘Gosh!’ is the best I can manage.
‘Gosh?’ Victor repeats, pulling on the handbrake and releasing both of our seat belts.
We climb down from the van and Victor slides one arm around my waist. ‘Home!’ he says.
The farmhouse is a large single-storey building of the same grey stone from which all the drystone walls around the property are made. It is set into a niche carved from the hill behind. The building has only two tiny windows on the visible side and a gaping hole in the roof. To the right and left of the main house are two outbuildings, each about two-thirds the size of the main house, neither of which has any roof whatsoever.
The three buildings enclose what must once have been a gravelled courtyard, only most of the gravel has long since been driven into the mud. Vast amounts of junk sit in piles strewn around the courtyard: a rusty bike, a half-burnt settee, an almost entirely decomposed oil drum over there; a broken lawnmower, a garden chair, an old gas cooker and a toilet seat over here.
The sun is dipping behind the mountains now, the whole ensemble sliding into grey and, to be perfectly honest, I’m struggling to see the potential. The overriding ambience is cold, derelict and rather sinister.
‘You have to use your imagination,’ Victor says, pulling me tight. With his free hand he points as he describes what I’m apparently failing to imagine on my own. ‘This whole area nicely gravelled. Roses growing up the walls. No, um, hole in the roof. That cherry tree in blossom.’
I nod at the gnarled skeleton of a tree. ‘Is that really a cherry tree?’
‘Yep,’ he says.
‘It looks dead, though.’
‘You’ll find trees do that in winter,’ Victor says. ‘Come! I’ll show you the house before it gets dark.’
He leads me across the desolation zone to the front door and then pushes and kicks it until it opens. The inside isn’t as bad as I expected. That is to say that it actually looks like a house, albeit one that has never heard the words ‘interior design’ or ‘cosy’. With the exception of the gaping hole above our heads, it looks like a basic, old-fashioned Provençal farmhouse. It looks like someone lived here once.
‘Nice range,’ I say, nodding at the huge iron wood stove.
‘Yes,’ Victor says, releasing my hand and crossing the room to stroke it. ‘It’s rusting because of the roof. I wonder if it will clean up?’
I follow him across the room and look up through the hole. ‘It’s not going to fall on us, is it?’
‘What, the sky?’
‘The rest of the roof, silly!’
Victor shakes his head. ‘No, I went up there to check it. It all seems pretty solid. The hole is a bit of a mystery, actually.’
‘Yes,’ I say, thoughtfully. ‘It’s not like there’s anything to fall on it.’
‘Big bird?’ Victor says in an ironic tone.
‘Bloody big bird,’ I laugh. ‘Meteorite, more like.’
‘Maybe.’
‘When are they fixing it?’
Victor shrugs. ‘I can’t get anyone to even come and have a look. They all say it’s too remote.’
‘Well, we need to get it covered,’ I say, ‘even if it’s just with a tarpaulin.’
Victor grabs my hand and squeezes it. ‘You have no idea how nice that “we” sounds,’ he says.
‘Actually, I have,’ I say, bumping his hip. ‘It felt nice to say it, too.’
Victor looks up at the darkening sky again. ‘I thought about fixing it myself,’ he says.
‘That’s dangerous.’
‘Nah, not really. It’s just that the roof is made of these corrugated sheets and I can’t even lift one. Anyway.’ He pushes me towards the hallway. ‘So you’ve seen the lounge-cum-kitchen-cum-dining room.’
‘Have I?’
‘Yes. Here’s the rumpy-pumpy room,’ he says, steering me into the next room.
‘Hmm,’ I say. ‘Needs some work before it’ll be seeing any rumpy-pumpy.’ The walls are bare stone. The floor is peeling vinyl. The hole in the roof extends over a rusty metal bed.
‘Indeed,’ Victor says, already leaving the room. ‘And then this is the second bedroom or office or—’
‘Cupboard,’ I say, peering into the gloomy, windowless box room.
‘Probably need to put a window in here.’
‘Yes.’
‘And then, finally . . . La pièce de résistance . . .’ He grabs my hand and pulls me excitedly through to the final room. ‘The facilities.’
