L'amour Actually (10 page)

  My phone sounded the arrival of a new message. Alex, I thought, but it wasn't him. In fact, I didn't recognise the name at all and stared at it for a second, trying to work out who it might be. Funny how you do that, isn't it? It's like getting a letter and recognising the handwriting on the envelope, then spending ages trying to work out who it's from. I clicked it open.

'
Bonsoir,
thank you for your interest in Les Tuileries. I can confirm that it is available to rent if you are still interested...'

I frowned at the screen, thinking it must be meant for someone else. Suddenly it dawned on me. A few weeks ago, after another particularly rough day, I'd been trawling the French property sites that my old friend Polly had suggested to me, and found a lovely cottage for rent. On the spur of the moment, I had sent an email asking if it was available. This must be it. I smiled to myself. It wasn't really a serious enquiry. I'd email back and make up some excuse. I clicked on 'reply' and began to type, then stopped.
Maybe
, I thought.

  Eventually, over two hours late, the taxi pulled up outside The Archangel. I paid the driver the equivalent of the GDP of a small African nation and headed inside. My friends were sitting at a table, tucked away in the corner. I stopped to watch them. Alex was in full flow telling one of his dreadful jokes, Charlotte, my best friend since forever, was already a bit the worse for wear, no doubt something to do with all the empty bottles littering the table. Daisy, my sister and her boyfriend Finn, were creased up with laughter at Alex's joke. Justine and Suzy, my old university friends, were deep in conversation. From the debris on the table, I could see that they had started without me. I felt ever so slightly annoyed that they really hadn't waited. It was my birthday after all. On impulse, I took my phone out of my pocket, scrolled to my emails and clicked on 'send'. Hundreds of miles away, in the south-west of France, another phone announced the arrival of a new message.

  Alex looked over and saw me. 'Hey, birthday girl,' he called. I smiled at him and walked over to join them.

  'Hi sis,' said Daisy, 'bad day?'

  'Pretty much. By the way, I'm moving to France.'

The little town of Bussières, normally deserted save for a few elderly women sitting on the benches in the square, was buzzing with people. The square had been completely taken over by stalls, some with brightly coloured awnings, others with umbrellas in stands, shading the merchants from the sun.

  Julien directed me into a small car park behind the village square. In the shade of a row of plane trees old men in black
bérets
were playing
boules
, the sound of their light-hearted shouting and joshing mingled with the gentle thwack of the metal balls that they were throwing with alarming accuracy. On the benches which lined the pitch, rows of elderly women sat, shoulder to shoulder, some gossiping, some knitting, others just watching the world go by. It was the perfect French scene. Someone waved. It was Louis.
'Salut,'
he called. He spoke briefly to his opponents and came towards us.

  'Well, you two don't make it easy, do you?' I said after we had exchanged kisses. 'I'm sorry?'

  'Look at you both in white T-shirts and jeans. How's a girl supposed to tell you apart?'

  'I've already told you,' replied Julien, 'I'm the good looking one!' Louis threw him a withering look.

  'Oh, yes, so you like to think. Can I just take him a moment?' He put his arm round his brother and led him away, talking quickly, their heads close together. Even if I understood French, I would never have been able to work out what they were saying. They stood a little way off and it was clear that what Louis had to say, Julien didn't want to hear. There was a lot of gesticulation and for a brief moment, I saw him look over at me, suddenly making me feel very ill at ease. I was fairly sure Louis was talking about me.

  A few minutes later, Louis headed back to his
boules
game, giving me a brief wave as he went.

  'Everything OK?' I asked as we headed for the market.

  'Yes, fine. It was just something about the farm.'

  I had an uncomfortable feeling that he wasn't telling the truth.

  
'Bon,'
said Julien, 'first we have to buy you a
panier
, a basket. No proper French woman would be seen at the market without one.'

  Sure enough, everyone around me seemed to have a hessian basket, from which peeked out fruit or vegetables and the odd baguette here and there.

  At the corner of the market, I could see a swarthy-looking man was standing amid a colourful spread of bags. 'Over there,' I said, pointing to the stall. We wandered over to have a look.

  
'Bonjour, la belle mademoiselle,'
he said, bowing gracefully to me. After that, I was lost. He launched into his well-rehearsed sales patter while I stood looking on hopelessly.

  'What did he say?' I asked Julien.

  'Well after he told you that you were the most beautiful woman in the market today…'

  I laughed. 'Charmer!'

  '… he said that he has the best selection of bags in south west France and that you should have this one with the blue to match your eyes.'

  Market-trader speak was clearly pretty similar the world over. I picked up the basket that the man was pointing out. It was a basket. I'd never had one before. They weren't really de rigeur in Knightsbridge. It wasn't Mulberry but it would probably do.

  'How much is it?'

  The man, anticipating the question, launched into another long spiel. I turned to Julien.

  'He said that he sold the same basket to the Comtesse de Lavaur only last week and that normally it would cost fifty euros, he has to feed his family, eight children you know, but he said it is yours for twenty euros.'

  'Deal.' I rooted in my bag for my purse and handed over a twenty-euro note in exchange for my new shopping basket.

  The man thanked me elaborately, wishing me a pleasant day in very broken English, before moving on to the next customer.

  'OK,' said Julien, 'now you are practically French.'

  I smiled up at him. 'You're so being so kind to me, Julien. Thank you. I really appreciate having someone take me under their wing.'

  'Under their wing?' He looked confused.

  'I mean, to take care of me, show me the ropes, that sort of thing.'

  
'Bof,'
he said shrugging in that particularly French way, 'it is nothing. Anyway, you are a nice girl. Who wouldn't want to help you?'

