The French for Love (12 page)

I pull myself up short in the sudden realisation that ‘everyone’ includes his wife, mother and children, not to mention assorted brothers, cousins, uncles and aunts, and pretty much anyone he’s ever known. The spell is broken and he drops his gaze, downcast, as I draw away from him again, even though it takes every last shred of my willpower to make myself do it.

I try to ignore the disappointment and hurt that are written clearly in his eyes, behind the warmth of his undeniably sexy smile.

He gestures with the wine bottle and glasses. ‘I wondered if you’d like to try this. It’s a local wine, made by friends of mine. They’ve just won a medal for it.’ He pours a little of the velvety red liquid into each of the glasses and offers me one. To cover up the fact that my hands are shaking, in time with the trembling of my knees, I raise it to my lips and sip. My eyes widen in surprise. If it weren’t for the fact that I know it’s local, I’d have guessed this was from the Médoc. It has the complexity and subtlety of its smarter and more expensive neighbours. Cédric grins, delighted at my response.

‘Your friends certainly know what they’re doing. What’s the name of the château?’ He turns the bottle so that I can see the label, which reads ‘Château de la Chapelle’ and bears the logo of the Sainte Foy Bordeaux
appellation
. I lean in closer to get a better look, and as I do, I sense again the heat of his body, and my head spins. He’s watching me intently, his dark eyes serious for a moment, and I get the impression he’s about to say something more.

But the moment is shattered when suddenly we’re rudely interrupted. Nigel has materialised at my side, flushed with the excitement of yet another opportunity to demonstrate his extensive knowledge of the local DIY trade, or perhaps it’s just the effect of one more glass of wine.

‘There you are, Gina,’ he slurs, putting an overly familiar arm round my shoulders. ‘That was quite a display you and old Hugh put on, on the dance floor. Care to put me through my paces next?’

‘That would have been lovely,’ I say, smiling politely whilst firmly removing his arm, ‘but the music seems to have stopped.’ I turn back to Cédric, but he has gone. I catch a glimpse of him as he picks his way back through the throng to his family, and my throat constricts with disappointment.

The mayor has re-taken the microphone and is announcing that the firework display is about to begin, if everyone would like to make their way to the viewpoint.

Chattering and laughing, the crowd flows through the gap at the end of the square and regroups where the hillside falls away steeply to the darkened valley floor below. I try to manoeuvre so that several other members of our party are between me and Nigel, but he’s sticking to me like glue (‘sticking’ being the operative word), persistently edging rather too far into my personal space. I catch sight of the Thibaults over to our right. Pierre has lifted Nathalie onto his shoulders so she can see and she’s giggling and holding on tight to his dark curls. Cédric, standing next to them, catches my eye and raises a hand in faint salute, but he’s unsmiling now, his face expressionless. Luc has joined a gang of young boys who are buzzing with excitement at the front of the crowd. They are repeatedly shooed back by the mayor, although it’s like trying to herd a swarm of flies.

The first rocket explodes above us and all faces turn to the starlit sky. All except one, that is. Out of the corner of my eye, in the flashes of coloured light that illuminate the scene, I’m acutely aware that Cédric is watching me, rather than the fireworks.

The only sounds for the next quarter of an hour are the cracks of gunpowder and the oohs and aahs of delight. They’ve put on quite a show in this little town, and the same thing is happening all across France as, for one night at least, her people unite to celebrate the
liberté, egalité
and
fraternité
of their Republic.

When the display is over, the music starts up again in the square, enticing the partygoers back to the disco. Some people begin to drift homewards and I head back to our table, intending to retrieve my basket and make my way back to the car parked in the Everetts’ drive. But I’m intercepted by Nigel, who grabs my hand and pulls me onto the dance floor.

One of my favourite songs of the summer begins to play; I’ve heard it often on the radio. It’s a pulsing tune that has everyone up on their feet. Its words are a poignant invitation to all who are alone to come and join the dance and they seem to be directed at people like Liz used to be, or like my mother is now, making their way on their own through life. People like me.

