The cake is very pretty. It’s iced in subtle shades of pink and cream and decorated with chocolate twisted to look like branches and a scattering of perky strawberries. What girl wouldn’t melt at the idea of a man as macho-looking as René who can whip up a cake like that?
‘Now, the important thing to remember,’ he says, looking totally serious, as he ties the box with a flourish of ribbons. ‘Is not to eat more than one slice at a time.’
‘Bien sûr,’ I say, heart palpitating like a massive sugar high. And, even better, as I scrabble in my purse to find the €23 to pay for it, I discover that I am three euros short. I will have to come back. A second opportunity to see René in one day!
‘I will just have to go to the cash machine,’ I say. ‘But I’ll be back.’
‘Don’t worry,’ says René, with a dismissive wave of the hand. ‘Just pay me next time. Don’t put yourself to any trouble.’
Trouble? He must be kidding. I live for my visits to the bakery. My fridge is currently full of choux buns and custard-filled pastries that I will never get round to eating, that I purchased just to see his handsome features, his big hook nose and twinkly blue eyes. And then all of a sudden, a male voice behind me says, ‘Monsieur, I will pay.’ I turn around and am surprised to see that it is none other than Jon Wakeman. Before I have chance to decline, he has paid the three euros. He too is rewarded with a flash of the baker’s disarmingly lopsided smile.
‘Ah,’ says René, handing me my cake. ‘It is truly adorable that accent. I could listen to it forever. Now, what would you like, Monsieur?’
Although I am furious at being deprived of a second sighting of the baker in one day, I am forced to thank Jon. ‘I can leave the money in the Liberty Bookshop,’ I say.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ he says. ‘Have a good Christmas.’
‘You too,’ I say.
‘We should get together and play Risk sometime,’ he says suddenly – in the way that someone might say, ‘let’s have lunch sometime’ when what they really mean is never.
‘I’m always up for a game of Risk,’ I reply.
‘I’ll call you,’ he says. But he doesn’t ask for my phone number.
During the fifteen-minute drive to Mathilde’s house on Christmas Day, my spirits soar. The surrounding countryside is as crisp and pleasing as one of René Matout’s millefeuille pastries. The fields and trees are covered in a fine white layer of frost for as far as the eye can see. But despite the frost and the drop in temperature, the sun is out and the sky is blue and dotted with clouds like little cream puffs. As I drive along the narrow, curving roads, surrounded by the glistening winter landscape, I think how very, very lucky I am to live here.
I park my car outside the twelfth-century stone church in Mathilde’s village and walk the short distance to her house. Sebastian answers the door with a warm, ‘Ah, comment vas-tu, Ka-renne?’ (I am always thrilled when a French person addresses me as ‘tu’.) Mathilde’s kitchen, which is full of potted plants, herbs and copper cooking utensils suspended from the ceiling, is cosy and warm and filled with delicious cooking smells. I hand her the cake, which she admires with an ‘Oh, c’est magnifique, ça,’ and a teasing, ‘Did you make it yourself?’
‘Hello Ka-renne. How. Are. You?’ asks Albert, carefully enunciating each word. Unprompted by Mathilde, he plants a kiss on my cheek, while Henri hovers in the background with a big smile on his face. He is wearing a Fair Isle patterned sweater and corduroys the colour of French mustard. ‘Hello again,’ he says, while Sebastian organises aperitifs. ‘I’m so glad you could come to lunch.’
We stand and chat for a while – a fine point of French etiquette, since it is rude to go directly to the table – before moving into the cosy sitting room where the log fire is roaring, the long trestle table is laid for lunch and it all looks so effortlessly comfortable. Mathilde’s Christmas tree is white and artificial, but decorated with blue lights and tinsel, it looks very charming and – as with most things she does – stylish.
Over lunch Henri tells me that he is rereading Jane Austen’s Emma and asks me about my favourite Shakespeare plays. Although he displays many of the characteristics of the classic nerd, Henri is very easy to talk to and we are getting along rather well. In fact, with better wardrobe choices and sans the Cliff Richard glasses, he could look quite attractive. While he expounds the view that Coriolanus was a victim rather than a villain, I secretly plan his route map to sex appeal, trying to imagine him restyled in jeans and a plain navy sweater.
