I frown and scan the room, then peep back down the hall. ‘I also just noticed – no heating.’
‘Other than the range, none.’
‘God, whatever happened to the French art de vivre?’
‘I know. But I can imagine it finished,’ Victor says, heading back outside. ‘Can’t you?’
‘Sure,’ I say. But it’s a lie. Maybe I’m just too tired to imagine anything this evening.
Back out in the yard, the light is fading fast and, with it, the temperature is plummeting.
Aware that I’m sounding like a real killjoy, I try to think of something positive to say about this tumbledown farmhouse he has inherited. I’m a terrible actress, so any outright lies about finding the place appealing are only likely to make things worse.
‘I bet you can see masses of stars up here, can’t you?’ I finally offer.
‘Yes. It’s amazing.’
‘I love that,’ I say. And it’s true. ‘I’m actually quite good at spotting all the constellations. Waiine had a telescope when we were little.’
‘Waiine? Oh, your brother. Sorry, I forgot. Sorry.’
‘It’s fine. Even I forget sometimes,’ I say, clearly a lie. ‘It was a long time ago.’
I stroke Victor’s arm and then add, ‘But yes, I’m sure it will be brilliant up here for star-spotting. God, it’s going to be cold, though. I can see my breath already.’
‘Yes, as soon as the sun goes behind the hills. Still, it is January. And we are eight hundred metres above sea-level.’
‘Right,’ I say.
I turn to look back at the house and shiver. Victor wraps his arms around me and slips his hand into the pocket of my jeans. ‘It’s bad, isn’t it?’ he says.
I sigh deeply. ‘It’s a lot more work than I thought. If you want to make it nice, I mean.’
‘Is it a mistake, do you think?’ he asks. ‘Do you think I’ve bitten off more than I can chew?’
I shrug and gaze at the buildings. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure,’ I say. ‘Can you ask me again tomorrow?’
‘Sure,’ Victor says.
‘I’m freezing.’
‘Me too. Can I tempt you with an aperitif in Château Volkswagen, Madame?’
‘Does the heating work in Château Volkswagen?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Then that would be a pleasure, sir,’ I laugh. ‘But it’s mademoiselle, thank you very much.’
Drinking gin and tonics in the van is cramped but rather lovely. Victor produces chilled tonic and even ice cubes from the mini-fridge and a bag of Japanese rice snacks from a cupboard, then we settle on the bench seat, my back against his chest, his knees either side of me.
Slowly, beyond the windows, the sky flames red and then gradually fades to black.
‘You hate it all, don’t you?’ Victor says after a long silence, during which the only sound is the clinking of ice cubes against the side of the glass and the hiss of the gas heater.
‘What? This?!’ I exclaim. ‘You’re joking! I love being here with you like this. It’s fun.’
‘But you hate the house.’
I reach up and stroke his head until my hand reaches his beard. ‘I hate this thing,’ I say, tugging on it.
‘Oh, God!’ Victor laughs. ‘I nearly forgot. I’ll shave in a minute. But don’t change the subject.’
‘I don’t hate it,’ I say. ‘It’s just, well . . . it’s a far bigger project than I imagined. I’m a bit daunted, I guess.’
Victor takes a few sips of his drink before replying. ‘Can I tell you a secret?’ he asks.
‘Of course.’
‘I’m not very proud, but, so am I.’
‘You’re what?’
‘Daunted.’
I arch my back so that I can look up at him. ‘I’m not surprised,’ I say.
‘It is too much, isn’t it?’
I think about this for a while, and it slowly dawns on me that what Victor needs most from me, what he is silently begging me for, is to not agree with him.
‘It’ll be OK,’ I tell him, struggling at first for authenticity. ‘Projects always feel like that at the beginning. You just have to get stuck in. Do one thing at a time.’
‘But I haven’t got stuck in, have I?’ he says.
I smile. ‘I wasn’t going to say anything, but I did wonder what you’ve been doing.’
‘It’s not that I’m lazy or anything. I just can’t think where to start. I’ve just been sitting, staring at it mostly.’
