Love in a Warm Climate (15 page)

“What happened?”

“Well, Patrick went out for dinner with some blokes last night. It was someone’s birthday or something, and the kids were asleep and Lucy was in the kitchen wiping the table and she sensed that someone was there and she turned around and there he was, just staring at her. She looked at him and she knew that this was it and so she walked towards him and they kissed and then ripped each other’s clothes off. She said it was just like that scene from
The Postman Always Rings Twice
.”

“The what?”

“I don’t know. Some film with Jack Nicholson. Anyway, apparently it was amazing. She told me it was at least as wonderful as she had imagined it would be, that it felt as if every one of her nerve endings came to life and she would start to levitate. She is so frigging ecstatic I had to hold the phone
a metre from my ear so as not to be deafened by her shrieks. If she made that much noise when they were at it I’m surprised she didn’t wake the kids.”

“So she’s happy? Not freaked out at all?”

“Yes, totally euphoric. I can’t believe it, not an ounce of guilt. You’d think she was French.”

“But where is it all going to end? What will happen if Perfect Patrick finds out?”

“Perfect no more you mean?” she says. “Who knows? Here’s hoping he won’t. Ignorance is bliss and all that.”

“Wow, well lucky her. And how about Mr Enormous?”

“Can you believe I have yet to find out? The sexual tension is killing me; this has got to be the longest courtship I have ever had. But this weekend his family is away and we’ve arranged to spend the night together and if it doesn’t happen then I can’t see that it ever will. I am actually beginning to wonder if he has an impotency problem. I mean why has he not just done it? We’ve done pretty much everything else.”

“I think it’s quite romantic. And maybe he wants to be sure of you before he goes out for fully-fledged infidelity?”

“I think you might be right, he’s testing my loyalty. And my discretion. How is everything with you?”

I look around me. “Actually it is fine, I feel strong and good and ready for the next phase of my life.”

“Oh God, Soph, I am pleased. But there’s no need to sound like an American self-help book.”

“Very amusing. Nick is coming down soon and we will tell the children and then, well, I will carry on and hope an older version of Joshua or a younger version of Mr Enormous or whatever you call him comes my way.”

“That’s my girl,” says Sarah. “Love you lots, and see you soon, just call me if you want me to come out again.”

“Thanks, but I’m not sure I can stand any more yoga coaching,” I laugh. “Bye sweetpea.”

Wolfie follows me into the vines but shies away just as we walk onto M. de Sard’s land. Yes, I know we’re not supposed to be on it, but it’s a lovely walk through the vines to the village and the ground is dry now so it’s easy to cycle on.

Oh damn it. There is a man walking towards us. I can see from his elegant gait and height that it is not M. de Sard’s irritating foreman. At least that’s good news. The children are taking no chances though and pedal off rather quickly towards the village, leaving me to face the stranger alone. They have clearly already adopted the French attitude towards conflict.

If Nick were here, he would make one of his un-PC jokes or sayings about the French such as raise your right hand if you like the French, raise both hands if you are French, or what’s the difference between toast and Frenchmen (you can make soldiers out of toast).“We’re allowed to laugh at the French,” he would always say if I told him I thought he was being bigoted. “They’re like family.”

I try to look casual as I saunter towards this particular Frenchman. What if it is the dreaded old M. de Sard himself? He might try to shoot me as well. But this man looks much younger than old M. de Sard. In fact, now that he is getting closer he looks like he might be what Sarah, Lucy and Carla would call a ‘babe’.

Why oh why did I have to wear my tracksuit bottoms and faded Little Miss Bossy T-shirt and grubby fleece on the one day out of several thousand when a handsome stranger is walking across the deserted vineyards towards me?

“
Bonjour Madame
,” he says as we meet. Help! I think. He really is gorgeous. His bright blue eyes are so luminous you can almost see the sky in them. His light brown and slightly curly hair makes him look a little like a Romantic Poet. He is much taller than me – probably around six foot three – but he is well built so doesn’t look lanky. He is wearing what an English gentleman on an afternoon stroll would wear: dark-green cords, a beige cashmere jumper and a Barbour-style jacket. He looks to be around forty. There is the subtle trace of a rather expensive-smelling aftershave surrounding him that makes me want to get closer.

