Tout Sweet

by Karen Wheeler

  When the ordeal is over, Henri comes up to me and in perfect English says, ‘Might I ask what you thought?’

  ‘It was very brave,’ I say, choosing my words carefully, ‘to write poetry in a second language.’

  Elinor grabs me by the arm. ‘See you at six-thirty outside the church,’ she says. ‘I’ll be wearing my wedding hat.’

  Elinor is waiting in the darkness, her car parked under the lime blossom trees in the square. She is muffled up against the cold in a Russian Cossack hat, long velvet coat and knee boots. She is wearing make up – normally she doesn’t – and looks surprisingly glamorous for our assignation. ‘No sign of him yet,’ she says, getting out of the car. ‘He’s probably changing the sheets on his bed. Or out buying condoms.’

  ‘Or trimming his moustache,’ I say, getting into the spirit, although I am a little shocked at Elinor’s suggestions, which seem a little out of character for a yoga teacher. At Miranda’s party, Elinor had struck me as fairly reserved.

  ‘His pubic hair more like it,’ retorts Elinor, which causes me to clutch my stomach with laughter.

  I feel guilty laughing at Victor’s expense but when I mention this, Elinor becomes very angry. ‘He deserves it,’ she says, her kind voice now hard. ‘The devious old rake. What kind of girl does he think you are? Oh, look, speak of the devil…’

  A dark estate car draws slowly into the square. But even though we are standing outside the church as instructed, and Victor has clearly seen us, he drives on by.

  ‘There is only one church in Beauchamp isn’t there?’ I say.

  ‘Yes,’ says Elinor, watching the car disappear over the bridge.

  ‘Perhaps he didn’t see us in the darkness.’

  ‘Of course he saw us. What on earth is the daft bugger up to?’

  We stand outside the church for another fifteen minutes and Victor reappears twice. Each time, he drives past the church really slowly but he doesn’t stop. The third time Elinor gives him a cheery wave but still he drives on by. It’s all very strange.

  ‘I think it’s because I’m with you,’ says Elinor. ‘He’s probably hoping I will go so that he can have you to his predatory self.’

  ‘Let’s go,’ I say. ‘I showed up and I’ve waited fifteen minutes, so I kept my part of the bargain.’

  ‘Why don’t you come back to mine for a glass of wine?’ says Elinor.

  ‘That would be lovely,’ I say.

  I follow Elinor along dark country roads for a few kilometres to her farmhouse, parking my car by the iron gates. Struggling to see in the inky darkness, I follow her across the crunchy gravelled courtyard towards the house. Elinor lights the wood-burner in her cosy, sunflower-yellow kitchen and over a glass of red wine we discuss Victor’s curious behaviour. ‘He must have seen us,’ she says. ‘How very odd that he didn’t stop.’

  We have been chatting for about half an hour when the phone rings. I can tell from the face that Elinor pulls and the way that she gesticulates at me that it is Victor.

  ‘I’m very sorry to hear that, Victor,’ she says, in perfect French. ‘But no, Karen is not here. I don’t know where she is.’ She is silent for a while, listening to whatever Victor is saying on the other end of the phone. And then, looking at me with a grin and a wicked glint in her eye she says, ‘I don’t know the answer to that but I do know that her boyfriend is arriving next week… Yes, he’s in the SAS… back from serving in Afghanistan.’

  She puts the phone down and with undisguised delight says, ‘Well, I think the mention of an SAS boyfriend has done the trick.’

  ‘I actually do have a male friend visiting next week,’ I say. ‘Though he’s a literary editor and not in the SAS. And not my boyfriend.’

  ‘Well, you’ll just have to make him wear combat trousers and look mean as you parade him around the village,’ says Elinor with a grin. ‘If that doesn’t discourage Victor nothing will. By the way, I hope you don’t mind me asking this but—’

  Before she can finish asking the question there is a firm rap on the kitchen window and Elinor’s dogs, who are in the sitting room, suddenly go bananas.

  ‘Good grief,’ whispers Elinor. ‘I hope that’s not him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Victor.’

  She motions for me to keep out of sight and goes towards the kitchen door.

  ‘Who is it?’ she cries.

  ‘It’s me,’ says a male voice that I instantly recognise.

