The French House

by Nick Alexander

‘You’re all rigid,’ he comments.

  ‘I know. I’m still angry.’

  ‘I thought you weren’t angry. I thought you were concerned.’

  ‘Then I’m still concerned,’ I say.

  Victor pulls me tighter and nuzzles my neck. ‘Still really concerned, or just a bit concerned? Or just pretending to still be concerned for maximum pain-infliction?’

  ‘Pretending for maximum pain-infliction,’ I confess.

  ‘Well, that’s your right,’ he says. ‘But I am sorry. What can I do to make up for it?’

  ‘You could start by making dinner, I suppose. I’m starving.’

  ‘I was thinking fish and chips,’ he says. ‘I’ll go get it if you want.’

  ‘Too right you will,’ I say. ‘And you can get a piece of fish for Guinness, as well. You owe him an apology. You stood on his tail.’

  ‘Oops. Three bits of cod coming up.’

  From that point on, everything is officially back to normal with Victor. I say officially, because in truth, it isn’t.

  I’m sure those who have never been in a relationship with an abusive alcoholic would think that I’m exaggerating, being absurd even, but as the days go by and as Victor’s return to France inexorably approaches, I find myself watching him from the corner of my eye, looking for signs, suddenly, unexpectedly, suspicious.

  And I find myself not telling him about my idea of renting the flat to SJ and George. And this not telling him really is a new thing for us, because it feels like a lie.

  It indisputably becomes a lie as we are leaving the house for a final meal out on Saturday night.

  I’m hunting around the flat for the keys that I have mislaid, and Victor asks, ‘So have you had any thoughts? About this place?’

  ‘Umm,’ I mutter distractedly, pretending to be too lost in my key-hunt to hear him.

  ‘Have you had any thoughts about whether you want to sell this place or rent it out?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘Not really.’ You see? A lie.

  To distract both Victor and myself from this dissimulation I say, ‘Do you think you could stop standing there like a big wet lump and help me look for my keys?’

  Victor raises an eyebrow, sighs, and starts to half-heartedly lift the cushions on the sofa so that he can peer beneath.

  Once the keys have been found – they had fallen from the kitchen counter into the vegetable rack – I lock the flat door and then catch Victor’s arm as he starts to head down the hall.

  ‘Sorry I was grumpy,’ I say.

  He pauses and turns back to look at me, both frowning and smiling at the same time.

  ‘Grumpy?’ he says.

  ‘When I lost my keys. Losing things drives me insane.’

  ‘I didn’t notice, to be honest.’

  ‘Don’t say that,’ I laugh. ‘Anyone would think I spend all my time calling you a wet lump.’

  ‘Oh, that,’ Victor says with a shrug. ‘Didn’t even register.’ And then he pecks me on the cheek and heads for the front door.

  FAST TRACK

  When I get home on Monday night, I have spent most of the day wondering how it will feel to be back home without Victor’s presence. It feels exactly the same as the last time I was here without him. It feels awful.

  And so I sit, suddenly too miserable to even step out of my work clothes, and stare out at the dark garden and wait for Victor to phone.

  Eventually, just before nine, hunger snaps me from my reverie, so I check the freezer and am pleased to find that Victor has left it stocked with his trademark ready-meals. Even that vague presence, that proof of his existence, feels like something to cling to.

  I have just dumped a tray of prawn madras in the microwave when the phone rings.

  I run to the phone and answer breathlessly, ‘Hello? Victor?’

  ‘Darling!’

  ‘Oh, hi, Mum!’

  ‘Don’t sound so disappointed, dear. It’s rude. Especially when someone’s phoning long distance. And even more so when that person is your mother.’

  It’s proof of how distracted I have been these last weeks that I haven’t thought about Mum for weeks. Pre-Victor, my mother, and more importantly her romance with a twenty-three-year-old Moroccan called Saddam (who she has rebranded Adam when in Europe, for obvious reasons) was pretty much the only thing I could think about.

  ‘Sorry, Mum, it’s not . . . It’s just that I thought it was Victor. I was waiting for him to call.’