Or, indeed, like Nigel, who is now gyrating energetically in front of me. He appears to have no inhibitions on the dance floor, although sadly he also appears to have no sense of rhythm. All around us, couples have taken to the floor and all ages, shapes and sizes whirl by in formation. Little old ladies dressed in black dance past in decorous pairs. Hugh and Celia Ceroc on by in perfect harmony. The Carla Bruni ballet dancer and her dishy husband whirl past elegantly. And the tall lady novelist waltzes by clutching Monsieur le Maire to her ample bosom. And in the middle of it all, Nigel and I hop clumsily, out of sync with the music and with each other. What he lacks in style he makes up for in enthusiasm, though, and I duck to avoid his flailing arms, at the end of which his fingers are clicking, a move that’s straight out of the Austin Powers School of Groovy Dancing.

He moves in closer, so I step back to try to maintain a bit of distance between us, and in doing so tread heavily on the foot of the dancer behind me, who staggers and bumps into his own partner, almost sending her flying. And my mortification is complete as I realise the couple are Cédric and Marie-Louise. I shout an apology, but he has caught her and they whirl off, orbiting in their own accomplished jive, he with a smile and a shake of his head and she laughing as she spins away and back again into the steadying embrace of his outstretched arm.

The music finishes and, before it can segue into the next song, I thank Nigel and firmly turn and walk off the dance floor. He trots happily behind me, obviously pleased with his performance. We reach the table and he ensures my chagrin is complete with what is—as far as I’m concerned—his parting shot. ‘You know, Gina, you’re really not at all a bad dancer.’

♦ ♦ ♦

Hugh, Celia and I walk back through the quiet streets of the village, the music and lights in the square fading behind us, and pick our way carefully the hundred yards or so along the darkened country road to the driveway of their house. They’ve left lights on, which shine welcoming golden squares onto the gravel in front of the house.

‘Come in and have a cup of coffee,’ the Everetts urge.

I hesitate. I wouldn’t normally, but there is something I want to do, so I accept. While Celia bustles around boiling the kettle and clinking cups and saucers in the kitchen, Hugh opens the French doors and we settle ourselves on their terrace, the night air still warm, the noise of cicadas drowning out the distant sounds of the continuing revelry in the
place
.

Nonchalantly, as if it’s a thought that’s just occurred to me and not something I’ve mulled over endlessly through the dark hours of several recent sleepless nights, I say, ‘By the way, Hugh, since I’m here I might as well take away Liz’s urn. If it’s not inconvenient for you of course.’

‘Why, yes, not at all,’ he replies, glancing at me astutely. ‘We’ll get it on your way out. Have you decided what you’re going to do with it?’

Neither of us can quite bring ourselves to mention the word ‘ashes’.

‘Not yet, but I think she should be back in her own home until I do decide.’

Celia appears with a tray of elegant china and the conversation turns to a review of the evening’s festivities, and some final snippets of gossip about the other members of our party (it turns out the husband of the large woman sitting next to me ran off with their cleaning lady a year ago—‘They’ve moved to Gardonne and he’s gone almost native! Poor Vanessa; so brave of her to stay on, though of course Franco-British week keeps her busy.’).

As I take my leave, Hugh dives into his study and reappears with a cardboard box which he stows carefully on the floor of my car by the passenger seat. ‘Mind how you go, Gina,’ he says in his gruff-yet-kind manner. I hug them both goodbye.

It’s well after one a.m. when I get home, and Lafite runs out with an affronted squawk when I push open the door, indignant at having been incarcerated for the evening.

I set the cardboard box down on the kitchen table and open the flaps. Inside there’s a neat black casket. I close the box up again, disguising the obscenity of death behind the plain brown packaging. It’s too late to decide where to put it tonight. I’ll think about it in the morning.

♦ ♦ ♦

And so, of course, at four a.m. I’m wide awake and staring at the spare-room ceiling. Lafite is curled up in a neat ball at the end of the bed, sleeping peacefully. But my mind is racing. That cup of coffee at the Everetts’ was definitely a mistake.

