The French House

by Nick Alexander

  ‘Right,’ I say.

  ‘Don’t sound like that. I know it’s Peckham but it’s good news. I thought we were gonna have to stay with George’s mum! Imagine!’

  ‘No, that’s great,’ I say.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ SJ asks. ‘You sound funny.’

  ‘No, everything’s fine.’

  ‘Has Vicky-Vick gone back to France? Is that it?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes, that’s it.’

  ‘Why did you phone? You phoned for something, didn’t you?’

  ‘Never mind,’ I say. ‘It doesn’t matter now. So! New flat. Have you signed yet?’

  ‘George is on his way to the estate agent’s with a bank cheque thingy now.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘CC!’ SJ says. ‘Tell me what’s wrong. I know you like I made you, and something is wrong.’

  And so I tell her what I had been about to suggest. When I finish, she is so silent that I wonder if the line has gone dead.

  ‘SJ?’

  ‘Hang on,’ she eventually says. ‘I need to call George. Now.’

  I sit staring blankly at the Shrink-Me Waist-Witch email for seventeen excruciating minutes, until finally SJ phones me back.

  ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘He was in the tube. Why they can’t make phones that work in tunnels is a mystery to me. They work in the Paris metro. All the Frenchies were blabbering away when we were there. Anyway, he’s outside the estate agent’s right now. He wants to know if this is definite.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘It needs to be, like, definite-definite. Not I-think-so definite. Because he was just about to hand over the cheque.’

  ‘Yes. OK. It is. It’s definite-definite.’

  ‘And the rent?’

  ‘We could call it the same.’

  ‘What? Seven-fifty? Your place is in Primrose Hill. You could charge well over a thousand. More like two, probably.’

  ‘I know, but it’s you. And I could leave a bit of stuff there. And you could look after Guinness for me, couldn’t you, so he wouldn’t have to move.’

  ‘Oh, that’ll be a clincher for George. He wanted a cat, but I said no.’

  ‘And you’d let me sleep on the sofa from time to time, if I come back?’

  ‘Of course! But you know we need to move by Monday night?’

  ‘Monday? You said the end of the month.’

  ‘Well that was the deadline, yes, but because the new place was free and George is on holiday next week, and because the landlord of our current place wants to repaint it, Monday suited everyone.’

  ‘Jesus, SJ! Monday?’

  ‘That’s too fast for you, isn’t it? I know how you like to plod.’

  ‘I do not like to plod.’

  ‘You so do.’

  ‘But yes. It’s fine. I have to check something first, though. Can you ask George to wait five more minutes?’

  ‘He’s already late,’ SJ says. ‘He needs to get into work.’

  ‘If he wants a flat in Primrose Hill with a cat for seven-fifty a month, tell him to wait. SJ, you do want this, don’t you? You’re not doing it just for me?’

  ‘Don’t be daft!’ SJ says. ‘Where would you want to live? Peckham or Primrose Hill?’

  ‘So tell George to wait for ten minutes.’

  ‘You said five.’

  ‘I’ll try to be quick.’

  And so it comes to pass that by eleven on Monday morning, I have not only rented my flat out but also resigned from my job, negotiated early departure and booked a collection of ‘up to three cubic metres’ of my stuff by a storage company. As I pick up the phone to call Victor, I notice that my hands are shaking. That could be lack of sleep, or too much coffee, or a combination of both. But it isn’t. It’s the sheer terror of having things change too quickly. For a plodder like me, this is way too fast.

  But Victor doesn’t pick up. When he still hasn’t responded to my message by the time I get home, I phone his aunt’s house and leave a message in dodgy French that he should call me as soon as possible.

  And then I start walking around the flat, followed by about-to-be-abandoned Guinness, as I make a list of what to take, what to leave behind, and what to put into storage. And I try to ignore the rising quell of panic provoked by the realisation that there’s no going back now.

  It’s not until eleven the next morning that Victor and I finally get to talk.

  ‘Hey, sexy lady,’ he says, in tone that indicates he has no idea what I’m about to tell him.