‘Well, that’s easy,’ I say. ‘You start with the hole in the roof.’
‘Yes, I know. That’s what I thought. But when I tried . . .’
‘You couldn’t lift the sheets of stuff.’
‘Yes. I drove down to buy them. All the way to Nice. But when I couldn’t even get them into the van, I realised that there was no point.’
‘They’re really that heavy?’
‘Well, about forty kilos. It’s more the size. They’re pretty unwieldy.’
‘So it’s a job for a proper roofer.’
‘Only I can’t get one. I phoned at least ten but they’re all busy or they say it’s too far, or . . .’
We slip into another less comfortable silence, and then Victor squeezes me between his knees. ‘You’re not regretting this, are you?’ he says. ‘Because I can drive you to a hotel tomorrow. I can drive you to a hotel now, if you want. You are on holiday. We can still make this into a nice one.’
‘No,’ I say, thinking as I speak. ‘I think we need to get this whole project under way. I think that’s why I’m here.’ As I say this, it strikes me as a mini-revelation: this is why I am here. Because that is what love is – giving the person you love whatever they need at that moment in time no matter how uncomfortable it is to do so. And right here, right now, what Victor is silently begging me to be – even without realising it – is a roofing partner. So a roofing partner I will be. And strange as that may seem, it feels like the most amazing opportunity to turn our relationship into something real. It’s not that is isn’t real, of course. But being so recent – we only got together a month ago, after all – it all still feels rather fragile and new.
‘We could do it together,’ I say.
‘You think?’
‘Or are they too heavy? I mean, I’m not that strong, but I can lift one of those thirty kilo bags of soil. Well, just about . . . Could two of us lift your roofing thingies if we put our backs into it?’
‘You don’t want to spend your holidays roofing.’
I laugh. ‘You know what? It’s exactly what I want to spend my holiday doing. I’m funny that way.’
‘We could try, I suppose,’ Victor says, his tone superficially doubtful, but already I can hear the first spark of hope breaking through.
‘I’ll tell you what else I’m itching to do.’
‘Hmm? Yes?’ Victor says sexily.
‘Well, that too, of course. But I meant get rid of all of that junk in the yard. The place will feel much better then.’
Victor sighs deeply and then puts his drink down and slips his arms around me, pulling me tight. He’s wearing the same Aran jumper he had on the day he left England, and the hug feels no less magical than the one we had then. ‘Thank you.’
‘Any time.’
‘Can I tell you another secret?’ he asks.
‘Yes?’
‘I think you’re the bee’s knees,’ he says.
‘Well, good,’ I reply. ‘Because I think that you’re the bee’s knees too.’
While dinner cooks, Victor shaves. We eat spaghetti for dinner and drink a bottle of wine, then simply fold out the bed so that we can lie side by side and look up at the night sky.
The stars, when they appear, are astounding in number and clarity, so we stare at them and talk quietly about everything and nothing: about my best friend Mark and his new boyfriend Iain, and France and Victor’s missing aunt, who supposedly lives next door but hasn’t been spotted yet. And when we have seemingl
y caught up on the gossip, I begin the far more soothing job of pointing out the constellations.
Just as I am describing Orion, with Victor’s head squashed against mine so that I can point out the individual stars, I am overcome by a deep sense of belonging, an overpowering and rare sensation of being in exactly the right place at the right time within this vast universe, and, for once, of being with the right person too. It hits me unexpectedly just how improbable this is in this infinite space, how stunningly lucky we are to have bumped into each other, and the realisation is so moving, so humbling, that my voice cracks and my vision blurs, and I have to wipe away an unexpected tear before I can continue stargazing.
‘You and me in the middle of all this,’ Victor whispers, and I know that he is feeling it too.
NOT A HOT TORRENT
When I wake up the next morning, Victor is attempting to make coffee, something which is fairly challenging in the confined space left when the bed is folded out.
‘Hello,’ he says, grinning, presumably at my sleepy head. ‘I tried to be quiet, but . . .’
I stretch and yawn. ‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘God, I slept so well! What time is it?’
