The French for Love

by Valpy, Fiona

  But Hugh’s more interested in the progress of my roof than in idle chit-chat. He tips his head back to look up at the scaffolding which still encases the wall of the house.

  ‘You know, Gina, you were terribly lucky getting the Thibault brothers, and at such short notice. They’re the best in the area, real craftsmen. Everyone wants them for their building projects. There’s usually a six-month wait. You’ve obviously charmed them,’ he smiles archly.

  ‘Hmm, I think it was more the fact that their mother ordered them to do it than anything to do with me. I’m very lucky to have a neighbour who wields so much clout,’ I say, hoping that my brisk tone will make up for the fact that my face has flushed scarlet at the thought of charming one of the brothers in particular.

  ‘Poor you, though,’ chips in Celia. ‘All that added expense—and on something as boring as a roof.’

  ‘Yes, boring but rather essential, as I rapidly realised once I didn’t actually have one any more. But I’ve been incredibly lucky there, too. The insurance assessor came straight round when I called him after the storm and they’re going to cover quite a bit of the cost. The Thibaults have given me a very reasonable price for the rest of the job, so thankfully it’s not going to make too much of a dent in my redundancy money.’

  Hugh looks at the roof appraisingly. ‘Looks like they’ve replaced the tiles over a very large area, though. That’s quite a significant amount of work. Their mother’s clout obviously extends to the brothers’ billing philosophy too. You really do have friends in high places, if you’ll forgive the pun,’ he smiles, with a nod at the scaffolding.

  ‘Well, all’s well that ends well,’ says Celia. ‘Looks like you’ve been busy yourself, too. The shutters are looking very elegant. You’ve certainly achieved a great deal in the short time you’ve been here. Bravo!’ Celia congratulates me. ‘Now then,’ she continues, ‘it’s time you took a break from all this and had a bit of a social life instead. Next Tuesday’s the fourteenth, you know. Bastille Day. We’re making up a big table at the festivities in Gensac and we’d love it if you could come along. It’s great fun. They put up long trestle tables in the place and there’s a meal. Everyone brings their own plates and cutlery and you can buy bottles of wine from local producers. Afterwards there are fireworks and dancing. Do come; it’s quite the social event of the year.’

  It does sound fun and suddenly I realise that it would be nice to have a break from my own company for an evening.

  ‘That would be lovely.’

  ‘Come to us first. You can leave the car and we’ll walk into the village together,’ Celia beams.

  ‘Delighted you can join us,’ says Hugh. ‘I hope you’ll save the first dance for me.’ He raises his glass for another sip. ‘Now, tell us all about this Master of Wine course you’re going to be doing...’

  A while later, as they get up to go, Hugh turns to me as if something’s just occurred to him and says casually—a shade too casually perhaps—‘By the way, Gina, the funeral parlour asked me to pick up Liz’s ashes a few days ago. We’ve got the urn safely back at our house, but I don’t know what you were planning to do with them? That’s one point Liz didn’t cover in her will. We’ll be happy to hang on to them for as long as you like. No rush. Just thought you should know that they’re there whenever you decide you want them.’

  I’m a bit taken aback. I’d completely forgotten about them. And what on earth do I want to do with them now?

  ‘Okay. Thanks, Hugh,’ I say briskly. ‘I’ll have a think and let you know.’

  So that’s another sleepless night as I toss and turn in the bed in the spare room, to where I decamped after the storm, wondering what the right thing would be to do with the final bodily remains of my favourite aunt. My mother’s sister. My friend.

  My father’s mistress.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  I’m up early the next morning and head down to Sainte Foy for the Saturday market. Liz always used to say, ‘You have to get there before all the English appear if you want the best produce. Fortunately, though, they only manage to get themselves out of bed by about eleven o’clock so it’s just the last hour that’s a complete scrum.’

  I love browsing at the hundreds of stalls that line the narrow streets of the old bastide town. There’s certainly variety, with everything from cheap clothes and tacky knock-off jewellery to delicious local produce and pretty arts and crafts. I’m standing in the queue at my favourite fruit stall, waiting to buy some of the mouth-wateringly juicy yellow nectarines that have just come into season, when I feel a small tug at my sleeve.

