The French for Love

by Valpy, Fiona

  ‘Okay. Probably the stonemasons,’ I reply, hoping I sound nonchalant. ‘They’re due back from holiday about now so they’re probably phoning to arrange when they’re coming to finish fixing the upstairs ceiling.’ I don’t want to admit to myself how much I’m looking forward to seeing Cédric again. And there’s absolutely no way I’d admit it to Annie, whose finely honed sense of smell isn’t limited to wine tasting. She’d be onto any whiff of a possible scandalous affair like a rat up a drainpipe.

  I busy myself pouring the milk into a jug and putting breakfast things on a tray. ‘Shall we have this outside?’

  ‘Lovely. I’m planning on spending every possible second in the sun today. Have to get some serious tanning in.’

  ‘Well, I hope you’ve brought the Factor 30. You’ll be needing it by midday, or you’ll end up with a truly British dose of sunburn,’ I laugh.

  After breakfast we spread ourselves out on the sunloungers. Annie’s brought copies of all the latest English magazines with her so we settle down in our bikinis, with Aretha on the iPod and Vogue, Harper’s and Hello scattered around us.

  After a while, she puts down her magazine to re-baste her skin with suntan lotion and turn onto her front. ‘You know what you were saying last night about French wines?’ she says. ‘Are you seriously telling me local producers in Bordeaux, the sacred heartland of the industry in France, are making New World-style wines these days?’

  ‘Yup,’ I reply. ‘In fact I’ve got some that I bought from a château near here the other day. They’ve given it an English name, simplified the labels, even put the grape type on the front. The wines are interesting—up-front fruit, ready for drinking young, but I reckon they’ve still kept in a twist of French subtlety too. You can taste them if you’re interested.’

  ‘Love to. You know me; I never rest in the diligent pursuit of something new for the discerning clients of WineLand. You know my theory about good wine being like good sex. So, in the absence of any chance of a holiday romance, bring on the wines!’

  I shove my feet into my flip-flops—the terrace paving is now scalding hot—and go indoors to retrieve a selection of wines from my embryonic collection. To make things a little more challenging, I add a couple of bottles of Californian wine from the selection I brought over with me, and I nip upstairs to find a scarf to use as a blindfold. As an afterthought, I grab the phone from the study and put it on the kitchen table so we can hear it from the terrace.

  Just in case the caller from earlier rings back. And especially in case it’s Cédric, although I’m trying to ignore this thought.

  ‘Right,’ I say, reappearing outside and putting the cardboard box of bottles on the table, in the shade of the large sun umbrella that covers it. ‘You’re tasting blind, and I’m going to make sure there’s no cheating.’ I tie the silk scarf over Annie’s eyes. ‘Are you going to be spitting or swallowing this morning?’

  ‘Don’t even get me started!’ screeches Annie at this well-worn joke. ‘Though given the early hour and the heat, I think it would be wise to spit on this occasion. Not like me, I know, darling.’

  I nip back into the kitchen to collect a jug to use for a spittoon and then I open the first bottle. She sniffs the wine carefully, considering, and then tastes it, slurping it noisily around her mouth to aerate the wine and draw out its flavour.

  ‘Interesting. An oaked white. A bit on the heavy side. I’m getting pear and a strong taste of vanilla. Not quite dry; there’s a sweetish aftertaste. But hang on. Is it a Chardonnay? In which case it’s not one of your local wines, unless it really is something very ground-breaking and they’ve decided to go the vin de pays route. Are you trying to trick me, Peplow?’ she says, suspicion dawning. ‘I reckon this really is a New World wine. I’m guessing it’s either Australian or American? In fact I’m going to say American given the sweetness and the strong vanilla in the oak. Not bad, but not really lighting my candle.’

  ‘Most impressive, Ms McKenzie. Just checking your taste buds haven’t atrophied in my absence. It’s that Napa Valley Chardonnay that we used to sell at Wainright’s. Originally selected by you I believe. Okay, next wine.’

  I ease the cork out of a bottle of the local white.

  ‘Hmm, interesting,’ muses Annie, sniffing her glass repeatedly. ‘Now this is something entirely different. Crisp, dry, but with good fruit and an almost floral scent too. A hint of oak maybe?’