  ‘Is he back in France? I wasn’t sure if you were back home yet yourself, but I suppose normal life has to resume at some point, doesn’t it? Or maybe it doesn’t. Anyway, I’m not sure when we last spoke. Had I been to Imsouane yet? I hadn’t, had I? Well, it was ever such fun to start with, dear. We rented a Jeep thingie and drove cross-country. They had cooked a big chicken tagine and all of Saddam’s relatives came. There were eighteen of us all together. And a cousin was there and he was playing an instrument. A sitar, I think it is. Maybe not actually. Anyway, Saddam was just about to announce that we were going to get married when it all went horribly wrong, dear. You’ll never believe it.’

  This is the first sign of discord that my mother has ever let slip, so it snaps me right back into the moment. I even forget that she’s hogging the line and potentially preventing me from talking to Victor. ‘What went wrong?’

  ‘Well . . . Saddam’s uncle Ilias – a terribly good-looking chap, the spitting image of Saddam, only older, of course – he took me to one side to talk to me.’

  ‘He didn’t make a move on you, did he?’

  ‘No. I did wonder myself, but no. He asked me if I intended converting to Islam . . .’

  ‘You’re not, are you? Tell me you’re not converting to Islam, Mother!’

  ‘Well, of course I’m not, darling. What do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know with you; these days anything’s possible.’

  ‘I spent half my life with a Catholic, darling, and I still don’t subscribe to all that mumbo-jumbo. Do you really think I’m going to start wearing a what-do-you-call-it, a burka?’

  ‘No, OK. I don’t think you have to wear a burka, but anyway, what happened?’

  ‘Well, I told him that I wasn’t going to. Convert, that is.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And he asked me why. And I told him the same thing I just told you.’

  ‘What? You didn’t tell a Muslim that Islam is a load of mumbo-jumbo, did you?’

  ‘Yes. Of course. I’m too old to beat around the bush, dear. You know that.’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘Well, he didn’t understand what I said, but luckily, or rather unluckily, Saddam’s brother did, so he translated for him.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Ilias punched him.’

  ‘He punched him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He punched his own brother for translating?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Talk about blaming the bearer of bad news.’

  ‘Well, quite. It was all very Carry On. They seem to be a bit like the Italians, dear. It reminded me of Rome.’

  ‘The Italians?’

  ‘Yes, you know, lots of arm-waving and shouting. And then Saddam got involved and things got really nasty. Ilias punched him, too.’

  ‘He hit Saddam?’

  ‘Yes. He split his eyebrow. And then Ilias stomped off down the track and his wife and children all got up from dinner and ran after him, and then Saddam’s mother ran after them. She’s a lovely woman. She should have used a bit more face cream over the years, really, as what with all that sun she’s gone a bit like a prune, but I suppose it’s too late now.’

  ‘Yes, Mum. And?’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘Well what happened next?’

  ‘Well, I took Saddam off to the car because I had some plasters in my bag, and then, well . . . we just sort of decided to leave.’

  ‘You left?’

  ‘Yes, we just drove away and left them all to it.
We had to drive through them all, fighting and arguing, but they were so busy shouting, I don’t think they even realised that it was us.’

  ‘God, that’s awful, Mum. Is Saddam OK?’

  ‘Yes, absolutely fine. He’s a brave little soldier.’

  ‘Right,’ I say, grimacing at this poignant reminder of their age difference. My mother used to call Waiine a ‘brave little soldier’ when he was sick as a child.

  ‘So what happens now?’ I ask.

  ‘Well, I don’t think we’ll be visiting Ilias in a hurry.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What do you mean what happens?’

  ‘Well are you going to call the wedding off?’

  ‘Of course we’re not calling the wedding off.’

  ‘You’ll have to at least postpone it, though, won’t you?’ I say hopefully. ‘At least give them time to get used to the idea.’

  ‘Saddam says it’s best if we don’t tell them about the wedding.’

  ‘How can you get married without telling his family? Seriously, Mother!’

  ‘Well, Saddam is very zen, dear. He likes to take the easy path. Which is terribly relaxing after your father, I can tell you.’

