The French for Always

by Fiona Valpy

  She gave a little sigh of relief as she closed her eyes, sliding her legs onto a cooler patch of the cotton sheet and letting the tiredness seep out of her neck and shoulders, her whirling thoughts beginning to settle.

  But then she immediately sighed again, with annoyance this time, as someone tapped on the door of the cottage.

  Taking a deep breath, she heaved her tired legs back over the side of the bed and pulled on a dressing gown.

  ‘Gav? Sara? It’s me, Brittany.’

  Sara opened the door to find the bride, in a skimpy wedding-night negligee of peach satin trimmed with black lace, standing on the doorstep. ‘Sorry to disturb you so late, only I saw your light was still on. It’s Bitsy, she needed a tinkle so I brought her out for a second but now she’s run off. I don’t know what’s got into her; she never does this at home. Could Gavin come and help me find her?’

  ‘He’s not back yet, must still be over at the barn finishing up. Come on, I’ll help you look. Don’t worry, she won’t have gone far.’ Sara grabbed a torch from the chest of drawers and tied her dressing gown (white cotton, nothing as exotic as Brittany’s) firmly round her waist.

  They picked their way carefully along the path and then across the lawn, Sara sweeping the torch beam under the trees and into the shrubbery.

  ‘Bitsy! Here Itsy-Bitsy!’ called Brittany.

  ‘Shh, better call quietly,’ Sara held a finger to her lips. ‘Most people are probably sleeping by now.’

  They tiptoed on and then suddenly heard a faint yapping, coming from the swimming-pool area.

  ‘That’s her!’ Brittany’s anxious expression relaxed into one of delight.

  ‘Come on, but quietly now, we don’t want her to run off again.’

  They crept across the gravel path and Sara eased up the latch on the gate in the railings surrounding the pool.

  But as she swept the beam of the torch across the paving, she froze in horror, stopping in her tracks so abruptly that Brittany bumped into her from behind. Because on one of the loungers a couple was lying in a particularly intimate position, bucking and gasping as they reached a climax. The torchlight picked out a discarded champagne bottle lying on its side, the crumpled cerise silk of the maid of honour’s gown, and then the merry sparkle of Bitsy’s diamante collar. The diminutive dog was busily humping the foot of the man who lay on top of Melanie, a foot clad in a distinctive blue, pink and lavender Sebago shoe. And Sara knew, because he referred to them as his Disco Docksides, that the shoe belonged to her very own—and now all of a sudden ex—fiancé.

  The Morning After the Night Before

  There wasn’t much that Sara didn’t know about etiquette. She had a pile of books on the subject. She knew how to word a wedding invitation, how to draw up a seating plan, the correct side of the church on which to seat the bride’s and groom’s families. She knew which cutlery and glasses should be used in complicated table settings and she knew (just in case!) the right way to address a duke or duchess.

  But what was the etiquette for managing a post-wedding brunch when your fiancé had been caught shagging one of the bridesmaids? She suspected that this particular predicament wasn’t something she was going to find in any of her books.

  Above all, though, Sara knew that, in this business, the show must go on. Today wasn’t about her and Gavin; it was about making sure the Nolans had the event they’d paid for and Brittany and Gary had their happy send-off. So, with a shaking hand, she poured herself another cup of coffee, trying to think straight.

  Nightmare! Nightmare! Nightmare! She clutched the sides of her head; she knew exactly how the person in that Scream painting by Munch felt.

  She took a deep breath, trying again to get a grip. She needed to shut out the tidal wave of thoughts that kept washing over her in waves of revulsion and panic: the images of Gavin and Melanie on the sunlounger last night that made her feel physically sick; the white-hot rage at him for getting her into this situation; the humiliation—Oh, the humiliation!—and the sheer blind terror at what this meant in terms of her future, her career, her life... Her hands trembled with a mixture of exhaustion and caffeine-fuelled adrenaline as she cupped them around her coffee mug and took another sip.

