The French for Love (13 page)

‘Thank you. I’m looking forward to it very much.’

The deep-etched lines around his dark eyes crinkle in that sexy smile again. ‘And I’m looking forward to seeing you again very much, too,’ he replies.

Which wasn’t what I’d said at all actually, I realise, when I replay the scene in my head afterwards, over and over again.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Wine, Women and Song

To-Do list:

• •
  Attempt to attain balance and poise in life—ongoing
  
• •
  45 mins Pilates plus 20 mins walk (Pilates alone clearly not enough...)—daily
  
• •
  Reading for Master of Wine course—ongoing
  
• •
  Clean spare bedroom and make up bed for Annie
  
• •
  Food shopping
  
• •
  Buy wine.
  

I
t’s hot. Each day starts with a tantalising hint of coolness in the air and a few faint wisps of cloud in the sky, but these soon evaporate. The geraniums blaze brightly in their pots in the courtyard and on the terrace wall, reinvigorated by the long drink of water I give them each evening and a few hours’ respite from the baking sun. But even at this time of day the background hum of cicadas underlies the fluting descant of morning birdsong, before the insects build to a frantic scream which drowns out every other sound and thought.

The heat becomes unbearable by midday, and in the garden leaves wilt and curl, their vitality drained. The grass is bleached to straw. Only the surrounding vines remain as abundantly and exuberantly green as ever, their strong roots able to penetrate to the very heart of the underlying limestone which holds water like a giant sponge. Perfectly formed bunches of grapes are starting to ripen beneath the neatly trimmed canopy of leaves. Overhead a buzzard floats languidly in the white hot sky, its nonchalantly lazy air not fooling the furry creatures that huddle terrified in the grass below as its shadow passes.

Beaten into submission by the unremitting glare of the sun, I move indoors into the twilight of the house where I’ve closed all my newly painted shutters in an attempt to keep the air here a little cooler.

I decide to pop down to the supermarket and spend a leisurely hour pushing a trolley around the air-conditioned coolness. Once there, my eye is caught by a flutter of red, white and blue bunting and I find myself in that far-flung outpost of Her Majesty’s Kingdom of the British Isles: the British Aisle. Bedecked with Union Jacks, on closer inspection the items on offer are mostly curry sauces and taco shells, although Marmite and custard powder are also represented, constituting an interesting reflection of English cuisine through French eyes. But imagine my delight when, sandwiched between the mango chutney and the hot ‘n’ spicy salsa I spot a cache of chocolate HobNobs! I scoop up several packets and throw them in with the oozing cheeses, a watermelon and several bottles of mineral water that I’ve already selected. It’s always important to have a balance in life, after all.

In fact it’s too hot to eat much, but I make salads of the big misshapen tomatoes that I buy in the market each week, the concentrated tang of their red flesh dazzling my taste buds just as the sunlight does my eyes. I scatter torn leaves of peppery dark green basil over them and sop up their juices with chunks of crusty bread accompanied by slabs of pungent cheese.

After lunch, I have a siesta, something I’ve never done before in my life. But in this heat it’s almost impossible to move until about four o’clock when the sun’s rays begin to lengthen and soften just a little. So I lie on one of the battered plastic loungers in the shade or, when it’s too stiflingly hot to be outdoors at all, on the bed in the spare room where it’s cooler and there’s an intact ceiling. Sometimes I read, but more often I just lie on top of the covers, plugged into my iPod. And usually I sink into a deep, dreamless, heat-drugged sleep. I know it won’t help the night-time insomnia, but at least it’s one way of catching up on my sleep deficit. At first I feel guilty about indulging in a midday nap, but I soon realise there’s nothing to feel guilty for—it’s not as if there’s anybody around to judge me, nor anything else I should be doing.

I’ve ordered some of the books I need for the Master of Wine course, so occasionally the bright yellow van of
La Poste
appears up the drive to deliver another parcel. It’s a daunting reading list.

I’m fairly confident about the tasting side of the course since I’ve had years of expert tuition by my father and Harry Wainright. There’ll be practical exams to assess my tasting skills and my knowledge of world wines, but I’ve had a lot of opportunity to taste wines from far and wide in my buying career, so it’s just going to be a question of keeping up to date and making sure I’ve covered some of the less common regions and wines. I know Harry will help me with this—he’s remained in touch and offered support. Once the course is underway, I’ll plan a trip back to England for a few tasting sessions. And I can always ask Annie for help when it comes to the New World. She’s now working for WineLand, the company that bought out Wainright’s, although she wasn’t thrilled at the resulting move to their Head Office in Croydon.