  ‘But you can’t get married and just not tell anyone, surely?’

  ‘We’ll see, dear. We haven’t really talked about it. Anyway, enough of me. How was France?’

  I’m a little shocked at this sudden switch, because, for once, I would rather talk about her. ‘France?’

  ‘Yes. Sandwiched between Spain and Italy and . . .’

  ‘Oh, lovely. A bit rustic.’

  ‘You don’t know what rustic means, darling!’ she says. ‘You know they only had one tap in that whole house . . .’

  Once Mum has finally finished telling me about Saddam’s mother’s house, and rerun various juicy events of that day past me one more time, I hang up and check my voicemail for messages from Victor, but there are none.

  I have just tipped my dinner on a plate when it rings.

  ‘Ahah! So who were you on the phone to?’ Victor asks.

  ‘My mother.’

  ‘Your lover?’

  ‘My mother. I thought it was her again, phoning back for round two.’

  ‘You were arguing?’

  ‘No. Not really. I always feel like I have been through a few rounds of boxing by the end of a conversation, though.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Oh, you know. Mad. She . . . Actually, you know what, I don’t want to talk about her.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘How is the house? Is it all toasty and warm?’

  But the news from France is depressing. Distira, it seems, lost Victor’s keys and was unable to let the workmen into the house.

  ‘So the stuff’s all just piled outside the door with plastic sheeting on it,’ Victor explains glumly.

  ‘Clappier didn’t do anything?’

  ‘Nothing. But he’s starting tomorrow.’

  ‘God, that’s awful! And did she find the keys?’

  ‘Nope. I had to break a window to get in myself.’ Victor sighs deeply and his breath rattles against the mouthpiece.

  ‘But you tried to phone him. If he had answered . . .’

  ‘I know. He said his mobile was flat and he forgot to charge it.’

  ‘That sounds like bullshit.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘But he’s definitely starting tomorrow?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘So come back. Come back while he does the work.’

  ‘I can’t. There’s too much to do here. And I want to make sure it all happens.’

  ‘Of course,’ I say. ‘I just feel so miserable when you’re not here.’

  ‘I know you do. But it’s not forever, is it? Anyway, how was your day?’

  ‘Boring,’ I reply. ‘And I felt depressed all day knowing that you weren’t going to be here when I got home.’

  ‘So what does that tell you?’

  ‘I know, I know. That I need to get my finger out, but . . .’

  ‘But you need time,’ Victor finishes. ‘And that’s fine,’ he adds, sounding vaguely patronising. ‘But if you need time, then at least try not to feel miserable about it. It’s all down to you. You’re doing exactly what you want. No one is imposing anything on you. So enjoy it. Because I don’t want to think of you all miserable on your own, do I? That doesn’t help anyone.’

  It’s my turn to sigh. Because the truth is that I can’t enjoy it, because it isn’t what I want to do. Which of course raises the question of why I’m doing it. Sometimes trying to understand your own motivations is as challenging as understanding a complete stranger’s.

  A silence ensues and then I surprise myself by saying, ‘I’ve had an idea, though.’

  ‘Yes? What’s that then?’

  And so, ten days after it first occurred to me, I finally tell Victor about SJ and George and my flat solution.

  I barely sleep at all that night. I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, listening as the central heating creaks and Guinness, apparently untouched by the drama, snores.

  I try to control my thoughts, but fail. I think about Victor in the van in France and wonder if he is sleeping, or if his own mind is racing. I wonder if he feels hopeful, or excited or scared about the possibility that I might be able to join him sooner than planned. And I think about just how soon this could happen if it works out. Because SJ and George need to be out of their flat by the end of the month. Which would push the rate of change well beyond my comfort zone.

  I wake up at 4.45 a.m., which means that I have slept for less than three hours. I try to go back to sleep, but at 5.30 a.m. I give up and force myself to get up instead.

  Breakfast and a shower provide a brief boost to my energy levels. But by the time I get to Spot On, I feel as if I have spent the night drinking and been dragged to the office backwards, through fields.

