Love in a Warm Climate (24 page)

“It’s all over,” Lucy weeps down the phone. “Josh is going back to the US. He’s been offered a job there, one he can’t turn down. Oh Soph, what am I going to do? He was the highlight of my day. The thing I most looked forward to doing was running my fingers through his hair and feeling his body on top of mine.”

“When does he go?”

“Another three weeks. Another three weeks of heaven and then…”

“Then you can focus on your husband and children. Come on Luce, you knew this wasn’t forever, affairs with young men never are. You had a great run of it, you got away with it, you should be happy. Take a Carla approach.”

“What and find another young man? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Noooo. I know Josh was a one-off. You’re not as, whatever, as Carla. But just take it for what it was – great fun – and now get on with the rest of your life. Your ADULT life.”

Lucy grunts.

“You could always write a book about it? An anonymous memoir; call it
Sex and the Married Woman
and write it under a pseudonym,” I joke.

“That’s a great idea,” says Lucy, finally stopping sobbing. “My father always used to say those who can do and those who can’t – well, they just write about it. At least that will take my mind off things. And I won’t have to look far to find a publisher…”

I can almost hear her brain whirring.

“But I am going to miss him,” she goes on. “And I won’t ever be able to look at my kitchen table without remembering him.”

“I know, I know, but you can relive all those moments together through your memoir.”

“Good plan. Well it’s a plan, which is more than I had. Gotta go:
Antonia’s just come in, she needs help with her homework.”

I call Sarah to tell her about Lucy and ask her to keep an eye on her.

“How are you sweetpea?”

“I’m fine, thanks, gearing up for the harvest. Today I spent the morning in the vineyards. Bloody hell it’s hot. It feels like the sun has sucked the countryside dry. The roots of the vines must stretch all the way to the centre of the earth to get moisture. This afternoon is dedicated to washing out barrels ready to put the wine into. How is Mr Enormous?”

“Enormous and I are still in a state of bliss. But I have decided to be mature about it all and take it for what it is.”

“And what is it?”

“A rampant, gorgeous, sexy affair. His wife and he seem to have some kind of arrangement whereby she doesn’t really care what he does during the week up in London, but his part of the deal is that he goes home at weekends, and he stays married to her.”

“How very convenient for him. So where does that leave you?”

“Alone at weekends, I suppose. But also a free agent, free to do what I want, when I want, and also not be obliged to listen to some bloke snoring next to me. OK so sometimes I wish I could have him to myself, but as that’s not going to happen I’m just going to have to be happy with what I can get.”

“But Sarah, there’s no future in it. What happens next? I mean where’s the happy ending? Do you want to be a mistress all your life? Don’t you want to be a wife?”

“I have been thinking a lot about this over the past few months. I’ve even started meditating to get a clearer picture of my life and where it’s going. I have come to the conclusion that we are all, as women, conditioned to think that the way forward is marriage and kids. And I always thought I wanted that too. But you know there are other options, other ways to live. And being a mistress is one of them.”

“But what happens when he gets too old to get it up, or he loses interest in you? Or you get too old to be a mistress. How many mistresses over 60 do you know? You could end up terribly lonely.”

“Just because you’re married doesn’t mean you can’t get lonely,” says Sarah.

She has a point.

I am naked in front of my bathroom mirror. In front of me there are five bottles of creams. I start at the bottom with the foot cream. Onto my weary, vineyard-walking feet it goes, this pink peppermint concoction. Then I pick up the anti-cellulite cream. This has to go on in upward strokes on my thighs, buttock and, according to the instructions, ‘other areas in need of attention’. This could be just about everywhere, but I focus on the most obvious bits.

Maybe as an experiment I should do one buttock but not the other, just to see if it makes any difference at all? But then who wants one buttock bigger than the other? Or even smaller than the other?

Next is the bust gel. I do as the instructions tell me and sweep it upwards towards my neck, I guess the idea being that your breasts miraculously go in an upwards direction as well. It’s worth a try.

My phone rings while I am in the middle of this exercise. Hastily I wipe my hands on my buttocks, hoping they don’t grow nipples. I run for the phone and almost kill myself falling over on my slippery peppermint-
cream-covered
feet.

“Hello?”

“Oh, hi there Soph, it’s Nick. What you up to? You sound out of breath.”

