Tout Sweet

by Karen Wheeler

  Henri takes the glass of Bailey’s liqueur that Desmond has poured for him and sits down next to me. He does not look pleased when Royston comes trotting into the room, climbs onto the sofa and wedges his huge bulk between us. I look at Miranda sitting between Desmond and Elinor on the opposite sofa and think how lucky she is to have them as close friends. A woman of less generous spirit than Elinor might resent Miranda’s constant presence. But Elinor seems very relaxed about it. In fact, she appears to be enormously fond of Miranda. I figure she is probably secure enough in her own allure not to view her as a threat.

  As Desmond forewarned, Darla and Geoffrey are quite an odd couple. He is bearded, bespectacled and very serious; while she is flirtatious, slightly outrageous and direct to the point of rudeness.

  ‘Sozzled again?’ she says, by way of a greeting to Miranda.

  I can see immediately why she and Miranda are friends. But I can’t see why Darla and Geoffrey are married – and neither, it seems, can they. Darla makes constant reference to the fact that she would like to divorce her husband, but given the weakness of sterling against the euro – they live off the rental income from a flat in Reading – they can’t afford to at the moment. Geoffrey takes his wife’s constant jibes about their marriage with admirable stoicism. At least I think he does. He is very taciturn and it’s difficult to gauge any reaction in his whiskery face. If he speaks at all, it is in the shortest of spurts.

  Darla, meanwhile, speaks in a laconic American drawl – she lived in the States for many years – and when she says something outrageous, it is difficult to tell whether she is joking or not, such is the deadpan delivery. ‘I’m on the hunt for a younger man,’ she declares shortly after we are introduced. Then, looking Henri up and down, she says, ‘You’ll do.’

  ‘Hey! Not so fast there,’ says Miranda, waving her arms wildly and spilling some wine on the velvet sofa. ‘I saw him first. And it’s my birthday so I get first dibs on the men.’

  Geoffrey stares, Desmond chuckles and Elinor leaves the room. I am sure I detect a weary expression on her face.

  ‘Golly, my goodness!’ says Henri, who endearingly favours the sort of exclamations that pepper Enid Blyton books. ‘This is very unusual, to have two ladies fighting over me.’

  ‘So do you have a girlfriend?’ asks Darla, after establishing that Henri and I are not a couple, ‘because I’m quite serious about looking for a younger man.’

  ‘No,’ he says, making a strange sucking noise with his teeth and looking stressed. ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Why not?’ demands Miranda.

  ‘Gosh,’ says Henri, ‘I do not know the answer to that.’

  ‘Now, Miranda, I’m sorry to say that we’re too broke to buy you a birthday gift,’ says Darla, with startling honesty. ‘We’re really on our uppers at the moment. Geoffrey will be passing the hat round in a little while. All charitable contributions gratefully accepted.’

  ‘Passing the hat?’ whispers Henri, lightly touching my knee on the sofa.

  ‘I’ll explain later,’ I say, pulling my knee away.

  I give Miranda her present – a full gamut of anti-ageing products, which includes face, décolleté and eye wrinkle-prevention creams (all sent to me by a well-known beauty brand). Miranda is delighted, clapping her hands together like a child, as she tears away the wrapping paper.

  ‘Oh, mon Dieu, how wonderful!’ she declares. ‘Something for all my wrinkles. Now écoute! I’ve been meaning to ask you: I’ve run out of that marvellous Chanel foundation you gave me. I don’t suppose you have any more? Perhaps I could come over for a rummage in those big plastic crates of yours?’

  ‘Er… I’m not sure I have any foundation at the moment,’ I say, a little taken aback by the request, given that I have just handed over about £150 worth of beauty products.

  ‘Storage crates?’ says Darla, looking at me with renewed interested.

  ‘Yes,’ says Miranda. ‘This darling girl is a beauty journalist and you should see all the free products she has stashed away in her spare room.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind a rummage myself,’ says Darla.

  ‘Maybe we can both drop by next week on our way to Lidl?’ says Miranda, looking hopeful. ‘We could bring a bottle of wine and have a girls’ night in and play around with your beauty products. I could do with a new bottle of perfume as well, if you have any.’