  I turn to find Nathalie in the queue behind me.

  ‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle Gina,’ she says, and I bend to plant the customary two kisses on her upturned face.

  The attractive woman beside her extends a hand in greeting. ‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle Peplow. I am Marie-Louise Thibault. I’ve heard a lot about you. Pleased to meet you. I hope the work on your roof hasn’t been too disruptive for you?’

  So this must be Cédric’s wife. She has a cloud of dark curly hair, cheekbones like Audrey Hepburn’s, and is wearing slim jeans and a crisp white shirt. She looks effortlessly and understatedly sexy in the way that only certain Frenchwomen can.

  Her hand is soft and immaculately manicured, and I am uncomfortably conscious of my own leathery palms and tattered, broken nails as I take it in mine. Her handshake is firmly friendly.

  I assure Marie-Louise that the work is progressing well. ‘I’m very grateful to your husband and his brothers for getting it done so quickly.’

  ‘Yes, it’s lucky. I think they said they should just be able to get it finished before we go on holiday. We’re off to the bassin at Arcachon in a week’s time, you know, aren’t we Nathalie?’

  I didn’t know. I feel a pang of disappointment that the job will be finished so soon. I’ve enjoyed having the brothers around this week, their banter and laughter in the background a companionable accompaniment to my painting duties on the other side of the house.

  And I shall miss the afternoon tea breaks, which have become a daily occurrence, with Pierre and Cédric. Most of all Cédric. Not that we have deep and meaningful discussions but, as we perch companionably on the terrace wall cradling our mugs of tea, I’m always acutely conscious of the current of attraction that ebbs and flows between us. It’s become the highlight of my lonely days, I realise. And then quickly dismiss the thought, before Marie-Louise can read my guilty mind.

  ‘Oui, I’m really looking forward to swimming,’ Nathalie chimes in. ‘But even more. I’m looking forward to Tuesday evening. It’s Bastille Day you know, Mademoiselle Gina. We’re going to buy me a new dress after we’ve finished shopping here.’

  Marie-Louise smoothes the little girl’s fine, dark hair, a gesture that is so full of love it makes my throat ache. ‘We are indeed. Because you’ve grown so much in the last few months and nothing fits.’ She smiles at me.

  ‘Well, I am going to be there too, so I’ll look forward to seeing you,’ I say.

  ‘Good,’ says Nathalie. ‘It’s such fun.’ Then she looks momentarily worried. ‘But you must shut Lafite inside. He won’t like it if he hears the fireworks, you know. They’ll scare him.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I reassure her. ‘I’ll leave him some extra food and put on some soothing music that he likes, so he won’t hear the bangs.’

  ‘Good idea,’ nods the little girl solemnly.

  Marie-Louise touches my arm lightly. The gold of the wedding ring on her left hand winks cheerfully—mockingly it seems to me—in the sunshine. ‘It’s your turn now, mademoiselle,’ she nods towards the stallholder.

  My nectarines safely stashed in my basket, I turn to say goodbye, but Marie-Louise is already engaged in conversation with the lady behind the stall. Nathalie gives me a little wave; and the sound of my biological clock ticking is suddenly deafening in my ears.

/>   Until now, the sum total of my experience with children has been the occasional lunch party at the houses of married friends, where swarms of Baby Gap-clad mini-mes clamour for attention and the proceedings deteriorate inevitably into noisy, sticky or even (horror of horrors!) smelly chaos. But Nathalie, with her serious, trusting eyes and earnest little face, which brightens up like the sun coming out from behind a cloud when she smiles, has a way of tugging at my heartstrings. I wish she was mine, so that I could hold her hand and make her laugh and hug her until the clouds were banished for good.

