by Valpy, Fiona
‘Of course I have, darling, I’m your mother.’
She looked off into the distance. ‘Dad would have given you the same advice, you know. He’d have been delighted if you got your MW. Now,’ she says, gathering up the mugs and tray, ‘I’m going to leave you to sit in the sun and think things over while I get our lunch ready.’
A while later, as I took my leave, I hugged my mother warmly. ‘Thanks, Mum,’ I said, and she smiled and stroked the side of my face with a gesture that was utterly tender.
‘You’re a gorgeous girl, Gina, and a wonderful daughter. I’m so proud of you, you know. Now get back out there and start living.’ Then she bent her head to rummage in her red Mulberry bag for her car keys.
So we each got into our cars—my mother to go off to her afternoon of Bridge, sandwiches and small talk, and I to see a letting agent and get a life...
And so I’ve ended up here, installed in my new home in France. And today is the first day of the rest of my life.
I reach for my Filofax and write my To-Do list for the day, but then Lafite shoulders the bedroom door open and jumps up onto the bed, meowing enquiringly. I stroke his wise old head. ‘Quite right! That’s enough lying around; we’ve got things to do. Starting with breakfast for you, I know.’
A couple of hours later, I’m sitting at the desk in Liz’s study—my study, I mean—the reality of my new situation slowly sinking in.
I’ve been speaking to the phone company and feel a huge sense of achievement and relief, as I’ve managed to negotiate the tortuous push-button system (frequently pressing the button to ‘répéter les options’ as I strain to understand the alternatives being offered me in rapid-fire French), and am assured by the real human being I finally managed to speak to that my Internet connection will be up and running in a week’s time. I feel stranded without this link to the wide world and I’m going to need it to start ordering the books and plan the studying I need to do for the Master of Wine programme. Not to mention keeping up with the latest electronic gossip from Annie and my other friends across the Channel.
I jump slightly at the sound of tyres on the gravel outside. Looking at my watch, I smile. Ten thirty. This must be Celia coming to check up on me. She hasn’t wasted much time. I thought she’d consider afternoon tea a more socially acceptable point at which to call. But then, looking out of the window, I see a huge cream-coloured Mercedes cruise into the courtyard like an ocean liner, dwarfing my little car as it docks in the shade of the lime trees.
As I watch, a dapper, middle-aged man steps out, wearing a pair of trousers that would be described in the ads at the back of the Daily Telegraph as ‘permapress slacks’, and a navy blazer with two rows of glittering gold buttons down the front. He pauses to look up appraisingly at the facade of the house and then smoothes back his suspiciously shiny hair at either temple. He walks briskly to the front door and knocks on it with three confidently sharp raps.
Flustered, I hesitate, ruefully aware of the fact that this morning I pulled on the first clothes that came to hand from the top of my holdall. I’m dressed, somewhat skimpily, for a morning of unpacking, cleaning, weeding the woefully neglected garden and, most importantly, a little sitting in the sun in between it all, in a halter-neck top and a pair of worn jeans that I now deeply regret cutting off at upper-thigh level last summer. It’s a look that’s definitely more Daisy Duke than Doris Day.
Can I pretend I’m not here? But to my horror, the man is now opening the door and he sticks his head through to call, ‘’Allo. Ees zere anybodee zere?’
I draw myself up to my full five foot six, tall enough to look most Frenchmen in the eye, and march out of the study to confront him.
‘Bonjour, monsieur,’ I say, hoping the iciness of my tone will freeze his overconfidence. But not a bit of it. With a broad smile, which displays two rows of slightly yellowing teeth, he steps across the threshold to shake my hand. I try not to blush as he gives my outfit an appraising glance, but feel my cheeks flush with embarrassment as he grins appreciatively.
‘Mademoiselle. Please excuse this intrusion,’ he says in heavily accented English. ‘I am Laurent Dubois. I ’ave come to welcome you to the region and to extend my sympathies to you for the sad loss of your aunt.’ His cheerful smile and jaunty tone suggest that this sadness is somewhat less than heartfelt in his case.
