‘Why bother?’ said Gerry. ‘If this house has fallen into your lap – and it looks like a pretty good deal to me – why waste your time? The best things in life are usually effortless.’
‘I agree,’ I said, thinking how the house wasn’t the only good thing to have fallen into my lap this weekend. Here I was, at 2.00 a.m. in France, sitting in a candlelit room and drinking wine with a man who was gorgeous, successful and, so far as I knew, single. If only Dave would go to bed, so that I could have Gerry to myself. But Dave showed no sign of flagging. Each time we came to a pause in the conversation he would light a cigarette or pour himself another drink. In the end – and to my extreme disappointment – it was Gerry who bowed out first. ‘I’m beat. I’m going to have to turn in,’ he said. I followed him shortly afterwards and fell asleep planning the colour scheme for Maison Coquelicot, which was as good as mine.
The following day, Dave drove the three of us into Poitiers. We went for a stroll and visited Notre Dame cathedral, roaming around the cool, dark interior and admiring the painted columns. It all seemed so romantic that I began to wish I could hang out with Gerry and Dave forever. Then we had lunch at a cafe overlooking the cathedral. Dave went to the loo while we were waiting for the bill to arrive, leaving Gerry and me on our own. ‘You know, I’ve really enjoyed this weekend,’ he said, looking at me intently.
‘Me too,’ I said. ‘It’s a shame I’ve got to back this afternoon.’
‘So is there someone waiting for you at the other end?’ he asked, his voice low.
‘No,’ I replied. ‘What about you?’
He looked into the distance, before not answering the question. ‘I’m probably going to stay on for another week,’ he said. ‘Help Dave with the house a little and do some more writing.’
I toyed briefly with the idea of altering my TGV ticket, but I thought it better to leave on a high. And anyway, I was absolutely certain that I would see Gerry again. The conversation was cut short by the arrival of the bill – which Gerry insisted on paying.
At Poitiers station they both accompanied me to the platform.
‘I can’t wait to hear how it goes with the house,’ said Gerry, kissing me on the cheek.
‘I’ll arrange for us all to meet up for London when I’m back,’ said Dave.
As the TGV pulled away from the platform, I watched Gerry and Dave waving goodbye in the sunshine and felt a surge of happiness. The future, for the first time in ages, seemed like something to look forward to.
The final signing, or acte final, took place on a Friday afternoon towards the end of August in the peach-painted offices of Monsieur Guillon, the local notaire. It was exactly a month since I had first set eyes on the house. Victor had exceeded all my expectations by negotiating a significant discount on the asking price for the house so that, altogether, including legal fees, it cost €42,000, which amounted to just over £30,000. I went to the signing alone, straight from Poitiers station, and to be honest it was a little depressing. The owners, the Chevreuils, a dour-looking couple in their sixties, did not even manage a smile as I shook hands with them. Instead, they looked very anxious that I might duck out of the deal. While Monsieur Guillon gathered his dossiers, I asked about Madame Mauboussin, the former tenant, who had been forced into an old people’s home through ill health. ‘She was a spinster,’ said Madame Chevreuil, with glee. ‘She never married.’ I had a sudden vision of myself as an eighty-year-old spinster, being carted off to an old folks’ home in four decades time. But at least in a French nursing home I could expect foie gras and a decent bottle of wine for lunch rather than boiled potatoes and barley water.
Only when the acte final was signed and stamped did the Chevreuils allow themselves a smile. I noticed on the acte de vente, or deeds, that they had paid €7,000, less than £5,000, for the house six years ago. So they were getting a good return on their investment. As if reading my thoughts, Madame Chevreuil said, ‘We did a lot of work on the house, you know.’