I can’t stop replaying that moment when I thought Cédric was going to say something more. What would it have been? Something along the lines of, ‘Fancy an affair?’ I suppose. Just like every other cheating scumbag, I think bitterly.

But he seems so different, not at all the type, says the voice of hope. Don’t be naive, it’s the French national pastime, says the voice of realism.

To distract myself from this frustrating cycle of thoughts which is getting me nowhere—least of all to sleep—I turn my mind to the cardboard box on the kitchen table. Where am I going to scatter Liz’s ashes and where am I going to store the casket until I get around to the act of scattering? Rationally, of course, it’s just a pile of dust. Earth to earth and all that. But you can’t get away from the fact that this dust is the last remnant of Liz’s physical presence. And something that’s been so dear and so familiar deserves—demands—to be treated with respect. No, respect is too cold a word. With love. Whatever she might have been to my father, she was a wonderful aunt—and friend—to me. One of the people on this planet who really loved me. And there aren’t very many of those left, I reflect with a sudden rush of self-pity.

Sorry, but four o’clock in the morning really is the loneliest of hours.

I pull myself together. Okay, forget about where to scatter her ashes for the moment. Let’s just decide where to put the damn urn in the meantime.

I don’t think I can bring myself to put it on the mantelpiece in the kitchen. It would put me off my food to sit looking at a jar of mortal remains every mealtime. I could keep it in the study, but I’ll be spending quite a bit of time in there when I really get started on my coursework and I don’t want it to be a constant distraction. I could stick it in the broom cupboard in the utility room and try to forget about it, but that seems far too callous, so it’d be on my conscience. Which would mean I couldn’t forget about it at all.

The sitting room seems like the best compromise. It’s not a room Liz ever really used, but it seems respectful, with the air of formality that death demands, and at the same time is slightly out of the way of my daily life.

I know I’m not going to be able to get to sleep until I’ve moved the urn, so I slide out of bed carefully so as not to disturb Lafite and pad through to the kitchen. The house is so quiet all I can hear is the soft heartbeat tick of the clock above the fireplace. I fill the kettle and switch it on, pretending that a cup of camomile tea is just the soothing antidote I need to get back to sleep, but really to ruffle the surface of the silence with a little comfortingly domestic noise.

Gingerly, I remove the urn from the box and carry it through to the sitting room, tucking it into the crook of one arm as I turn the door handle and push the door open with a dry creak of its hinges. I put the casket of ashes on the coffee table between the two sofas which face each other conversationally. I pause for a moment and consider putting Dad’s photo on the table beside the urn. But no, that would be too public an admission of what has gone before, even with the picture of the magpies covering the guilty secret, as in the past. And it would also be too shrine-like. I can see Liz’s wry smile mocking the idea. I pull the creaking door shut behind me, but then hesitate and open it again, pushing it ajar. It feels more companionable this way. And, yes, I do realise how silly this is and that I’m making a huge issue out of what merely amounts to a jar full of dust. But since there’s nothing I can do to bring Liz back, our last threads of connection—no matter how tenuous they may be—have become vitally important. I can’t ask her for the truth about her relationship with my father. I can’t scream my anger at her for her betrayal. I can’t tell her that she’s wrecked my life, turning everything I thought I knew about my childhood into an empty charade. I can’t weep on her comforting shoulder, emptying out the muddle of conflicting emotions that has been one of her legacies to me. All I have is this last gesture of grudging respect.

I pad back to bed, ignoring the now-quiet kettle with its wisp of silent steam and shivering a little despite the warmth of the July night. I slip back under the covers, pulling up the light quilt. Lafite, disturbed by the movement, wakes and stretches, then jumps down and stalks soundlessly out of the room, no doubt off on some nocturnal hunting expedition as I hear the clatter of the cat flap moments later.

Pity. I’d have liked his company in the dark hours that stretch endlessly between me and the dawn.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The State of the Nation

To-Do list:

• •
  Re-hang shutters—ask Thibaults
  
• •
  Buy more teabags
  
• •
  Practise taking deep breaths and letting go—ongoing
  
• •
  45 mins Pilates (frustration still taking its toll...)—daily
  
• •
  Stop obsessing about incredibly romantic moment with unattainable married man with children—ongoing.
  

