Escaping

by Henrietta Taylor

  As usual, the telephone was running hot at Liz’s office in Sydney and it was impossible to get through. Everyone must be bailing out, I thought. Sell. Sell. Sell.

  But there was still enough time to contact her by the end of Sydney trading. I would just have to stay up all night ringing until she answered and then she would be able to initiate the action. Having spent the past few years with chronic insomnia I knew I was up to the challenge. No problems whatsoever. I would look at my small travelling album of photographs of the family from back when everyone was happy, well and alive.

  When your body shakes with a violent tic and your mouth is glued to the pillow, you don’t have to be Einstein to work out that you’ve been sound asleep, and probably for a very long time. This was a major-league fuck-up. The market was going to crash and I would be left holding a heap of rubbish! Could this possibly get any worse?

  I decided I couldn’t bear to watch Bloomberg today. What difference could it make to me now that the Sydney market had closed? Accepting that you can lose money on the market is fine in theory, but when it really begins to happen it’s horrific. The whole day was spent wandering around thinking of what I should have done. My only achievement was to buy a replacement connection plug for the Internet — in fact, two. However, I was too petrified to go near the computer because of what I might discover.

  But when I finally got hold of Liz Karbowiak, my panic turned to joy: in fact, while I’d slept with my face stuck to the pillow, the Sydney Stock Market had had one of its largest increases ever, taking my earnings through to record levels!

  I instructed her to sell all my dot.com shares, but I had to trust her to get the timing right; they wouldn’t all be sold in one hit. The crash did happen as predicted, but first the bubble grew larger for a few more weeks. By this time, though, I had sold everything, and I was among the lucky few who managed to escape relatively unblemished.

  Suddenly the keys to freedom were dangling in front of my eyes. I felt as though I’d aged twenty years in the past weeks, but the exhilaration of making so much money was mind-blowing — better than incredible sex! I hadn’t earned any money of my own since the early days of my marriage to Norman; then, when he died, I’d had to battle for his money in court, and somehow this money had always felt tainted. Now at last I had money of my own — and a lot of it! Of course I didn’t want to gloat too much, as I knew it had all been luck, but within myself I was so proud of what I had done. When nobody was looking I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs that I felt like a champion!

  I was now an independent, successful woman, mother of two wonderful children, answerable to no one but myself. The world was my oyster, as the saying goes; it was just a question of how to invest this newfound wealth wisely.

  Sometimes fate has a way of stepping in just when you need it. Lizzie and Andrew had decided to sell Place de la Fontaine at the end of the 2000 season, as they would have their hands full with an exciting property venture they were about to start in the district. Lizzie told me a prospective purchaser from Germany was coming to inspect the house in early October or November. Without thinking, I opened my mouth and said the fateful words that would transform my life: I wanted to buy the property myself.

  Lizzie and I were now firm friends, and she urged me to think about the problems associated with owning a property not only in a different country but also on a different continent. I made up my mind I would only buy the property on the condition of a delayed settlement of six months rather than the usual eight weeks.

  I was going to commit one of the biggest sins you could while on holiday: looking at real estate, and worse still, actually buying a house. What was I thinking? I lived on the other side of the world; Saignon wasn’t particularly handy for a long weekend away.

  But another little grain of an idea had begun to germinate over Easter. I had been captivated by the experience of staying with Kamila and Pierre, and was intrigued that they could enjoy such an incredible lifestyle through tourism and ‘playing house’. Australia’s distance from other parts of the world precludes mass tourism, whereas I was coming to realise that it’s part and parcel of European thinking.

  According to the English-speaking ex-pats who met at one of the bars in Apt every Saturday, many of whom ran B&Bs or rental properties in the area, there was an insatiable market of clients, mainly from the USA and UK, who came to stay in rental cottages all year round. Kamila and Pierre, on the other hand, had a huge European clientele due to their constant coverage in upmarket magazines. I only had to listen to the enormous diversity of languages spoken at the Saturday market in Apt to realise that tourists were coming in droves from all parts of the world. Knowing how to tap into this source would be the key to a new business. Every now and then I would hear the familiar Australian or New Zealand accent and it sent my mind racing; maybe these were my potential clients.