  ‘I stayed up late last night waiting for you to phone me back,’ I say, my tone harsher than I intended.

  ‘Sorry, my mobile’s out of credit,’ he says. ‘And it doesn’t even let you check the messages unless you have credit. Tight bastards, French phone companies.’

  ‘I left a message with Distira, too,’ I say.

  ‘Really?’ Then I hear Victor in French, presumably to Distira, ‘Est-ce que CC a laissé un message hier?’ Did CC leave a message yesterday?

  Distira’s reply is too distant for me to hear, but Victor eventually says, ‘She forgot. Sorry about that.’

  Losing keys, forgetting messages . . . I think. And, as if to answer the thought, Victor whispers, ‘She’s getting old. Anyway, the good news is that Clappier—’

  ‘Victor!’ I interrupt. ‘If I called you on your mobile and on Distira’s phone, it’s because I have some urgent news myself!’

  ‘Oh, OK,’ Victor replies, sounding put out. ‘I thought you’d be interested to hear how—’

  ‘I am, but for once my news is more exciting. Because I’ll be able to see the progress you’ve made with my own eyes, and sooner than expected.’

  ‘You’re coming back?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Tuesday.’

  ‘Next Tuesday?’

  ‘Yes. Tuesday.’

  ‘Wow, that’s good,’ Victor says, sounding less thrilled than I had hoped. ‘How long for?’

  ‘As long as you want.’

  ‘As long as I want? I don’t get it. Oh! SJ and George want the flat, do they?’

  ‘Yes, but they have to move by Monday, so it’s brought everything forward a bit. We’re all going to have to share for one night, then I’ll be leaving on Tuesday.’

  ‘What about your job?’

  ‘I quit my job. My last day is Friday.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘Sound happy,’ I say. ‘Please try to sound happy, because you’re scaring me.’

  ‘Oh, I am, I’m just a bit shocked. What about your notice period and all that?’

  ‘I negotiated a quick departure. And I have two weeks’ holiday to take, so . . .’

  ‘Are you sure about this?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure about this,’ I say, aware that I’m starting to sound angry. I need to try to get a handle on that.

  ‘Well, it’s a big decision. That’s all I mean. I’m just a bit stunned, that’s all.’

  Victor’s tone is so far from the enthusiasm that I envisaged that I’m momentarily lost for words.

  ‘Hello?’ he says after a few seconds.

  ‘I’m still here,’ I say.

  ‘And now I’ve upset you.’

  ‘No. No you haven’t. Well you have . . . But look – and I mean this – if you’re having second thoughts about wanting me there, then now is the time to say. Actually, yesterday was the time to say, before I quit my job. But now is still better than next week.’

  ‘CC . . .’ Victor begins.

  ‘But if you don’t want me there next week . . .’

  ‘CC.’

  ‘Then please just say so now, and I’ll try to cancel . . .’

  ‘CC!’ Victor shouts.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You aren’t pre—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Pre-what?’

  ‘Really, nothing.’

  But I know what he was going to say. He was goi
ng to ask if I am premenstrual. And what’s really bloody annoying is that I am.

  ‘You’re getting hysterical,’ he says. ‘So just stop for a second.’

  ‘I am not getting hysterical! And it’s got nothing to do with my period.’

  ‘No. Sorry. You’re getting upset then. Your voice is wobbling all over the place.’

  Even I can’t deny that.

  ‘You need to listen to me,’ Victor says. ‘You’re just not hearing me.’

  I take a deep breath and then sigh. ‘OK, I’m listening,’ I say.

  ‘I am over the fucking moon that you’re coming so soon. I’m just concerned that it’s too soon. Not for me, but for you. You said you needed time. So I’m worried that you’re pushing this too fast for my sake, when you don’t have to.’

  ‘But it’s not just for you. That’s not the reason it’s all so sudden. SJ needs the flat now, and it’s a perfect solution for me, and for Guinness. And at work they basically told me to work for Cornish Cow, that company I hate, or resign. So it’s like a perfect storm.’

  Victor laughs.