  It took every last remaining ounce of her strength, but she pushed these emotions to one side and tried to think clearly. After all, the only people who knew were herself and Brittany (though she’d most likely tell Gary, and he’d tell his mates, guffawing with laughter... it would already be Out There—no, push that thought aside) so the best tactic was to Keep Calm and Carry On in true British style. Sara would just have to hold her head high, sort out the drinks for the brunch, circulate with the coffees afterwards (everybody in the room smirking and laughing or, which was maybe worse still, pitying her...).

  She slumped her head into her hands again in despair. It was impossible. She couldn’t do it alone. Time to use up one of her lifelines and Phone a Friend.

  She reached for the phone and dialled. ‘Karen? Yes, it’s me. Look I’m so sorry to call you this early and I know it’s your day off, but I just wondered whether you could do me the most enormous favour...’

  * * *

  ‘Sit. Drink. Eat. And when you’re ready, tell.’ Sara had never felt so grateful for Karen’s down-to-earth, forthright Aussie practicality as she did right this minute. Obeying instructions, she pulled up a chair on the terrace outside the cottage and reached for the mug of tea that Karen had plonked down in front of her.

  ‘Sorry, I might also need to mop first,’ Sara fumbled for a tissue and blotted at the tears that suddenly threatened to spill from her eyes. ‘Please don’t be nice to me, or I won’t be able to stop.’

  Karen had been fantastic. She hadn’t asked for any explanations as to why Sara was calling her at such an ungodly hour on a Sunday morning. She knew her boss well enough by now to understand that it really must be a major emergency and it didn’t take a genius to guess that something must have happened between Sara and Gavin. In any case, Karen had long suspected that all wasn’t quite as idyllic between the couple as it might appear on the surface. She’d arrived an hour later and had taken over the brunch arrangements. And when Mrs Nolan had demanded to see Sara about the whereabouts of the box for transporting the top of the wedding cake back to Colchester, Karen had said, firmly and protectively, ‘Sorry, she’s having a couple of hours off. Let me see what I can find.’

  Gavin had avoided Sara completely, but in fact she was thankful for this. There’d need to be a showdown, but it was infinitely better that it should wait until after the guests had gone. She’d glimpsed him earlier, in the distance, cleaning the pool (presumably straightening the sunloungers and putting the empty champagne bottle in the recycling bin along with dozens of others), and he’d been talking and laughing easily with one or two of the guests who’d come for a restorative swim. In fact, he was putting on a very good act indeed, appearing smoothly unconcerned whether or not anyone knew about his late-night antics. And as she watched from the kitchen window, a horrible realisation dawned on Sara that he had probably had a bit of practice at this... those other post-wedding disappearances could well have involved far more than just a nightcap or two in the barn with the last few lingering guests.

  Thanks to Karen, Sara had had a couple of quiet hours to try and get her head round what had happened. When they moved here, she’d thought her relationship with Gavin was as solid as the buttress of limestone rock on which the château was built. But had it been, really? The niggling doubts in Sara’s mind had amplified themselves into a cacophonous clamour as she considered their engagement in light of the previous night’s ghastly discovery, a light as unflattering as the spotlights in a communal Topshop changing room.

  She and Gavin had known each other for just over a year before making the move to France. They’d met when she was planning a landscaping project at a stately home that the events company he was working for was using for a product launch. Her business was starting to gather mome
ntum, with a solid base of regular clients, whose elegant London gardens she maintained, and then the occasional bigger project on top, like the one where she and Gavin had met. He’d been growing frustrated at having to work for other people, and was worried, too, that the writing might be on the wall for his job as the recession had started to bite and events budgets were being slashed, the splash-the-cash culture of the City being reined in. He was the one who’d been champing at the bit to get out of London, and he’d talked her into the move, his proposal of marriage finally dispelling any last doubts she may have had about abandoning her business at that stage. (‘It’ll need to be a long-ish engagement’, he’d said, ‘but in the end you can have your own wedding in the château that we’ve created with our own hands. Imagine that!’) And her resistance had crumbled. Because, despite the fact that she’d just been reading Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus—which had been most enlightening on the essential masculine habit of retreating into a man cave from time to time—she hadn’t realised that, whilst in Venusian the phrase ‘let’s get married’ means ‘you are the most beautiful woman in the world: I want you, I need you; I’m in it for life’, in Martian it roughly translates as ‘you seem to be a hard worker: I want your flat, I need your savings; I’m in it for a year or so’.