“Not much,” I lie. “Just running for the phone. How about you?”

“Oh this and that,” he replies. “How are the kids?”

“Asleep thankfully,” I say, inching my way slowly back to the bathroom to grab a towel.

I feel slightly vulnerable talking to Nick in the nude. Especially now I have almost no pubic hair. Yes, I went to the beautician and I think there was a breakdown in communication because after a lot of pain and 40 euros there is now a Hitler moustache where my furry mound used to be.

“Today was just awful. Edward’s girlfriend decided she was in love with
Charles, typical French hussy, so he came home crying, saying his heart was broken in a thousand bits. Charlotte had some awful French grammar homework I had to try and help her with, but you know how much of an idea I have about French grammar, and as for the French poems they have to learn every week, oh my God, they are soooo difficult…”

I go on telling him about our day. It is lovely to be able to talk to someone about the children. Jean-Claude is great with them, as is Johnny, but talking to their father is somehow very different. It can be a lonely old job being a single parent.

“Anyway, sorry to go on, how is everything with you? You know we start the harvest in a few days, if you’re bored you could always come and help?”

“I’d love to,” says Nick. “And I love hearing about the kids. I really miss them. I even miss their bickering. We’ll come out soon to see them, but I’m not sure I can make it to the harvest, Soph.”

“Why not?”

“Well, that’s what I rang to tell you. Cécile and I are getting married.”

I am in shock but try not to sound like I care.

“Wow, that was quick. You don’t hang around, do you?

“I could say the same about you,” responds my ex-soon-to-be-Cécile’s husband. “The decree absolute should be through by the end of August and we wanted to get married in September before the weather gets too bad. That’s when the harvest is, right?”

This conversation has now become almost surreal. I am standing
semi-naked
in front of the mirror rubbing potions into my in-parts bald body and Nick is telling me he is getting married. Any minute now the mad hatter will appear and offer me a cup of tea. Or hopefully something stronger.

“The exact date will depend on the maturity of the grapes and the weather, but yes, normally it starts the last week of August and goes on until early September,” I explain in a rather shaky voice. “And erm, congratulations,” I add, although obviously I don’t mean it.

“Thanks,” says Nick. “I’m glad we’re still friends.”

“Yes, me too,” I say. “Maybe I should get married too and we could have a double wedding, save on costs.”

Nick laughs. “It’s grand to hear you’ve not lost your sense of humour, Soph. And I meant to tell you, you looked great when we saw you in France, really fantastic.”

You ain’t seen nothing yet, I mouth to my Hitler moustache in the mirror.

“Thanks. I have finally got in touch with my inner French woman,” I say. “It’s been an expensive, and sometimes painful, encounter, but worth it.”

“I love the look of your inner French woman Soph. She’s grand.”

“Well, must get on,” I say quickly before I start enjoying his flattery. “I have nails to file and eyebrows to pluck. Thanks for calling to let me know. Bye.”

I hang up and go back to my bust gel. I smother the cream vigorously upwards from the base of my breasts to my neck, the idea being that you don’t rub down because that might increase the general gravity-induced desire one’s body has to reach earth. Audrey was right. It does make you feel better.

The conversation with Nick has not exactly left me feeling overjoyed. This marriage thing. I mean it’s one thing to run off with the French hussy, but why does he have to marry her? What if they have children? How will that affect our three? Will he be as keen to see them and take as much of an interest in them if he has a whole new family?

I walk carefully to bed and pull my nightie over my perfectly-pampered body.

Several hours later I am woken up by my phone ringing; it’s Johnny, calling from Los Angeles.

“Hey Cunningham, how’s things? Sorry to call so late but I just had to talk to you, gal.”

“S’okay,” I mumble. “You all right?”

“Yes, more than all right. Listen, I’m here with my agent who is friends with some bloke who has the most amazing vineyard for sale with a beautiful house and, hang on a minute ‘how many hectares of vines?’” I hear him ask someone.

“Fifty hectares of vines. Well this bloke is selling it and he’s in a rush because the tax man is after him and he’s got to get the asset off his hands and well, Cunningham, you still awake?”

“I’m awake, go on.”

“Well, you know what we talked about and all that, and well I’ve got to be in LA most of the year for the next three years, well I was thinking, maybe I should buy it and you and the kids could move out here and we could live there and you could run the vineyard and…”

I don’t know what to say.

