by Fiona Valpy
‘Oh, Pippa,’ Sara hugged her gently, being careful not to crumple the delicate silk. ‘It would be an honour.’
* * *
Back at the château, they smuggled the dress into the cottage. ‘Let’s keep it a complete secret until the moment you walk into the chapel and knock them all for six!’ suggested Sara. ‘That way even the groom won’t see the dress before your big day, as is the tradition. And speaking of traditions, let’s see: you’ve got the something old now—I think a vintage Dior dress fits the bill perfectly on that front; and your wedding shoes are the something new.’
‘And I’ve got some pale blue underwear that I was going to wear for my something blue. That was in the bag with the shoes as well.’
‘Well, in that case, can I lend you this? I think it might go really well with the dress.’ Sara opened her jewellery box and fished out a velvet bag.
With big eyes, Pippa carefully drew out the pearls that it contained, a triple-stranded necklace with a diamond clasp. Sara fastened it around her slender neck and turned her round to look at herself in the mirror. ‘It belonged to my grandmother. So there you go—something borrowed. Now you’re all set.’ Pippa’s eyes sparkled even more brightly than the brilliant-cut diamonds in the clasp’s setting. ‘Now don’t you go crying again,’ admonished Sara, taking out a tissue and blotting her own eyes. ‘We’re both going to have red blotches otherwise and that’s the last thing a bride wants for her big day. Go and tell Josh that everything’s sorted, but don’t give anything away. You’re going to knock the socks off the lot of them—your mother-in-law included—when you make your entrance!
‘Oh, and just before you go, there’s one more thing I wanted to ask you,’ Sara continued. ‘How would you feel about having a little extra media coverage of your wedding?’ She fished her mobile phone out of her handbag and scrolled through the contacts list. ‘Here we are. Nicola Carter... Let’s see if she’s as good as her word.’
* * *
It was one of those sublime September afternoons, straight out of a painting by Monet or Cézanne. The wedding guests staying at hotels and bed and breakfasts in the surrounding area arrived first, making their way along the pathways lined with lavender and floating gaura flowers like clouds of white butterflies, before filing into the cool hush of the chapel. Each group paused between the tall cypress trees that flanked the chapel’s portico to pose for photographs. Henri Dupont snapped away, entirely focused on the job in hand for once, as the editor herself from High Society magazine stood at his elbow, directing the shots and making notes of names and designer outfits.
Then the members of the Cavendish family who had been staying in the château processed in and took their places in the front pews which had ‘reserved’ signs taped to them. An usher came and whispered tactfully in the ear of cousin Ed and his rather horsey girlfriend Camilla when they seated themselves on the ‘bride’s side’ at the front. ‘But I thought Aunt Delia said she doesn’t have any family,’ Ed protested, a little too loudly. The usher whispered again and so the pair moved across, somewhat reluctantly, to a pew further back.
Delia and Henry processed in, the mother of the groom a vision in cerise with a matching hat, roughly the size and shape of the Starship Enterprise, pinned at a rakish angle to one side of her head. Mrs Cavendish gave a distinctly regal wave as she came up the aisle on her husband’s arm, nodding graciously, if a little gingerly to ensure that her headgear stayed put. It really was most gratifying that High Society had heard about the wedding and sent Nicola Carter herself over specially to cover it for a feature they were doing on ‘Weddings of The Season’. She was almost bursting out of her shot-silk jacket with pride and excitement.
There was a sudden burst of cheers from the ushers outside, debonair in their morning suits, and the assembled company craned their necks to see Josh and his best man, Will, being welcomed at the chapel door. They both looked splendid in their scarlet uniforms, Josh’s enhanced even further by a row of medals. Will pushed the wheelchair slowly up the aisle, the groom’s progress impeded by the handshakes and hugs and claps on the back that the guests bestowed on him as he passed.