‘Of course,’ I said, thinking of poor Madame Mauboussin living there without heating or an indoor lavatory, with damp climbing up the walls and the kitchen floor in danger of collapse. The Chevreuils had already stood up to leave and did not invite me for the customary drink to celebrate. But I considered it a lucky escape. I picked up my travel bag and walked out into the sunshine, towards the square. I felt a surge of pride as I saw the cluster of French flags flying about the mairie. This was now my mairie and I now belonged somewhere other than west London. I was the owner of a house in France! As I passed the Café du Commerce and a group of flat-capped old men sipping cloudy pastis outside, I felt like I was on the threshold of a very big adventure. For financial reasons, I wouldn’t be able to move to France for at least a year, but I had taken the first, very big step towards My New Life in France.
I arrived at Dave’s house as the church bells struck 7.00 p.m.
‘I’m now a member of the French property owners’ club,’ I said, with a grin. ‘Let’s go and celebrate. The champagne’s on me.’
‘OK,’ said Dave, sounding a little reluctant. ‘But my son’s here at the moment. I’ll have to bring him with us.’
‘That’s cool,’ I said, trying not to look surprised. Dave had not mentioned that he had a son. I followed him into the dark salon, where a spotty, feral looking teenager was slouched on the sofa.
‘This is Jason,’ said Dave.
‘Hi there,’ I said, holding out my hand. The spotty teenager did not take it.
We went to the local crêperie and sat in the courtyard, at the same table that I had sat at with Gerry and Dave on my very first night in the village. There was no champagne on the menu so I ordered a glass of rosé and Dave ordered a bottle of Sauternes, a sugary yellow dessert wine. Jason did not want anything and sat slumped in the chair, his arms folded defensively across his body.
‘I still can’t believe that you’ve actually done it,’ said Dave, sitting back in the sunshine. I noticed that he had put on quite a bit of weight since I last saw him.
‘Dad, I’m bored. How long are we going to be here for?’
‘Shh,’ said Dave. ‘Gerry didn’t think you’d actually go through with it.’
‘How is he?’ I ask.
‘Well, I’m a bit pissed off with him, now you mention it. I sent him a couple of emails when I was trying to arrange drinks in London, but he didn’t even reply. I also left a few messages for him on his phone, but nothing.’
‘Yes, I remember,’ I said. I had gone along to meet Dave and a few other people from our writing course in a wine bar in Mayfair, but Gerry, disappointingly, had not shown up.
Dave suggested getting some food and asked for an English menu for his son, who immediately pushed it back across the table. ‘I’m not hungry,’ he said.
‘Come on, Jason, have something to eat,’ his father cajoled, but Jason just shook his head defiantly. Dave went ahead and ordered him an omelette and frites anyway, but it remained untouched. Jason sat in hostile silence as I picked at a goats cheese salad and Dave ate his way through a starter (salade du périgord), two main courses (a ham and cheese crêpe, followed by a smoked salmon crêpe) and dessert (an enormous chocolate ice-cream sundae). ‘Did you say this was on you?’ he asked when the bill arrived.
I paid without hesitation. After all, it was thanks to Dave that I had found the house. Also, over the next several months, I’d be returning to Villiers often as the work began, and Dave and I had come to a financial arrangement whereby I paid him €25 a night, the same rate as the pilots, for renting a room in his house. I did not want to take advantage of his hospitality. My house was a long way off being habitable, and staying at Dave’s was likely to be far more fun than staying in a hotel – especially if Gerry came out to stay again. By paying his going rate I could stay with him whenever I wanted without worrying that I was exploiting our friendship.
We walk
ed back to his house in the evening sunshine and I took my bag up to one of the guest rooms, decorated in the obligatory floral wallpaper that Dave had inherited from the previous owner. It had an en-suite bathroom, shared via a door on each side with the other guest room, which was occupied by Jason. I could hear him moving around in his room.
When I went back downstairs Dave had opened a bottle of wine and lit a few candles on the mantelpiece. Jason, thankfully, stayed in his room. I took a seat by the old stone fireplace and we sat and chatted. ‘I won’t have the money to do the house up at once. I’ll have to do it step by step,’ I said.
‘At least you’ve always got somewhere to stay when you come out,’ said Dave.
‘Is everything OK?’ I asked, after a while, for I had noticed that Dave seemed a little down.