  ‘Well actually, I’ve just given a lot of stuff to Médecins Sans Frontières, so my crates are fairly empty at the moment,’ I say, feeling really miffed. I like Miranda a lot but I’m unimpressed by this display of naked acquisitiveness, fuelled perhaps by all the Sauvignon Blanc that she has drunk.

  I’m even more shocked by her reaction to Elinor and Desmond’s gifts. ‘Chocolates!’ she exclaims with a brittle smile, her voice sounding hollow. ‘And a pot plant. How sweet of you.’ Then, when Elinor and Desmond disappear into the kitchen to fetch the canapés, she turns to Darla and says, with a spitefulness that takes me by surprise, ‘What the dickens am I supposed to do with these?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Elinor knows I don’t eat chocolates. As for the pot plant, look at it! It’s half-dead and only fit for the bin. They might as well have given me a nasal hair trimmer for all the use that is.’

  Henri looks as embarrassed as I am at this unexpected display of churlishness. Much as I find Miranda entertaining, I am shocked on Desmond and Elinor’s behalf. After all, they have shown her nothing but kindness, even hosting her birthday celebration.

  ‘Honestly, I always put so much effort into the presents that I buy her,’ Miranda continues. ‘And I’ve bought her lots.’

  ‘Well if you don’t want the chocolates I’ll have them,’ says Darla.

  ‘Be my guest,’ says Miranda. ‘I saw them on offer in Lidl last week, two for one.’

  She says this just as Elinor returns and I can tell by the expression on her face that she has heard the last comment. But she chooses to ignore it, setting the canapés down on the table.

  ‘Don’t you think you’ve had enough to drink, Miranda?’ says Geoffrey suddenly.

  ‘No, I don’t, thank you very much,’ says Miranda. ‘And what’s it got to do with you anyway?’

  ‘You’re pissed,’ says Geoffrey.

  ‘How dare you!’ says Miranda, her feathery hairpiece bobbing dangerously. ‘How dare you lecture me? You should look at your marriage before you start telling other people how to live their lives.’

  ‘I’m merely pointing out that you’ve drunk too much,’ says Geoffrey, ‘and might regret it in the morning.’

  ‘Regret? How about the fact your wife can’t stand you?’ Miranda continues. ‘She’s always talking about putting rat poison in your coffee. And if I was married to you, I would too!’

  ‘Miranda, please,’ says Elinor.

  ‘It’s OK,’ says Darla. ‘What she’s saying is true.’

  I shift uncomfortably in my seat, embarrassed that Henri is being forced to witness such an extraordinary display of Brits behaving badly. But with admirable aplomb he manages to engage Elinor in a lengthy conversation about her home-made vegetarian samosas, ignoring the stand-off between Miranda and Geoffrey. Thankfully, Desmond returns and says something quietly to Miranda which manages to defuse the situation. But a little while later, Geoffrey gets up to go.

  ‘If you want to stay, you can,’ he says to Darla, ‘but I’m off.’

  ‘Oh great, so I either come with you now or get to walk eight kilometres home in the dark,’ she replies.

  ‘You can’t go,’ says Miranda. ‘It’s my birthday. Why are you people all so bloody boring?’

  Desmond laughs, and not for the first time I wonder at the indulgence he shows towards Miranda.

  ‘Darling, could I have a brandy please?’ says Elinor, when Darla and Geoffrey have gone.

  ‘Of course, darling.’
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  Elinor, who rarely drinks alcohol, downs it in several gulps and then gets up and disappears into the kitchen. She is gone for a long time, during which Miranda regales us all with tales of Darla and Geoffrey’s rather strange marriage. When Elinor returns, I notice that her eyes are red and puffy. It looks like she has been crying.

  ‘I’m going to bed,’ she says.

  ‘Darling, are you OK?’ asks Desmond, getting up from the sofa.

  ‘Yes. Please don’t make a fuss.’

  ‘What’s wrong with you people?’ says Miranda. ‘None of you know how to have a good time.’

