The French for Love (21 page)

EPILOGUE

It’s an early summer’s night and the moonlight is streaming in through the skylights in the bedroom ceiling. I rub my eyes, which are gritty with tiredness, and glance over at the clock. Two twenty. It must be a good two years now since my insomnia began and I’ve given up all hope of ever having a full night’s sleep again.

I wonder briefly where my Filofax has got to. I haven’t seen it for ages but it’s probably buried under a pile of papers in the study. Or maybe Nathalie has been using it to play ‘Businesswomen’ with her friends again, clicking about in a pair of my high heels and one of my old work jackets with a smudge of lip gloss on her mouth. Not that I need it any more—finding the time to write a To-Do list these days is about as unlikely as finding an affordable bottle of Château Pétrus...

I gaze at my husband, who is fast asleep beside me, worn out at the end of another hard day’s work. Downstairs, Luc and Nathalie are asleep in their rooms. Luc will have his beloved iPod plugged into his ears, having fallen asleep listening to his latest downloads. He’s taken it upon himself to try to educate me, introducing me to the likes of Blink-182 and Bloc Party, although we still dance around the kitchen to some of my playlists with Marc Bolan and The Beach Boys when no one’s looking.

And I know Lafite will be curled up at the end of Nathalie’s bed, watching over her from his favourite spot.

In my arms, our newborn baby son is just dropping off again after his two a.m. feed. Cédric says he’s going to grow up to be a famous wine writer, like his English grandfather and his mother. (In my case, I’m not sure that the one article to date published in
Carafe
magazine qualifies me for fame, although Mireille still carries a copy around in her handbag and has shown it to everyone from the postman to the mayor. But then I do have to fit in my writing between looking after my children and selling the wines of a number of local producers into the UK, so at least it’s a start.)

But
I
hope our son is going to follow in the footsteps of his father and his namesake uncle and be the next stonemason called Pierre. Forming the next band of Thibault Frères, perhaps, along with his brother Luc and some of his cousins.

I ease myself carefully out of bed, still cradling little Pierre in my arms, and gently put him back in his cot. His long dark eyelashes flutter on his cheek but he doesn’t wake.

As I stand gazing down at him in the moonlight, I think about families, picturing the serried ranks of photographs in their frames on the dresser in the kitchen. There’s a cluster of photos of Luc and Nathalie; there’s a beautiful print of Isabelle hugging her two beloved children, her face glowing before her cruel illness took hold; there’s a picture of Cédric and me emerging from the little chapel at Saint André on our wedding day last year, in which I’m wearing Liz’s vintage top over a flowing skirt of cream silk, my mother’s pearl-and-diamond choker, which she’d worn on her own wedding day, around my neck; and there’s a large print, taken by Robert Cortini from the catwalk above the wine vats in the
chai
at Chateau de la Chappelle, of a long table bedecked with wisteria and white lilac, at which a hundred people are raising their glasses to the bride and groom.

And tucked at the back are three black-and-white photos: one of Liz, one of my mother and one of Dad. Of course it’s not
the
photo of my father. That ended up as a few extra ashes amongst the ones Mum and I scattered, where the garden gives on to the view of the Downs, one breezy June day last year. Mum was none the wiser, and I know that’s what Dad and Liz would have wanted.

Only now that I have children of my own do I fully appreciate how much these three loved me. More than love itself.

I think of Mum, alone in her house, keeping herself busy with her Bridge and her shopping, the only men in her life these days her good friends Peter Jones and Harvey Nichols... An idea occurs to me.

As I ease myself back into bed, Cédric turns over with a sigh and puts out an arm to pull me to him. ‘Are you awake?’ I whisper.

‘Hmm’, he mumbles drowsily.

‘Does Patrick Cortini play Bridge?’ I whisper again.

Cédric opens one eye and smiles at me. ‘Ah, Gina,’ he whispers back, ‘I love the crazy things you say.’ And he falls straight back into a deep sleep once again.

Never mind, I’ll ask Marie-Louise and Christine when I see them at the school gates tomorrow; they’re sure to know.

I turn over and pull up the duvet. The clock says two thirty-five a.m.

Suddenly the moonlit room is flooded with fluting, liquid birdsong. A nightingale is singing in the oak trees outside.

I hear my father’s voice saying to me, ‘They are the only bird to sing through the night, Gina. And they only sing while their babies are in the nest. Once they fledge, the parent is silent again. But it’s as if, while their children are with them, they can’t help but express the joy in their overflowing hearts.’

Smiling to myself, I close my eyes. And think,
I know just how they feel.

- THE END -

A note from Fiona

Thank you so much for reading The French for Love—I hope that Gina’s story touched your heart as much as it did mine. If you did enjoy the book, I’d be really grateful if you would write a review on Amazon or Goodreads. Getting feedback from readers is
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Fiona

About Fiona

F
iona Valpy lives in France, having moved there from the UK in 2007. She left behind a career in Marketing and Public Relations to explore new avenues and now teaches yoga and writes. Having renovated an old rambling farmhouse with her husband, she has developed new-found skills in cement-mixing and interior decorating, although her preferred pastime by 
far
 is wine-tasting.

You can find out more and contact Fiona at:
www.fionavalpy.com