The French House

by Nick Alexander

  And because there’s something bold and manly about his sudden determination, something that secretly I have been worried might be missing from his psychological make-up – something absolutely necessary for a project such as this – I don’t talk him out of it.

  ‘I’ll help you,’ I say simply.

  ‘Tuna’s gone,’ Victor comments, when he opens the front door.

  ‘Poor thing,’ I say. ‘She must be starving.’

  Fixing the chimney is a far easier task than we imagined. We carry a long but slightly rotten wooden ladder from one of the outbuildings to the side of the house, and I hold the base while Victor climbs. From the top it turns out that he can easily reach the top of the chimney stack, and when he, pulling a disgusted face, reaches inside to see what might be blocking the hole, his hand reappears holding a mass of balled chicken wire, presumably inserted to prevent birds nesting, but now completely clogged with soot.

  ‘Let’s hope that’s what the problem was,’ he says, casting it to the ground.

  With the chimney unblocked, the range lights easily. It is such a vast mass of cast iron that it takes two hours and frequent restocking with wood before it starts to make any impression on the temperature in the kitchen, but we find ourselves sitting up against it to drink our tea, and then slowly moving back into the room.

  By the time the sun sets, we are sitting at one end of the vast farm table drinking hot chocolate, and it suddenly dawns on me that we are, for the first time, living inside the house. Heat changes everything.

  Victor loads more wood into the crackling fire, before returning to sit opposite me. He takes my hand and says, ‘This is nice. This is the first time I haven’t wanted to return to the van.’

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘I was thinking that too.’

  ‘I don’t think we can get down to the shops tomorrow,’ Victor says. ‘So what do you think we should do?’

  I look around the room and then sigh. ‘I’ll tell you what I really think we need to do.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I think we need to fire up the laptop and do a spreadsheet of what we need to spend on this place, what money we have coming in, and how we think we might make a living.’

  Victor pulls a face.

  ‘You know on The Apprentice, or Dragon’s Den or whatever, you’d have been fired by now for not having done that.’

  Victor wrinkles his nose in a childish gesture of resistance.

  I laugh. ‘Why are you so loath to plan any of this?’

  He shrugs cutely. ‘I suppose the truth is that I don’t really see how it can work. So I’m scared to work it out in case I have to give it up as hopeless.’

  I nod. ‘I can understand that. But I’m not sure burying your head in the sand is the answer.’

  ‘I thought about it a lot before I left, but I just felt that if I looked at it too closely, I would realise that it was impossible, and I just . . .’ He swallows and grips my hand tightly. ‘I really want this, CC. And I really needed to get out of London.’

  I grip his hand in return and smile. ‘I get that,’ I say. ‘And I’m with you. But I still think a proper plan is the way to go.’

  Victor slowly nods. ‘OK. Get the laptop.’

  Because we can’t get out to any shops, we spend the next two days eating bizarre combinations of whatever food we have left, working on our spreadsheet, which isn’t looking very optimistic, and improving the interior of the house in any way we can without supplies. This limits us to dragging any remaining junk from the house into the snow outside, and scrubbing every surface with bleach. Despite the fact that what the house really needs is gutting and refurbishing, at least this, combined with the heat from the range, removes the all-pervading smell of damp from the space. By now, we have pretty much moved into the kitchen and are using the van as no more than a bedroom.

  When, on Thursday morning, the snow still hasn’t melted – it seems, in its whiteness, impervious to the heat of the sun – I start to panic about getting to the airport.

  ‘Yep, you’re right,’ Victor says, when I mention this. ‘I’ll go ask Distira if she can take you.’

  ‘Are you sure that old banger can handle it?’

  ‘They were designed for Siberia,’ Victor says. ‘I think it can cope with a bit of Mediterranean slush!’

  I can think of few things I want less than to spend an hour in a car with Distira, but as one of those few things is missing my flight home and having to buy another one, I acquiesce.

  Just as we are about to leave the house to go and ask her, a small white van appears, labouring its way along the track towards us. It pulls up in front of the house and a pot-bellied man gets out.