‘Jesus!’ I exclaim. For though comfortably sized, the ‘bathroom’ is absurdly basic, comprising a toilet bowl in one corner, a rusty yellow sit-up bathtub, and a stone sink.
‘All mod cons,’ Victor says.
‘Yes, I can see that.’
‘Madame will note the complete absence of a flushing mechanism,’ Victor says, sliding his hand across the wall behind the toilet bowl.
‘How lovely!’
‘And . . . wait for it . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘No hot water.’
‘Jesus, Victor.’
‘I know.’
‘Can’t we get that working?’
‘It’s not that it doesn’t work. It’s that there isn’t a hot water system in the house.’
I frown and scan the room, then peep back down the hall. ‘I also just noticed – no heating.’
‘Other than the range, none.’
‘God, whatever happened to the French art de vivre?’
‘I know. But I can imagine it finished,’ Victor says, heading back outside. ‘Can’t you?’
‘Sure,’ I say. But it’s a lie. Maybe I’m just too tired to imagine anything this evening.
Back out in the yard, the light is fading fast and, with it, the temperature is plummeting.
Aware that I’m sounding like a real killjoy, I try to think of something positive to say about this tumbledown farmhouse he has inherited. I’m a terrible actress, so any outright lies about finding the place appealing are only likely to make things worse.
‘I bet you can see masses of stars up here, can’t you?’ I finally offer.
‘Yes. It’s amazing.’
‘I love that,’ I say. And it’s true. ‘I’m actually quite good at spotting all the constellations. Waiine had a telescope when we were little.’
‘Waiine? Oh, your brother. Sorry, I forgot. Sorry.’
‘It’s fine. Even I forget sometimes,’ I say, clearly a lie. ‘It was a long time ago.’
I stroke Victor’s arm and then add, ‘But yes, I’m sure it will be brilliant up here for star-spotting. God, it’s going to be cold, though. I can see my breath already.’
‘Yes, as soon as the sun goes behind the hills. Still, it is January. And we are eight hundred
metres above sea-level.’
‘Right,’ I say.
I turn to look back at the house and shiver. Victor wraps his arms around me and slips his hand into the pocket of my jeans. ‘It’s bad, isn’t it?’ he says.
I sigh deeply. ‘It’s a lot more work than I thought. If you want to make it nice, I mean.’
‘Is it a mistake, do you think?’ he asks. ‘Do you think I’ve bitten off more than I can chew?’
I shrug and gaze at the buildings. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure,’ I say. ‘Can you ask me again tomorrow?’
‘Sure,’ Victor says.
‘I’m freezing.’
‘Me too. Can I tempt you with an aperitif in Château Volkswagen, Madame?’
‘Does the heating work in Château Volkswagen?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Then that would be a pleasure, sir,’ I laugh. ‘But it’s mademoiselle, thank you very much.’
Drinking gin and tonics in the van is cramped but rather lovely. Victor produces chilled tonic and even ice cubes from the mini-fridge and a bag of Japanese rice snacks from a cupboard, then we settle on the bench seat, my back against his chest, his knees either side of me.
Slowly, beyond the windows, the sky flames red and then gradually fades to black.
‘You hate it all, don’t you?’ Victor says after a long silence, during which the only sound is the clinking of ice cubes against the side of the glass and the hiss of the gas heater.
‘What? This?!’ I exclaim. ‘You’re joking! I love being here with you like this. It’s fun.’
‘But you hate the house.’
I reach up and stroke his head until my hand reaches his beard. ‘I hate this thing,’ I say, tugging on it.
‘Oh, God!’ Victor laughs. ‘I nearly forgot. I’ll shave in a minute. But don’t change the subject.’
‘I don’t hate it,’ I say. ‘It’s just, well . . . it’s a far bigger project than I imagined. I’m a bit daunted, I guess.’
Victor takes a few sips of his drink before replying. ‘Can I tell you a secret?’ he asks.
‘Of course.’
‘I’m not very proud, but, so am I.’
‘You’re what?’
‘Daunted.’
I arch my back so that I can look up at him. ‘I’m not surprised,’ I say.
‘It is too much, isn’t it?’
I think about this for a while, and it slowly dawns on me that what Victor needs most from me, what he is silently begging me for, is to not agree with him.