The other sections of the syllabus look as if they’re going to be a lot more taxing. There’s a whole section on the production of wine, which includes such topics as the chemical composition of grapes, pests and diseases and the intricacies of fermentation. I managed to scrape a pass for GCSE Chemistry but that was years ago and I can’t say anything at all has stuck. There’ll be two three-hour exam papers on this section. And then I need to know about ‘The Business of Wine’, which includes a section on financial and commercial awareness, so my finely tuned understanding of accounting and economics (ha!) will be brought into play here. And finally there’s a topic entitled ‘Trends and Challenges facing wine-producing countries and regions’. And as I’m rapidly discovering, there’s enough material in Bordeaux alone to fill the whole of the three-hour exam paper on this one, let alone what’s going on in the rest of the wine-producing world.

Every time I look through my well-thumbed copy of the syllabus, I feel completely overwhelmed. How could I ever have imagined I’d be up to this course? There are two hundred and fifty Masters of Wine in the world. I used to think this was a lot. But now I realise it’s a tiny number. It feels as if I’m trying to join an extremely exclusive club, and I’m very much afraid they’re not going to want me for a member. Through my doubts, I can hear Liz saying, ‘Go on, Gina; give it a go! Who knows where it might take you.’ And Dad saying, ‘You can do it. You’re as good as anyone else. Anything that’s worth doing is a challenge.’

I feel like retorting, ‘Go away. I’m not talking to either of you right now.’ But the most annoying thing about people who are dead is that you can’t answer them back.

Supposing I do actually manage to pass all four exams and the practical tests too, I then have to produce a ten-thousand-word dissertation. And in this heat I can hardly summon the energy to press the ‘select’ button on my iPod. But it’s going to be a long winter I suspect, and maybe by then I’ll be glad to have so much work to keep me busy.

One afternoon I’m rudely awoken from my midday nap by the ringing of the phone. I’ve been so deeply asleep that it takes a second or two to register that it’s Annie calling.

‘Hi, hon, how are you? My God, were you asleep? Sorry to wake you up. But how decadent at this time of day! While some of us are slaving away here in the pulsating centre of the universe that is Croydon. I’m just ringing to see what your plans are in the next few weeks. Are you completely snowed under with visitors?’

I contemplate the lonely days and nights stretching ahead and reply that I have precisely nothing in the diary.

‘Oh, good. Well can I come and stay? I thought I’d pop over. I’m dying to come and see where you are and have a proper catch-up.’

I’m wide awake immediately, delighted at the prospect. ‘Come whenever. Stay as long as you can. Oh, Annie, I can’t wait to see you!’

Hooray. Company at last. And it’s my age. And it speaks English. And it’s my best friend.

♦ ♦ ♦

I stand outside the customs shed at Bergerac Airport at the back of a small crowd of people waiting to meet friends and loved ones off the Stansted flight. Most of the crowd are English and several have brought along their dogs who are busy trying to sniff one another’s bottoms, winding their leads around the legs of anyone who gets in the way. The odd volley of barking breaks out when the sniffee takes exception to the overly enthusiastic attentions of the sniffer. Strange, this habit of bringing animals to the airport, lending it the charmingly whimsical air of a village dog show. I’ve only ever seen it here at Bergerac, so maybe it’s a particularly British expat thing.

I peer into the gloom of the arrivals hall, from which people are now beginning to emerge, trying too hard not to look self-conscious as they are met by a sea of expectant faces and breaking into relieved smiles when they find the one they’re searching for. I’m looking for a sultry brunette, this being the last guise in which I saw Annie, so am caught off-guard when a curvaceous platinum blonde steps through the door and begins waving at me enthusiastically. I should have known. She was sure to get back in touch with her inner blonde before too long.