  If you owned the right properties and marketed them well, the occupancy rate could be over seventy per cent during the summer season, so the ex-pats said. When I started looking into how much money I could make, it seemed like a sound business undertaking. Disregarding the voice of reason harping in my ear about taxes, heating costs, repairs and general upkeep, of course I looked only on the sunny side of the ledger.

  To make my business work, I decided, I would need more than one property. But finding a house in Provence was completely different from finding a house in Mosman. The openness and perhaps brashness that we exhibit in Sydney is an alien concept in the French countryside, where there are no signs advertising properties for sale and certainly no auctions. It is impossible to visit a property without a real estate agent, because its address will be kept secret until the very last minute. Agencies compete actively with each other and very few properties are held exclusively by one agent. The same house could be with five different agencies, all vying to be the first one to show it to a prospective buyer.

  This was going to be a difficult process. It looked as though I would just have to bide my time until the right house came along.

  Seeking a private outdoor spot that was sheltered from the wind, I had found a little public square behind Place de la Fontaine that became my own private suntrap. It was away from the centre of the village and rarely visited. Facing the sunny south, it became an ideal hideaway for reading or typing out emails on my computer, which would sit precariously on my lap as I perched on the edge of a small wall. Here I could let my mind drift or rest in neutral — not difficult when your surroundings are dominated by a babbling fountain and aromatic rosemary plants, grapevines, and rose bushes cut back hard for winter, with the first purplish leaves appearing on their thorny arms. The summer hordes had not yet arrived, and the houses surrounding the square still slumbered behind their impenetrable shutters, like Sleeping Beauties patiently awaiting their Prince — or rather, a host of noisy families from all over Europe.

  But one night shortly after Easter, a Prince did come. The next day there were signs of life in one of the eighteenth-century houses. The blue shutters had been unhooked, the leaves that had built up over the months had been neatly swept away, and the top windows were flung wide open to let the fresh air replace the stale. Activity had been swift and methodical. I hoped that these intruders would soon be spirited off once more into the night. I didn’t want a boisterous family with crying and demanding children playing in my square. This had become my exclusive and personal space. They would simply have to leave.

  And to my surprise, leave they did. In a puff of smoke. Suddenly there was no trace of them and the house was still once again.

  But propped up against the window ledge of the cottage I noticed a handwritten sign: ‘A Vendre’ (‘For Sale’). Such sweet words. The telephone number on the sign began with ‘+49’, the international telephone code for Germany.

  As I would soon discover, Rose Cottage had belonged to the one couple for almost twenty years; the wife was French and the husband was German with a French surname, Dufrain. Rose Cott
age had been their home, but was now relegated to the role of a summer holiday house, as their busy lives were taken up in Germany and elsewhere in France. The four Dufrain children had now grown up and were pursuing careers in different parts of the world; they had no use for a cottage in Saignon. It was with huge regret that Monsieur and Madame Dufrain had decided to put the house on the market. Madame Dufrain had planted the rose bushes in the small ribbon of earth out the front and nurtured them into spectacular flowerings twice a year, but now she wanted to spend her time in a larger, proper garden with a couple of acres to grow vegetables and roses.

  My fingers were itching to dial that number, while my mind searched for German phrases: Wieviel kostet das hübsche Haus hier im Frankreich? I could perhaps manage to ask how much the pretty house cost, but I would be really in a pickle if the person replied in fast German. Did zu teuer mean ‘too expensive’? Es schmeckt mir gut meant ‘I like it’, but only in relation to food. Judy Spicer, my Mosman High School German teacher (and later colleague), would not have been pleased. All those years she had drilled verbs and phrases into my head — and for what?

