The French for Love (11 page)

The narrow streets of Gensac are abuzz with people hurrying in the same direction towards the open square in the middle of the village, all carrying cheerily clinking bags and baskets. Strings of red, white and blue bunting overhead mark the way, and above them swifts dart and soar in the opal sky as if sharing the excitement of the chattering crowd below. Hugh, Celia and I join the gathering throng and, turning the corner, pause to take in the scene in the
place
before us.

The square has been transformed from its daytime serenity into a humming party venue. Long trestle tables are arranged before us, and groups of people are gathering round each one, chattering and embracing as they greet one another and then set out their glasses and cutlery on the white paper table covers. Under the soaring plane tree that dominates the heart of the village, a wooden dance floor has been laid out and the mayor begins testing the public address system through a microphone, somewhat reluctantly handed over by the DJ from behind the flashing facade of his disco. Red and white streamers radiate from the tree to form a fluttering canopy above our heads, and golden fairy lights are just starting to gleam as the dusk deepens. And in and out of everything, small children dart and race, unwittingly mirroring the flight of the swifts high above us all.

We hand over a few euros in exchange for strips of tickets that entitle us to each of the four courses of tonight’s meal. Celia cranes her neck and then waves. ‘There are the others. I told them to bag a table if they got here before us.’

We pick our way between the tables to join the rest of our party, who are already well established by the look of the open bottles of wine arranged the length of the table. Celia pretends not to notice as Nigel, looking as rosily damp as ever, waves me over, gesticulating at the empty space on the bench beside him. ‘Gina, I’ve saved you a seat!’ He clambers to his feet and embraces me somewhat stickily. There’s nothing for it but to sit down next to him, but I’m relieved to notice that the Everetts take up their places across from us and Hugh gives me a reassuring wink as he settles himself at the table.

‘Let me pour you some wine,’ says Nigel, enthusiastically sloshing some of the local co-op’s finest (which isn’t at all bad, actually) into my glass.

‘Just a half, thanks; I’m driving,’ I say, firmly putting my hand over the top. I’ve taken the precaution of including a large bottle of water in my basket and I place this on the table between us, signalling my clear intention not to succumb to any further temptations he may try to put my way.

Hugh introduces me to the large lady sitting on the other side of me and, to my relief, she engages me in an animated conversation about the forthcoming Franco-British week in Sainte Foy which apparently includes a French versus English
boules
tournament in which she is very keen that I should participate.

Above the crowd’s noisy crescendo, the loudspeakers on either side of the disco give a sudden shriek of feedback, and the mayor declares the proceedings officially open with a hearty welcome, inviting us to take our plates and make our way to the serving tables at the top of the
place
where we will be given our starters.

Despite the hordes of people, the queues move surprisingly quickly, the servers obviously long-practised in their efficiency in doling out slices of charcuterie and hunks of crusty bread onto each outstretched plate in turn. And besides, the queues are a further opportunity to mingle, greet more friends and exchange gossip as the tide of partygoers swirls and eddies between the tables.

‘So how’s your roof coming on?’ asks Nigel, returning to his seat close on my heels and tucking in to the array of garlic-spiked pâté and cold meats on the plate before him.

‘Very well indeed, thank you,’ I retort, trying to keep the edge of irritation and defensiveness out of my voice. ‘The Thibaults are doing an excellent job. They’ll have the outside pretty much done by the end of the week. Then they’re off on holiday for a fortnight. They’ll be back to finish off and re-plaster the ceiling in August but there’s no great hurry for that.’

‘Typical French workmen,’ he sniffs. ‘It’s impossible to get anything done at all in the summer. You’ll be lucky if you see them again before September. I’m surprised they’re doing the plastering. Surely you need a proper plasterer for that? Mind you, they’re impossible to come by. Expensive work, too. Let me know if you want one who speaks English. I can ask my builder for you if you like.’

‘Thank you, but I have every confidence in the Thibaults and I’m sure they’ll be back to finish the job. Their mother is a neighbour of mine and she’ll chase them up for me if need be.’ I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that they’re doing the plastering themselves as a favour to keep costs down for me, but I’m not going to share this thought with Nigel.

I take a sip of the rough red wine, pausing to enjoy the way the robustly tannic local brew complements the fattiness of the spicy charcuterie.