And then, quietly and with dignity, a small group entered the chapel and an usher led them to the remaining reserved seats at the front. The bride’s surrogate family, comprising the ancient Mireille Thibault, the Héls Belles and their parents, and Karen and Antoine, all dressed in their Sunday best, filled the front pew across from the Cavendishes. Delia Cavendish looked surprised and sniffed disapprovingly, but managed a chilly nod of the flying saucer hat as Mireille smiled serenely at her from across the aisle.
The chapel fell quiet, with a hush of expectation. The sound of light footsteps and soft voices, and a flurry of shutter snaps from a camera, could be heard just beyond the doorway in the golden sunlight as the bridal party arrived.
Outside the chapel, Sara gently pulled a fold of the skirt into place. She held Pippa at arm’s length. ‘You look just perfect,’ she whispered. And then with a shake of Mr Hall’s hand and a warm hug for his lovely daughter, Sara and Thomas wished them good luck and, hand in hand, slipped into the chapel and up the aisle to take their places next to the Thibaults.
As the music started and the bride entered, there was a series of gasps: firstly at the sight of the beautiful girl, a vision of elegance and radiance as she walked up the aisle on her father’s arm; and then, accompanied by a flurry of handkerchiefs and tissues being pulled from sleeves, pockets and handbags, at the sight of the groom who, with a helping hand from his best man, rose to his feet and held out his arms to greet his lovely bride as she reached his side.
The Beginning
The phone echoed shrilly through the château and Sara hurried to the kitchen to answer it. ‘Yes... yes, of course. I’ll be pleased to send you the details. Could you spell that for me please? Next Easter? I’ll take a look in the diary and email you the dates we have free. Of course... that will be fine. I’ve made a note. Yes... Thank you so much for calling.’
‘Another one?’ Karen grinned, shaking out the duvet whose cover she’d just removed.
‘Yup. At this rate next season’s going to end up being several weeks longer. I hope you weren’t planning on taking any holidays next year! Coffee time?’
Back in the kitchen, Karen picked up the latest issue of High Society magazine again, poring over the glossy pages. ‘It’s a great photo of you all. And look, Henri Dupont even gets a credit—he’ll be dining out on that one for the rest of the year!’
Pictured is High Society magazine’s Bride of the Year, Pippa Cavendish. The wedding took place at Château Bellevue de Coulliac in south-west France on the 8th of September. The Groom was Captain Joshua Cavendish of the First Battalion of the Queen’s Infantry. The Bride wore a vintage Christian Dior wedding gown and was given away by her father, Mr David Hall. Front row l-r: Miss Hélène Thibault, Miss Sara Cox, Mr Thomas Cortini, Mrs Mireille Thibault, Mr David Hall, Captain & Mrs Joshua Cavendish, Mr & Mrs Henry Cavendish, Miss Héloise Thibault, Mr Antoine Forestier. See page 142 for further coverage, in our feature on the Weddings of The Season.
* * *
Sara came out of the cottage carrying a box of leftover cartons of cereal and pots of jam. She paused in the peace of the late September morning to take a deep breath of the early autumn air. It had a hint of ripeness to it, a faint truffle scent of falling leaves and damp earth, mingling with the perfume of the sun-warmed grapes on the vines, almost ready for the harvest. From the woodland in the valley below the château, a green woodpecker’s manic cackle echoed between the trees.
As she made her way across to the kitchen, Thomas stuck his head round the doorway of the barn. ‘Ah, Sara, there you are! Could you come in here for a second?’ She put the box down on the path and stepped into the cool twilight of the high-beamed room, which had resounded with the sound of disco beats on all those summer Saturday nights, but was now silent.
Thomas was at the decks. ‘I’ve been saving
the last dance for you. Wait there a moment! Don’t move...’
He flicked a switch on the wall and the glitter-ball began to revolve, casting shooting stars onto the walls and floor. He pushed a button on the sound system and then walked across to where Sara stood in the starlight, a scattering of confetti at her feet. ‘Mademoiselle Sara, I do believe they’re playing our song. May I have the pleasure?’ asked Thomas, and she stepped into his arms.