  She sips, slurps, spits.

  ‘Wow. So complex. Difficult to tell the varietals. Definitely some Sauvignon. And, because I think this is one of your local numbers I’m going to say Sémillon too. But that floral twist is amazing—I can’t quite pin it down—and the oak is really subtle. God, this is good. In fact, so good I may even have to have a swallow...’

  She sips again, swirling the wine around her mouth to draw out every nuance of the flavour. ‘Okay Peplow; the theory applies. This is definitely the equivalent of good sex.’ And then, in irrepressible Annie McKenzie style, she throws back her blindfolded head and commences an impression of noisy gratification that makes Meg Ryan’s famous scene in the film When Harry Met Sally look like Mary Poppins. Her cries of, ‘Yes, yes, oh, God, yes’ mingle with Aretha’s raucous vocals from the iPod where, backed up by The Eurythmics, she’s declaring that ‘sisters are doing it for themselves,’ and I double up with laughter at the appropriateness of the musical accompaniment to Annie’s act.

  And then, to my absolute horror, I glimpse a movement from the corner of my eye and realise that we’re not alone. Wheeling round, I find Cédric and Pierre who have just rounded the corner of the house carrying a long ladder between them and are now standing dumbstruck, surveying the scene in front of them. And, oh, dear, I have to admit it doesn’t look good.

  I grab my cotton shirt from the back of the sunlounger and hastily pull it on. Annie, blissfully unaware in her blindfolded state, carries on hamming up her appreciation of the wine, her ample curves generously filling her somewhat skimpy bikini.

  Pierre is now grinning from ear to ear, while Cédric, who’s carrying a large cement cube as well as his end of the ladder, looks somewhat bemused at this apparition.

  Annie comes to the end of her grand command performance as the song fades out and, suddenly aware of the awkward silence that has fallen, she pulls the scarf off her eyes.

  ‘Oops!’ she says cheerfully, not at all abashed at the sight of the two brothers. ‘Didn’t realise we had company.’ And she bounces across the terrace—bounce being the operative word—to shake hands.

  ‘Bonjour, Gina,’ says Cédric, turning to me and taking my awkwardly proffered hand too. He holds it in both of his for a moment or two and our eyes lock, his gaze seeming to ask a question and mine, I’m sure, giving away the hunger and longing I feel at the sight of him. I drop my eyes to hide my agitation. ‘I’m so sorry; we didn’t mean to disturb you. We did knock at the kitchen door but I don’t think you could hear us.’

  No, well, I suppose we were making a bit of a racket. One of us in particular anyway.

  ‘I phoned earlier,’ he continues, ‘to let you know we’d be coming round in an hour’s time. The cowl for the chimney has arrived.’ He nods at the cement block which he’s put down on the ground beside the ladder.

  ‘Ah,’ I nod, meeting his gaze again in what I hope is a dignified, calm, cool and collected manner in spite of my state of undress and the fact that I’m in the company of a similarly scantily clad female, surrounded by discarded clothes, magazines and enough bottles of wine for quite a respectable party at ten o’clock on a weekday morning. ‘So that was the message. It got lost a little in translation I’m afraid.’

  Oh, God, I think, he’s looking incredibly handsome after his holiday—tanned and more relaxed than usual. And then, to my added confusion, I realise he hasn’t relinquished my hand and I’m in no hurry to relinquish his either. A realisation that immediately makes me dr
op it, as if it’s burning as hotly as the flagstones of the terrace or my own flaming cheeks.

  ‘How was your holiday?’ I ask.

  ‘Great thanks. We had a good time. Nathalie and Luc loved being at the beach with all their cousins so it was very easy. And Marie-Louise’s father has a boat at the bassin so we had some good outings in it. Do you sail?’

  ‘Yes, I love it,’ I reply. ‘Though I haven’t been for years. I used to go with my father when I was young.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to come along sometime,’ he smiles.

  Great, I think, pulling at the hem of my shirt and wishing it covered more of the flesh of my legs. That’ll be a fun outing, sitting in your wife’s father’s boat and lusting after her husband. But I smile and nod with what I hope looks like enthusiasm.