There’s no denying it, this is your classic sexy older man. And he’s in my vineyard. Actually, he’s in M. de Sard’s vineyard. But what the hell? – he might even be worth getting shot at for.

“
Bonjour Monsieur
,” I respond. It’s not a bad start. But then I do what I always do when I’m nervous. I start to gibber. Worse than that I start to gibber in incomprehensible French about the ‘
méchant monsieur
’ who owns the vineyard and how he should watch out for him and his gun-toting foreman.

“We can speak English if you prefer,” he says in an accent so sexily smooth I almost swoon at his feet. Pathetic woman. I am even blushing. How did I become such a walking cliché? I will not be moved by a smarmy Frenchman and his charming French manner.

“Oh, you speak English?” I say. There’s no fooling
moi
.

“Yes, I was educated in England,” he replies smiling down at me, eyes twinkling. “Have you lived here long?”

“Oh, just since the New Year. We bought Sainte Claire, over there,” I say pointing in the general direction of our home.

“Yes, I know where it is. You say ‘we’? Who is we – you and your husband?”

Of course my husband is no longer on the scene, but there is no need to let the handsome Frenchie know that, is there? Or is there?

“We did, yes, but sadly he had to go back to London. So I am here alone now,” I smile.

Why did I tell him I am alone? What’s wrong with me? I never flirt with anyone. I don’t even ever fancy anyone. Quick, I think – mention the children to make amends.

“I mean I am here with the children. I, er we, erm”. Come on Sophie, which is it to be? “We have three children.”

The children! Shit. I suddenly remember why I am here. It would be just like them to get run over while I am chatting up a stonkingly sexy Frenchman.

“I’m so sorry,” I say rushing off. “I have to run; the children are on their way to the village and I want to make sure they cross the road safely. It was lovely to meet you.”

“
Enchanté
,” he shouts after me. “
Madame
… What is your name?”

“Sophie,” I shout back, waving as I run. “My name is Sophie. Bye.”

When I get to the bakery my heart is beating faster than it does after fourteen sun salutations. Is that because of the run or the smooth-talking Frenchman? Maybe a bit of both. Whatever else, I feel very hyper. And damn it! – I forgot to ask his name. Will I ever see him again?

“Mummy, Mummy, look what happened.” The children drag me to the front of the bakery to show me. Someone has thrown a brick through the window. I can’t believe it. This is meant to be a rural idyll, not downtown Brixton.

The bakery is dark. There are shards of glass covering the window display of baguettes and wicker baskets and some on the street outside. A few villagers have gathered and there is a lot of muttering. I look around to see if there is anyone I recognise so I can find out what has been going on. Why on earth would anyone want to throw a brick through the window of the Boujan bakery, even if they don’t think much of their baguettes.

I spot Peter, the male ‘wife’, and his daughter Amelia and walk up to them.

“What happened?” I ask.

“There won’t be any bread tonight,” he responds and looks at me. “Not that you look like you’d eat any anyway. What happened to the voluptuous yummy mummy I was growing to love?” He takes hold of my hand and makes me do a twirl in front of him while whistling. “My, my you’re quite
the little vixen now aren’t you? Even in your rather shabby gym kit. If I weren’t as gay as a badger, as my friend Brad calls it, I might be interested myself. Have you been on some drastic diet?”

I nod. “Yes, I realised it was time to find my inner French woman before it was too late. But more to the point, what happened here?”

“Apparently the baker was having an affair with his wife’s best friend. The wife caught them in the bakery covered in flour, kneading each other rather than the bread. Unseen, she ran back to her best friend’s house, took all her clothes and burnt them in a bonfire.” He leans closer to me. “Well, frankly, most of them needed burning. Anyway, then she packed her belongings and drove out of town in a rage, but not before she had put a brick through the window. A most unusual reaction really, considering infidelity is part of family life in France.”

“My goodness, and I thought we had moved to a sleepy village in the middle of nowhere.”

“Not a bit of it,” says a man with a mop of grey hair standing next to us. He is carrying a copy of
Le Monde
and a book; I can just about make out the word Vichy in the title. He looks extremely intellectual. “I met a man in the bar here who claims to have invented the Internet.”