“Cunningham?”

“Johnny, I don’t know what to say, I mean, it’s a lovely idea, of course, but, well I have a life here, the children have a life here, they love it.”

“They could love it here too, it’s even sunnier, and everyone speaks English. Ed might even meet Spiderman!”

“Don’t be silly, he’s in New York,” I tell him. “Johnny, I’m really happy you called, please let me think about it. I’m half awake and this is a big
decision. I mean I’ve never even been to California.”

“I understand, Cunningham, I was just so excited about it I had to call you. Let me try to email you some pictures later on. Sorry I woke you up. Love you, gal.”

“Love you too,” I say. I hang up. Seconds later there is a text message. ‘Sleep well, Cunningham, miss you. LA is lonely without you.’

Johnny Fray: you couldn’t make him up. Possibly the only young, successful and sexy film star to find LA a lonely place. I have to love him for that.

At 6am in the morning two weeks after the call from Johnny, Kamal knocks on my door with a cup of tea. There are worse sights to be greeted with first thing, though maybe not for him.

Today we start the harvest; weeks of frenetic picking, sorting and squashing grapes. Sarah and Lucy are coming to help, as are Peter and Phil, Calypso, Audrey, Jean-Claude and Colette, of course, who is full-time at the moment thanks to the income from the wine bonds and the Cabernet Sauvignon. Even Carla is leaving her various tennis coaches behind for a few days and coming over. So is my mother, who says she will take charge of the food. Quite what she has in store I dread to think – I remember Nick once said that eating my mother's home-cooked fare had made him appreciate
in-flight
meals.

With the money from the sales of the vat of Cabernet Sauvignon I have hired an additional two workers who will stay in the barn with Kamal. I have decided I'd better keep both Carla and Sarah (who is still a liability, even if Mr Enormous is her priority) in the house with me if Kamal is going to have any hope of sleeping through the night, although a lot of the nights we will spend picking grapes as the white ones need to be picked in the cool of the night air to avoid oxidation.

Lucy is less of a worry, but you never know with the stress of less-
than-Perfect
Patrick and her new-found libido. Especially now that Joshua has gone back home to his job and, we can only assume, a woman his own age.

I am nervous but also very excited about it; this is the most important time of the year for the vineyard – if the harvest is a success we go on for another year. If not, who knows what will happen to us and our life in France?

“Rise and shine, Madame Winemaker,” says Kamal, opening the shutters.
“It's the first day of your first harvest. You need to be among the vines, secateurs in hand, by half six. We'll give everyone a breakfast break around half nine.”

“What did your last slave die of?” I moan, sitting up and taking the tea.

“Fancy a few sun salutations to get the blood flowing?”

“Very sweet of you, no thanks. How come you're so perky?”

“I love harvest time, it's just the best time of the year. Loads of hard work but great fun and the sense of achievement after weeks of labouring when you've got all the wine in the vats; it's just magical. See you out there.”

I sip my tea and think about the day ahead. Today we have the new workers pitching up to work with Colette, Audrey and Calypso picking the syrah. The contingent from England arrive later on for two weeks, and friends from here will come and help as and when they can. The whole harvest will take around three weeks in total, at the end of which we will have a big party to celebrate – assuming there have been no major disasters.

I estimate I have around seven hundred vines, and each vine has maybe an average of five bunches of grapes that need to be picked. That means bending down around 3,500 times. Even if I divide that by the total number of pickers (ten), it is still a lot of bending over.

“Best get on with it then, gal,” Johnny would say. He is back in LA but usually texts me during our night. I love waking up to his messages. I can see there's one on my mobile, which makes me leap out of bed and get dressed. I have told him I will think about his Californian plan, but right now, my mind is on the job in hand here.

“Good luck today, Cunningham,” it reads. “Love you. Hi to the kids”. The Frenchman is going to have to come up with more than a bottle of old vinegar to beat that.

Kamal is already in the vineyard when I get there. He hands me a large white plastic tub.

“This is to put the grapes in,” he explains slowly. “And I mean put. You need to handle them gently; we've decided to start picking the Syrah today because it is on the cusp, as sweet as it is going to get on the vine before it starts to deteriorate. Also, the joy of handpicking is that you can manually sort the grapes. Don't put any that are not ripe enough or any rotten ones in the bucket. Tomorrow morning at 4am we start on the whites.”

