The French for Love (5 page)

The last time I dreamed that dream was when I hit rock bottom.

I’d woken, gasping for breath, to find that there really was a magpie calling in the trees in one of the neighbouring gardens.

I’d lain there for a while, trying to calm my breathing and gather my thoughts. I needed to get a grip. How do you know when you’re losing it? Was this what a nervous breakdown felt like?

I got up and went through to the kitchen. Opening the fridge door, I gazed at an unappetising heel of stale bread and a single pot of yoghurt which, on closer inspection, turned out to be about a week past its sell-by date. I went to the biscuit tin, but there was nothing in it but the forlorn empty wrapper from a packet of HobNobs.

The phone lay on the counter beside me and, almost without thinking, I picked it up and dialled. ‘Hi, Mum,’ I said, ‘how are you?’

‘Oh, hello darling, just getting ready to go out, actually. What are you doing today?’

‘Nothing much. Just wondering if I could pop over sometime?’

‘Well I’m going shopping this morning and then I’ve got Bridge this afternoon,’ she replied breezily.

‘Okay, well another day then.’ I’d tried hard to keep the tremor in my voice from spilling over into something unstoppable.

There was a pause.

‘Are you all right, darling?’

I swallowed hard and suddenly found that I couldn’t get the words out because if I opened my mouth I’d start to cry and I didn’t think I’d ever be able to stop.

‘Actually the shopping can wait,’ said my mother briskly into the silence that hummed down the phone line between us. ‘Come straight over. Or shall I come to you instead?’

I took a deep breath. ‘I’ll come to you. Be nice to have a change of scene,’ I said into the phone with a watery smile.

Half an hour later, Mum was putting two mugs of coffee onto a tray beside a Royal Doulton plate bearing some leftover home baking from her latest Bridge afternoon. The familiarity and homeliness were comforting.

‘It’s such a lovely day, let’s take this into the garden,’ she’d said.

Instead of sitting on the terrace beside the wall of the house, she led the way across the lawn to Dad’s bench. We sat and she offered me the plate of cakes. I shook my head and she’d said kindly, ‘Come on, Gina, you look as if you haven’t eaten properly in days. Or slept either, come to that. Take one and tell me what’s on your mind.’ Balancing her mug of coffee on the arm of the bench, she’d reached over and taken my hand.

And we sat there for a while as the tears poured silently down my face and she waited patiently and calmly until the torrent turned to a trickle.

Then, releasing my hand, she pulled a neatly folded handkerchief from her sleeve and passed it to me. ‘My poor darling girl,’ she said, which set me off again, but I was almost cried out now, so after a minute or two I blew my nose and found that the oppressive weight of my grief, which had been crushing my heart into a lump as dense and heavy as lead, had been washed away in the flood and now I was left empty and exhausted, but calmer.

‘I’m going to have to sell Liz’s house,’ I blurted out, gazing sightlessly at the blue of the southerly skies before us. ‘If I sell it, I can pay off the mortgage on the flat, so at least I won’t lose that as well. Then hopefully my redundancy money will tide me over, if I’m careful, until I can find another job.’

My mother looked at me appraisingly. ‘I see. Is that really what you want to do? It doesn’t sound much fun to me.’

Fun? I bit my tongue in order not to snap her head off. Overwhelmed with self-pity, I sniffed and then blew my nose again on the crumpled handkerchief which I was clutching in my fist. ‘Well, I don’t exactly have any choices at the moment,’ I said bitterly.

‘Nonsense, darling. Choices are exactly what you have. This is a wonderful opportunity for you.’ I started to interrupt, but she held up a hand. ‘Now hear me out. I know you’ve been through a horrible time, and I’m not surprised you’re knocked sideways. You must feel as if you’ve lost absolutely everything just at the moment.’

A sob escaped me and she took my hand again.

‘But in reality you’ve gained enormous freedom and that’s not something that happens to everyone in life. This is a chance for you to take yourself off and do something completely different.’

‘But I can’t sell the flat here,’ I protested. ‘The way things are right now, nobody’s buying.’ I’d felt a flash of irritation towards my mother. It’s okay for her, sitting here in her comfortable cocoon protected from the economic gales that are howling just beyond her front gate, I thought. She honestly hasn’t a clue about managing money and the reality of other people’s financial problems.

