The French for Love (15 page)

‘That’s so kind. I’m sure you’d love to come along, wouldn’t you, Annie? She’s in the wine business so she might be a good contact for them.’

‘Okay, great. I’ll come and pick you up about five thirty then.’

They load the ladder onto the back of Cédric’s pickup and disappear down the drive.

Back on the terrace, Annie is sitting at the table in the shade of the sun umbrella awaiting my return. ‘Well, well, well, Miss Peplow,’ she crows gleefully. ‘You
are
a dark horse. Why didn’t you tell me about the hunky French workmen?’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I retort haughtily. ‘They’ve just been doing the repair work here. Their mother is my neighbour. They’ve been very kind and helpful, that’s all.’

‘Oh, come off it!’ she scoffs. ‘I haven’t seen so much chemistry since my science teacher dropped a whole jar of sodium into a sink full of water.’

‘Why,’ I ask, seizing the opportunity for a diversion, ‘what happens when you drop sodium into water?’ Sometimes Annie surprises me with the things she knows.

‘Let’s just say the results are pretty explosive,’ she replies. ‘But don’t go trying to change the subject. What’s going on between you and that good-looking older brother?’

‘Precisely nothing,’ I say firmly. ‘He happens to be happily married to a gorgeous French wife and has two lovely children to whom he is utterly devoted.’

‘Well, he wasn’t behaving like someone who’s entirely happily married. He couldn’t take his eyes off you. He definitely fancies you—there was about forty thousand volts of electricity between you when he was holding your hand. And don’t tell me you don’t fancy him back. I know you, Gina Peplow, and you’re absolutely hopeless at lying so don’t even bother trying.’

‘Okay, okay,’ I hold up my hands in defeat, plonking myself down on a chair beside her and reaching for the open bottle of Chardonnay. Sod it; it is about time for elevenses after all. ‘I do like him. Very much indeed. He’s not only gorgeous; he’s also got a great sense of humour and is a wonderful father to his kids. His family all think the world of him and he’s practical, hard-working and reliable. And I get the feeling he likes me too. So he’s absolutely perfect, apart from the teeny-weeny little matter of his wife. There’s no way I’m having an affair with a married man, especially one whose mother is my friend and neighbour. I know how devastating it is to be on the receiving end of being cheated on and there’s no way I’d want to be responsible for inflicting that kind of pain on anyone else. His children are wonderful—you just couldn’t hurt them. And his wife’s actually really nice too...’ I trail off lamely.

‘So if his family life’s all so perfect, why does he look at you like a starving man who’s just caught sight of a Big Mac and fries?’

‘Please,’ I laugh, ‘at least credit me with being something a little more classy than the equivalent of a trip to McDonald’s.’

‘Okay then, a starving man in a Michelin-starred restaurant. Whatever. The French are supposed to be far more cool about this sort of thing. Perhaps he’s looking for a
ménage à trois
. A sort of
Vicky Cristina Barcelona
. Only set in Sainte Foy La Grande.’

‘Doesn’t have quite the same ring to it somehow, does it? And I’m not the slightest bit interested in being part of anything like that if it is the case. Which, anyhow, I strongly doubt.’

‘Ah, the eternal triangle,’ says Annie sagely. And then, lightening up, she says, ‘Now, enough about the men in your life. Or
not
in your life, as the case might be. Let’s get back to the serious business of tasting these wines. Where were we before we were so opportunely interrupted?’

I pull the cork from the next bottle and, speaking of triangles, think of Liz’s lonely life, wondering for the umpteenth time what exactly her role was in my parents’ relationship. Pulling myself together quickly, before Annie’s uncanny powers of observation detect another secret that I’m keeping from her, I slosh some red into our glasses. ‘Right then, see what you think of this,’ I say. ‘Let’s see if it has the same interesting effect as the white...’