  I raise my hand in a little wave, resisting the urge to smooth her hair as Marie-Louise has just done. ‘See you on Tuesday,’ I say, and allow myself to be swept up by the strengthening current of the market throng. So that I don’t have to dwell on the fact that this encounter has reminded me I am still very much an outsider here. And at this precise moment I would sell my soul for a husband like Cédric and a daughter like Nathalie.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  I’m standing in front of the wardrobe in the spare room, dispassionately regarding my reflection in the soft, freckled silver of the mirror, which is misty with age around the edges. Despite copious slatherings of Factor 20 sunscreen, my skin has turned a rich golden brown from hours spent sanding and painting in the hot July sun. My hair, usually a rather boring mouse colour, now has expensive-looking highlights of streaky blonde, also courtesy of the sun’s bleaching rays. I’ve had a long lukewarm bath, soaking and scrubbing away the dust and paint spots, and have treated my thirsty skin to the last precious drops of my Jo Malone body lotion. And I’ve put on and taken off at least a dozen different outfits, which are now deposited in muddled heaps on the bed.

  Bastille Night and I haven’t got a thing to wear.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ I tell my reflection somewhat testily. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, woman. It’s a casual local gathering, not Queen Charlotte’s Ball.’ (Does Queen Charlotte’s Ball still exist these days, I wonder? Ed would know. But that has nothing to do with my current dilemma and actually, now I come to think of it, I couldn’t care less about either Ed or balls. His own or the ones you dance at. So that’s progress of a sort, I guess.)

  With a sigh, I pick up a black summer dress and pull it over my head for the second time in ten minutes. It’s not right—much too formal—and, besides, the only shoes that go with it are a pair of high-heeled sandals that spell a guaranteed sprained ankle, at the very least, when dancing on the stones of Gensac’s pretty place. I peel off the dress again and wrench open the wardrobe door. The Ossie Clark tunic gleams seductively on its hanger. I’ve purposely been avoiding it, even though it’s the one thing I really want to wear and I know it would be perfect for this evening. But it would feel like a betrayal now to wear anything of Liz’s.

  Maybe she even wore it when she was with my father. I push the thought out of my head.

  I rifle through the other clothes left in the wardrobe, in the vain hope that something else will leap out at me as being the perfect solution to my sartorial dilemma. But any possibilities have already been taken out, tried on and discarded on the bed. Methodically, I return each of them to their hangers and put them back where they belong. I glance at my watch, which tells me time has now run out. And then quickly, so I won’t think about it any more, I pull on a pair of flowing linen trousers, wrench the vintage top down from the rail and slip it over my head. As the cool silk drapes itself against my tanned skin, I know that, conscience or no conscience, this is what I’m wearing.

  Anyway, she probably never did wear it with Dad. And if she did, that has nothing to do with here and now. So there.

  I buckle on a pair of strappy gladiator sandals and give my hair a final comb before going through to the kitchen. We’re far enough away from both Gensac and Sainte Foy that I doubt the noise of the fireworks will be anything more than a series of very muffled pops at the most, but a sudden vision of Nathalie’s serious little face makes me pour some extra food into Lafite’s bowl and turn on some soothing music. Attracted by the sound of the food pattering into his bowl, rather than Kiri Te Kanawa’s singing, I suspect, the old cat appears and rubs himself fondly against my ankle. ‘Now, you’re staying in tonight and I, for once, am going out,’ I tell him, gently stroking his furry cheek. I leave him happily munching, pick up a basket containing my plate, cutlery and glass for the meal and lock the door behind me.

  The narrow streets of Gensac are abuzz with people hurrying in the same direction towards the open square in the middle of the village, all carrying cheerily clinking bags and baskets. Strings of red, white and blue bunting overhead mark the way, and above them swifts dart and soar in the opal sky as if sharing the excitement of the chattering crowd below. Hugh, Celia and I join the gathering throng and, turning the corner, pause to take in the scene in the place before us.

  The square has been transformed from its daytime serenity into a humming party venue. Long trestle tables are arranged before us, and groups of people are gathering round each one, chattering and embracing as they greet one another and then set out their glasses and cutlery on the white paper table covers. Under the soaring plane tree that dominates the heart of the village, a wooden dance floor has been laid out and the mayor begins testing the public address system through a microphone, somewhat reluctantly handed over by the DJ from behind the flashing facade of his disco. Red and white streamers radiate from the tree to form a fluttering canopy above our heads, and golden fairy lights are just starting to gleam as the dusk deepens. And in and out of everything, small children dart and race, unwittingly mirroring the flight of the swifts high above us all.