I’ve been feeling a bit of trepidation about Annie’s visit. Whilst we’re very good friends, it has dawned on me that we’ve never actually spent such an extended period of time together, sleeping under the same roof. There was that time we went to Vinexpo of course, back in the boom years when Wainright’s was a thriving business and Harry was feeling particularly flush. We stayed in a B&B in Bordeaux for three nights, spending the days tramping through the halls of the vast exhibition centre which hosts this world wine event every other year, and the evenings at restaurants along the
quais
in the city centre. But that doesn’t really count. It’s not the same as having someone staying with you in your own home.

However, the minute I see Annie tottering towards me in a pair of perilously high strappy sandals, an oversized pair of sunglasses pushed back on top of her bright crown of hair, wheeling her large suitcase behind her and grinning from ear to ear, I know it’s going to be fine. We hug, already simultaneously talking and laughing, and I help her drag her case to the car.

She loves the house, exclaiming enthusiastically at the setting, the space and her pretty room. I’ve moved back upstairs to let her have the spare room. The ceiling above my bed is still a rough cross-hatch of wooden laths supporting the roof tiles and a neat new silver lining of insulating material. It gives the room an industrial air, but at least it’s weathertight, if a little stuffy in this heat. I’ve taken to keeping my makeup in the fridge after my mascara melted into a sticky black mess and leaked all over the dressing table.

Once she’s unpacked, we sit on the terrace in the balmy evening air and Lafite, curious at the arrival of this newcomer, jumps into her lap and begins purring loudly as she strokes his furry head. I open a cold bottle of Clairet, which Annie pronounces ‘yummy’ (a technical term us highly trained wine tasters like to use), and leans back in her chair, stretching luxuriantly.

‘God, look at my awful pasty arms compared to yours,’ she says. ‘I’ve definitely got some serious work to do to lose this Croydon pallor in the next week. You look wonderful, Gina, if a bit on the skinny side. Your new life in France obviously agrees with you.’

‘Well, it’s not as if I’ve got a lot on my plate at the moment. No job, no man—it’s the secret of stress-free life. Or rather no life at all. So I’ve been able to put in a good deal of sunbathing time of late.’

‘Yes, but I’m full of admiration for you making a start on the MW course. It’s something I’m always meaning to get round to but there’s never the time. It’s bloody difficult too—not sure I could handle it at all.’

‘But then you’ve got a very full-time job. How is business these days?’ I ask.

‘Pretty dire actually, between you and me, but I’m lucky to be in work at all so I shouldn’t complain. The commute to Croydon is hellish. Sales are way down across the board, although compared to everyone else on the high street WineLand seems to be surviving okay. Our philosophy of pile ‘em high and sell ‘em low is the right one in a recession. Especially if you want to stand a chance against the supermarkets. And of course New World wines are in right now, and thanks to their currencies they tend to be good value, so I’m in the right place, even if times are hard.’

‘I know,’ I sigh. ‘I was in the wrong area really on the French side. Completely out of fashion.’

‘Well, give it long enough and it’ll come back in again,’ says Annie philosophically. ‘It’s like anything trendy—if you’re selling classic-cut trousers and flares are in, you either have to wait until straight-cut comes back or start selling flares yourself. One day the recession will be over and people will see the light and come back to French wines.’

‘Aha!’ I laugh, ‘so are you finally admitting that France makes better wines than the New World?’

This debate has been the subject of long-running banter between the two of us for years.

‘Not at all,’ replies Annie haughtily. ‘But it’s a question of style. Plus the fact that generally people are set in their ways and will pick up the first vaguely recognisable bottle that comes to hand in the supermarket.’

‘You’re right,’ I say with a sigh. ‘It’s the culture of instant gratification that rules in Britain these days. But as we both know, not all French wines are expensive and inaccessible. Some producers have even started making New World-style wines, which is ironic. It used to be that the rest of the world mimicked France, but the wheel has turned and now France is having to mimic the rest of the world.’

‘Yes, but of course in that endearingly stubborn way of theirs, most French producers would rather go bust than be untrue to their heritage,’ retorts Annie. ‘I do admire the cussedness of the French, I’ll give you that. They certainly don’t believe in making life easy for themselves and you have to give them credit for caring so passionately about their winemaking. It’s just that the New World is good at manufacturing wines that suit what people are looking for—cheap and cheerful, uncomplicated, accessible. A bit like what a man looks for in a woman really, now I come to think of it. Speaking of which, what’s the local talent like here? Any sexy French gentlemen callers?’