  Elinor stops dead in the doorway and stares at Miranda coldly. ‘You,’ she says, ‘should be ashamed of yourself.’ And with that she walks calmly out of the room.

  ‘I think we’d better be going too,’ I say, getting up. ‘Desmond, thanks for a lovely time. Miranda, can we offer you a lift home?’ (It seems to me that the least I can do for Desmond and Elinor is to offer to take Miranda off their hands.)

  ‘No thank you, darling,’ she replies, to my amazement. ‘I’ll probably stay here tonight.’

  It is dark outside. Desmond gets a torch in order to see us out to the car. The temperature has dropped while we’ve been sitting in Desmond and Elinor’s cosy den, and the darkness is so opaque that our frosted breath is the only thing visible on the night air. ‘Look at that,’ says Desmond, escorting us across the gravel courtyard, seemingly unruffled by the day’s denouement. He points up to a navy sky, dotted with stars – a sky that Van Gogh could have painted. ‘Look! You can see Orion. And the North Star.’

  ‘My goodness!’ says Henri. ‘Magnificent.’

  Somewhere overhead, an owl hoots.

  Henri thanks Desmond profusely for his hospitality and I manoeuvre the car around, trying to avoid hitting a woodpile. As we drive along the narrow winding road that leads out of the hamlet, Henri is strangely silent – possibly stunned by his close encounter with les Anglais. I switch my headlights to full beam, so dense is the darkness around us, and am forced to brake when a cat runs in front of us from a dilapidated barn. And then Henri leans forward in the passenger seat and touches my knee.

  ‘I never thought this could happen to me again,’ he says.

  ‘What?’ I ask, feeling uneasy. ‘I’m sorry about today. It was all a little… strange.’

  ‘Oh, I really enjoyed it,’ he says, with real enthusiasm. ‘But, tell me, do I have a chance at all?’ He clutches his hands together and tilts his head skywards as if in prayer.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Do you have a boyfriend?’

  ‘No,’ I say, wishing immediately that I’d said yes.

  As I drive along the narrow road, with its hairpin bends, I can see his glasses gleaming in the darkness, his teeth flashing in a wide smile. ‘Oh, thanks to God for that,’ he says, clasping his hands in apparent joy. ‘The thing is, I am in love with you.’

  ‘But you hardly know me,’ I say, horrified. I know that Frenchmen don’t hang around when it comes to love – Eric certainly moved with speed, both in pursuing and leaving me – but there is something unbalanced in Henri’s declaration.

  ‘Maybe this is a little too quick for you but it was love at first sight for me – a coup de foudre,’ he says, his voice quavering. ‘When I first saw you at the Liberty Bookshop at my poetry reading, I knew you had been sent to rescue me from my darkness…’

  ‘Darkness?’ I ask, feeling doubly alarmed and wondering if the day has any more unpleasant surprises to throw at me.

  ‘The thing is… I have had so much darkness… so much pain in my life. You are like a beacon of hope,’ he says. ‘Never did I think this could happen – that I could fall in love again.’

  ‘Look, this is…’

  ‘I don’t even mind if you sleep with other men. It can be an open relationship.’

  ‘An open relationship? Why on earth would you want that?’

  ‘I love you and I want you to be free. So I don’t mind if you sleep with other men, so long as there is room in your life for me.’

  I think of my recurring dream – the one in which I’m travelling down a dark, deserted country road alone. Now, here I am in real life facing an even more alarming scenario: I’m travelling along a dark, deserted country road with a deranged passenger on board.

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Say that you will give me a chance.’

  ‘Tell me something about your last girlfriend.’

  ‘We split up five months ago. But it is very painful for me to speak of it.’

  ‘So why did the relationship finish?’ I ask, relieved that he did at least have one.

  ‘I cannot tell you. It was an open relationship anyway. She saw lots of other men. But please, I do not want to talk about her. You will think badly of me…’

  This does not sound very good. And I have to drive 20 kilometres back to Mathilde’s village with him in my passenger seat. I grip the steering wheel and try to appear calm.

  ‘Look, I hardly know you,’ I say. ‘And you hardly know me.’