  Our newest anorexic, would-be-supermodel receptionist – they change often, but always look the same – greets me with, ‘Victoria is looking for you.’

  ‘Morning, Sheredeen,’ I say. Where do these girls’ names come from, I wonder.

  ‘Sorry. Morning,’ she says, holding out a wodge of post for me.

  ‘VB is already in?’

  ‘Yep. Got here before I did.’

  ‘Right,’ I say, taking my post and turning towards the stairs. ‘Thanks.’

  Meetings with the aggressive Victoria Barclay are generally about as pleasant as a weekend visit to Guantanamo Bay. This morning, after three hours sleep, I wonder if I can cope with it at all.

  I grab a coffee, down it, and then pour another one before returning to my desk. I start to sort through the weekend delivery of spam sitting in my inbox – pheromones to attract men and fifteen different diet/weight-loss/girdle solutions – but I have barely started the important business of reading about the Shrink-Me Waist-Witch™ when my phone rings.

  ‘Good morning, CC,’ VB says. ‘Can you come upstairs? We need to talk.’

  When I get to her office it’s empty, so I check our MD Peter Stanton’s office and find them both sitting on the far side of his desk.

  ‘You wanted to see me?’ I ask.

  Peter Stanton looks up and claps his hands enthusiastically. ‘CC!’ he says.

  VB simply points at the seat and says, ‘Please. Sit!’ Her expression is a mixture of hungry anticipation and hatred – she looks as if she’s about to wrestle me to the ground so that she can drink my blood.

  ‘Victoria and I have been thinking,’ Stanton begins.

  ‘About the workload,’ VB continues.

  ‘Yes, it’s bad, I know,’ I say.

  ‘And it’s not getting any better,’ Stanton says, wringing his hands. ‘We lost ManIn to Archimedia.’

  ‘The razor people?’

  ‘Yes. The news just came in.’

  I wonder if Mark is responsible for that particular defection, and I wonder if Stanton and VB know that Archimedia is where Mark went.
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  ‘What we have got, potentially, is a much bigger deal with Unibrand.’

  ‘I didn’t know we were even talking to Unibrand,’ I say, ‘Unless, of course . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ VB says. ‘They’re buying Cornish Cow.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Cornish Cow is the only client that Spot On have had that I have ever refused to work for. Disguising their horrible factory farming methods as ‘the next best thing to organic’ – the chosen tag-line – is just one step too far for me.

  ‘They’re rebranding their entire Dairy-Lite range to Cornish Cow,’ she continues. ‘That’s over one hundred product references that will need redesigning and readvertising.’

  ‘Gosh. And we’ve got that in the bag?’

  ‘It looks like it. But you see our problem,’ VB says, forcing a smile which looks more like a death rictus.

  ‘Yes, I see your problem,’ I say.

  ‘Only it’s become more your problem than ours now, hasn’t it?’ she says, with more than a hint of menace.

  VB goes on to explain that the only project they need me to run right now is Cornish Cow, and that, although she understands my concerns about their farming methods, she is surprised at how little concern I have been showing for my fellow workmates, their wives and children, and, indeed, the health of the business.

  By the time I leave the office, their alternate good-cop/bad-cop routine has made things pretty clear. Either I contribute to disguising Cornish Cow’s misery-farms as pseudo-organic or leave my desk to someone who will. The whole thing feels like a conspiracy to eject me from my life.

  The first thing I do on returning to my desk is to phone SJ at her workplace – the Macmillan Cancer Trust.

  ‘Hiya,’ she says, the second she realises that it’s me. ‘Guess what! We’ve found a flat! Just in the nick of time.’

  My heart performs a strange flutter, no doubt the combination of its sinking due to the fact that my instant solution has just been trashed, and a strange relief that this phone call isn’t going to be the final push on the button that launches the ejector-seat after all.

  ‘It’s only one bed,’ she continues. ‘And it’s in the wrong end of Peckham, but . . .’

  ‘Is this to buy, or to rent?’

  ‘Oh, rent. I would never buy in Peckham. But it’s only seven-fifty a month. We don’t have time to buy now.’