As Elvis began to sing, Thomas held her close and they began to dance.
And as they swayed together, it seemed to Sara that in that moment they stood still, at the perfect centre of the universe, the sun, moon and stars orbiting about them. She heard Eliane’s voice: ‘Your château is built on love, Sara. Love and happiness. No matter what sadness has happened here too. Remember that, Sara.’
And she thought of each of the couples who had danced here before them, wondering whether they had felt the same way. She thought of Niamh, her black eye not mattering one jot when she knew she was so well loved by Keiran and by her family; she remembered Matthew and Hamish, safe in the knowledge that, together, they could be their own true selves and be loved all the more for it; she smiled as she thought of Patti and Thorne, so sure of what really mattered beneath the glitz and the glamour; and she heard Bill, saying ‘love is the most important thing there is, at any age.’ And finally she saw Pippa and Josh standing together in the chapel, if only for a moment, so determined and so strong in the knowledge that they could make it together, no matter what obstacles life threw their way.
Until then, she’d thought of each wedding as a fairy-tale ending, the happy-ever-after moment for each couple. But now she realised that the exact opposite was true. Each wedding was a fairy-tale beginning—a moment of celebration, carefully choreographed by the supporting cast of her and her team, by the wedding planners, the family members and the good friends, before the ups and downs of real life began again.
Thomas’s lips brushed her hair as he kissed her softly. And in that moment, it was as if the thicket of thorns that had grown up around her heart to protect it died back, melting away and leaving only a sense of peace and clarity in its place: a feeling that she hadn’t had since she was a child.
Another memory came into her head, of a little girl with dark, glossy hair, walking safely between her parents, kicking up the leaves from the floor of a beech wood in the autumn; the child was wearing a red woollen duffel coat—she remembered how proud she’d been of being able to fasten the wooden toggles by herself—and walked in a pool of golden light, oblivious to the darkness, the evil spells and the big, bad wolves that lurked behind the trees on the path ahead, safe in the knowledge that she, too, was loved.
The music came to an end, but Thomas stood there a little longer, holding her. ‘And I can’t help falling in love with you,’ he whispered into her ear, echoing the words of the song. ‘In fact, I was wondering... Being business partners is all very well. But it really doesn’t take into account the fact that I love you, body and soul, with all my heart. So, Sara, my beautiful Boss, would you make me the happiest man alive by agreeing to be my wife as well?’
She smiled up at him and then stood on tiptoe to kiss him, resting her cheek against his shoulder for a moment. ‘For better, for worse?’
‘With you, there is only better. No worse.’
‘For richer, for poorer?’
‘It’s our love that makes us rich.’
‘Until death do us part?’
‘A love such as ours? We’ve already proved it would take more than death. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I realised that as I lost consciousness: I was terrified, but then I looked into your eyes and I felt an amazing sense of peace, and I knew that if the last thing I saw of this Earth was your face, then I would die happy.’
She gazed deep into his eyes, reading the truth of the love that was written there. A love strong enough to bathe her in a pool of golden light and keep at bay whatever darkness lay beyond the trees. Eliane’s voice came back to her once more. ‘Remember, Sara, even in the darkest of times, love will light the way. Always.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Of course, yes.’
His slow smile spread across his face like the sunrise on a summer’s day, and he kissed her. And then he stepped back and, with a sweep of his arm, said, ‘Come on then, Boss. Time to go and reclaim the throne in your fairy-tale castle.’
And, taking her arm in his, he walked beside her, back towards the ancient château sitting on a hilltop among the vines, high above a golden river.
Letter from Fiona
Thank you so much for reading The French for Always—I do hope you enjoyed your visit to the corner of France that I am lucky enough to call ‘home’.