‘Merci, Monsieur Dubois, c’est très gentil,’ I reply, continuing firmly in French. ‘Do you live nearby?’ His name is ringing a faint bell, but I can’t quite place him.
‘In Sainte Foy,’ comes the reply, again in English. ‘I ’ave known your aunt for many years.’
Suddenly the penny drops. ‘Ah, oui, Dubois Immobilier in the rue Marceau.’
Of course. In the plate-glass window, amongst the details of properties for sale, there’s a large photo displaying the same slicked-back hair and toothy smile and beneath this the words ‘English spoken’.
With a flourish, he pulls a business card from the breast pocket of his blazer. ‘At your service, mademoiselle. If you are wishing to sell this property, I ’ave a client who might be interested in buying it. Of course, you would need to do some work on it first. The paintwork needs redoing and you may wish to consider replacing the windows with plastic frames, which are so much more desirable. The roof needs some work on it as well. I can give you the telephone number of my brother-in-law ’oo is in the building trade, if you wish.’
I’m a little startled at the directness of his approach, to say the least, and feel my face flushing again, this time with annoyance rather than embarrassment. ‘That’s very kind of you, but I’m not selling at the moment.’
‘I also ’andle rentals. Although you will still ’ave to do the repairs to get the ’ouse into a better condition. There are not many English renting long term at the moment. And without a swimming pool, it will be ’ard to get ’oliday rentals.’
‘Merci,’ I reply, firmly persisting with my French. It’s starting to feel like a competition to see who will submit first linguistically, and I’m damned if I’m going to be the one to give in. ‘But I’m not renting either. I’m going to live here.’
Laurent Dubois looks me up and down approvingly once again and this time his gaze is, frankly, lascivious. ‘Bravo, mademoiselle, that is good news for our little corner of the world. And you will still need the services of my brother-in-law no doubt. But per’aps I can be of assistance in ’andling the necessary works for you.’ As if to demonstrate his ’andling skills here and now, he pauses to place a slightly damp hand on my bare arm, just a little too near the cotton of my halter-neck top which suddenly feels dangerously flimsy.
I look down at his hand with what I hope is eloquent disdain, but he doesn’t remove it. Okay, no more Mrs Nice Guy. I take his sticky paw between thumb and forefinger and firmly remove it, raising my eyebrows and looking pointedly at his gold wedding ring. ‘Vraiment, Monsieur Dubois, I assure you I have no need of the services of either you or your brother-in-law, nor anyone else just at present. My aunt lived in this house for over thirty years and if it was okay for her, it’s okay for me. Now thank you for your visit, but if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do. My regards to Madame Dubois. Au revoir.’ And I usher him firmly out of the door.
The estate agent, apparently unabashed, grins at me. But his final retort is in French, so I congratulate myself on winning that battle at least. ‘Ah, les Anglaises. Always with a closed mind. You don’t understand how pleasant our little French ways can be. And I assure you,’ he finishes with an upward glance, ‘you’ll regret not seeing to that roof. Welcome to the region, mademoiselle.’
And with a jaunty mock salute he climbs back into his cruise ship of a car and sails off, with unhurried insouciance, down the drive.
‘Bloody cheek,’ I mutter, going back inside. Another cheating slime-bag. There seem to be a lot of them about these days.
I sit ba
ck down at the desk, but there’s not much I can do with no Internet for another week. I think back to the last time I saw Liz sitting here in the study...
The book-lined room, with its tall, large-paned windows looking out onto the courtyard, was usually a comfortable muddle of papers, magazines and folders full of old photographs, negatives and contact sheets. But on that last visit when Liz was alive, it was even messier than ever, positively awash with heaps of paper in a kaleidoscope of colours and forms—and in the middle of it all sat my aunt, glasses perched on the end of her nose, peering at a folder of photos. I waded through the detritus and bent down to kiss her soft, wrinkled cheek. She looked up with a slight start. ‘Sorry, didn’t see you there. I was back in the sixties with Keith and Ron.’ She held up a black-and-white print of the Rolling Stones grinning into the camera, fresh-faced images of their current-day selves. ‘I’m having a bit of a clear-out,’ she explained with a sweep of her hand. ‘Time I got rid of some of this nonsense. Which reminds me,’ she continued, ‘come upstairs to my room. I’ve got a few things I thought you might quite like.’