‘Well, darling,’ she’d replied brightly, ‘I don’t think it’s the time to sell the house in France either. If des-res properties in commuter belt Arundel aren’t selling, then tumbledown farmhouses in the depths of rural France are unlikely to be going like hot cakes either. And with the euro so strong against sterling at the moment, you won’t have queues of Brits lining up to buy over there.’

I turned to look at my mother in astonishment. Blimey, not quite so clueless after all, it seemed.

‘Let’s face it,’ she continued. ‘This isn’t just a little economic blip; it’s likely to be a serious recession for at least a year, maybe more. And despite the resulting increase in the number of people drowning their sorrows, the wine trade is going to be going through rocky times for the foreseeable future. So if the prospect of mouldering in your flat wallowing in self-pity appeals, then by all means go ahead. I just think you can find a more positive solution to all this, a bright girl like you.’

She was really getting into her stride now. ‘You’re right that no one’s buying at the moment, so why not rent out your flat? That way your mortgage will be covered. And apparently the rental market is booming, especially in places like Arundel. Go and spend some time in France. You have somewhere to stay that you love. Your redundancy money will tide you over for a while and I’ll help out too if need be. You’ve always said you wanted to get your Master of Wine qualification and you can easily do it from there and come back to sit the exams when you’re ready. Indeed, what better place could there be to immerse yourself in wine? Within reason of course,’ she finished with a smile.

We sat in silence for a few seconds while I took all this in. I turned to her with a wry smile. ‘Heavens, you have been giving my life a good deal of thought.’

‘Of course I have, darling, I’m your mother.’

She looked off into the distance. ‘Dad would have given you the same advice, you know. He’d have been delighted if you got your MW. Now,’ she says, gathering up the mugs and tray, ‘I’m going to leave you to sit in the sun and think things over while I get our lunch ready.’

A while later, as I took my leave, I hugged my mother warmly. ‘Thanks, Mum,’ I said, and she smiled and stroked the side of my face with a gesture that was utterly tender.

‘You’re a gorgeous girl, Gina, and a wonderful daughter. I’m so proud of you, you know. Now get back out there and start living.’ Then she bent her head to rummage in her red Mulberry bag for her car keys.

So we each got into our cars—my mother to go off to her afternoon of Bridge, sandwiches and small talk, and I to see a letting agent and get a life...

And so I’ve ended up here, installed in my new home in France. And today is the first day of the rest of my life.

I reach for my Filofax and write my To-Do list for the day, but then Lafite shoulders the bedroom door open and jumps up onto the bed, meowing enquiringly. I stroke his wise old head. ‘Quite right! That’s enough lying around; we’ve got things to do. Starting with breakfast for you, I know.’

A couple of hours later, I’m sitting at the desk in Liz’s study—my study, I mean—the reality of my new situation slowly sinking in.

I’ve been speaking to the phone company and feel a huge sense of achievement and relief, as I’ve managed to negotiate the tortuous push-button system (frequently pressing the button to ‘
répéter les options
’ as I strain to understand the alternatives being offered me in rapid-fire French), and am assured by the real human being I finally managed to speak to that my Internet connection will be up and running in a week’s time. I feel stranded without this link to the wide world and I’m going to need it to start ordering the books and plan the studying I need to do for the Master of Wine programme. Not to mention keeping up with the latest electronic gossip from Annie and my other friends across the Channel.

I jump slightly at the sound of tyres on the gravel outside. Looking at my watch, I smile. Ten thirty. This must be Celia coming to check up on me. She hasn’t wasted much time. I thought she’d consider afternoon tea a more socially acceptable point at which to call. But then, looking out of the window, I see a huge cream-coloured Mercedes cruise into the courtyard like an ocean liner, dwarfing my little car as it docks in the shade of the lime trees.

As I watch, a dapper, middle-aged man steps out, wearing a pair of trousers that would be described in the ads at the back of the
Daily Telegraph
as ‘permapress slacks’, and a navy blazer with two rows of glittering gold buttons down the front. He pauses to look up appraisingly at the facade of the house and then smoothes back his suspiciously shiny hair at either temple. He walks briskly to the front door and knocks on it with three confidently sharp raps.