CHAPTER NINE

Evenings Out

To-Do list:

• •
  Get pedicure
  
• •
  Buy moisturiser, conditioner
  
• •
  Wash hair
  
• •
  Anti-cellulite treatment
  
• •
  Anti-wrinkle mask
  
• •
  Do nails
  

P
romptly at five thirty on Friday evening, Cédric’s dark blue pickup pulls into the courtyard. He jumps out and comes to knock at the door to the kitchen, where I’ve been hovering for the last half hour trying to pretend I’m busily engaged in various domestic tasks. The sink and its taps, under the window which is—coincidentally—the best vantage point to look out at the courtyard, are gleaming I’ve cleaned them so thoroughly, and now I’m scrubbing my hands to try and get the smell of bleach off them again.

My heart gives a little lurch at the sight of him. He looks freshly scrubbed himself, in jeans and a neatly ironed shirt, the sleeves rolled up to show a length of muscular, tanned forearm. Trying hard to suppress a surge of unruly hormones that suddenly makes me very conscious of every part of my own body, I open the door with a gracious and composed smile. For once I’ve had time to prepare and so at least I’m a bit more elegantly groomed than on many of Cédric’s previous visits.

He kisses me hello, most decorously of course on either cheek, but nonetheless it occurs to me that it’s the first time he’s done so when we’re alone. Oh, God, how sad am I? It’s just the French equivalent of shaking hands, for heaven’s sake, and I’m being completely pathetic.

‘I’ll just go and see if Annie’s ready,’ I say brightly, my voice sounding, to my guilty ears at least, unnaturally high and nervous.

She’s in her room putting the finishing touches to her makeup. ‘Is he here? Oh, good.’ She looks at me appraisingly and reaches out to brush my cheek with her thumb. ‘An eyelash,’ she explains. ‘But other than that you’ll do. You scrub up quite nicely you know. Now let’s go get him!’

‘Annie,’ I say firmly. ‘We’re not getting anyone. And especially not him. He’s out of bounds.’

‘Okay, okay, whatever you say, Little Miss Celibate. Just seems like a bit of a waste to me, that’s all.’

I glare at her sternly. She makes a zipping gesture across her lips. ‘Not another word, I promise,’ she says, still grinning broadly, obviously relishing the prospect of watching me squirm.

She clambers into the narrow back seat of the pickup, displaying a good deal of brown thigh and just a hint of bottom-cleavage for the benefit of Cédric who is politely holding the door open for her. Isn’t there a golden rule about no miniskirts or butt-cracks over the age of thirty? If there’s not, there should be. Although that still wouldn’t stop Annie from flaunting it shamelessly.

Somewhat more decorously, I hope, I climb into the front passenger seat, and Cédric closes the door and comes round to jump into the driver’s seat. I can’t help noticing his capable hands on the steering wheel as he starts the truck and we pull away. Oh, God, concentrate woman! I catch a glimpse of Annie’s twinkling eyes which are looking at me from the rear-view mirror.

‘So, Cédric, tell us about the Cortinis. Have they owned Château de la Chapelle for long?’ I ask airily, determined to maintain a business-like tone.

‘Yes, for several generations. Patrick, who is the father of Robert and Thomas, owns the château now. His grandfather came from Italy to work there at the beginning of the last century and he ended up marrying the owner’s daughter. Hence the Italian surname. So the property’s been in the family one way or another for hundreds of years. Patrick’s nearly seventy now, but he’s still very involved in the winemaking and keeps a close eye on the boys. Robert, who was in my class at school, is in charge of the vines, and Thomas, who’s two years younger, does the marketing. Eventually Patrick will hand over to his sons, but he finds it hard to stop. His wife left him about twenty years ago and so the château and the wines have been his whole life ever since. Keeping busy stops him from getting lonely I suppose.’

Annie, who’s hanging over the back of my seat to listen to the conversation, asks me to translate this last bit. ‘Blimey,’ she says, ‘who’d she leave him for? Most women would love to be married to a château owner. It doesn’t get much more romantic than that!’

‘Sadly, winemaking’s not a very romantic existence in reality,’ replies Cédric. ‘As you probably know, it involves brutally hard work, long hours and low returns. Madame Cortini got fed up with it all in the end and, once the boys left school, she went off with a dentist from Bordeaux who was a much better proposition. She’s been far happier with her new life ever since. Not that the boys see that much of her nowadays.’

So much for the fairytale life in a castle then. Modern-day princesses take a far more pragmatic approach, it would seem.