  She’d thought that this time she’d found someone she could genuinely trust. A man different from the others she’d known, one not afraid of Commitment (that most taboo of ‘c’ words). But now, in the bright glare of the French sunshine, with the image of last night’s discovery branded indelibly onto her brain, Sara reluctantly admitted to herself that in fact all had not been well in their relationship for quite some time. If they hadn’t had the monumental distraction of the move to France, would they have stayed together in London? She had a sneaking suspicion that the novelty had already been wearing off for Gavin... It was a classic relationship mistake, wasn’t it? Whereas, in a paradoxical attempt to glue things together, some people decide to get married or have a baby, she had sunk her life savings into a terrifying project in a foreign country. It wasn’t like her to have been so reckless: usually she was overly cautious where both business and relationships were concerned. But maybe, she now admitted reluctantly to herself, her turning thirty had tipped the scales in favour of making the leap with Gavin.

  And she’d always longed—more than anything else—for a home of her own. One of her most vivid childhood memories was of standing at the school gates, long after the last parents had arrived to collect their children, and, as a soft drizzle began to fall, realising that she’d been forgotten. They were all still adapting to the new routine in the aftermath of her parents’ divorce, Sara shuttling back and forth between two new houses, neither of which felt like home. It was the first Friday of term and she was supposed to be being picked up by her stepmother. So when Lissy didn’t show, the eleven-year-old Sara bent down, pulled up her school socks, hefted the heavy bag full of weekend homework onto her back and began to walk. She had no money and the school office was closed so she couldn’t go and use the phone there. So she'd walked through the south London streets, head down against the raindrops which were growing fatter and colder by the minute, plodding onwards, her bag weighing down her shoulders almost as heavily as her sense of having fallen through the holes in the family net was weighing down her heart. She shrank into a shop doorway to avoid a gang of boys, boisterous and noisy with Friday night freedom. Buses swooshed by, splashing her sodden shoes with muddy gutter water, their lights bright in the gloom; she felt in her pockets once again, just in case a miraculous coin or two lurked there to pay her fare, but knowing already that it was hopeless. She picked her way amongst the other passersby, purposeful as they made their way home to warmth and suppers and people who had missed them.

  She’d made a detour to the front door of her mum’s new flat, just in case she might be in, even though it wasn’t Sara’s day to be there. She heard the doorbell echo in the emptiness within but lingered for a few minutes, pressing herself into the shallow shelter of the doorway. The rain was a steady downpour now and she was soaked, the cold raindrops mingling with the warmer tears on her cheeks. She set off again, her shoes squelching down the steps, and carried on through the streets, plodding the last couple of streetlamp-lit miles towards the house where Dad now lived with Lissy and her toddler daughter Hannah. And with each step, Sara vowed that she would work hard at school and get a job as soon as she could so that she could have her own home and never, never have to be in this situation again. She decided as she walked that she would demand a house key, beg for a mobile phone, save an emergency bus fare from her pocket money and always keep it on her. Sara’s fierce determination to be independent and her yearning for a home of her own dated back to that lonely, broken-hearted evening.

  She could still remember the look of shock on Lissy’s face when she finally opened the door and saw Sara there, bedraggled and forlorn as a drowned kitten. ‘Oh, God, I completely forgot. I was supposed to pick you up. Don’t tell your dad, will you? He’s already stressed out enough as it is with everything that’s going on at work and your mum being so unreasonable about the maintenance. Go upstairs and get changed. I’ll fetch the hairdryer for you. Hannah, leave Sara alone,’ she’d prised Hannah’s chubby arms open to free Sara who was now dripping, most inconveniently, onto the hall carpet, ‘and let’s go and finish your tea.’