‘Nine,’ Victor says. ‘The sun’s just coming over the mountain now. Check out the frost before it vanishes.’
I blink to clear my eyesight and sit up, pulling the heavy quilt around me. ‘It looks like snow,’ I say.
‘I know. Beautiful, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, but it must be cold out there.’
‘Oh it is. Good job Le Château has heating, huh?’
‘The range?’
‘No, I meant, Château Volkswagen.’
‘It works well. What’s that smell?’
‘Smell?’
‘Yeah. Toast or something.’
Victor grins and nods over at the cooker. ‘They’re only long life croissants, but grilled, they’re fine.’
I yawn again. ‘They smell fabulous.’
‘Hey, look out the other side.’
I shuffle around to face the other way and stare as the sun creeps down the front of the farmhouse, bouncing off ice crystals as it hits each frosted item of junk. ‘Beautiful,’ I murmur.
‘The frost melts almost instantly,’ Victor says, and I see the sparkling reflections fading even as he says this.
‘It’s lovely,’ I say, thinking as I say it that it will be all the lovelier once all the junk has gone.
Victor lights the stove underneath the coffee pot and then joins me on the bed. He slides his legs around me, cradling me in his arms, and together we sit and watch the advancing sun.
When I was single – which went on for a very long time – I remember having wished for a man who was capable of sharing the simple pleasures of life with me. I remember imagining a virtual boyfriend lying on a lawn with me, watching ants dragging breadcrumbs through the jungle of blades – a childhood memory, no doubt. Watching the sparkle and melt of the frost until the smell of coffee joins the buttery burn of the croissants is close enough for me.
The rest of the day is, though, less idyllic. I am saved from the ignominy of having to refuse an icy shower by the fact that the water is frozen again.
‘It’ll be thawed by this afternoon,’ Victor promises.
‘But not warm.’
‘No,’ he laughs. ‘No, it really won’t be warm.’
‘We need to find a solution for that,’ I say.
‘We do,’ he says. ‘But until I can get a plumber to redo the whole system, I’m at a bit of a loss.’
On my insistence – Victor seems to be lacking the efficiency gene – we load the van with a first batch of junk before heading off. We stop first at the nearest village – a ten-minute drive – and drink coffee in a tiny bar-tabac, mainly so that we can ask where the nearest dump is. Most of the locals seem to be starting the day with wine rather than coffee.
Victor chats fluently to the bar staff in French. Though I knew he could do this – he is, after all, French, even if he did grow up in England – it still comes as a bit of a shock. Everything about him is different in French, from the timbre of his voice to his body language, to the way he moves his hands; it’s like watching a stranger, which is a little unnerving, but also rather exciting. It’s like having two boyfriends for the price of one.
The half-hour detour to the dump completed, we head back through the village, past La Forge, and back down the same stunning road as yesterday.
‘It looks totally different with the sun coming from the other side,’ I comment.
‘It’s jaw-dropping, isn’t it? I suppose you must get used to it eventually. I bet the locals don’t even notice any more.’
I stare out at the crazy rock formations, at the deep blue sky and the white-tipped mountains. ‘I somehow doubt that,’ I say.
Eventually we reach the industrial outskirts of Nice and Victor swings into the car park of a DIY superstore. ‘There,’ he says. ‘Don’t say I never take you anywhere nice.’
I laugh.
‘You said you wanted to go to Nice.’
‘Not quite what I had in mind.’
‘No, sorry about that. I have to load the roofing stuff over there,’ he says, pointing to an outdoor building supplies section. ‘Do you want to come with me, or look around inside?’
‘I thought you needed my help?’
‘Not for loading. They have staff there. It’s at the other end I have a problem.’
I shrug. ‘I don’t . . .’ I’m about to say that I have no great desire to visit the French version of B&Q, but then I think about using their bathroom to at least wash my face.
‘Actually, yes. I would like to have a look,’ I say.
‘Meet you here in half an hour, then,’ Victor says. ‘And don’t go spending a fortune on jewellery.’