  I could think of one or two back in London who wouldn't exactly be queuing up. I doubted that the lovely Kitty Moseley would pee on me if I was on fire, but what did that matter? I was in France with the best-looking man in the northern hemisphere. I felt a funny, fluttery feeling in my stomach again. It wasn't like me to be so demure. Normally I'd have had a few drinks, thrown my arms around him and then regretted it all in the morning. He was different though. I liked him. I mean, really liked him.

  'Listen,' he said, 'I have to go and do some things. It's all boring stuff, for the farm. Do you want to stay here and I will meet you again in one hour?'

  'Oh, yes, OK,' I replied, trying to mask my disappointment. 'Maybe we can get a coffee or something when you get back? Shall we meet in the café on the corner?'

  He did the
bisous
thing on both my cheeks and walked off through the market. I watched him go. He really was rather splendid. I sighed then set off to explore, deciding to do the full tour before buying anything.

  It was a far cry from my local market which was the place to buy pet food, cheap batteries and knock-off CDs. There were stands selling fruit and vegetables, wrinkled old farmers selling eggs and a few onions,
boulangers
with bread of every shape and size imaginable, fresh flowers, a fishmonger with a giant pan of paella bubbling away, scenting the air with delicious smells, there were even plastic crates of fluffy rabbits. I stopped to pet one through the bars. I hadn't really expected pets to be on sale. 'You want?' said the woman who seemed to be in charge of the stall. 'Oh, no, it's all right. Thanks anyway.'

  Before I had a chance to object any further, the lady had grabbed the rabbit out of the crate by the scruff of its neck and shoved it in my arms. The little rabbit nuzzled into me and I stroked it gently, tickling it behind its ears.

  'Is good rabbit,
mademoiselle
,' said the woman. She squidged the rabbit's tummy. 'Very good, he grow big, many meals. Look.'

  I obediently felt the rabbit. 'Yes, he's certainly well-fed.'

  The woman nodded enthusiastically.

  'You know they're for eating, don't you?' said a voice I recognised behind me. 'She means that it'll give you many meals.'

  I spun round to find Nick, the furniture man, standing behind me with two scruffy kids in tow.

  'What?'

  'Look, didn't you see those ones there?'

  I looked over. A row of skinned rabbits, eyes staring blankly, were laid out in a chiller cabinet.

  'Omigod!' I hugged the little rabbit to my chest, shielding its eyes from the sight of its cousins, stripped and peeled and ready for the pot.

  'Yeah, it's the staple diet around here. Chicken is too expensive but rabbit is dead cheap. Most of the oldies keep a few rabbits for the pot.'

  'My dad lets us shoot them with his gun,' said the taller one.

  'Then we skin them with our Swiss army knives,' said the smaller one. He drew a knife out of his pocket and waved it in my face.

  'Bloody hell, put it away. You'll get arrested,' I said hastily.

  'Oh, don't worry,' said Nick, 'it's all a bit different here. If you go over the other side there's a stall that sells everything from hunting knives to switchblades. All perfectly legal. Most kids round here carry a knife.'

  I made a mental note not to tangle with any of the local teenagers on a dark night.

  'These are my kids by the way. This is Beau,' he motioned to the older one, 'and this is Rip.'

  'Not big on long names then?' I laughed, wondering who on earth would call a child Beau, especially one like this who, with his buck teeth and mouth-breathing, was anything but.

  'Yeah, well with me as their dad I knew there was a fair chance they wouldn't be that bright so I wanted something that would be easy to spell.'

  I frowned and looked at him. Was he joking or not?

  'Well, better crack on. Don't forget Saturday night in La Fontaine if you're stuck for something to do. It's just over there.' He pointed to a rather run-down bar with cheap plastic chairs and tables outside. Certainly not the sort of place I imagined myself spending too much time.

  
'Mademoiselle?'
said the stallholder, holding her arms out for the rabbit, which was now fast asleep in my arms.

  
'Non,'
I shouted, rather louder than intended.
'Combien?'

  The woman held up ten fingers.

  '
Oui,
yes, I'll take it.'

  The woman held out a box and motioned for me to put the rabbit inside. With the box securely taped and my purse ten euros lighter, I headed back towards the car with my new friend. I had made some impulse purchases in the past but never a rabbit.

  'You'll be fine in here with the windows open,' I told it. 'I won't be too long and you won't be rabbit pie.' I peeped through the holes in the box and the rabbit looked back at me with wary eyes.

  Back in the market square, I continued my wanderings, gradually filling my basket with some freshly baked bread, a bag of huge local tomatoes, a frilly lettuce, still damp with morning dew – or that's what I told myself at least. '
Mademoiselle
, you want some cheese? The best cheese in France.'

  A young man in a
béret
and a smock was holding out a chunk of soft cheese on the blade of a knife. Thanking him, I carefully took it and popped it in my mouth. It was strong, but not 'old socks' strong. I remembered something Alex had said to me before I left. 'Never trust a country that has four hundred cheeses, all of them
Brie
.' I realised how little I had thought about Alex since I got here.

  'You like?' asked the man earnestly. 'It is made by my family for generations. My great-
grandpère
created the recipe and passed it down the family. It is made from sheep's milk on our farm in the foothills of the Pyrénées.'

  I listened as he described the little mountain farm, the flock of rare French sheep and his ancient
Papi
, bent over a vat of cheese, stirring it, pressing it into moulds, smearing it with pig fat (actually I could have done without that little snippet of information) and bandaging it, then taking it to mature in a cave in the hills. I was lost in his description and all the while he talked, he fed me small pieces of cheese. The whole thing was quite mesmerising.