“Why so early?” A 6am start was bad enough.

“You'll thank me for making you pick when it's cooler. Not only will you be more comfortable but the wine will be better too. The grapes lose quality rapidly in the heat, so we will need to get as much picked by 9am as possible. As you know, some of the picking, especially of the whites, will happen at
night. It's going to be a busy few weeks. We will be like soldiers on duty, sleeping as and when we can.”

Colette joins us. I smell her cigarette long before I actually see her. Calypso is not far behind. Funny that.

“We'll rotate the jobs so we're not all bending down all day long,” Kamal continues. “Someone needs to empty the filled tubs into the trailer and drive them to the
cave
ready for crushing. While there are just the four of us though we'll just focus on filling the first tubs.”

The sun is already warm and my tummy is rumbling. Oh well, only another three hours until breakfast. But the vines are beautiful. I look down the edge of the vineyard. The outer vines bend in towards the line rather like the neck of a graceful giraffe.

“We'll work in pairs on either side of the vine,” continues Kamal. “Calypso you work with Colette and I'll work with Sophie. I hope you've all got plenty of sunscreen on, and Sophie, you'll need a hat.”

I nip back to the house for a hat and some sunscreen; it never occurred to me to put any on at half past six this morning. I notice that Colette and Calypso are well kitted out; they are clearly old hands at this harvesting game. The postman stops me just as I am on my way back to the vineyard. Among the usual junk mail and bank statements (what a waste of paper) is an official-looking large brown envelope. I know what it is before I even open it. The decree absolute. But of course I open it just to make sure. There it is in black and white; the marriage between Nicholas Reed and Sophie Reed (née Cunningham) is hereby declared null and void. I am no longer Mrs Reed. What the hell do I call myself? Cunningham I suppose, and single.

Once back in the vineyard I stand opposite Kamal, secateurs at the ready. I'm glad I have the harvest to focus on instead of my new single status. This is it; the first bunch of grapes of my first harvest of my first vintage. I take a deep breath and bend down.

‘Snip'. The bunch falls into my hand. It feels heavier than I imagined it would. It sits in my palm like a beautiful statue, moist from the dew.

“Okay, Sophie, meditation time over,” smiles Kamal. “Try to keep up with me so we reach the end of the row at the same time.”

Kamal works more quickly than me. I find my normal efficiency is lost among the vines. I am clumsy and badly coordinated. I guess my body is getting used to the unfamiliar movements. Colette and Calypso are doing well. They seem to be able to talk as well as harvest, something I can't do – all my powers of concentration are focused on the task in hand, keeping up with Kamal without cutting my fingers, or dropping the grapes, or missing a bunch, or letting a rotten grape end up in the bucket for crushing.

At nine our workers show up. They are two Spanish boys called Rafael and Juan-Carlos from Barcelona, who are studying wine-making at university. Kamal shows them their accommodation, leaving me to overtake him for the first, and possibly only, time.

I am ashamed to admit that rather than worrying about the fact that I am a divorcee, I am more concerned with counting the seconds to breakfast, and not quite sure how I am going to keep this up for up to several weeks when three hours feels like a lifetime. My back is already aching and my fingers are clammy with grape juice and tired. It feels like the sun is focusing all its strength on one particular spot just between my left shoulder-blade and my neck. Soon it will bore a hole right through me.

I sneak a look at Calypso and Colette to see if they look in as much pain as I am. No, they are working away, happily chatting as if they were on an early-morning stroll. I have to stop being such a lightweight. After all, these are my vines and so if anyone should be enjoying the process of harvesting them it should be me.

“Breakfast!” calls Kamal after what seems like a hundred years. We lay down our secateurs, stretch our backs and walk towards the terrace, where he has coffee and croissants laid out on the marble table. Never has a croissant tasted so good. I wonder if eating two croissants is a deportable offence in France?

We sip our coffee and survey the vines.

“In three hours we have picked six rows,” says Kamal. “There are 48 in total.”

It seems an insurmountable number and that's just one of the vineyards – three hectares out of a total of sixteen.

“Don't worry, Sophie,” Kamal continues. “The first few days are always the toughest. Think of it as exercise, exercise that will make you money. Come on now, back to work.”