C
elebrations and jubilations—that’s the last shutter finished! I’ve left the heavy ones that flank the doorway until the end and now they are neatly sanded, undercoated and painted and are resting on the trestles to dry. I’ll ask the Thibault brothers to put them back on for me tomorrow. All the windows are now framed with the sage-green panels and I pause for a moment on my way back to the house to survey my handiwork. Most satisfying.

I’m cleaning both the brushes and my green-spotted hands at the kitchen sink when there’s a tap at the door and a faint ‘
Coucou
!’ I turn, and am delighted to find Mireille on the doorstep.

‘I’ve come to inspect all the work that’s been going on here—both yours and my sons,’ she grins, her eyes bright as a bird’s in the leather-brown folds of her face.

‘Well, you’re just in time for tea, too,’ I reply.

‘Good, I hoped that might be the case.’

We go out onto the terrace where Pierre is passing roof tiles up to Cédric. Raphael and Florian are elsewhere this week, finishing up other jobs before their break.

‘The building inspector is here,’ I call, and the men pause in their work.

Peering down from his scaffolding perch, Cédric says in mock alarm, ‘Oh,
mon Dieu
, not that one! She’s particularly difficult.’ He climbs down to join us. His manner is always nothing but professional when any of his brothers are around, but today I sense that he’s been a little more distant with me and it’s as if our moment of intimacy at the festivities last night never happened.

The boys explain to their diminutive mother what they’ve been doing and she squints up at the newly rebuilt chimney and the surrounding roof with a critical gaze, before finally giving their work a nod of approval. ‘We’re still waiting for the cowl for the chimney. It’s on order at Lacombe and will only be in at the end of the month, but as it’s summer Gina won’t be lighting any fires I think,’ says Cédric. Our eyes lock and I blush at his words as, unbidden, a sudden vision enters my mind of a roaring fire on a winter’s night, the two of us sitting in front of the flames sharing a bottle of wine, his lips on mine...

‘And there’s still the internal plastering to be done,’ he continues, but his gaze is still focused on my face and I feel even more flustered at the thought that he may be reading my mind. ‘But we’ll come back after the holiday to finish that off.’ I snap back to reality and try to concentrate on the discussion once again.

‘Are you going to use wet plaster or plasterboard?’ Mireille asks knowledgeably. I have no idea what the difference is, but I’m thankful to have such unromantic practicalities to focus on in order to banish inappropriate thoughts about her son from my head.

‘Plasterboard as it’s easier and quicker. We can fix it between the beams and you won’t be able to see the difference once it’s painted,’ Cédric replies.

‘Well,’ says his mother somewhat doubtfully, ‘if Gina is happy with that solution...’

‘I’m happy with whatever you recommend,’ I say to Cédric, pulling myself together and trying to sound as brisk and business-like as possible. ‘Plasterboard sounds fine. And I’m really so grateful to your sons for all the work they’ve done,’ I continue, turning back to Mireille. ‘I know it’s taken them away from other jobs. Now, let me go and get the tea things.’

I carry the tray out and Mireille and I sit at the table while the brothers perch on the terrace wall. ‘We won’t stop for long; we need to carry on, to be sure of getting the tiles finished by Friday,’ they say.

I’ve made Pierre his usual tiny cup of strong black coffee, which he downs in one gulp, breaking off for a second from sending a couple of texts to do so. Mireille raises her eyebrows in surprise as Cédric accepts a cup of tea, and then shoots him a sharp glance. ‘Aha, I see you’ve managed to civilise one of my sons at least, Gina.’

Cédric grins and takes a couple of sips, but then stands up and nudges Pierre. ‘Come on, Casanova, back to work.’ Without thinking, I reach out to take his mug from him and our fingertips brush as he passes it to me. We exchange a smile, the distance that I’d sensed between us closing in a flash. And I only realise how intimate this gesture must look when I catch sight of Mireille who is watching this momentary exchange like a hawk, an expression of suspicion dawning in her wise old eyes.