‘Robert’s married and has three kids, the same age as Luc and Nathalie and then one a bit younger,’ Cédric continues. ‘Thomas is still a bachelor though—he spends a lot of time on the road trying to sell their wine.’

I can almost see Annie’s ears pricking up at this last bit of information and she raises her eyebrows at me in the mirror. I’m not sure whether she’s interested on my behalf or her own but either way, the prospect of an unattached male of around our age has got her attention.

Steadfastly ignoring this diversion, I firmly guide the conversation back to the safer ground of the wines they make and the production methods they use. Cédric, his attention fixed on the traffic which is quite busy at this time on a Friday evening, even on these little country roads, professes not to know that much about the technicalities. ‘But here we are,’ he says, swinging the pickup into the driveway of Château de la Chapelle, ‘so you can ask the experts.’

It’s a pretty
domaine
. The driveway, which runs up the slope of the hill, is flanked by an avenue of dark green cypresses and beyond them on either side the rows of vines run in precisely parallel lighter green lines, their tops neatly trimmed to a uniform height. Just visible beneath the leaves nestle the clusters of ripening grapes, their black skins softened to shades of velvety purple-grey by their fine coating of bloom.

We park in front of the house, an elegantly proportioned building. The hillside dips slightly behind it and then rises again, forming a natural bowl which is perfect for the cultivation of vines. On the skyline sits a little stone church with a tall, pointed steeple. ‘That’s the chapel of Saint André from which the château takes its name,’ explains Cédric, pointing it out.

We walk round the side of the house to a yard where a large tractor, towing a fearsome-looking trimmer whose blades glint in the evening sun, is being effortlessly reversed under the roof of a lean-to shed for the night.

‘There’s Robert,’ says Cédric, raising a hand in salute. ‘Good timing; it looks like he’s just finished for the day.’

A stocky, compact man in a green boiler suit climbs down from the cab and the two men greet each other with the hug and double kiss that still seems so foreign to us more cold-blooded Brits. Then Robert turns to greet us, wiping his hands on the cotton of his neat overalls before shaking ours.

‘Come into the
chai
,’ he says. ‘My father and Thomas are inside I think.’

In the gloom of the vast shed, the walls are lined with gleaming stainless-steel vats. A pair of legs clad in an immaculately pressed pair of khaki trousers protrudes from the small door in the front of one of these and a muffled stream of expletives can be heard echoing off the walls inside it.

Cédric and Robert grin at one another and Robert turns to Annie and me. ‘Excuse me for one moment,’ he says, and walks across to tap the legs. There’s a brief pause and then a renewed outburst of cursing, louder than before. ‘Papa,’ Robert perseveres, ‘we have company.’

The legs back up out of the vat and Patrick Cortini emerges fully, a handsome elderly man with a shock of white hair and a thick white moustache. His face creases into delighted smiles at the sight of us and he comes over to shake hands.

‘What charming young ladies,’ he beams, gallantly declaring himself ‘
Enchanté’
to make our acquaintance. ‘Please forgive me,’ he says, ‘but some idiot hasn’t cleaned out the
cuves
properly, so I’m having to do them again myself. We’re getting everything ready for the harvest in a few weeks’ time and as usual it’s up to me to make sure everything’s done right.’

Robert continues to smile serenely, even though this dig is clearly aimed at him and his brother. He turns to us and says calmly, ‘Actually the
cuves
are perfectly clean, but Papa finds it impossible to admit that anyone else is capable of doing anything properly.’ He gives his father a fond hug. ‘Still, it keeps you out of trouble I suppose.’

A slightly younger and taller version of Robert materialises from an office in one corner of the
chai
and Cédric introduces us to Thomas.

‘So you are in the wine trade?’ he asks in English, with a very charming French accent.

‘Well, I used to be, but not now. Annie, however, is a buyer for one of the biggest chains in the UK,’ I explain.

‘But Gina is an expert too. She is currently doing a course to get some higher qualifications,’ adds Cédric, laying a hand lightly on my back as he speaks. I feel a glow of pleasure at his approving glance and supportive gesture.