  ‘Lissy, could I babysit Hannah sometimes for you as a job? Be paid for it, I mean?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, you’re far too young!’ retorted her harassed stepmother, even though she sometimes did leave Sara in charge of Hannah when she ‘popped out’ to the shops from time to time.

  Sara had gazed out of the dark, rain-rinsed window to the small patch of scruffy grass beyond. Neither Lissy nor her dad had either the time or the inclination to tend to it. ‘Well then, could I do your garden? You wouldn’t need to pay me much. I can cut the grass and clip the edges. Do the weeding. Maybe plant some flowers for you.’

  Lissy peered at Sara quizzically. ‘What a funny girl you are! Eleven going on thirty. But yes, okay, if you really want a job then I’m sure we can come to an arrangement. Now hurry up, go and get out of those wet things before your dad gets home.’

  So Sara had found her first client, and the coins and then notes—as she’d proven she could do a good job and taken on the gardens of one or two of Lissy’s friends and neighbours—started to mount up, first in a jar under her bed and then in a building society account, quietly multiplying over the years until at last she could afford the deposit for a flat of her own.

  Sara shook her head to clear away these old, painful images, kicking herself mentally, angry that she’d been so stupid in gambling away her hard-won independence on Gavin: she’d sworn not to make the same mistakes as her parents had; their divorce and subsequent respective marriages stood as more stark, unhappy milestones on the path of her childhood.

  And now the irony wasn’t lost on her: she’d only been to two weddings before they’d bought the château—when her mother married her stepfather and her dad married Lissy. Fairy-tale endings and happy-ever-afters? Not in her bitter experience. Which had made it an even greater leap of faith for her to accept Gavin’s proposal, lured by the promise of a dream home and a dream wedding of her own. But it looked as if she’d simply walked straight into another monumental mistake, all of her own making. Well, she’d certainly had it with marriage now, she thought angrily. Even if, irony of ironies, she did have to make her living out of arranging other people’s weddings.

  Karen pushed the plate of biscuits towards her. ‘C’mon, Sara, you’ve got to keep your strength up at a time like this.’

  They could hear a cacophony of shouts and cheers from the parking area: the bride and groom were about to depart and the brunch guests were seeing them off. And then people would start to drift away, back to the guest houses and holiday villas where they’d been staying, or off to catch flights or to start the drive n
orthwards, leaving only the Nolans and a core of close friends and family who were staying in the château that night and would be departing in the morning.

  ‘You sure you don’t want me to stay and do tonight’s supper?’ Karen asked, patting Sara’s hand.

  ‘No, I’ll be okay now. There aren’t going to be many people left and it’s just a cold buffet.’

  ‘Well, that head bridesmaid’s leaving this afternoon too. I heard her complaining that she has to be back at her day job tomorrow, manning the phones at Sluts-R-Us or whatever the hell it is she does.’

  Sara managed a wan smile. ‘Thanks, Karen. That helps. You go home now and enjoy what’s left of your Sunday afternoon. See you on Tuesday morning.’

  ‘Sure you don’t want me to come in tomorrow?’ The entire team at the château normally had Mondays off to recover, before making a start on the preparations for the next weekend’s wedding.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. The rest of the guests will be out by midmorning. And I guess Gavin and I have some serious talking to do... And, Karen—thanks for today.’ Sara’s throat caught and she stopped to wipe her eyes again and blow her nose.

  ‘No probs my dear, all in a day’s work.’ She patted Sara’s hand. ‘Tell you the truth, I can’t say I’m all that surprised this has happened. Since the season began, I’ve watched you fading away into the background. Gavin seems to...’ she hesitated as she searched, tactfully, for the right words ‘...throw himself into his work, but it’s often looked like it was at your expense.’ Sara understood Karen’s careful, coded message and realised that her growing suspicions about Gavin’s post-wedding activities must be accurate.