But, with her customary kindness, she chooses to ignore my obvious confusion at the fact that she’s noticed this English hussy seems to be flirting shamelessly with one of her married sons, and turns the conversation to last night’s revelries.

‘So, did you enjoy our Bastille Day celebrations my dear?’

I blush again at the memory of exactly how much I’d enjoyed one particular moment in the company of a certain married son of hers. Pulling myself together, I say, ‘Very much indeed. You rarely get a community coming together like that in England. At least the part I come from. It was fun. And you made all us foreigners feel very welcome.’

‘
Ah, oui
, the second occupation we call it. The first dates back to Eleanor of Aquitaine when this whole region belonged to the English kings. The second has happened a little more stealthily and a lot more recently. But we like having the English here. Everyone knows they make an important economic contribution to the region, especially when times aren’t easy. And now with
la crise
in the wine industry it’s even more important. Bordeaux isn’t yet as badly hit as some other parts of France, but it’s difficult all the same.’

‘I know it’s getting harder to sell French wine in Britain,’ I say, ‘but surely the winemakers of Bordeaux can easily sell their production in France?’

‘Not so much these days,’ Mireille shakes her head.

Cédric, pausing in the act of handing up another stack of tiles to Pierre, chips in, ‘It’s not cool for the younger generation to drink wine these days. Whisky and beer are much more in.’

‘Yes, and the French Government isn’t very supportive of the wine industry,’ Mireille adds. ‘In fact there’s a big campaign against alcohol in general, because people are worried about the effects of drinking too much. But they’re going to the opposite extreme, so the traditional French way of having a glass or two of wine with meals is dying out.’

Cédric starts up the ladder, a bucket of mortar in hand, but he pauses to call down, ‘Yes, it’s incredible. Wine is one of France’s greatest commodities and yet the wine farmers are being left to struggle. You’ve worked in the industry all your life, Gina, but do you really know how hard it is on the small
domaines
where they have to do everything themselves—grow the grapes, make the wine and then try to sell it too?’

I bridle a little and retort, ‘Well, France needs to get its act together. Your country has sat back and let the New World run away with the market, with their massive advertising campaigns and super-brands on the shelves in every supermarket. Their labels are a lot easier to understand, too!’ Normally I’d be backing France to the hilt, but something in his challenging tone makes me defiant.

‘Ah, yes, but isn’t the wine-drinking public much the poorer as a result? There’ll be far less choice if there’s no room for the smaller producers who bring individuality and character to the industry.’

‘You don’t need to lecture me about French wines! I spent the last ten years of my life fighting your corner and as a result I’ve ended up losing my job. I agree; it’ll be a complete tragedy if the industry declines here. The last thing I want is to be left with only a few boring big brands that all taste the same. It just feels like France is fighting a losing battle at the moment.’

He balances against the scaffolding and holds up his hands in mock surrender. ‘Okay, okay, I’m sorry. We need more enlightened, intelligent people like you in the world,’ he teases. But then continues in a more serious tone, ‘You know, you should write about it, Gina. You understand how difficult the situation is becoming. You could help spread the word, tell people what’s really happening in France. Wasn’t your father a wine writer?’

Mireille must have heard that from Liz, of course. What else did Liz tell her about Dad, I wonder...

‘You know, Cédric,’ Mireille calls up to the roof, where now only her son’s boots are visible as he lies on a ladder across the newly mended area to fix more tiles in place, working methodically up towards the apex of the roof, ‘you should take Gina to visit the Cortinis. They can tell her more about the situation and show her their vineyard. It’s one of the best around here,’ she adds, turning back to me. ‘Château de la Chapelle, just over in the next valley near St André.’

I recognise the name.

‘That’d be interesting. I loved their red, which Cédric introduced me to last night.’ I marvel at how calmly I manage to say this.

Cédric peers down from the roof. ‘I’ll get in touch with Robert Cortini when we get back from Arcachon,’ he says, his tone conciliatory now. ‘In fact, we’ll probably see him while we’re at the
bassin.
He’s usually there at this time too.’