‘To be honest,’ he said, lighting a cigarette (something he only did when drunk), ‘things aren’t going well between me and Linda.’ He inhaled deeply. ‘I think we’ve just grown apart,’ he said, reaching over to top up my wine glass. ‘We just don’t have that much in common any more. I want to spend more time in France but she hates it. She can’t stand the food and doesn’t speak the language.’
‘But didn’t you buy the house together?’
‘Yeah, we did. But it was more me that wanted to do it than her. This is really my project,’ he said, indicating the flowery brown three-piece suite, the old-fashioned mahogany dining table and the huge carved wooden sideboard (all, he had proudly revealed, bought as a job lot from a dépôt-vente or second-hand shop, for €500.) ‘But it runs deeper than that. Intellectually, I’m beginning to realise that we are just not on the same wavelength.’
‘Really?’
‘It’s like with you, I can have all these deep discussions – politics, writing, whatever – and I can’t do that with her. I just feel like I’m at a crossroads,’ he continued. ‘Maybe it’s a mid-life crisis or something. I’d really like to quit my job and go freelance like you, come and live out here full-time, finish the house off, but I’m just not sure that I’m brave enough.’
This was all a revelation. ‘But enough about me,’ he said suddenly. ‘I want to know more about you. I’ve spent quite a bit of time with you now but you don’t give much away about yourself, do you?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, for a start, it’s a pretty bold thing to do, to buy a house out here on your own. Not many people would consider it.’
‘Well, I’ve always been a Francophile and I’ve always wanted to live in France. And I know a lot about Marie-Antoinette…’
‘Come off it,’ he said, blowing his cigarette smoke sideways and jutting his chin upwards. ‘I don’t know why, but I get the impression that you are running away from something,’ his voice low and gentle, his eyes kind. ‘But if you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine.’
Dave, I realised, was a very unusual being: a heterosexual man who was able to talk with ease about his emotions, as well as tap intuitively into other people’s. He was definitely blessed with a superior emotional intelligence. For a moment I was tempted to tell him everything, but stopped myself.
‘It’s a long story.’
‘It’s up to you,’ he replied, pouring himself another glass of wine all the way up to the brim.
‘No really, I… can’t. I’m sorry.’
‘I’m not going to force you,’ he said. ‘But I think it would do you a lot of good to talk about it.’
‘It’s nearly three in the morning,’ I said, feigning a yawn. ‘Time for bed.’
‘Listen, there is something that I have to tell you…’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s a bit embarrassing. Don’t take this the wrong way…’
‘What?’ I was stricken with sudden fear as to what he is going to say.
‘It concerns Victor.’
‘It does?’ I was swept by a huge feeling of relief.
‘It was Miranda who noticed it first, but apparently he’s quite taken by you.’
‘What?’
‘You know that his wife left him and ran off with another bloke and they’re getting divorced.’
‘Yes, poor guy.’
‘Well, he’s been going around saying that he is going to marry an Englishwoman next.’
‘That doesn’t necessarily mean me.’
‘I’m afraid it does. He keeps asking Miranda – and me – when you are next coming out. He also asked me whether you were with someone. And were you looking for a French husband?’
‘Oh come on!’
‘I’m serious. Miranda said to warn you to tread carefully, as he is very emotionally vulnerable and a bit unstable, since his wife left him.’
‘Poor Victor,’ I said. ‘I promise I’ll do my best to let him down gently.’
Feeling somewhat disturbed, I made my way upstairs and opened the bedroom door. Lying on my bed, its head nestling on the pillow, was a large axe (the axe that Dave used for chopping wood). The only person who could have placed it there was Jason.
Before I got into bed, I made sure that the door to the shared bathroom was locked from my side.
The next morning I went round to Maison Coquelicot. It seems so ridiculous, given all the work that needed to be done on the house, but I spent a couple of hours dusting all surfaces and mopping the wooden floors using cold water from the dilapidated kitchen sink. It was my way of claiming the house as my own.
Just before midday Dave appeared at the open window as I was applying Farrow & Ball tester pots to a small patch of exposed wall above the fireplace.
‘Hmm, prison grey,’ he said.