  Elinor opens the door and I see Dave standing outside in the darkness, wrapped up in a dark jacket and a scarf. He is holding a bunch of flowers and a bottle of wine.

  This is a surprise; I didn’t realise that he and Elinor even knew each other.

  ‘I’ve come to say goodbye,’ he says.

  ‘Come in, come in!’ says Elinor looking flustered. ‘We thought you were someone else.’

  Dave steps into the kitchen and his demeanour changes instantly when he spots me.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I say, getting up from the kitchen table. ‘I was just about to leave.’

  Chapter 10

  Word Games

  The following morning Elinor calls. ‘Darling, so sorry you had to dash off last night. I wasn’t expecting a visit from Dave,’ she says.

  ‘I didn’t even realise you knew each other,’ I say.

  ‘Yes, Desmond and I have known him since he first arrived in France. We met at a dinner party. Or was it through Miranda? I really can’t remember. He just dropped by to say that he was leaving.’

  ‘For good?’

  ‘No. He’s just got a new job. He came by last night, on the spur of the moment, to celebrate. Now have you heard from Victor this morning?’

  ‘No,’ I say.

  ‘Good,’ she replies. ‘That was a very strange debacle last night. Let’s hope he got the message.’

  I want to know more about Dave’s job but Elinor is vague and seems reluctant to volunteer information. Nonetheless, a little probing reveals that he has resolved his financial problems by declaring himself bankrupt (or something similar) in the UK but has somehow managed to hold on to his house in France. Now he is planning to go and work for a start-up advertising agency in Hong Kong.

  ‘Hong Kong?’ I repeat incredulously.

  ‘Yes, that’s what I thought. It’s a strange move,’ she says. ‘I gather you two have had a bit of a fall-out.’

  ‘Why, what did he say?’

  ‘Nothing at all. But I could tell by the speed of your departure that something was wrong. It made me wonder if there was ever anything between you two?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Well, enough of Dave. The real reason I called was to see if you were going to games night at the Liberty Bookshop next Wednesday.’

  ‘Games night?’

  ‘Yes, you know, board games – Scrabble, Risk, that kind of thing. The Libertys are donating the one-euro entrance fee to Kharma Aid or some other Save Tibet charity. Miranda and I thought we’d go along and wondered if you’d like to come.’

  ‘Yes, why not?’ I seem to be spending a lot of time in the Liberty Bookshop, but it is just around the corner and has become a sort of rural French version of the coffee shop in Friends since I invariably bump into people I know in there.

  ‘Great. We’ll see you there at six-thirty then. We thought we’d have dinner at Le Vieux Chateau afterwards if you’d like to join us.’

  It’s cold, dark and raining when I set out for the short walk to the Liberty Bookshop. Inside, three tables are occupied. I spot Jean-Claude, a stoic from the Entente Conversation group, playing cards with a garrulous old Brit called Florence Coppinger, who likes very much to talk about her health problems, as well as an American couple who live in a nearby village. A table in the centre of the room is laid out with a selection of board games. In total there are n
o more than nine of us, so our combined entrance fees won’t be doing much for the Tibetan cause.

  ‘Coucou!’ shouts Miranda, who is wearing a fake purple hibiscus in her hair. ‘We’re over here.’ She and Elinor are sitting at a table in the window and with them is Jon Wakeman, who looks, to my annoyance, very attractive. His hair is slightly less unruly than last time and he is dressed quite smartly for an evening of dominos in a dark tailored jacket and jeans. He pulls out the seat next to him for me to sit down. I notice that the Libertys have placed a little card on the table that says (in French and English) ‘Gambling is not permitted. Thank you for your understanding.’

  ‘I hope Florence isn’t gambling away her pension over there,’ I whisper as I sit down. Jon chuckles.

  ‘Spoilsports!’ says Miranda, looking at the card. ‘I was hoping we could play strip poker later but I suppose that’s banned too.’

  ‘So have you been to any good poetry readings lately?’ Jon asks.

  ‘No, I’ve had enough poetry for a while,’ I say. ‘So what brings you here? You like playing games?

  ‘Actually, I’m here to show support for Dylan and Lola,’ he replies.