‘Dis-moi,’ says Mathilde, with a mischievous wink, but her usual flair for judging a situation, ‘if Henri starts to bore you.’
‘Ka-renne,’ says Albert, suddenly, a mischievous smile on his angelic freckled face, ‘are you in love with Henri?’
‘Why do you ask that?’
‘Because Henri, he does not have a girlfriend at the moment,’ he replies. ‘And maman says that you are looking for a French husband.’
Sebastian throws his head back and roars with laughter. Mathilde, who is busy serving up the main course, a coq au vin pungent with herbs and garlic, shrugs apologetically at me and pulls a mock angry face at her son. I do not look at Henri to see his reaction.
After lunch Albert goes to play with a neighbour and Sebastian, Mathilde, Henri and I set out for a walk. The air is so cold that it makes my cheeks tingle as we walk down the narrow lane towards the forest. Over the low stone wall on either side of the road, the fields stretch crisp and white to the horizon, while, in the distance, the trees and hedgerows look like they have been dipped in icing sugar. ‘Ah, superb!’ says Henri, breathing in deeply. ‘This is how winter should be. It makes you feel so… alive.’
We walk past the chateau, its antique metal gates and grey-blue shutters tightly closed. (Chateaux seem to pop up in the most unlikely places in my patch of France. This one, flanked by two round turrets and set in an expanse of neat green lawn, is well maintained, though its owners remain an enigma as I have never seen anyone living there.) As we take a deeply furrowed and muddy bridle path into the forest, Mathilde and Sebastian walk ahead, and it occurs to me that they have done this deliberately. Rambling through the dark, slightly sinister forest, I find out that Henri is thirty-nine, that he lives near Tours and that he met Mathilde – with whom he has been friends for a long time – on an English literature course. I also establish that he doesn’t make a living from writing poems. He teaches English in a private school for girls.
We walk in the half-light of the forest for over an hour, picking our way around deep, muddy tracks that are partially frozen over. ‘Look,’ says Henri at one point, stopping under a tall tree, its branches bare but for a dense green ball high up its trunk. ‘Do you know what that is?’
‘A bird’s nest?’
‘No,’ says Henri. ‘It’s mistletoe. And we are standing under it.’
‘Oh,’ I say, and step quickly away.
When I leave Mathilde’s house in the late afternoon, it is nearly dark. Henri follows me outside to my car in his slippers. ‘I’ve really enjoyed meeting you,’ he says. ‘I really hope we get to see each other again.’
‘I’m sure we will,’ I say, jumping into my car before he has chance to say anything else.
I drive home in the wintry darkness and check my phone to see if Jon has called. After all, he could easily get my number from Dylan in the bookshop. But he hasn’t. And I fall into bed, wondering where and with whom Eric has spent Christmas Day.
Chapter 11
Miranda’s Birthday
‘May I say how utterly stunning you look today?’ says Desmond, getting up from the table, where he is sitting with Elinor and Miranda, as Henri and I arrive at Miranda’s birthday lunch. It’s late January and the restaurant in Peyroux, a small medieval town close to Desmond and Elinor’s farmhouse, is cold, in both temperature and ambiance, with only one other table occupied.
But Miranda, who is wearing a cocktail dress decorated with colourful sequinned butterflies – this despite the fact it is lunchtime – and a feathery pink and fuchsia fascinator in her hair, radiates warmth and colour.
‘Hello, my darling girl,’ she cries. ‘Who’s this delightful fellow that you’ve brought with you?’
‘You must be Henri,’ says Desmond, gripping his hand sincerely and turning the full wattage of his charm on our French guest.
Henri, who cleverly inveigled an invitation to today’s lunch when I bumped into him and Mathilde in the market the previous weekend, beams an enthusiastic smile.
‘Karen told us you were coming,’ says Elinor. ‘It’s very nice to meet you.’ Dressed in jeans and honey-coloured cashmere, Elinor looks, as always, subtly expensive and, in contrast to Miranda, understated (in fashion-speak, her look is one of ‘stealth wealth’). But although she is friendly, she seems rather subdued, not her normal cheerful self.