If you did enjoy Sara and Thomas’s story, I’d be really grateful if you’d consider writing a review. I love getting feedback and I know reviews have played a big part in readers discovering my books.
Also, if you’d like me to drop you an email when my next book is released, simply sign up by clicking on the link at the bottom of this page. I promise not to share your email address with anyone else, and I’ll only send you emails when I have new books to share with you.
Merci, et à bientôt!
Fiona
www.fionavalpy.com/fiona-valpy-email-sign-up/
About Fiona
Fiona Valpy lives in France, having moved there from the UK in 2007. She left behind a career in marketing and public relations to explore new avenues and now teaches yoga and writes. Having renovated an old rambling farmhouse with her husband, she has developed newfound skills in cement-mixing and interior decorating, although her preferred pastime by far is wine tasting.
Fiona loves to hear from readers, at:
@fionavalpy
fionavalpybooks
www.fionavalpy.com
The French for Love: Introduction
Can happy-ever-after get lost in translation?
Gina has lost her perfect job, her boyfriend and her favourite aunt all within the space of a few months. So when she inherits her aunt’s ramshackle French house, Gina decides to pack her bags for the Bordeaux countryside – swapping English weather for blue skies, sunshine, great wine and a fresh start.
What she hasn’t factored in is a hole in the roof, the most embarrassing language faux pas, and discovering family secrets that she was never supposed to know.
Suddenly feeling a long way from home, Gina will have to rely on new found friends, her own hard work – and Cédric – her charming, mysterious and très handsome new stonemason.
But whilst desire needs no translation, love is a different matter. Can Gina overcome the language barrier to make her French dream come true?
Read on for the an excerpt…
The French for Love: Excerpt
To-Do List:
20 mins Pilates—daily
Practise taking deep breaths and letting go—ongoing
Drive to France
Send off application for Master of Wine course, first step on the path to brilliant and fulfilling new job financing life of glamour and fun
Find suitable man for love and children, NB not another cheating rat like Ed - ongoing.
* * *
Turns out doing Pilates in a ferry cabin the size of a sardine tin is a physical impossibility, so I go up on deck instead to stretch my legs and watch St Malo materialise through the early morning mist. I take deep breaths of sea air as I stride the length of the ship, killing two birds with one stone on the To-Do list and preparing myself for the day’s drive ahead. I’m retracing the homeward journey I’d made in the early spring, after that last stay with my Aunt Liz. Only now, weirdly, my homeward journey is in the opposite direction.
Back in Arundel, my flat is let on a year’s lease to a young couple unable to get financing to buy their own home now that the banks have stopped lending. A year ago they’d have been handed a hundred percent mortgage with no problem at all. A year ago I was still in my nice
safe job. A year ago Ed and I were still together. A year ago Liz was there in her house, my journey’s end.
An awful lot can happen in a year.
* * *
‘Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose,’ I sing along with the car radio. Well I should know. Losing things seems to be a bit of a theme in my life right now. I tick them off on my fingers, tapping on the steering wheel in time to the music. First my father died. Then my boyfriend dumped me. Then my aunt died. And now I’ve lost my job. Free as a bird. And it’s scary as hell. My Filofax sits beside me in the passenger’s seat, the last reassuring vestige of the control that I thought I had over my life. My daily To-Do lists used to fill a page comfortably but now I struggle to cover a few lines. It’s important to keep the routine going though. I’ve always been someone who thrives on structure and so even if my life is in total disarray I’m determined to maintain standards, keeping my British upper lip as stiff as possible at all times...
As I swing onto the autoroute, heading south away from the grey skies of England and northern France towards the bright summer sunshine of the south, I feel as though I’m stepping out of the old black-and-white movie of my previous life and into the full technicolour of a new beginning. The clouds are like the curtains in a theatre, drawing back to reveal—what? I have no idea what life holds for me here. But I offer up a silent and heartfelt message of thanks to Liz for leaving me her house. And giving me this chance.