  ‘You seem to be a little—er—occupied... Would you like us to come back another time?’ asks Cédric. ‘It’ll only take a few minutes to fix this on top of the chimney.’

  Annie’s grasp of French is pretty slender, but she clearly gets the gist of this last bit. ‘Oh, don’t mind us,’ she says cheerfully. ‘Please carry on.’

  ‘Yes, do go ahead,’ I say. ‘I’ll just clear a bit of space for the ladder.’ I scoop up an armful of clothes and magazines and scurry inside where, thankfully, I pull on my denim skirt and smooth down my hair, trying to regain a little composure.

  I come back out into the bright sunshine. Pierre is holding the ladder while Cédric climbs up, carefully balancing the heavy cowl as he goes. Annie, not the least abashed, is perching on the terrace wall, rather coquettishly it has to be said, looking on appreciatively.

  When Cédric descends a few minutes later, Annie gestures to the bottles of wine on the table. ‘Would you like a drink?’ she asks. ‘We were just tasting some very good local wines.’

  The two brothers clearly find the invitation hilarious. ‘It’s good that you enjoy them so much,’ says Cédric, trying to keep a straight face, ‘but non merci, we have to get to another job. There’s a lot to do as we’re just back.’

  ‘Please excuse us,’ adds Pierre, still grinning broadly at Annie, ‘but Raphael is a slave driver and he’ll already be wondering where we are. Another time perhaps...’

  As they pick up the ladder ready to leave, Cédric turns to me. ‘We’ll be back in about two weeks’ time to finish the work on the ceiling upstairs. I’m afraid we’re a bit busy catching up with work after the holidays at the moment, so it can’t be any sooner. I’ll phone you to give you better warning next time though,’ he says with a roguish glint in his eye. ‘Oh, and one other thing. I saw the Cortinis at the bassin. They’d be delighted to show you round at Château de la Chapelle and let you taste their wines. They suggested we visit on Friday evening, but perhaps you’d rather wait until your friend has departed? Although she’d be very welcome to join us if it would be of interest.’

  ‘That’s so kind. I’m sure you’d love to come along, wouldn’t you, Annie? She’s in the wine business so she might be a good contact for them.’

  ‘Okay, great. I’ll come and pick you up about five thirty then.’

  They load the ladder onto the back of Cédric’s pickup and disappear down the drive.

  Back on the terrace, Annie is sitting at the table in the shade of the sun umbrella awaiting my return. ‘Well, well, well, Miss Peplow,’ she crows gleefully. ‘You are a dark horse. Why didn’t you tell me about the hunky French workmen?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I retort haughtily. ‘They’ve just been doing the repair work here. Their mother is my neighbour. They’ve been very kind and helpful, that’s all.’

  ‘Oh, come off it!’ she scoffs. ‘I haven’t seen so much chemistry since my science teacher dropped a whole jar of sodium into a sink full of water.’

  ‘Why,’ I ask, seizing the opportunity for a diversion, ‘what happens when you drop sodium into water?’ Sometimes Annie surprises me with the things she knows.

  ‘Let’s just say the results are pretty explosive,’ she replies. ‘But don’t go trying to change the subject. What’s going on between you and that good-looking older brother?’

  ‘Precisely nothing,’ I say firmly. ‘He happens to be happily married to a gorgeous French wife and has two lovely children to whom he is utterly devoted.’

  ‘Well, he wasn’t behaving like someone who’s entirely happily married. He couldn’t take his eyes off you. He definitely fancies you—there was about forty thousand volts of electricity between you when he was holding your hand. And don’t tell me you don’t fancy him back. I know you, Gina Peplow, and you’re absolutely hopeless at lying so don’t even bother trying.’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ I hold up my hands in defeat, plonking myself down on a chair beside her and reaching for the open bottle of Chardonnay. Sod it; it is about time for elevenses after all. ‘I do like him. Very much indeed. He’s not only gorgeous; he’s also got a great sense of humour and is a wonderful father to his kids. His family all think the world of him and he’s practical, hard-working and reliable. And I get the feeling he likes me too. So he’s absolutely perfect, apart from the teeny-weeny little matter of his wife. There’s no way I’m having an affair with a married man, especially one whose mother is my friend and neighbour. I know how devastating it is to be on the receiving end of being cheated on and there’s no way I’d want to be responsible for inflicting that kind of pain on anyone else. His children are wonderful—you just couldn’t hurt them. And his wife’s actually really nice too...’ I trail off lamely.