The bedroom takes up the entire attic of the long, low farmhouse. Liz had converted it to living space when she moved in, adding low windows beneath the eaves, and skylights to let in the sun. The clear-out she was having obviously extended to her wardrobe as well as her study, as piles of clothes were heaped on the floor and every chair around the room. On the bed, next to a roll of black bin bags, there was a small pile, neatly folded. Liz picked up the top item and shook it out, holding it up against herself. It was a top made of floating layers of creamy silk with long, softly flared sleeves and a plunging neckline.
‘Wow, that’s gorgeous!’ I exclaimed.
Liz handed it to me. ‘Try it on and see if it fits. I thought it would suit you. It’s an early Ossie Clark piece. Have a look through these others as well, see if there’s anything else there you’d like. Here, take them to your room,’ she said, putting the pile of rainbow-coloured fabrics into my arms and draping the cream tunic across the top. ‘You can try them on while I get your breakfast. Oh, and I meant to tell you, we’re invited to Hugh and Celia Everett’s for drinks this evening. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to, but they said you’d be most welcome.’
‘I’d love to come,’ I replied. ‘I’m very fond of them both.’
The Everetts are—were—some of Liz’s oldest friends. Celia was at school with my mother and my aunt and she was Head Girl when Liz was a hippy rebel, according to my mother. Three years younger than the pair of them, Mum worshipped them both from the lowly ranks of the Upper Fourth. Despite their divergent styles, Liz and Celia remained friends and, having holidayed in the region for years, on Hugh’s retirement from the Diplomatic Service, the Everetts bought a house a few miles from Liz and set about establishing themselves as lynchpins of the local social scene.
‘Well, there’s sure to be a crowd there. Celia always invites the world and his wife. Perhaps there’ll be an eligible bachelor whom we can team you up with,’ Liz added with an arch twinkle.
As we arrived at the Everetts’ on that last occasion, Hugh threw open the door of their rather grand home on the outskirts of the picturesque village of Gensac and warmly embraced Liz, then turned to kiss me on both cheeks. ‘Goodness me,’ he said chivalrously, ‘Gina, you just get more and more beautiful.’
That night I was wearing the vintage top Liz gave me. The minute I’d put it on, its clever, flattering cut draped softly and sexily over my figure and my complexion glowed against its soft colour. When I’d looked at my reflexion in the age-spotted wardrobe mirror in my room, I’d felt a sudden boost to my battered self-confidence. I smudged concealer over the dark half-moons under my eyes, the telltale signs of my newly acquired insomniac status, and brushed a little blusher over my cheeks, camouflage to help get me through the evening’s social engagement.
Hugh ushered us ahead of him into a large, high-ceilinged room full of chattering, laughing people, and Celia detached herself from a group near the door, coming over to hug us warmly. ‘Liz, darling, and Gina too, how wonderful. Grab a drink,’ she said, pouring us each a glass of wine from a bottle on the table behind her, ‘and come and mingle. Liz, you know everyone I think. Gina, come with me; I simply must introduce you to Nigel.’ She took me by the hand and led me through the throng of guests to a trio standing beside one of the windows. ‘Gina Peplow, meet Sally and Oliver McKay and Nigel Yates.’
With bright smiles of something that looked suspiciously like relief, Sally and Oliver turned towards me. They’d clearly been pinned down for some time by Nigel, whose pink shiny shirt matched his equally pink shiny face, which was topped off with what seemed to be the beginnings of a comb-over. My heart sank as Sally and Oliver, seizing the opportunity to make a break for it, muttered something about getting another drink and edged away towards the table, brutally leaving me stuck in their place. I looked round for Celia, but she’d already sailed off to oil the social wheels of her party elsewhere, and I caught a glimpse of Liz across the room. She was grinning at me wickedly and raised her glass with a flourish that confirmed what I already suspected: it was a set-up.
Sighing inwardly, I turned politely to Nigel, who was enthusiastically explaining that he was new in town and asking if I lived nearby. He’d recently bought a wreck of a house here and was in the throes of major renovations, which he described with gusto—and many complaints about the shortcomings of French workmen and the difficulties in finding decent plumbing fixtures—for the next half hour.