‘Actually, it’s Farrow & Ball’s Light Blue,’ I replied, but I had to admit, grudgingly, that he was right. On first impressions, it was definitely more battleship grey than light blue.
‘I don’t think your son likes me very much,’ I said, replacing the lid on the tester pot.
‘Oh, ignore him. He’s just being a typical teenager.’
‘He left an axe on my bed last night. It sort of seemed like an act of aggression, or a statement of intent.’
‘Oh, he wouldn’t have meant anything by it,’ he said. ‘He’s just a kid. He was probably just playing around with it.’
‘It’s a scary thing to play around with,’ I said.
Dave wanted me to go with them to a vide grenier, the French equivalent of a car boot sale, in a nearby village. ‘Maybe it’s best if just the two of you go,’ I said. But Dave insisted.
‘I just need to stop at the market and get some seafood,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d make a paella this evening.’ He bought prawns, mussels, squid and scallops from the very handsome fishmonger. Unfortunately, he had forgotten his wallet, so I paid.
The vide grenier was very busy. It had taken over the square in front of the hôtel de ville and spilled into the narrow surrounding streets of the village. There were stands selling ice cream, crêpes, chilled rosé wine, and hot sausages in baguettes. A mélange of aromas – sugar, vanilla and frying onions – filled the air. But it took me all of ten minutes and a quick walk around the square to establish that the various stands offered nothing of interest to me. The legacy of my fashion editor training and all those years scanning clothing rails means that I can case a joint in seconds. Mostly it was people getting rid of old children’s toys, piles of comics and polyester clothes. A good many of the stall holders, I noticed, were ex-pat Brits selling off their old biscuit tins and broken ornaments. Dave, however, took his time, examining everything. He seemed particularly interested in unidentifiable metal objects and old pieces of farming equipment. ‘Possi-bili-tay doon reduction?’ he would ask, and then turn to me to translate the answer. Progress was slow and the sun was so hot that it hurt the eyes.
After hovering with Dave for a painfully long time, I went and sat at a cafe on the corner of t
he square and ordered a diabolo menthe – lemonade with mint-flavoured syrup. I spent a happy hour people-watching and playing a private game of ‘spot l’Anglais’. There seemed to be lots of them in the market. Two of them sat down next to me and started to argue about whether or not they should have bought two willow log baskets. Not realising there was a fellow Anglaise in their midst, they spoke with abandon and it was fun eavesdropping on their argument – which subsequently evolved into whether or not they had bought the right house and whether or not they should have married each other.
Entertaining though this was, after I’d been sitting in the cafe for an hour I started to grow restless. There was no sign of Dave, so I went to look for him. I found him examining a World War Two gas mask. Dispiritingly, he wasn’t even halfway round the fair. ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘I was wondering where you’d got to. I don’t suppose you could lend me twenty euros could you? Only, I’d quite like to buy this gas mask.’
I reached into my bag and gave him the money. ‘I’ll wait for you at the cafe over there,’ I said. I went back to the cafe and ordered another coffee. Fifteen minutes later Jason came loping over. ‘Dad wants to borrow another twenty euros,’ he said, avoiding eye contact.
‘Where is he?’
He pointed to where his father was examining a large clump of unidentified metal. I went and found a cash point and gave Dave the twenty euros. In addition to the gas mask, he had bought an old-fashioned iron, a big metal jug, and what looked like a rusty old plough. In order to fit it all in the back of his estate car, he was forced to put the back seats down and Jason had to sit perched in the back next to the plough, which was gratifying.
That evening, I helped Dave to cook paella, chopping chillies and de-bearding the mussels. ‘I don’t think Jason will eat this,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to make him a pizza and chips.’
‘Why don’t you at least get him to taste it?’ I suggested, for I had already noticed that he cooked a separate meal for Jason every night.
But there was no reply when he called his son’s name. Dave went to see if he was in his room but he wasn’t. He searched the garden, the attic and the cellar but there was no sign of Jason. ‘Has he ever disappeared before?’ I asked, not sure what to suggest.
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