  To my surprise and relief, when I made contact with the owners two days later, it turned out they spoke perfect English, and were grateful when my pitiful supply of German phrases ran out. It had been difficult to turn the conversation about property to include Zwiebel, gehacktes Rindfleisch and Schinken — onion, minced meat and ham.

  I was even more surprised when Monsieur Dufrain told me the price of the house. We exchanged contact details, but he assured me that he would not come down in price and I was similarly adamant that it wasn’t possible for me to come up.

  As a compromise, it was finally agreed that I would buy the ground and first floors and that the top floor, which was an independent apartment with its own entrance, would be sold separately. This greatly reduced the price, making it affordable for me. I wasn’t in a position to buy the entire house and then begin the work that would be required to get it ready for guests.

  By the end of April, I had viewed yet another property that was for sale. It was a large, well-built modern house in a street called Chemin St Roch, surrounded by a big block of level land. Geographically it was perfect, situated high on the sunny side of the Luberon valley, protected from the ravages of the howling Mistral, and within easy walking distance of the village of St Saturnin les Apt. St Saturnin had a primary school, a municipal swimming pool that served as the social magnet for all the under-sixteens in the area, restaurants, cafés, a small supermarket, a butcher and two bakeries, a wine shop, a newsagent and a post office. Perfect.

  This was the third property that I was ready to buy with a delayed settlement. I felt sure I would be able to come up with some sort of financial strategy by the end of the year, when the time came to settle. Either I could pay the deposits on the three properties and have three mortgages, or pay for one property outright and mortgage the other two. I needed some advice from an accountant to show me which system would benefit me the most, and what was the best mortgage rate going.

  After doing the rounds of all the banks in Apt, I became seriously confused. I had no idea which option would be best for me. The Latin Lover gave me excellent general advice, but he knew nothing about the ins and outs of French banking.

  It was during this time that I met the financial consultant of my dreams: Monsieur Daniel Perrard. His expertise was in the same area as Raymond had worked in, except that he knew how things operated in France. During our meetings he spent hours explaining how to maximise my capital and minimise my tax: concepts that never used to have any great meaning for me but nowadays were taking on great importance. His eyes twinkled as he said that we would need many meetings to ensure that I had fully understood my financial situation. If he hadn’t already been taken, I think I would’ve run off with him.

  The vendors were itching to have the deals tied up tightly, so an appointment also had to be made with a notary, to make my offers legal and binding. Having an extremely limited idea of how one went about it, I was bombarded with information — who was the best notary in Apt, how much it was going to cost . . . Of course, in a small country town, the moment you show your hand and spread the word that you need legal services, everyone you meet has an opinion they want to share.

  The office of the notary who had been recommended to me was in the centre of Apt. Maître Jaffary was highly respected in the region — admired and hated at the same time. When I arrived, the receptionist referred to Maître Jaffary in hushed tones that were almost reverential. I assumed that I too was to use the honorific term ‘Master’, which signified his status in the legal world.

  Finally I was ushered into the sanctum of his office. The large wooden desk in the middle of his room made me just slightly uneasy, as I have always thought of a man’s desk as the indoor version of a red sports car.

  On Maître Jaffary’s side of the desk was a large bowl of ball bearings in which some extremely expensive-looking pens stood up like toy soldiers. On the side nearest to the clients there was a motley selection of very cheap plastic biros. How could I not laugh to myself? Here I was signing a contract worth a relatively huge amount, but I was not to be trusted with a nice fat Mont Blanc fountain pen or a good-quality Waterman. My hackles were already rising. I said a mantra over and over in my head: You’re only here on business; do it and get out.

  ‘Madame Taylor, it is the custom in France to address me simply as “Maître”, and due to your marital status, during these procedures you will be referred to as “Veuve Taylor”. You will please stop me if, at any time during the course of our conversation or during these said procedures, you do not comprehend everything fully.’