  ‘Bonjour,’ he shouts. ‘Je cherche Monsieur Victor. C’est ici?’

  ‘C’est moi,’ Victor says. ‘Bonjour.’

  Monsieur Clappier doesn’t look much like an angel but his appearance transforms so many things that it’s hard to imagine that some higher power isn’t involved. Firstly he informs us that the roads are totally clear from the end of our track down to Nice and that we’ll have no trouble getting down in the van, thus sparing me the trip with Distira.

  Then he wanders around the house in a matter-of-fact way, listing everything that needs to be done to the house and in what order. ‘Well, we need to get this ripped out, replaster that and run the pipes for heating and hot water before anything else,’ he says. Something about his manner, probably the fact that he seems totally unfazed by the project, is entirely reassuring.

  Then our DIY superhero gives Victor the verbal quote of eight-thousand euros and two weeks for ripping out the kitchen and bathroom, installing wood-fired central heating, a basic bathroom suite and replastering the ceilings. Victor um’s and ah’s about this, but I can tell by his suppressed smile that he considers it to be something of a bargain.

  And for his fourth and final act, Monsieur Clappier announces that he doesn’t need Victor around for the work as he has a boy to help him. And this leads to the best surprise of all.

  ‘You know what?’ Victor says, once Monsieur Clappier has gone.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I might come to London with you.’

  I close the front door and turn to face him, my expression a mixture of surprise and mounting joy. ‘Really?’ I say.

  ‘He says he doesn’t need me here for the next two weeks. I could come back with you, tie up all my loose ends, and return to a lovely stripped house with a bathroom and heating in two week’s time.’

  I stride across the room, grab Victor’s head between my hands and kiss him full on the lips. ‘That would be absolutely brilliant,’ I say. ‘I’ve been dreading going back alone.’

  ‘Then it’s settled,’ Victor says. ‘If you give me your flight details, I’ll try to phone for a ticket.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t need to be here? I mean, to check stuff, like what kind of bathroom suite he chooses, what kind of boiler . . .’

  Victor shrugs. ‘I told him white and basic for the bathroom stuff. Bath, sink, toilet – hard for him to go wrong, isn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose,’ I say. ‘And the boiler?’

  ‘He says he can add a back-boiler to the range, which will run radiators and hot water. Sounds perfect to me. I was worried we would have to rip it out.’

  I nod, thinking that although I understand that this is an entirely normal point of view for a bloke – that a bathroom is a bathroom, that central heating is central heating – I’m not sure that it’s one that I agree with. Realising that if I convince Victor of my point of view he won’t come home with me, I rather dishonestly pretend to agree.

  The next day goes by in a flurry of activity. We wake up early and move the contents of the van into a corner of the kitchen, then drop the key with Distira before nerve-rackingly slip-sliding our way to the end of the track. As predicted by Monsieur Clappier, the second we reach tarmac the roads are entirely clear though, which is a huge relief.

  We drive into Nice s
o that Victor can withdraw half of the cash before meeting Clappier on the port to hand it over. Victor and he have a succinct discussion about the work Clappier is going to do in our absence, but I still fear that letting someone do such major works based on such lightweight instruction is a recipe for disaster. In addition, the handover of the cash – in a carrier bag – feels more like a drug deal than a prelude to any renovation work, and it’s a struggle to avoid revealing my suspicion that we will never see Clappier or the money again.

  We drive to the airport, where Victor buys an outrageously overpriced plane ticket and then retire to an airport restaurant for dodgy pizzas and expensive glasses of rough wine as a cushion for the elbow-jostle that is the easyJet boarding experience.

  It’s 5 p.m. when we get to Gatwick but it’s already dark, and this combines with our tiredness and the drizzle to leave us both feeling more than a little grim.

  We take the Gatwick express to Victoria and then, on my insistence, a cab to Primrose Hill. Victor suggests that the tube would be more economical and ecological, but I point out that as someone who has just spent £300 pumping the atmosphere full of carbon, he’s not in the strongest position to force a public-transport-hater like myself into the tunnel-of-gloom. He capitulates immediately, which cheers me up. There was no way I was going to take the tube today, and I do like a man who knows when he’s beaten.