  We hand over a few euros in exchange for strips of tickets that entitle us to each of the four courses of tonight’s meal. Celia cranes her neck and then waves. ‘There are the others. I told them to bag a table if they got here before us.’

  We pick our way between the tables to join the rest of our party, who are already well established by the look of the open bottles of wine arranged the length of the table. Celia pretends not to notice as Nigel, looking as rosily damp as ever, waves me over, gesticulating at the empty space on the bench beside him. ‘Gina, I’ve saved you a seat!’ He clambers to his feet and embraces me somewhat stickily. There’s nothing for it but to sit down next to him, but I’m relieved to notice that the Everetts take up their places across from us and Hugh gives me a reassuring wink as he settles himself at the table.

  ‘Let me pour you some wine,’ says Nigel, enthusiastically sloshing some of the local co-op’s finest (which isn’t at all bad, actually) into my glass.

  ‘Just a half, thanks; I’m driving,’ I say, firmly putting my hand over the top. I’ve taken the precaution of including a large bottle of water in my basket and I place this on the table between us, signalling my clear intention not to succumb to any further temptations he may try to put my way.

  Hugh introduces me to the large lady sitting on the other side of me and, to my relief, she engages me in an animated conversation about the forthcoming Franco-British week in Sainte Foy which apparently includes a French versus English boules tournament in which she is very keen that I should participate.

  Above the crowd’s noisy crescendo, the loudspeakers on either side of the disco give a sudden shriek of feedback, and the mayor declares the proceedings officially open with a hearty welcome, inviting us to take our plates and make our way to the serving tables at the top of the place where we will be given our starters.

  Despite the hordes of people, the queues move surprisingly quickly, the servers obviously long-practised in their efficiency in doling out slices of charcuterie and hunks of crusty bread onto each outstretched plate in turn. And besides, the queues are a further opportunity to mingle, greet more friends and exchange gossip as the tide of partygoers swirls and eddies between the tables.

  ‘So how’s your roof coming on?’ asks Nigel, returning to his seat close on my heels and tucking
in to the array of garlic-spiked pâté and cold meats on the plate before him.

  ‘Very well indeed, thank you,’ I retort, trying to keep the edge of irritation and defensiveness out of my voice. ‘The Thibaults are doing an excellent job. They’ll have the outside pretty much done by the end of the week. Then they’re off on holiday for a fortnight. They’ll be back to finish off and re-plaster the ceiling in August but there’s no great hurry for that.’

  ‘Typical French workmen,’ he sniffs. ‘It’s impossible to get anything done at all in the summer. You’ll be lucky if you see them again before September. I’m surprised they’re doing the plastering. Surely you need a proper plasterer for that? Mind you, they’re impossible to come by. Expensive work, too. Let me know if you want one who speaks English. I can ask my builder for you if you like.’

  ‘Thank you, but I have every confidence in the Thibaults and I’m sure they’ll be back to finish the job. Their mother is a neighbour of mine and she’ll chase them up for me if need be.’ I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that they’re doing the plastering themselves as a favour to keep costs down for me, but I’m not going to share this thought with Nigel.

  I take a sip of the rough red wine, pausing to enjoy the way the robustly tannic local brew complements the fattiness of the spicy charcuterie.

  Across the square at another of the long tables, I spot Mireille and her family. All four sons are there and I see Luc and Nathalie sitting between Cédric and Marie-Louise, happily tucking into their meal, surrounded by assorted aunts and cousins. Their diminutive grandmother holds court at one end of the long wooden bench, pausing frequently over her starter to greet a constant stream of friends and neighbours who come up to say hello.

  Celia leans across the table, following my gaze. ‘Isn’t that Madame Thibault?’ she asks. ‘We must go and say hello later on. And that tall lady on the next table along is our local novelist, Abigail Peters. Have you read any of her books? Quite a celebrity in these parts.’ She pauses to scan the square for other noteworthy characters. ‘You see the woman on the next table but one? The one that looks a bit like Carla Bruni? Well, she’s a ballet dancer from Paris. She and her husband have bought a wreck of a château and are doing it up. That’s him at this end of the table—rather dishy.’