After ordering a round of Kir Royals, we each order from the €25 set menu. I choose a snail tart, followed by sea bream.
‘Thanks so much for inviting me today,’ whispers Henri after we’ve ordered, though in reality I didn’t have much choice. I had happened to mention to Mathilde that I was going to a birthday lunch where the ratio of females to males would be three to one.
‘Oh, well maybe you would appreciate another man to join you,’ she replied. And before I knew it Henri, who was once again staying with her for the weekend, eagerly offered to escort me.
‘It’s a very simple restaurant – nothing fancy,’ I said, while thinking that another male – and a Frenchman at that – would be a welcome addition to our little group.
‘I would like that very much,’ he replied, beaming. ‘And it would be a good opportunity to practise my English. There is just one problem.’
‘Yes?’
‘I do not have a car. Can you pick me up and bring me back from Mathilde’s?’
And thus Henri secured himself not only an invitation to Miranda’s birthday lunch, but my services as a chauffeur there and back.
‘So have you heard from Victor at all?’ Elinor asks me suddenly. I tell her that the strategy she devised, of pretending to have a boyfriend in the special forces, seems to have done the trick. I made sure to introduce Jonathan, my visiting literary editor friend, to Gérard in the wine shop, describing him as ‘my boyfriend on leave from Afghanistan’. Gérard looked confused at first (possibly because he is still convinced that I am married to Dave) but he must have spread the word around the village, because when I took Jonathan for lunch in the Café du Commerce, I felt dozens of pairs of eyes looking at me with a newfound respect. ‘So no, I haven’t heard or seen anything of Victor since that night in Beauchamp when we waited for him outside the church,’ I say.
‘Oh good!’ says Elinor. ‘You must be so relieved.’
‘An imaginary boyfriend in the special forces, eh?’ asks Desmond, and he leans back, his arm draped over the back of my chair, and laughs. ‘But you know, there is just so much to love about you, I just don’t understand why you don’t have a real boyfriend.’
Desmond seems to think I lack self-confidence (as if!) and has made it his mission to bolster my ego. He is always lavishing me with compliments. For my part, I have come to see Elinor and Desmond – who have no children of their own – as substitute parents, while Miranda (for the three of them spend so much time together that I have come to think of them as a trio) is like a favourite mad aunt.
‘You’re making me blush, with all these compliments,’ I say.
‘It’s true,’ he says. ‘I’m not trying to flatter you. I’m being absolutely sincere.’
The food, when it arrives, is not great. The sea bream is not long out of the deep freezer and comes in a heavy-handed butter sauce, and Miranda looks politely appalled at the dried-up pieces of duck that constitute her main course. Unfortunately, like most restaurants I have visited in the Poitou-Charentes, it is a disappointment. The only exception is Le Routier, the French equivalent of a trucker’s cafe, on the N10 near Vivonne, where you can eat four courses and drink as much wine as you want for €11.
‘If you will excuse me,’ says Henri, getting up from the table when the food has been cleared, ‘I must visit the little boys’ room.’
‘Isn’t he darling?’ whispers Miranda, as soon as he is gone. She is on good form today: even more elfin-faced than usual, quick to smile and very tactile, gripping Henri’s arm frequently during lunch in order to emphasise a point.
When Desmond asks for the bill, Henri, I notice, looks uncomfortable. He leans over and whispers in my ear, ‘I am so sorry. I know that I should pay for you, but…’
‘No, no,’ I say, embarrassed and reaching in my bag for my wallet. ‘There is no reason at all why you should pay for me.’
‘What’s all this nonsense about the bill?’ Desmond’s voice booms across the table. ‘Give it to me. I’ll take care of that.’ And in his typically generous style, he has given his credit card to the waitress before anyone can protest.