  ‘But I want you more than anything,’ he replies. ‘Already, in the short time I have known you, you have lit up my life. I do not have much luck with women generally,’ he says. ’I do not have a lot of confidence in that respect. But with you it is different…’

  ‘But, really you don’t know me. And you… I know hardly anything about you.’

  ‘Well, what do you want to know? Tell me!’

  ‘What was your last girlfriend like?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about her. Believe me. I love you,’ he declares, before reiterating his willingness to share me with another man. I put my foot down in the darkness, determined to get him home as quickly as possible. I’m relieved when we finally arrive in Mathilde’s village.

  ‘Will you be OK here?’ I say, stopping in front of the dark churchyard, desperate to get him out of my car. It is less than 50 yards to Mathilde’s house, but he is not happy with this.

  ‘It is better if you drop me outside the door,’ he says. ‘Otherwise it is too dark for me to see to get my key in the door.’ And so, even though it means I’ll have to perform a twenty-point turn to manoeuvre the car around in a narrow, unlit lane, I deposit him outside the door. Even then, he instructs me to wait until he is safely in the house, shoving a letter into my hand before he gets out of the car. With difficulty, I manage to turn the car around in the darkness without hitting a stone wall, and drive home through the dense black countryside alone. Back in Villiers I bolt the door and the shutters and reluctantly read the letter that he handed me. Entitled ‘Starlight’, it is an opaque declaration of love, hinting at past hurt. It ends with the following verse:

  ‘you are a message

  starlight

  the musical silence one calls love

  us together

  born

  one’

  The phone starts to ring. For a second, I allow myself to hope that it is Jon Wakeman, who I am still waiting to hear from about that game of Risk. But it is Desmond. ‘I just wanted to check that you got home safely,’ he says.

  ‘Yes, thanks. It’s very nice of you to check.’

  ‘Did he try it on?’

  ‘No, he didn’t.’

  ‘Well, I’m surprised. But very relieved. I don’t think he’s the man for you.’

  ‘No. Is Elinor OK?’

  ‘Yes, she’s fine thanks. She’s in bed. But Miranda is still awake and showing no signs of flagging.’

  Since Desmond makes no reference to Miranda’s bad behaviour, which strikes me as very odd, I don’t either. I go upstairs to bed feeling depressed. It’s been a very strange day. I feel bad for Henri and the darkness he hinted at or whatever pain he has suffered. But is there a reason, I wonder, why I only seem to attract unstable, unhin
ged people? Why the divorced and the emotionally unbalanced seek me out? There certainly seem to be a lot of damaged people lurking in the French countryside.

  Chapter 12

  Pink Cocktails in Paris

  ‘Happiness does not lie in another pair of shoes,’ I tell myself, as I stand mesmerised by the window of the Roger Vivier boutique on the Rue Faubourg St Honoré in Paris. Happiness does not lie in another pair of shoes. But the silver, buckled shoes are winking at me seductively from their perch in the sugar-pink window and it’s hard to ignore their siren call.

  In my head, I run through the reasons why I should not buy them:

  1. They cost as much as a new bathroom suite.

  2. I haven’t earned any money for months and my credit cards are reaching tipping point.

  3. I need another pair of shoes like a cashmere store needs a plague of moths.

  4. A pair of silver shoes with spindle-thin heels is as much use in the French countryside as a pair of wellingtons with perforated soles.

  HAPPINESS DOES NOT LIE IN ANOTHER PAIR OF SHOES. Ten minutes later I leave the shop clutching a stiff, glossy carrier bag containing the silver shoes. The belief that I can spend my way to happiness has triumphed yet again.

  Back at the hotel, I pour myself a glass of champagne from the well-stocked private bar and add some expensive bath oil to the boat-sized tub in the master bedroom. Next door in the sitting room (a word that does not do justice to the vast, elegant space) Diptyque candles release a seductive scent of jasmine and rose (a pleasant change from floor varnish and paint) and soft music is playing on the high-tech sound system. I am living a life of mind-boggling luxury – albeit just for two nights – at the Hôtel Plaza Athenée in Paris.