  There was no option to do anything but nod my head. I didn’t want to call him Master, nor did I want to be referred as Widow Taylor, which elicited visions of a Southern belle before the American Civil War, with a parasol and crinoline. And I wasn’t going to have him dismiss me because I’d accidentally addressed him as tu (the very informal word for ‘you’) instead of the formal vous. I wasn’t going to relegate myself to the lowly status of a foreigner with a poor command of French. I had to concentrate! My pretty thin knowledge of real-estate transactions already put me on shaky ground, but as the meeting progressed I found myself becoming more concerned with my grammar than with the actual procedure.

  By our second meeting, however, I was feeling more at ease with all the pomp and ceremony, which was so alien to my own background but woven into the very fabric of French culture. The contracts for the houses were signed, all with settlements delayed until late in the year.

  In fact, the last transaction was signed with the Mont Blanc fountain pen. Maître Jaffary had decided to risk his precious pen in my hands. I was finally starting to warm to this man. At least he wore very well-cut clothes, brushed his hair and had clean fingernails. There were not too many men in his league in this little country town.

  I was now poised to become the proud owner of three French houses. All were well positioned, with a huge amount of potential as rental cottages. At this stage I still had no long-term plan and no clear idea of what I was doing. I had fallen completely in love with Saignon and with France, and the possibility of being able to run some sort of income-producing business was very appealing. But decisions about the future of the three houses had to be made before my return to Sydney. I wasn’t in a position to allow properties that represented such a huge investment to lie idle, just producing more debt. They needed to generate income, and as soon as possible.

  Place de la Fontaine was already functioning as a rental house and no major work would be required after it was transferred to my possession in October. Lizzie introduced me to Sylvie, a woman from Saignon who would be able to help clean the house and see in the guests in my absence. Lizzie already had a group booked for late October and another for early November. Fantastic! When I took possession, Place de la Fontaine would be ready to start paying its way.

  It was
n’t the same story with Rose Cottage, around the corner. Its cute little blue shutters had taken my eye, as had its ideal position on the sunny side of its quiet little square, tucked back from the main pedestrian thoroughfare — such as it is in Saignon. The house looked even more spectacular now spring had arrived: the magnificent rose bushes arching up the thick stone walls were in full bloom, and the branches of the grapevine were laden with white grapes in abundance.

  Yet however breathtakingly beautiful it was on the outside, the interior was unimaginable for a rental house. The kitchen was nonexistent, as was the heating, and the bedrooms were completely out of proportion, one large enough for a game of tag and the other resembling a small cupboard. There was only one bathroom, and its floor was leaky. So much would have to be repaired and restored. I couldn’t even bring myself to think about how I was going to pay for the work. I had vowed that I would never go back to the stock market again. I’d been lucky once, but I didn’t want to push it.

  As for the house in Chemin St Roch, I was convinced I’d bought well, keeping to the Three Golden Rules of Real Estate: Location! Location! Location! Everything about it was perfect — except for the undeniable ugliness of the house itself. The two houses in Saignon were delightful, epitomising everything that a French holiday house should be: charming eighteenth-century dwellings in the middle of a twelfth-century village. In contrast, the third house was clean and bright, but built in the late 1970s in the modern Provençal style, which had very little charm. At least there was no need for any renovations; once the house was stripped of its ugly wallpaper it would only take a coat of paint to brighten it up.

  I only had to compare the experiences of several members of the ex-pat community to get a glimpse of what it was going to be like here in the Luberon as a home owner and renovator, rather than relaxing on holiday. Extremely tricky. Many of the British ex-pats had fled the vile English weather and had been living in the Luberon for more than a decade. They knew the ins and outs of the renovation process, and had been caught out many times with the demands of the local council or the Luberon National Park relating to window sizes and paint colours. Yet with good humour and grim determination they had eventually achieved their dreams; I just hoped that the same would happen to me.