After lunch we are invited back to Elinor and Desmond’s farmhouse, where two of Miranda’s neighbours, a couple called Darla and Geoffrey, have been invited to join us for early evening drinks. Behind the wrought-iron gates their dog Royston, a very large Staffordshire bull terrier, performs back-flips and mid-air somersaults at the sight of visitors. According to Desmond, I am one of Royston’s favourites. And because I don’t think anyone has ever seemed so pleased to see me as this big, barrel-shaped dog, I do not complain, even when he stamps his muddy paws on my leopard print shoes and dribbles over the plum satin dress that I am wearing. Henri, however, looks on with an appalled expression. When Royston turns his attention to him and starts sniffing at his trousers, he looks as if he would like to turn and run. ‘He’s just being friendly,’ I say, as I help Desmond to pull the salivating dog off Henri’s corduroys.
The plan is to take Royston for a walk before Darla and Geoffrey arrive. Henri is worried about getting mud on his brogues so Elinor provides him with a pair of Desmond’s old wellies, while I fetch my walking boots from the car. It takes some persuasion and the combined charm of Desmond and Henri for Miranda to don an old Barbour and join us.
We set out into the cold, late January afternoon, with Royston jumping around with excitement. Today is not one of those fabulously crisp January days, when the sun shines and the sky is blue. It’s colourless, damp and muddy. We follow the dirt track in front of their house until we are following a path through open fields – a strange little troop trudging across the horizon. In my plum satin dress, waterproof jacket and walking boots, I know I look very strange. Miranda, swamped by Desmond’s Barbour, her feathered headpiece bobbing on her head, looks even odder as she trots along with Henri at the rear. Elinor, by contrast, does the outdoors perfectly: she has thrown a waxed green jacket over her jeans and riding boots and a cowboy hat over her long blonde hair. Tall and lean, she cuts a striking figure striding through the countryside. ‘Darling,’ says Desmond, as he unleashes the dogs to run across the fields. ‘You look fabulous in that hat, you know. It really suits you.’
‘Thank you, darling,’ she replies. ‘It was a present from Miranda. She does have a knack of choosing perfect gifts.’
Desmond and Elinor have been married for nearly twenty years, and yet their marriage is still so strong, so overtly affectionate. I’m fascinated by their relationship and would love to ask them the secret of how, after all those years, there still seems to be a strong physical attraction between them.
Desmond is not so shy when it comes to enquiring about my love life. ‘So what’s going on with him?’ he asks, when we have walked sufficiently ahead of the others as to be out of earshot. I turn around to check they can’t hear and see that Elinor and Miranda are laughing at something Henri has said. He has been the great success of lunch, working his unique b
rand of nerdy Gallic charm on both Miranda and Elinor.
‘Absolutely nothing,’ I say.
‘Does he know that? I don’t think so. Do you know what his intentions are?’
‘Desmond,’ I say. ‘I don’t. I just thought he might enjoy coming to lunch.’
We walk on in silence for a bit and then Desmond asks, ‘So you are interested in him then?’
‘Desmond! Miranda seems on very good form today.’
‘Yes,’ says Desmond. ‘She is. And she looked so stylish at lunch today, I thought. She always makes such an effort.’
‘I love that about her too.’
‘But between you and me, that husband of hers didn’t treat her very well, you know.’
‘Yes, I heard.’
‘Miranda’s… a little insecure. She can be… how shall I put this… very up and down sometimes. And I must warn you in advance about these friends of hers, Darla and Geoffrey. I don’t like them very much, but it’s Miranda’s birthday and she insisted that we invite them.’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘What’s wrong with them?’
‘They’re a little… odd. And I don’t think they’re very good for her. He’s a psychiatrist. She was once a florist or something but she and Miranda are always falling out.’
‘Desmond!’ Miranda’s voice shouts from behind us. ‘That’s enough walking now. I forbid you to go a step further. Turn around s’il te plait!’
Desmond chuckles at the sight of the exotic, plumed creature tripping towards us and immediately does as he is told.
It’s nice to get back into the warm farmhouse. Elinor and Desmond have spent a lot of time in India and it shows in their decor. Elinor has hung sari fabrics in rich purples, reds and pinks on the walls of the sitting room and has even draped red fabric over the lampshades, which gives the light a soft, rosy glow. Together with the velvet sofas, the ambience feels louche and decadent, inspired, it seems, by an opium den. I take a seat on one of the velvet sofas either side of the fire. Miranda immediately starts an assault on a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.
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