  ‘And how’s the B&B?’

  ‘It’s progressing. Slowly.’

  ‘Are you out here on your own, Jon?’ asks Miranda.

  ‘Yes,’ he replies and I feel inexplicably happy.

  ‘I won!’ says Elinor, putting down her last domino.

  ‘Shall we play something else?’ she says. ‘What about Scrabble? I’ll get the board, shall I? Or maybe Risk if everyone knows how to play?’

  ‘Better not,’ I say. ‘I get very competitive playing Risk.’

  ‘Do you?’ says Jon, looking suddenly interested.

  ‘Oh yes! I never settle for anything less than world domination.’

  ‘Honestly?’

  I nod.

  ‘Me neither. Go on then, let’s play Risk,’ he says.

  ‘I’m all for a bit of domination,’ says Miranda with a wink, ‘but I don’t know how to play. So maybe we should stick with Scrabble.’

  ‘Would anyone like a drink before we start?’ asks Jon.

  ‘Darling, I thought no one was ever going to ask,’ says Miranda. ‘A large glass of dry white please.’

  ‘I don’t think they serve alcohol,’ says Jon, handing her the menu.

  ‘We don’t,’ says Dylan coming over to serve us.

  ‘Oh come on, darling. No one wants a cup of tea at this hour. You must have a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc stashed away behind the counter somewhere,’ says Miranda.

  Dylan shakes his head. ‘I’m afraid we don’t have a licence and it’s not worth the risk.’

  And so we order tea instead. If someone had told me a year ago that my social life would soon consist of Scrabble and an early evening cup of camomile tea, I would have thought them one paving stone short of a patio. Surveying my surroundings, I realise that it is a far cry from cocktails in the fumoir at Claridges and yet… strangely, I find that I am enjoying myself. Really enjoying myself.

  ‘So, Jon, what are you doing for Christmas?’ Miranda asks, as we each take turns to pull seven letters from a bag. I wait for his reply with interest.

  ‘I’ve been invited to lunch with my French neighbours.’

  ‘Marvellous,’ says Miranda, as I note his use of the word ‘I’ rather than ‘we’.

  And so the game of Scrabble commences. Miranda goes first, clapping her hands together with delight when she realises that not only does she have a word but it is a very high-scoring one. She spells out the letters S-A-P-P-H-I-C on the board.

  Elinor starts to laugh, as using Miranda’s ‘S’ she spells out the word S-M-I-T-T-E-N.

  Jon goes next. ‘Not many points for this,’ he says, as he puts down just four letters: L-U-S-T.

  ‘My goodness, maybe we should rename this “Naughty Scrabble”,’ says Elinor.

  ‘Excellent idea,’ says Miranda. ‘Only rude words allowed.’

  I blush as I follow Jon’s LUST with the word S-H-A-R-E-D. (It was either that or SHED.)

  ‘Steady on there!’ says Miranda. ‘We don’t want this getting out of control. The Libertys probably have some rules about this kind of innuendo.’

  Jon looks embarrassed. The game soon reverts to safer ground – though Miranda does manage to slip in E-R-O-T-I-C before the game is through. Jon also wins plaudits for interesting use of an ‘X’ with the word M-I-N-X. He looks at me as he puts the letters down and once again I find myself turning pink. And am I imagining it or is there a slight glimmer of a smile on his face?

  In the end it is Miranda who wins and the game is brought to a close for the rest of us when Elinor looks at her watch and declares, ‘Good grief, it’s gone eight o’clock.’

  ‘Good-o,’ says Miranda, ‘time for a drink.’ And then, looking at Jon: ‘Darling boy, why don’t you join us for dinner? We’re going over to Le Vieux Chateau.’

  For a moment Jon looks like he is considering it. I shove my letters back into the bag, really hoping that he will say ‘yes’ but somehow knowing that he won’t.

  ‘I’d like to,’ he says, ‘but I promised some friends that I would drop in and see them later this evening.’

  ‘Tant pis!’ says Miranda. ‘Another time.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Jon, looking hesitant. ‘Another time.’

  ‘Well isn’t he just darlingo,’ says Miranda as we walk down the hill towards Le Vieux Chateau. ‘I’ve never met him before but he seems very charming.’