Across the square at another of the long tables, I spot Mireille and her family. All four sons are there and I see Luc and Nathalie sitting between Cédric and Marie-Louise, happily tucking into their meal, surrounded by assorted aunts and cousins. Their diminutive grandmother holds court at one end of the long wooden bench, pausing frequently over her starter to greet a constant stream of friends and neighbours who come up to say hello.

Celia leans across the table, following my gaze. ‘Isn’t that Madame Thibault?’ she asks. ‘We must go and say hello later on. And that tall lady on the next table along is our local novelist, Abigail Peters. Have you read any of her books? Quite a celebrity in these parts.’ She pauses to scan the square for other noteworthy characters. ‘You see the woman on the next table but one? The one that looks a bit like Carla Bruni? Well, she’s a ballet dancer from Paris. She and her husband have bought a wreck of a château and are doing it up. That’s him at this end of the table—rather dishy.’

She breaks off to half rise and greet Monsieur le Maire who is doing the rounds of the tables, encouraging people to make their way back to the serving tables with their empty plates to collect the main course. He shakes my hand and pronounces himself to be ‘
Enchanté
’ to make my acquaintance.

‘Shall we...?’ says Nigel, picking up his plate and sliding off the bench to allow me to go first. We file up to join the queues once again. As I stand in the line, I feel a gentle tug on my sleeve and turn round to find Cédric and Nathalie behind me, also with their plates in their hands. My heart does a triple somersault.

‘
Bonsoir, Mademoiselle Gina
,’ says Nathalie, who is still holding the silky sleeve of my tunic. I bend to kiss her on each cheek. ‘I like your outfit,’ she says shyly. ‘Papa, doesn’t she look elegant?’

‘She does indeed,’ smiles Cédric gallantly. And then, to my surprise, he also leans to kiss me twice and I feel myself blushing involuntarily where his slightly rough cheek has brushed mine. A jolt of attraction, like static electricity, crackles in the air between us.

To cover my confusion, I bend back towards Nathalie. ‘And you look absolutely beautiful,’ I say. ‘Is that your new dress? It’s so pretty.’

The little girl beams. ‘
Oui.
Pink is my favourite colour,’ she replies. ‘And how is Lafite? Did you shut him in safely?’

‘Yes, I left him listening to a little Mozart so I think he’ll be fine.’

Nigel, who’s been chatting to some of the other members of our party, turns towards me and, to my intense annoyance, puts a proprietorial—and somewhat clammy—hand on the small of my back to usher me forward. ‘Here you go, Gina, it’s our turn next.’

I smile again at Nathalie and Cédric. ‘Would you like to go first?’ I offer.

‘That’s very kind, but we’ll wait for the rest of the family,’ says Cédric, and I see that Luc, Marie-Louise and the others are getting up from their table. ‘
Bonsoir,
Monsieur
,’ he adds politely to Nigel, who gives him a rather curt nod in reply.

‘Okay. Well,
bonne continuation
,’ I say, telling myself that the sense of disappointment that washes over me is completely out of line and must be ignored.

As I make my way back to the table, my plate piled high with chicken and rice, I make a small detour to say hello to Mireille who has now joined the queue with the rest of her family. I kiss her, Marie-Louise and Luc and greet the brothers, including Pierre who juggles mobile phone and plate to shake my hand. But then I move on swiftly so I won’t hold them up in getting their meal. They are in the middle of a noisy, merry throng of friends and I’m an outsider here. And, besides, my food’s getting cold I tell myself, to divert the tide of self-pity that’s threatening to overwhelm me.

The cheerful cacophony of clinking glasses, clattering cutlery and chattering voices grows louder than ever as the meal nears its end, cheeses and choc ices following the main course. Finally the mayor and his band of helpers circulate with bin bags to collect debris and plates are scraped thoroughly before being stowed carefully back into bags and baskets, the decks cleared for the evening’s main events. Darkness has now fallen and the fairy lights sparkle merrily beneath their canopy of paper streamers, replicated above, several millionfold, by the Milky Way. The DJ takes his place behind the bank of flashing lights and suddenly music floods the square and there’s a tidal surge towards the dance floor as couples begin to spin and sway to a Johnny Hallyday number. Small boys, fuelled up on ice cream and excitement now, race in and out of the dancers, while groups of little girls, in pretty dresses with their hair tied up in jaunty red, white and blue bows, hop solemnly and a little self-consciously on the edge of the bobbing, spinning throng.