‘Robert and Thomas are the sons of the château owner, Patrick Cortini,’ explains Mireille. ‘Patrick’s getting on a bit now, but he still keeps an eye on the
chai
. Robert looks after the vines and Thomas does sales, but all three of them make the wine together.’

‘I’ll look forward to meeting them in August.’ I tell Mireille about the Master of Wine course. ‘I need to know a lot more about the technicalities of winemaking,’ I finish.

She nods approvingly. ‘It sounds like a tough course. But there’s not much the Cortinis don’t know about wine. They’ve been in the business for five generations. They’ll be pleased to help you, I’m sure. And they’re always delighted to meet anyone who’s as passionate about wine as they are.’

As I say goodbye to Mireille at the kitchen door, she gives me a searching look. And then, nodding back to where her sons are working at the other side of the house, she says, ‘You know, Gina, of all my sons Cédric is the most practical. He’s not a great one for showing his feelings—he is a man, after all. But that’s how he expresses them—by actions, not words.’ She’s deadpan, her expression neutral, and I sense she’s treading carefully, trying to tell me something important.

I wonder what she’s getting at and then, to my shame, I realise that of course she’s picked up on the strong current of attraction that flows between me and her son. She probably saw us together last night too. So she’s warning me off, in the gentlest and politest way possible.

I blush and try to deflect the guilt I feel by saying, ‘I’m so grateful to all your sons, Mireille. I really appreciate the effort they’ve made for me; I know they’ve gone out of their way to help. You’ve all been so kind. I’m very lucky to have such wonderful friends and neighbours.’

‘Ah well, we have all grown very fond of you, you know, Gina.’ A yellow school bus comes into view in the distance. ‘And now here come Luc and Nathalie. I’d better be going.’

‘How many grandchildren do you have in total?’

‘Nine,’ she replies proudly. ‘Raphael’s four, Florian’s three, and Cédric’s two. Pierre has none yet—at least so far as we know!’

‘And what is it that Marie-Louise does?’ I ask.

Mireille looks a little surprised—perhaps she thinks it’s a bit of a brass neck for me to be asking about Cédric’s wife when I’ve just spent a good half hour flirting with him over tea on the terrace. ‘She’s a legal assistant in the
notaire’s
office. It’s a pretty demanding role.’

‘It must be hard juggling work and family,’ I say.

‘Well, yes, but of course we all help out. That’s what family’s for, after all.’

And with that she heads for home.

♦ ♦ ♦

On Friday afternoon, the Thibaults’ white lorry pulls into the courtyard. All four brothers have come to dismantle the scaffolding. Raphael inspects his younger siblings’ work with a critical eye, and finally pronounces it to be ‘
Pas mal
.’ It looks a lot better than
pas mal
to me. They’ve put a layer of new tiles underneath and then painstakingly cleaned the old tiles that were undamaged in the storm, slotting these back in place over the new ones to make a perfectly snug, watertight covering that is still weathered in subtle shades of terracotta and cream, so that the restored area blends with the rest of the roof. They’ve also cleaned off the moss from the remaining sections and replaced several cracked tiles (and I’m sure that wasn’t on the original remit). They sweep up the debris that’s accumulated under the scaffolding and collect up the sheets of plastic and pallets that the new tiles were encased in, leaving everything neat and tidy.

‘Can I offer you a drink to celebrate the end of the job and the start of your holidays?’ I say.

‘
Non merci
,’ replies Cédric ‘We must get the lorry back to the yard and unload everything. And then go home to pack. Although Nathalie has had her bag packed for two days already, Luc will take a little more organising, I suspect.’

I suddenly realise how much I’m going to miss having them around.

And yes, of course I do mean one of them in particular.

We shake hands as they leave. Cédric hangs back until last, and there’s an awkward moment where I extend my hand and simultaneously he leans in to kiss my cheek.

There’s that unmistakeable jolt of heat between us again.

Politely ignoring the fact that I’m blushing bright red, he says, ‘
Au revoir,
Gina. I haven’t forgotten about your visit to Château de la Chapelle. I’ll be in touch when I get back and have had a chance to organise things with the Cortinis.’