As he embarked on a detailed description of the installation of his new septic tank (with far too much information about solids, liquids and something called a leaching field), I allowed my gaze to wander. Liz was deep in conversation with Hugh, who leant in close to listen to something she was saying, then threw his head back to roar with laughter. I wondered idly whether perhaps he was the mystery man that she’d loved—they share the same wicked sense of humour and he’d clearly always been very fond of her. Watching them together, though, I realised they were ‘just good friends’, in the non-euphemistic sense of the phrase. It was far more likely that Liz’s unattainable lover was a rock star (Mick or Ron?) or perhaps even royalty...
Suddenly I realised that Nigel’s fascinating description of selected plumbing highlights had paused and he was looking at me as if expecting an answer to something he had just asked. Blushing, I said, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch what you said there—terribly difficult to hear with all this din.’ I gestured with my glass in a vague sweep that took in the assembled throng.
‘I just wondered whether you’d like to pop round and see the house sometime? I could show you what I’ve done so far.’
Tempting though the thought of a guided tour of Nigel’s septic tank may have been, I was relieved to have the cast-iron excuse of my departure for home in thirty-six hours’ time. Nigel looked momentarily crestfallen, but then brightened, saying, ‘Never mind, we’ll organise something next time you’re over. There’ll be even more to show you by then I expect.’
Thankfully, Liz materialised at his shoulder, introducing herself and then saying with a smile, ‘I’m sorry to have to tear Gina away, but there’s someone I must introduce her to. So nice to have met you.’ And she firmly took my arm, leaving Nigel turning to a group to one side of us who looked as if they needed enlightening on the ins and outs (as it were) of modern sanitation systems in old French houses.
‘You looked as if you needed saving,’ Liz said to me with a grin once we were safely out of earshot. ‘What on earth was Celia thinking? She said she had a nice eligible man lined up for you.’
‘Yes, I rather guessed the two of you had hatched that particular plot,’ I replied, laughing, ‘but next time, please don’t go to any trouble on my behalf.’
‘Oh, dear, this isn’t exactly the richest of hunting grounds, I’m afraid. Now, do you want another glass o
f wine or shall we bow out graciously and get home for supper?’
‘Well, unless you and Celia have another hot date lined up for me, I think a cheese omelette and a good book sound like bliss...’
The next day had been my last full day in France before I drove north to catch the overnight ferry home. Saturday is market day in Sainte Foy La Grande and we spent a happy couple of hours browsing amongst the stalls of cheeses, oysters, spices and pyramids of fresh, colourful fruit and vegetables. We managed to find a free table at the cafe in the corner of the square and sank thankfully into two chairs, Liz’s large wicker basket, overflowing with fresh produce and neat greaseproof-paper-wrapped parcels, at our feet. As I blew onto the frothy surface of my grand crème, a familiar pink face appeared through the crowd, waving enthusiastically.
‘Aha, I’ve tracked you down,’ crowed Nigel. ‘I thought you two lovely ladies might be here this morning.’ He looked around for a chair to pull up to our table but, luckily for us, there were none free on the crowded pavement in front of the cafe. Unabashed, with a flourish he pulled a small card out of his shirt pocket. ‘Thought I’d let you have my contact details. Let me know next time you’re coming over and we’ll get something in the diary. I can show you over the house, give you some lunch or whatever.’ Politely, and concentrating hard on avoiding catching Liz’s eye, I took the card.
‘Thanks,’ I said lamely. ‘That’s a really kind thought.’
‘Well, must be going,’ said Nigel. ‘My bathroom tiles aren’t going to grout themselves.’ I agreed that this did indeed sound unlikely, and we shook hands. ‘Au revoir and à bientôt then, as we say here,’ he beamed and disappeared off through the crowd.
‘Well,’ said Liz, ‘You certainly seem to have made an impression there!’
‘Hmm, yes. The fact that there isn’t another available Anglo-Saxon female under the age of sixty for about five hundred miles has nothing to do with it of course.’