  ‘What? Don’t laugh at me,’ I say. ‘So perfect storm isn’t the right simile or whatever, but—’

  ‘I’m laughing, you stupid sausage, because I’m happy,’ Victor says. ‘People do that when they’re happy.’

  ‘Did you just call me a stupid sausage?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘I’m not sure how I feel about that.’

  ‘About the same as I felt about being called a big wet lump.’ Victor laughs again. ‘Oh, hang on.’ In the background I hear him addressing Distira. ‘Tu vois, Tatie? Elle vient! Mardi prochain.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Just telling Distira that you’re coming.’

  ‘It sounds like she didn’t think I would come.’

  ‘No, she didn’t, as it happens.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘How would I know? You can ask her when you get here.’

  ‘I will,’ I say.

  ‘CC!’ Victor says. ‘Stop picking fights.’

  ‘I’m not,’ I say. ‘Am I?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Everything’s good. So calm down.’

  ‘You’re right. I’m sorry. I didn’t sleep much, that’s all. So are you sure you’re happy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Should I drive or fly?’

  ‘Fly. Definitely.’

  ‘But I can’t bring much stuff if I fly.’

  ‘There’s nowhere to put “much stuff” yet.’

  ‘OK. So I just fly down and then come back for the rest later on.’

  ‘God, I can’t believe it,’ Victor says, laughing again.

  ‘No,’ I say, attempting, but failing, to laugh myself. ‘No, nor can I.’

  My period comes the very next morning. Though far lighter than normal, it brings with it the usual sense of relief. That this feeling of calm manages to dominate despite everything that is going on in my life, is proof, if any were needed, of the power of hormones.

  For the first time in years comes sadness at the realisation that I’m not pregnant. I reason with myself that with everything that we need to do, later is probably better, but it seems that the hormones are shouting almost as loud as reason.

  My last three days at work pass in a whirlwind of activity, much of it admittedly more my own personal arrangements than anything to do with Spot On. But between having to organise a hundred things for myself, take trips to the shops to buy sensible winter clothes, three months supply of makeup and a huge wheeled suitcase to carry it all, and say goodbye to every client, I hardly have time to worry whether I’m doing the right thing. The wide-eyed jealousy of my work colleagues, when I tell them, helps erase any remaining doubt.

  On Friday night, seven of us meet for a goodbye drink at The Ship in Soho. It’s all very low-key, and, to be honest, a bit frigid, so I phone Mark to see if he’s in the neighbourhood. As he is in Compton’s, just down the road, he comes to join us, but even with him present, the contrast to our wild Friday nights of old times couldn’t be more marked.

  Despite the fact that some of us have worked together for seven years, within an hour every one of my work colleagues, except Mark and Jude, has headed elsewhere to their own Friday night rendezvous.

  When Mark receives a text from Iain informing him that he has arrived home, he too starts visibly pining to get away and the fifth time he checks his iPhone, I kiss him on the cheek and tell him, ‘Just go!’

  With Jude not drinking because of a cycle race on Sunday, there really doesn’t seem to be any point continuing, so we too say our goodbyes.

  And the truth is that all of this suits me fine. My work colleagues already feel strangely like part of the past, and Mark has fallen so far into coupledom these days that there’s barely enough of him left sticking out for me to grab hold of. And even I would have to admit that a crazy night of drinking – which was pretty much all we ever used to do – is now the last thing on my mind. All that I want to do this evening is sit in my lounge with my cat and make the most of everything that, so very soon, will be hundreds of miles away.

  It’s amazing how, at certain times, life moves on in a leap and you find yourself looking back at everything you had only to discover that it was all about as important, all about as substantial, as candy-floss.

  On Saturday morning, the storage trailer is delivered. Annoyingly, the nearest parking space is about one hundred yards away, so I have to trudge back and forth through drizzle as I remove all of my worldly possessions and stack them in the lockable trailer. As I do, the flat rapidly ceases to be mine in any meaningful way. It’s astounding just how little you have to remove from a place for this to be so. Once the books and knick-knacks have gone, it feels like little more than an empty shell, a memory of a flat I once had, a place where my life once happened.