‘In that case it is an even greater pleasure to welcome the two of you to Château de la Chapelle,’ Thomas smiles. ‘Shall we show you round the cellar first and then we can go and taste the wines?’

It’s a well-run operation. Annie and I have visited enough wineries in our time to be able to spot signs of sloppiness or taking shortcuts and there are none here.

Patrick proudly shows us the nuts and bolts of the cellar, the gleaming, surgically clean steel vats; the vast yellow Vaslin press, the de-stemming machine and assorted pumps and long coils of plastic tubing, stowed in the corners for now but ready for action when the hectic days of harvesting begin next month. They show us the bottling room where the machinery stands quiet for the moment amidst orderly metal cages of filled bottles, waiting to be labelled and have the capsules put over their corks when orders come in. And they usher us through to the hallowed coolness of the barrel cellar where the previous year’s wine rests quietly in softly scented barrels of French oak, taking on the wood’s subtle flavours for a final twist of finesse and smoothness.

Our tour finally over, Thomas leads us to the back of the house where a shady terrace gives onto the vineyard. We sit down at a table spread with a checked cloth and Robert tells us about his work in the vines. ‘We practise
culture raisonnée
, using as few pesticides and chemicals as possible and encouraging the vines to find their own balance and strength. It’s not quite organic, but it’s reassuring to have the treatments to fall back on if necessary; for example, if we have a cool, damp summer, like last year, when mildew can become a problem and threaten the harvest. But you will know all this already of course,’ he smiles at us.

Thomas adds, ‘People in Britain tend to ignore the fact that French wine is often a more natural product than its non-European counterparts. And of course, wine from Europe has less far to travel than New World wines, so it’s a far greener product with a much smaller carbon footprint. These things are becoming more important, I think, and we need to get the message across.’

Patrick has disappeared into the house and emerges carrying a tray laden with glasses and bottles. Thomas leaps up to help his father, deftly opening the two reds to let them breathe a little before we begin with the whites. They’re delicious—an un-oaked Sauvignon Blanc with just a hint of Sémillon to soften and balance the acidity, and a more complex oaked wine, heavier on the Sémillon, made in a more sophisticated, almost Burgundian style. Then there’s a crisp Clairet, the perfect wine for a hot summer’s evening with its mouth-watering cherry flavours. And finally we taste the two reds, the medal-winning oaked version and a simpler un-oaked one. They’re really well-made Clarets, smooth, fruity Merlot with a tantalising edge of spicy Cabernet Sauvignon.

Annie seems to be seriously interested in the wines and Thomas gives her a bundle of tasting notes, technical details and prices. With a flourish, he adds his card to the pile of literature. She picks it up and examines it. ‘Thanks,’ she says. ‘Sorry I haven’t got any of my cards with me. But I’ll pass this on to my colleague who handles Bordeaux. It’s just a shame it isn’t Gina any more these days.’

He passes me a card as well. ‘Give us a ring any time if we can be of assistance with your studies.’

It’s very pleasant indeed sitting on this beautiful terrace talking to these knowledgeable and charming men, but reluctantly I realise it’s half past seven and they will no doubt all be wanting to get home to their families and their Friday night suppers. Cédric has been quite quiet during the course of the evening. A few times I’ve caught him watching me when I’ve glanced surreptitiously at his face in the shadows where he sits listening to the Cortinis as they talk about their wines and occasionally asking Robert about his work in the vines or enquiring after his family. Their easy friendship is obvious and they hug again fondly when we say goodbye. Old Monsieur Cortini plants enthusiastic kisses on the cheeks of his female guests and urges us to come and visit him again whenever we feel like it.

Cédric drops us back at the house, declining our offer of a further drink. ‘
Merci
, but we’re having supper at my mother’s house tonight. Another time perhaps though,’ he says. And do I imagine it, or is the look he gives me especially tender?

Obviously I don’t imagine it as, the minute he’s gone, Annie turns to me with a gleeful grin. ‘Well, you’ve certainly made a huge impression there, Gina Peplow. He couldn’t take his eyes off you all evening!’

‘Old Monsieur Cortini, you mean? Yes, well I am particularly attractive to septuagenarians, even if I do say so myself,’ I say in a vain attempt to deflect her.