  ‘So if his family life’s all so perfect, why does he look at you like a starving man who’s just caught sight of a Big Mac and fries?’

  ‘Please,’ I laugh, ‘at least credit me with being something a little more classy than the equivalent of a trip to McDonald’s.’

  ‘Okay then, a starving man in a Michelin-starred restaurant. Whatever. The French are supposed to be far more cool about this sort of thing. Perhaps he’s looking for a ménage à trois. A sort of Vicky Cristina Barcelona. Only set in Sainte Foy La Grande.’

  ‘Doesn’t have quite the same ring to it somehow, does it? And I’m not the slightest bit interested in being part of anything like that if it is the case. Which, anyhow, I strongly doubt.’

  ‘Ah, the eternal triangle,’ says Annie sagely. And then, lightening up, she says, ‘Now, enough about the men in your life. Or not in your life, as the case might be. Let’s get back to the serious business of tasting these wines. Where were we before we were so opportunely interrupted?’

  I pull the cork from the next bottle and, speaking of triangles, think of Liz’s lonely life, wondering for the umpteenth time what exactly her role was in my parents’ relationship. Pulling myself together quickly, before Annie’s uncanny powers of observation detect another secret that I’m keeping from her, I slosh some red into our glasses. ‘Right then, see what you think of this,’ I say. ‘Let’s see if it has the same interesting effect as the white...’

  CHAPTER NINE

  Evenings Out

  To-Do list:

  •Get pedicure

  •Buy moisturiser, conditioner

  •Wash hair

  •Anti-cellulite treatment

  •Anti-wrinkle mask

  •Do nails

  Promptly at five thirty on Friday evening, Cédric’s dark blue pickup pulls into the courtyard. He jumps out and comes to knock at the door to the kitchen, where I’ve been hovering for the last half hour trying to pretend I’m busily engaged in various domestic tasks. The sink and its taps, under the window which is—coincidentally—the best vantage point to look out at the courtyard, are gleaming I’ve cleaned them so thoroughly, and now I’m scrubbing my hands to try and get the smell of bleach off them again.

  My heart gives a little lurch at the sight of him. He looks freshly scrubbed himself, in jeans and a neatly ironed shir
t, the sleeves rolled up to show a length of muscular, tanned forearm. Trying hard to suppress a surge of unruly hormones that suddenly makes me very conscious of every part of my own body, I open the door with a gracious and composed smile. For once I’ve had time to prepare and so at least I’m a bit more elegantly groomed than on many of Cédric’s previous visits.

  He kisses me hello, most decorously of course on either cheek, but nonetheless it occurs to me that it’s the first time he’s done so when we’re alone. Oh, God, how sad am I? It’s just the French equivalent of shaking hands, for heaven’s sake, and I’m being completely pathetic.

  ‘I’ll just go and see if Annie’s ready,’ I say brightly, my voice sounding, to my guilty ears at least, unnaturally high and nervous.

  She’s in her room putting the finishing touches to her makeup. ‘Is he here? Oh, good.’ She looks at me appraisingly and reaches out to brush my cheek with her thumb. ‘An eyelash,’ she explains. ‘But other than that you’ll do. You scrub up quite nicely you know. Now let’s go get him!’

  ‘Annie,’ I say firmly. ‘We’re not getting anyone. And especially not him. He’s out of bounds.’

  ‘Okay, okay, whatever you say, Little Miss Celibate. Just seems like a bit of a waste to me, that’s all.’

  I glare at her sternly. She makes a zipping gesture across her lips. ‘Not another word, I promise,’ she says, still grinning broadly, obviously relishing the prospect of watching me squirm.

  She clambers into the narrow back seat of the pickup, displaying a good deal of brown thigh and just a hint of bottom-cleavage for the benefit of Cédric who is politely holding the door open for her. Isn’t there a golden rule about no miniskirts or butt-cracks over the age of thirty? If there’s not, there should be. Although that still wouldn’t stop Annie from flaunting it shamelessly.