‘It’ll be OK,’ I tell him, struggling at first for authenticity. ‘Projects always feel like that at the beginning. You just have to get stuck in. Do one thing at a time.’
‘But I haven’t got stuck in, have I?’ he says.
I smile. ‘I wasn’t going to say anything, but I did wonder what you’ve been doing.’
‘It’s not that I’m lazy or anything. I just can’t think where to start. I’ve just been sitting, staring at it mostly.’
‘Well, that’s easy,’ I say. ‘You start with the hole in the roof.’
‘Yes, I know. That’s what I thought. But when I tried . . .’
‘You couldn’t lift the sheets of stuff.’
‘Yes. I drove down to buy them. All the way to Nice. But when I couldn’t even get them into the van, I realised that there was no point.’
‘They’re really that heavy?’
‘Well, about forty kilos. It’s more the size. They’re pretty unwieldy.’
‘So it’s a job for a proper roofer.’
‘Only I can’t get one. I phoned at least ten but they’re all busy or they say it’s too far, or . . .’
We slip into another less comfortable silence, and then Victor squeezes me between his knees. ‘You’re not regretting this, are you?’ he says. ‘Because I can drive you to a hotel tomorrow. I can drive you to a hotel now, if you want. You are on holiday. We can still make this into a nice one.’
‘No,’ I say, thinking as I speak. ‘I think we need to get this whole project under way. I think that’s why I’m here.’ As I say this, it strikes me as a mini-revelation: this is why I am here. Because that is what love is – giving the person you love whatever they need at that moment in time no matter how uncomfortable it is to do so. And right here, right now, what Victor is silently begging me to be – even without realising it – is a roofing partner. So a roofing partner I will be. And strange as that may seem, it feels like the most amazing opportunity to turn our relationship into something real. It’s not that is isn’t real, of course. But being so recent – we only got together a month ago, after all – it all still feels rather fragile and new.
‘We could do it together,’ I say.
‘You think?’
‘Or are they too heavy? I mean, I’m not that strong, but I can lift one of those thirty kilo bags of soil. Well, just about . . . Could two of us lift your roofing thingies if we put our backs into it?’
‘You don’t want to spend your holidays roofing.’
I laugh. ‘You know what? It’s exactly what I want to spend my holiday doing. I’m funny that way.’
‘We could try, I suppose,’ Victor says, his tone superficially doubtful, but already I can hear the first spark of hope breaking through.
‘I’ll tell you what else I’m itching to do.’
‘Hmm? Yes?’ Victor says sexily.
‘Well, that too, of course. But I meant get rid of all of that junk in the yard. The place will feel much better then.’
Victor sighs deeply and then puts his drink down and slips his arms around me, pulling me tight. He’s wearing the same Aran jumper he had on the day he left England, and the hug feels no less magical than the one we had then. ‘Thank you.’
‘Any time.’
‘Can I tell you another secret?’ he asks.
‘Yes?’
‘I think you’re the bee’s knees,’ he says.
‘Well, good,’ I reply. ‘Because I think that you’re the bee’s knees too.’
While dinner cooks, Victor shaves. We eat spaghetti for dinner and drink a bottle of wine, then simply fold out the bed so that we can lie side by side and look up at the night sky.
The stars, when they appear, are astounding in number and clarity, so we stare at them and talk quietly about everything and nothing: about my best friend Mark and his new boyfriend Iain, and France and Victor’s missing aunt, who supposedly lives next door but hasn’t been spotted yet. And when we have seemingly caught up on the gossip, I begin the far more soothing job of pointing out the constellations.
Just as I am describing Orion, with Victor’s head squashed against mine so that I can point out the individual stars, I am overcome by a deep sense of belonging, an overpowering and rare sensation of being in exactly the right place at the right time within this vast universe, and, for once, of being with the right person too. It hits me unexpectedly just how improbable this is in this infinite space, how stunningly lucky we are to have bumped into each other, and the realisation is so moving, so humbling, that my voice cracks and my vision blurs, and I have to wipe away an unexpected tear before I can continue stargazing.
‘You and me in the middle of all this,’ Victor whispers, and I know that he is feeling it too.
The Case of the Missing Boyfriend Page 39