  On Monday, SJ and George turn up with a van and start to refill the void with their own mixture of eclectic ethnic objects, every item of which Guinness sniffs thoroughly. I wonder what image his mind creates from the deeply lodged odours of the African earthenware pot he seems so obsessed with. Whatever it is, it makes his tail go all bushy.

  Their previous flat being furnished, SJ and George don’t have many large items, so within two hours we have finished.

  SJ can barely believe her luck at being able to live in Primrose Hill, and George is starting a fresh love affair with Guinness, who doesn’t seem to know what has hit him. They are both, in short, on fine form.

  And despite the stresses and strains of everything that is going on here and everything that is happening tomorrow, it all feels fabulously funky. It’s all impromptu and youthful, and I wonder if shaking everything up and cutting away all of the trappings was, in fact, all that I really needed these past years. I wonder if, perhaps, it was even more important than finding a boyfriend.

  That Monday night, spent eating pizza amid a sea of boxes, turns out, unexpectedly, to be a wonderful moment of friendship, the kind of moment in fact that you truly never forget. It’s the type of scene that, hopefully, when you get to the end of your life, flashes back past you.

  COLD AND GREY, BUT IN LOVE

  I spot Victor the second I get through passport control. He is pressing his nose against the plate-glass wall and waving his arms comically.

  My bag is one of the first out and with the help of a seven-foot German guy, I manage to manoeuvre it from the carousel and set it upon its wheels.

  ‘Jesus!’ Victor says as I appear in the arrivals hall. ‘Couldn’t you find a bigger suitcase?’ And then he wraps me in his thick, warm, sheepskin-clad arms and says, ‘Howdy, partner!’

  We hug for a moment and I breathe in the musky smell of him. When we finally separate, I glance down at my shopping trolley-sized case and say, ‘And no. It’s the biggest one they do.’

  We cross the hall and head out into the gloom. ‘I was hoping for the magical blue sky of the Côte d’
Azur,’ I tell Victor, nodding at the falling rain.

  ‘Yes, sorry about that,’ he says, grabbing my hand and starting to lead me and the crazed, swerving suitcase towards the car park. ‘I did order it for you but they must have got the days mixed up. It’s dry up in the hills, at least. So how was it leaving your place to SJ and George?’

  ‘Kind of weird. By the time my stuff had gone and theirs had arrived, it seemed more like their place than mine. They hung those horrible African rugs of theirs on the walls. It looked a bit like a drug dealer’s house! The worst thing was giving up my keys. I don’t have any keys any more. Not one.’

  ‘Nor do I,’ Victor says. ‘Well, except these.’ He lets go of my hand and pulls the van keys from his pocket.

  ‘Did Distira ever find the others?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘How do you do that?’ I ask. ‘I mean, how could she totally lose a set of keys?’

  Victor shrugs and drags the case to the side door of the van. ‘Dunno,’ he says. ‘She’s a strange old bird.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes, she is.’

  The drive up to the mountains feels totally different today. The grey sky, the falling rain, the sound of the windscreen wipers all conspire to make Provence feel quite British.

  ‘So how is the house coming on?’ I ask.

  ‘Slowly. The ceilings are fixed but not painted yet. The kitchen is gone but not replaced. Same for the bathroom.’

  ‘There’s no bathroom?’

  ‘Not for a couple of days. I’ve been using Distira’s.’

  ‘God,’ I say.

  ‘It won’t be for long, though.’

  ‘So is Clappier good?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Victor says.

  ‘You don’t sound that convinced.’

  He laughs. ‘No, he’s good, but you have to maintain constant pressure. Otherwise he doesn’t turn up.’

  ‘He doesn’t turn up?’

  ‘He goes to other jobs. I think he works for whoever is nagging the loudest, to be honest.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘So it’s kind of hard being his mate and working with him and managing to nag him enough to keep things moving.’

  ‘Maybe we need to do good-cop/bad-cop. I’m quite happy to nag. I do it a lot at work. Well, I used to do it a lot at work.’