Flustered, I hesitate, ruefully aware of the fact that this morning I pulled on the first clothes that came to hand from the top of my holdall. I’m dressed, somewhat skimpily, for a morning of unpacking, cleaning, weeding the woefully neglected garden and, most importantly, a little sitting in the sun in between it all, in a halter-neck top and a pair of worn jeans that I now deeply regret cutting off at upper-thigh level last summer. It’s a look that’s definitely more Daisy Duke than Doris Day.

Can I pretend I’m not here? But to my horror, the man is now opening the door and he sticks his head through to call, ‘’Allo. Ees zere anybodee zere?’

I draw myself up to my full five foot six, tall enough to look most Frenchmen in the eye, and march out of the study to confront him.

‘
Bonjour, monsieur
,’ I say, hoping the iciness of my tone will freeze his overconfidence. But not a bit of it. With a broad smile, which displays two rows of slightly yellowing teeth, he steps across the threshold to shake my hand. I try not to blush as he gives my outfit an appraising glance, but feel my cheeks flush with embarrassment as he grins appreciatively.

‘Mademoiselle. Please excuse this intrusion,’ he says in heavily accented English. ‘I am Laurent Dubois. I ’ave come to welcome you to the region and to extend my sympathies to you for the sad loss of your aunt.’ His cheerful smile and jaunty tone suggest that this sadness is somewhat less than heartfelt in his case.

‘
Merci, Monsieur Dubois, c’est très gentil
,’ I reply, continuing firmly in French. ‘Do you live nearby?’ His name is ringing a faint bell, but I can’t quite place him.

‘In Sainte Foy,’ comes the reply, again in English. ‘I ’ave known your aunt for many years.’

Suddenly the penny drops. ‘
Ah, oui
, Dubois Immobilier in the rue Marceau.’

Of course. In the plate-glass window, amongst the details of properties for sale, there’s a large photo displaying the same slicked-back hair and toothy smile and beneath this the words ‘English spoken’.

With a flourish, he pulls a business card from the breast pocket of his blazer. ‘At your service, mademoiselle. If you are wishing to sell this property, I ’ave a client who might be interested in buying it. Of course, you would need to do some work on it first. The paintwork needs redoing and you may wish to consider replacing the windows with plastic frames, which are so much more desirable. The roof needs some work on it as well. I can give you the telephone number of my brother-in-law ’oo is in the building trade, if you wish.’

I’m a little startled at the directness of his approach, to say the least, and feel my face flushing again, this time with annoyance rather than embarrassment. ‘That’s very kind of you, but I’m not selling at the moment.’

‘I also ’andle rentals. Although you will still ’ave to do the repairs to get the ’ouse into a better condition. There are not many English renting long term at the moment. And without a swimming pool, it will be ’ard to get ’oliday rentals.’

‘
Merci
,’ I reply, firmly persisting with my French. It’s starting to feel like a competition to see who will submit first linguistically, and I’m damned if I’m going to be the one to give in. ‘But I’m not renting either. I’m going to live here.’

Laurent Dubois looks me up and down approvingly once again and this time his gaze is, frankly, lascivious. ‘
Bravo,
mademoiselle
, that is good news for our little corner of the world. And you will still need the services of my brother-in-law no doubt. But per’aps I can be of assistance in ’andling the necessary works for you.’ As if to demonstrate his ’andling skills here and now, he pauses to place a slightly damp hand on my bare arm, just a little too near the cotton of my halter-neck top which suddenly feels dangerously flimsy.

I look down at his hand with what I hope is eloquent disdain, but he doesn’t remove it. Okay, no more Mrs Nice Guy. I take his sticky paw between thumb and forefinger and firmly remove it, raising my eyebrows and looking pointedly at his gold wedding ring. ‘
Vraiment
,
Monsieur
Dubois
, I assure you I have no need of the services of either you or your brother-in-law, nor anyone else just at present. My aunt lived in this house for over thirty years and if it was okay for her, it’s okay for me. Now thank you for your visit, but if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do. My regards to Madame Dubois.
Au revoir
.’ And I usher him firmly out of the door.

The estate agent, apparently unabashed, grins at me. But his final retort is in French, so I congratulate myself on winning that battle at least. ‘
Ah
,
les Anglaises
. Always with a closed mind. You don’t understand how pleasant our little French ways can be. And I assure you,’ he finishes with an upward glance, ‘you’ll regret not seeing to that roof. Welcome to the region, mademoiselle.’