‘Copper bracelets, anyone?’ I laugh, climbing down from the van.
Once inside the bathroom, the hot water gushing from the taps feels heavenly. And it gives me an idea. Somewhat excited at the idea of being able to demonstrate my resourcefulness, I head into the store.
Though the front of the store is big, it doesn’t prepare you for the crazy size of the inside. This is truly a cathedral of DIY.
When I eventually find the plumbing department, I think that my problems are solved. Three salesmen are leaning on a counter joking amongst themselves, clearly bored.
Forcing myself to remember that French was once my best subject, I launch myself into it. ‘S’il vous plaît, est-ce que vous pouvez m’aider?’ I ask. Please, can you help me?
The older, more senior of the guys sighs deeply, stands, and straightens his body.
‘Bonjour,’ he says in a strange, questioning tone.
‘J’ai un problème,’ I continue. I have a problem.
‘Bonjour,’ he says again.
‘We have just bought a house,’ I tell him, in what I’m pretty sure is perfect French.
‘Bonjour!’ the man says again.
I start to frown. I feel like I’m stuck in a time loop.
‘We have no hot water,’ I say, deciding to simply plough on.
‘Bonjour,’ he replies again, causing his mates to snigger.
I frown.
‘En France on dit, “Bonjour”,’ he explains. In France we say, ‘Bonjour’.
I blush. Have I been rude? I try to retrace my words. Surely I said, ‘S’il vous plaît.’ Is that not enough?
‘Bonjour,’ I stammer, still unsure if this is the key to making progress here.
‘Bonjour!’ he says yet again, but in a happier tone of voice. This time, he continues, ‘Qu’est-ce que je peux faire pour vous?’
I take a deep breath. I feel like I’m in an adventure game and have only now unlocked the right to proceed to the next level.
But the salesman remains surly and recalcitrant as I explain, in very dodgy French – I seem to lack a number of useful technical terms, such as ‘heater’ and ‘pipe’ – that we have just bought a house with no ho
t water system, and that we urgently need a temporary solution. He frowns and wrinkles his nose throughout. He resists my attempts at humour, refuses to cave in to my most coquettish attempts at charm and, finally declaring what I think means, ‘You need a plumber, not a salesman,’ he turns and walks away.
‘Au revoir!’ I say, annoyed now. ‘En France, nous disons au revoir!’
Quietly fuming, I start to head back towards the exit, but a voice behind me says, in a plummy home counties accent, ‘Do you have electricity, dear?’
I turn to see a tiny, red-faced man who looks not unlike Ronnie Corbett.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘No, I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘But I couldn’t help overhearing your dilemma. Do you have electricity? Because if you do, there is a terribly simple solution, despite what that rude man would have you believe.’
When I get back outside, the van is parked opposite and Victor is leaning on the window staring straight at me. Some croony French music is playing on the radio. ‘I thought I’d lost you,’ he says. ‘Lord, what have you been buying?’
‘My gift to you,’ I say, somewhat proudly.
He opens his door and climbs down, then reaches out to take the huge bag from me. ‘And that would be?’
‘A hot shower!’
‘Really?’ He frowns and peers into the bag. ‘What . . . Oh! How obvious. I never even thought of that. I had one of those in my first London flat.’
‘That will work, won’t it?’ I ask, watching him pull the electric shower heater unit from the bag.
‘Kind of. Except there are no power points in the bathroom.’
‘Oh. I thought there were. There’s a light.’
‘Yes, there’s a light, but you can’t run an instant water heater off that. The amperage isn’t high enough.’
‘Oh,’ I say, disappointed.
‘But it doesn’t matter. I can run a long temporary cable to the fuse box. It won’t win any safety inspections but . . . yes . . . With a couple of bits of extra tubing. Actually, that’s a brilliant idea. Thank you.’
‘Thank God for that,’ I say. ‘I thought you were going to make me attempt a refund in French.’
On the way home, we stop at a different bar-tabac and sit in the winter sunshine to eat the only thing on offer: ham and cheese sandwiches.
The French House Page 2