  As I attempt to insert my key into the flat door, it opens to reveal Mark grinning broadly and holding my recalcitrant cat, Guinness. On seeing me, the cat meows angrily, jumps from his arms and vanishes through to the kitchen.

  ‘That cat is such a Friskies junkie,’ Mark says, giving me a quick hug, then, ‘Hello! They let you back in then?’

  Something about his tone of voice catches my attention – something melancholy lurking behind the humour. I’m going to say something but he reaches to shut the door to the flat and is so startled when Victor, following behind, pushes it back open, that he actually shrieks. This makes us all laugh.

  ‘Shit, you made me jump!’ he says, leaning in to hug Victor as well. A hug that I can’t help but notice lasts at least three times longer than my own.

  ‘God, I didn’t know you were coming,’ Mark says, sounding almost love-struck. ‘I haven’t seen you for ages.’

  In the end, it’s rather lovely that Mark is here to meet us. Over glasses of wine, he excitedly interrogates us about the house, the snow, the nearby villages . . . He wants to know every detail in detail. And through telling him, our own enthusiasm, previously dampened by tiredness and travel, is rekindled.

  And then Mark turns to me and says, ‘So? What have you decided?’

  Mark is the only person who I have told what this trip is really about. He’s the only one who knows that my whole future depends upon it. I glance at Victor, who looks at me intently, then nuzzle Guinness, to give myself thinking time, before saying, ‘I think I’m going.’

  ‘Really?’ Mark looks at me wide-eyed.

  ‘Yep. Don’t sound so surprised.’

  ‘I thought you’d come back and chicken out.’

  I shake my head. ‘No,’ I say, reaching out for Victor’s hand, and then feeling embarrassed about the gesture and withdrawing my hand again. ‘No, I think it’ll be fun. I think I need a change. And I want to be with Victor and, for now at least, that’s where he is, so . . .’

  I glance at Victor again and he grins broadly before looking away in embarrassment.

  ‘So when?’ Mark asks.

  I shrug. ‘As soon as I can get everything sorted.’

  ‘And Guinness?’ he says, nodding at the cat, now leaving the room.

  ‘Well . . . Guinness is one of the things that needs to be sorted,’ I say vaguely.

  ‘You’ll bring him, won’t you?’ Victor asks.

  I sigh. ‘I’d like to, but I think he’d hate the journey more than human language can express.’

  ‘I could ask Iain,’ Mark says. ‘I mean, if you’re really leaving him behind. If you’re looking for a new home for him.’

  I laugh. ‘I hardly think Iain will want cat fur all over his minimalism,’ I say.

  ‘Iain’s minimalism went out the window when he met me,’ Mark says. ‘And anyway, I love Guinness. And I wanted another cat since Madge died. I might not even give him the choice.’

  Again, something in his voice, a cold edge, makes me wonder what’s been happening in my absence.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I ask him. ‘Or is there trouble at mill?’

  ‘Yes, I mean no. I’m fine,’ Mark says, but he glances at Victor as he says this, and I think I understand that whatever is happening, he doesn’t want to discuss it in front of Victor.

  ‘Anyway,’ he says, standing. ‘I should go and leave you two to do whatever loving couples do.’

  ‘Like you don’t know,’ I say.

  Mark ignores this comment and scoops his backpack from the floor. I spot some satiny material peeping out and identify it as the corner of a sleeping bag. Mark has been staying here in my absence.

  ‘You can stay the night on the sofa if you can’t be bothered to go home,’ I offer.

  ‘Nah, time to go home and sort stuff out,’ he says with meaning.

  ‘All I want is a bath. A hot bath in a warm bathroom and then bed.’

  ‘Me too,’ Victor says. ‘I’m shattered.’

  ‘So that’s what loving couples do, is it?’ Mark laughs.

  After he has gone, Victor says, ‘What’s wrong with Mark?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘But I think I need to find out.’