  ‘Yes, possibly boyfriend material for you?’ says Elinor.

  ‘No, Jon Wakeman’s not interested in me,’ I say.

  ‘How do you know?’ asks Miranda.

  ‘I can just tell. Whenever I meet him on my own he’s never very friendly. And he never asks me any questions about myself.’

  ‘Well, he seemed perfectly friendly this evening,’ says Elinor. ‘And he obviously doesn’t have a girlfriend.’

  Mathilde calls to invite me to lunch on Sunday. ‘But that’s Christmas Day,’ I say. ‘A family event.’

  ‘Eh, Ka-renne, you are almost family now,’ she replies. ‘Anyway, it is very casual; in France we do the big family dinner on Christmas Eve.’ She tells me that Henri the poet will be there, ‘but don’t worry. He will not be doing any poetry readings.’

  In truth, I am delighted with Mathilde’s invitation. Christmas seems to have crept up very suddenly and I haven’t made any plans. The festive season really isn’t happening at all chez moi. I haven’t got a tree because there is nowhere to put one (the petit salon is still piled high with unpacked boxes) and I won’t be cooking Christmas dinner for anyone as I still don’t have an oven. I had dreamt of a cosy French Noël with a log fire burning, real mistletoe and holly decorating the hearth and a champagne-fuelled feast for my new friends, but that will have to wait until next year. I toy briefly with the idea of spending Christmas with my parents in the UK but they kick that idea into touch by telling me they are going to the Caribbean. My brother, an entomologist, beat me by many years to a new life abroad when he disappeared to Venezuela to do his PHD – a study in sand flies – and then landed himself a job as a government scientist helping to control the mosquito population in the Cayman Islands. Inexplicably, the promise of warm weather, the swimming pool at my brother’s apartment and the company of my two little nieces won out over a half-renovated house in France. So, as a festive orphan, I jump at the offer to spend Christmas Day at Mathilde’s.

  The French countryside, meanwhile, more than makes up for the lack of festive touches at Maison Coquelicot. Every village has a Christmas tree and lights outside the mairie, and some have really gone to town on the decorations, tying big green and red metallic bows to lamp posts and railings, or suspending tinsel lanterns, like glittery earrings, from trees. Unlike the stylised lights a
nd monochromatic colour schemes of London, the look in the French countryside is charmingly homespun. A neighbouring village has a display of Christmas trees made from patchwork outside its mairie, while in Villiers the nativity scene features a life-size Mary and Joseph, made from stuffed potato sacks with hand-drawn faces. My favourite decorations, however, are the cheeky inflatable Pères Noël that have suddenly appeared, scaling the walls of buildings all over the countryside. The sight of one always makes me smile. René Matout, meanwhile, has applied his artistic talents to the windows of the boulangerie, which are hung with three glass chandeliers and a profusion of twinkling white fairy lights, angels and gold cherubs. The effect is charming. I love driving into the square late at night and seeing the boulangerie all lit up.

  On Christmas Eve I join the queue in the bakery to collect the bûche de Noël (A French Christmas cake shaped like a log) that I have ordered to take to Mathilde’s. René himself is behind the counter, dressed in his baker’s white jacket and blue and white checked trousers (an outfit that I find devastatingly sexy, perhaps because of the way it hints tantalisingly at the muscle-bound body within). When I tell him that I have come to collect my cake, I am rewarded (unexpectedly) with a big, spontaneous, lop-sided grin. A first! This is certainly news to tell Claudette, for I have been coming to the bakery every single day – dressed up in a selection of my most alluring outfits – since the new baker arrived, and this is the first time that he has smiled at me ever. Even my aubergine polka dot dress from Prada – always a winner with men – failed to elicit any kind of response. I have been smiling and speaking French and enquiring as to the differences between his pains, all to no avail. And today, René’s attentions do not stop at a smile. ‘Oh I adore the way you speak French,’ he says and I melt like one of his macaroons, and almost have to be scooped up from the terracotta floor as he disappears into the back to fetch my cake. When he returns with a white box and opens the lid for me to look inside, it is very hard for me to concentrate on the bûche and not his biceps. ‘Ah, c’est très jolie,’ I manage to say.