I am rather reluctantly reunited with my secateurs that are sticky with grape juice. I rinse them off with some water from my water bottle.

“Mummy, can I have a go?” The children have woken up and Emily is keen to get involved. “We did this at school, I know how it works, and I didn't even cut myself.”

Kamal beckons for her to join him and he shows her what to do. Maybe I could get all three of them working? I bet they could do a row per hour. Or would I be arrested for using child labour? Mind you, Rafael and
Juan-Carlos
don't look much older than my kids, even if their CVs say they are eighteen.

Emily though soon tires of the task and goes back to the house. It is late
August and the last week of the school holidays. Next week is what the French call going back to school: la
rentrée
. This is an event that has just about the same significance as Christmas. Or possibly even more. Audrey has told me all about it. People spend weeks preparing for it, buying new school bags, organising themselves and discussing what their little ones will eat for their
goûter
or snack this school year. Needless to say, I have been preparing for the harvest so am not remotely organised, but maybe my mother can help when she arrives. And I am dreading trying to put them to bed at seven o'clock, when it is still sunny outside until 10 o'clock at night.

My picking is interrupted by a text message from Sarah: “Boarding now, sweetpea,” it reads. “Have terrible hangover so look dreadful, Lucy of course looks radiant.”

“No change there then,” I text back sneakily, so Kamal won't notice, hoping I won't make my phone sticky with the grape juice. “See you this afternoon. Can't wait.” This is a great day for them to get here; between them and the harvest I won't have any time to dwell on anything.

I get back to my picking. I am looking forward to seeing them all so much. It will be great to talk about everything that has happened; especially now we're divorced, Nick is getting married and I have to make a decision between two very eligible suitors and two very different lives. This is the kind of decision only your girlfriends can help you with.

Maybe Johnny will surprise me with a visit while they're here? I would love for them all to meet my famous film-star suitor. But I think he is filming in LA until the end of September.

They will be impressed with Jean-Claude, though. I have seen less of him recently as he's been in Aix a lot. Whenever I do see him, it is lovely, and since that first kiss we have repeated the experience about ten times. It's beginning to feel like the world's longest courtship. He says he wants to wait until my divorce is finalised. Maybe I should let him know about today's post.

I am young-ish, free and single for the first time in more than ten years. And actually I am ready to leap into bed with the frog, or Johnny, or even both. But I'm not sure I'm quite ready to commit to another full-on relationship, which is why Johnny's idea of the Californian vineyard rather worries me. I have asked him to wait until the harvest is over; it's not a decision I want to rush into.

“And if I you're going to end up with Johnny, then you might like to try a little piece of French side salad before you do,” as Sarah helpfully pointed out on the phone the other day.

Talking of Sarah, she and Carla will probably be more impressed by Kamal than Jean-Claude. He is looking very sexy pruning opposite me, his
brown arms toned and fit from all the work and yoga he does. For some reason he doesn't really appeal to me in that way – maybe because I already have my hands full with the others, or because he is around fifteen years younger than me. I am obviously far too young to have a toy-boy!

At lunch there is a feeling of wellbeing, almost bliss, as we all sit down to eat. We eat with the appetite one has after toiling outside all morning. The food is: Parma ham with melon and mountains of rustic bread courtesy of the baker, who I have found out is Colette's cousin (is there anyone in the village she isn't either related to or sleeping with?). We drink red wine.

“Not too much,” warns Kamal. “We have an afternoon's work to get through.”

I can see he was the eldest of five children. Bossy-boots.

“Surely we can have a little, tiny siesta?” I ask. “Even just a power-nap?”

“We go back to work at 2pm. How you spend your time is up to you,” he replies.

I daren't even look at Calypso and Colette; I suppose they will be spending the time in some Sapphic love tryst. I can't say I'm jealous, I think I'd rather have a kip.

I can't wait for the girls to get here so I can tell them all about everything that is going on in this village. It's a wonder anyone in France ever gets any work done with all the sex they have to have and all the personal grooming they have to go through. I suppose one leads to another.

The latest from the bakery is that the wife has come back and seen off the best friend (now
sans culottes
after she burned all her clothes). The baker is apparently very happy, because the wife was always much handier around the bakery, if not the bedroom. I have to say the bread has improved since she came back. I guess he is now focusing on his job too, instead of working out how to organise the old
cinq à sept
with the mistress.