  SNUGGLING

  It rains constantly for the entire weekend, but neither of us mind one bit. The luxury of being in a large, clean, warm space – of having hot water and a dishwasher and an amazing electronic device one can speak into to request pizza and a side of garlic bread – is quite simply heavenly.

  We lie in bed till late, take baths that last so long that we have to empty half the water and top up with warm halfway through, eat, drink, and make love. Sometimes the love-making lasts ten minutes, and sometimes it takes hours. But as the rain lashes against the windows in a way that would have left me suicidal when I was single, this turns into one of the best weekends of my life.

  Come Monday morning, the mental shock of having to wrench myself from our love-nest, of having to leave Victor’s warm body beneath the quilt and head out into the gloom and hail (hail!) could hardly be overstated. After two weeks spending every moment with Victor, the wrench of being alone at 8 a.m. on dark, rainy tarmac – of having to fight my way through the polluted streets of London – feels like a torture plan devised by the CIA’s top interrogator, a plan devised specifically to make me crack.

  When I get to Spot On, the advertising agency I work for, I prop my dripping brolly in the stand, hang my drenched overcoat with all the others and cross the large open-plan floor before sliding into my seat. A couple of people look up at me and their expressions register a vague acknowledgement that I’m back after a break. As the computer starts up, I try to remember what I usually do here. Actually, what I used to do here feels more like it.

  My mail program starts to download three hundred and seventy messages, and I watch them as they pop up and see that they are virtually all spam and that those that aren’t are semi-spam – emails from agencies we use, begging for work. And then, unable to face an hour of deleting emails right away, I head to the kitchen for a mug of coffee before heading upstairs to see my friends in Creative.

  When I walk in, Jude is holding a pantone colour chart up against a black and white poster of a yoghurt pot, apparently choosing a colour for the spots on his cow.

  ‘Hello!’ he beams as I walk in. He crosses to peck me on the cheek and then flicks through his pantone samples until he gets to the flesh tones. ‘4745 EC,’ he says, holding one up against my cheek. ‘Looks like someone has been somewhere sunny.’

  I laugh. ‘If only you knew.’

  ‘You look well, anyway,’ he says.
‘How was it?’

  ‘I feel well,’ I say. ‘Well, I did until I had to come back to work.’

  ‘Post-holiday blues?’

  ‘Yep.’ I glance over at Mark’s desk. ‘Where’s that other bloke who works here?’

  ‘Oh, what’s-his-face?’ Jude mugs. ‘He’s up with Stanton and VB. And anyway, it’s worked, not works.’

  I frown. ‘He’s with both of them? What’s he done?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Jude says. ‘It’s his last day.’

  ‘You’re joking,’ I say. But as I say this, Mark enters the room, waving an envelope like a fan.

  ‘P45,’ he says, before pecking me on the cheek.

  Though I knew that Mark was leaving the sinking ship that is Spot On, I had no idea that it was so soon. ‘You didn’t say,’ I protest. ‘You didn’t say anything on Friday about this being your last day. Not one word.’

  ‘I know,’ he says, looking glum. ‘I didn’t want to bring anyone down.’

  I glance over at Mark’s empty desk. ‘I thought your desk looked tidy for once.’

  ‘D’you want to move up here?’ Jude asks me, touching my arm imploringly. ‘Keep me company? I don’t think I want to sit here on my own.’

  ‘I can’t,’ I say, catching Mark’s eye, and realising that Jude doesn’t know yet that I too have decided that I am leaving. Decided that I may be leaving. I frown as I internally struggle to work out which tense is the right one. ‘You should move downstairs,’ I say, to distract my brain from the question.

  I turn to Mark again, who is sliding his P45 into a box on the floor that apparently contains the rest of his things. ‘You’re not leaving right now, are you?’

  ‘’Fraid so,’ he says. ‘Well, once I’ve been to Foyles and back. I need a book on PPM. It’s what they use at Archimedia.’

  ‘PPM?’

  ‘Progressive Project Management. And don’t ask – I don’t know. I haven’t read the book yet.’

  ‘But you’re coming back here after Foyles?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So we can do lunch?’