I’m chatting to Hugh and some of the others sitting around the table whose white paper cover is now festively printed with silver grease spots and pink circles of wine, when suddenly I’m aware that Nigel is trying hard to attract my attention. He’s drunk most of his bottle of wine and it hasn’t done much to enhance his charms. His face is now flushed a deep shade of magenta, clashing violently with his pink shirt, and his features, framed by their strands of sweat-slicked hair, have slackened and sagged. I studiously try to ignore this beguiling apparition bobbing increasingly persistently on the periphery of my vision. But then he puts a sticky hand on my upper arm, leaving a damp paw-print on the silk of my sleeve.

Hugh, seeing my plight, leaps to his feet with alacrity and reaches a hand across the table. ‘Now, Gina, I believe we have a date for the first dance,’ he says. ‘Nigel, if you’ll excuse us?’

He leads me to the dance floor.

‘Thank you. That was kind,’ I say.

‘Probably just a stay of execution, I’m afraid,’ he grins. ‘Don’t think you’re going to get away without a dance with him. But we can at least show him how it’s done.’

To my surprise, Hugh commences an accomplished jive, leading me so that I quickly pick up the steps and am soon happily hopping and twirling. ‘This is fun!’ I shriek, as he whisks me round the dance floor. ‘Where did you learn to dance like this?’

‘On our five-year posting to Senegal there wasn’t much else to do. The expats, mostly French, ran Ceroc classes, and Celia and I signed up. We even won the dance-off at the Christmas party one year. First prize: a bottle of the local hooch. Second prize: two bottles of the local hooch.’

He steers me deftly round another bobbing couple.

‘Shame your mother isn’t here for the party. Will she be coming to visit you soon?’

‘No plans,’ I shout above the beat of the music, as our orbit has now brought us alongside one of the banks of speakers that flank the disco’s flashing lights.

‘It’s a pity she couldn’t come more often when your father used to be over on his tasting trips, but I suppose she was quite tied up at home then, with you at school and so on.’

I miss a turn and stumble clumsily.

‘Whoops—I’ve got you,’ he laughs.

‘So, did Dad come here often?’ I ask, hoping the question sounds casual despite the fact that I’m shouting to make myself heard above the music.

‘Not here so much, no. We only saw David in this neck of the woods once or twice. Mostly he was being wined and dined by the great and the good in Bordeaux. A tough assignment! But it was his work, after all, so maybe Catherine felt she didn’t want to be in the way. A pity though. Liz would have enjoyed her company.’

Yes, I think, unless Liz was too busy enjoying Dad’s company instead.

I want to ask him more, but the music slows as the song comes to an end and Hugh makes a mock bow and kisses my hand. ‘Thank you, my dear. That was most enjoyable and you are an excellent partner.’

We pick our way back to the table where, I’m relieved to find, Celia has engaged Nigel in an animated conversation about the best local sources of click-lock flooring, a subject on which he apparently holds strong and expert opinions. I settle down to watch the swirl of the dancers as the music starts up again. It seems the whole of the local community is here and the full cross-section of ages, shapes and sizes is on display.

I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to find Cédric standing there, a bottle of wine in one hand and two empty glasses in the other.

And maybe it’s the heat or the wine or the music, but all of a sudden it’s as if the crowd fades away, leaving just the two of us in a space quite apart from everything and everyone else. I stand, feeling myself drawn to him without a word being spoken. Someone pushes past behind me and I’m forced in closer, suddenly dizzy with longing as my arm brushes against Cédric’s. I feel a jolt of heat, which has nothing to do with the warmth of the evening air and the crush of bodies around us, and everything to do with the fact that our eyes lock, in a gaze of such intense mutual desire that I think I may just melt into his arms here and now. For a long moment we hold one another with this look, naked in our unspoken hunger. It’s completely unambiguous. There’s no way I can explain it away. And surely everyone around us must be able to see it too, to sense the heat that flows between us. The language of desire needs no translation.