Peter ignores him and the stranger moves on. “Well sweetie, it is in the middle of nowhere, but sleepy it ain’t. Unless by sleepy you mean everyone is sleeping with everyone else.”

“Everyone apart from me that is,” I say, not without bitterness. “Having said that, I met a really handsome man just now.”

Peter raises one eyebrow and looks at me questioningly. “Really?” he says. “Where?”

“In the vineyard, you know by the Château de Boujan.”

“Name?”

“I forgot to ask. I could kick myself. But he was lovely. Very French, very, well, elegant really. And he smelt lovely. It’s the first man I have been attracted to for years.”

Peter tells Amelia to go and look for some fish in the fountain.

“And may I ask what your husband will think of your new vineyard friend?” he says when she’s gone. “Should you ever happen to find him again that is? I was under the impression you were not in the market for any side salad, even with French vinaigrette.”

At first I feel like I have a twig caught in my throat. I can’t say anything. Then it all comes out. It pours out, in fact, more quickly than the water in the fountain the children are all mesmerised by in the square. I tell him everything, from finding the bra and to throwing Nick out to the Viagra
incident (major eyebrow raise at that one) and the plan to tell the children this weekend.

I barely draw breath. It feels good to get it off my chest. But then I feel like a fool. “Oh God I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t know why I told you all that, it’s not as if I even know you. But once I started I just couldn’t stop. I don’t really have anyone to talk to here and, well…”

“A token girlfriend is better than no girlfriend at all?” he smiles, putting his arm around me. “Poor you, what a cad. How are you going to cope all alone? Will you stay?”

“Yes,” I nod, scared to say any more in case I crumble again. His arm around me is almost making me cry, but I mustn’t in front of the children. And the whole village come to that. They might think I threw the brick through the window and am regretting it. Or that I’m missing the baker’s baguette…

“I am going to stay, I am going to make a go of the vineyard. Heaven knows how, but I am determined not to be beaten by this.”

“So you’re going to make the wine alone?”

I suddenly realise how ridiculous this must seem. “Yes, well not totally alone. I have Colette. And a few books. And, well, lots of people do make wine.”

Oh no, the eyebrow has shot up again; someone give this man some Botox. “Indeed, lots of people do. But most of them have more experience of the product than drinking it at dinner parties in Clapham. Have you any idea what it involves? I mean, I don’t want to put you off, but I’m just injecting a dose of reality into your dream of becoming the next Château Lafitte.”

I look at him blankly.

“You’ve never heard of it, have you?” He crosses his arms and faces me. “Oh. My. God. You want to be a wine maker and you have never heard of possibly the most famous, and certainly the most expensive, wine in the world. Sophie, I think you need to take a reality check. And you also need to keep an eye on that
vigneronne
of yours.”

“Colette? Why?”

“Well, I’m not one to gossip,” he begins, confirming just the opposite. “But let’s just say she has an interesting past.”

Before I can ask him any more, the children have all rushed over to tell us about the fish who live in the fountain. Apparently there are three of them. One husband and two wives.

“Sound like anyone we know?” quips Peter.

“At least I was the first wife,” I retort.

The crowd outside the bakery has been dispersed by the arrival of the police to investigate the crime scene. Not that any of the villagers are criminals – at least I don’t think they are. But if there is no reason to get involved with the police then it’s better not to, as Agnès my grumpy cleaning lady never tires of telling me. To the French, anyone in authority is there to make you pay tax, which you obviously have to avoid.

I say goodbye to Peter. “Good luck with Château Corkscrew,” he calls after me. “Let me know if you need any grape-pickers come September. You do know you need to pick them, don’t you? Or did you think the vines just give birth to small perfectly formed bottles of Chardonnay?”

The children and I walk towards home, I look across the vineyards in the hope that the handsome French stranger will reappear. No such luck. But Wolfie comes running towards us. As he runs it looks as if his tail is going round in a large circle behind him, almost in time with his eager steps. He is so happy to see us I feel floods of relief that we are not going. But I am worried about Peter’s “reality check”. It’s clear I have a long way to go.