After a few minutes of silence, he says: ‘It was very foggy, coming home from the bar that night in Bléssy. I was a bit worried about you.’
‘You were?’
‘Yeah. After I turned around, I waited for you at the end of Darla’s road but I didn’t see your lights. I figured you must have gone home a different way in the end.’
‘It took me ages to turn around,’ I say, pleased at this revelation. So he did wait for me after all.
The dance is in the enormous salle des fêtes in Anzac. There is a huge stage at the front and a banner saying ‘Joyeux Noël 2002’ even though it is 2007. The lighting is retina-searingly bright and very unflattering. Long trestle tables covered in white paper tablecloths have been set out on either side of the room and a dozen or so people are milling around by the bar where several trays of complimentary Kirs are waiting. We hand over our numbered tickets to get our drinks and then claim the trestle table closest to the bar. I have Jon to myself again as Geoffrey and Darla are chatting to friends that they have just bumped into.
‘So what made you decide to move to France?’ I ask.
He tells me that he loves the countryside and rural pursuits, that he likes camping and climbing mountains. He goes back to the UK to earn money as an IT consultant to do up his B&B. ‘But that’s enough of me,’ he says, after my lengthy cross-interrogation. ‘What about you? How do you manage to work from here?’
I tell him that I go back to London once a month for work appointments. ‘And sometimes I go up to Paris for fragrance launches or to do shop research,’ I say.
‘If ever you need a lift to the station or airport just let me know,’ he says. ‘I’d be very happy to take you.’
‘Likewise,’ I say. ‘Where do you stay when you go back to the UK?’
‘It depends,’ he says. ‘Jennie has still got a flat in Oxford, so I usually stay there. But I travel around quite a bit.’
‘Well, I’ve got a spare room in Villiers, where you can always stay if you need to,’ I say.
He looks puzzled. ‘Well, that’s very kind of you, but why would I need somewhere to stay in Villiers when I already have a house with five spare bedrooms just down the road?’
‘I’m so sorry! I think that’s what you’d call a blonde moment,’ I say, stunned by my own stupidity. He starts to laugh. It’s a long time before he stops.
‘Well, if ever I find that I’ve had one drink too many in Villiers and can’t get home, I will definitely take you up on the offer,’ he says when finally able to speak again.
‘That’s unlikely. Everything in Villiers closes at seven,’ I say. ‘Including the bar.’
‘The bar in St Secondin stays open later. I haven’t forgotten my offer to take you there one evening, if you like.’
‘Really?’ I say, remembering the rude way that he stood me up. ‘But what happened last time? You cancelled at the last minute and didn’t even give me a reason.’
‘I’m really sorry,’ he said. ‘It just seemed like a bad idea.’
‘So what’s changed?’ I ask.
He looks embarrassed. ‘Well, I was chatting with Gérard in the wine shop and he mentioned that you had a husband and a French lover. And I thought you sounded a bit… dangerous.’
‘Dangerous?’
‘Yes. You sounded like a bit of a minx to be honest.’
‘A minx?’ I say, not sure how to respond. ‘That sounds rather naughty.’
‘Exactly!’ he says.
Does this count as flirtation, I wonder, or just friendliness? It’s so long since I flirted with anyone, except the gay baker, that my once impeccable intuition is now as blunt as an old baguette.
I remind myself that he has a girlfriend. But still, the evening is panning out far better than I could have imagined.
‘Shall I go and steal us some more drinks?’ I say.
‘Go on then,’ he says, with a wink. ‘I dare you!’
I sidle up to the bar and grab two more Kirs, avoiding eye contact with the barman. The allocation is one aperitif per ticket but it looks like lots of people haven’t turned up to claim theirs, as there are half a dozen trays of them. I hand Jon a Kir with a triumphant flourish.
‘Excellent,’ he says, with a wink. ‘So I was right.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘You are a bit of a minx.’
Around us, the room is slowly filling up with mostly silver-haired people. The average age of our fellow guests is probably sixty-five. ‘You do realise that you are the youngest here by several decades,’ says Jon suddenly, as if reading my mind again.
‘Why? How old are you?’ I ask, surprised, since I assumed we were both around the same age.
‘A lot older than you.’
‘I doubt it. How old?’ I say.
‘I’m thirty-nine.’
‘Well, how old do you think I am?’ I ask.
‘You can’t be more than about twenty-eight,’ he says, looking at me intently.
‘You are deliberately flattering me.’
‘No. I’m not. You’re definitely under thirty-five. Maybe I knocked a few years off to be on the safe side, but you definitely don’t look any older than thirty.’
‘God, I think I love you,’ I say.
‘Good,’ he replies with a smile.
‘Yoo-hoo! Hello, boys and girls!’ shouts Miranda, who has arrived with Desmond. She is wearing a fitted leopard-print jacket with jet beads wound tightly round her neck and she has a sparkly black ornament in her hair. ‘How are you, darling boy?’ she cries, pouncing on Jon. ‘And Karen, don’t you look fabulous, darling?’ Once again, I think how generous-spirited it is of Elinor to stay at home and let her husband squire another (very glamorous) woman around the Poitou-Charentes.
As Miranda sweeps Jon into her arms, Darla leans over to me. ‘If I wasn’t married I’d jump on him,’ she says. ‘In fact, even though I am still married, I’m thinking of jumping on him. And anyway, I’m hoping to be divorced soon.’ I laugh and not for the first time wonder if she means it. Miranda seems to be thinking along similar lines because she proceeds to monopolise Jon, sitting down next to him for dinner. She’s on glittering form and I don’t blame him for suddenly forgetting about me. I am sitting opposite them and so have a great view of them laughing and enjoying themselves. It is extremely galling to be nudged out of the picture in this way – and by an older woman.
‘May I say, Karen, that you are looking particularly gorgeous tonight?’ says Desmond, sitting down next to me. He is wearing a violet shirt and a navy corduroy jacket and is looking pretty sharp himself.
‘You always say that. You’re just flattering me.’
‘No, I really mean it. That colour green really suits you. Your hair looks lovely, your skin glowing and radiant…’
‘That would be the two Kirs I’ve just drunk,’ I say with a wink.
The food, a cold buffet consisting of flat slices of reconstituted meat and limp-looking salad, is a disappointment. It is rationed out by a battalion of formidable-looking British women, one of whom grabs the serving tongs from my hands as I serve myself some grated carrots. ‘I’ll do that,’ she says, dropping a minuscule portion on my plate. She adds an equally small portion of mixed-bean salad and some greenery and voilà – Christmas dinner, ex-pat style.
When the remnants of the horrible meal have been cleared away, an annoyingly jolly ex-pat takes to the stage and forces us to sing Christmas carols. It’s a bit how I imagine life in an old-folk’s home to be. Soon he has split the room into two halves, singing alternate verses, in a contest to see who can sing the loudest. This is followed by ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas’, with each table responsible for a different number. Our table is ‘five gold rings’ and each time our line comes around we stand up (Miranda’s idea) and belt it out. The other tables eye us suspiciously, as if we
have been hitting the sherry. There follows a sequence dancing demonstration, involving three elderly couples. And then the disco starts, which is the cue for most people to leave. Desmond, who loves to dance, suddenly perks up. ‘Come on,’ he says to me. ‘Let’s dance.’
‘Careful, my darling girl,’ says Miranda. ‘I broke my ankle dancing with him at this very event last year.’
‘What’s going on with this Jon bloke?’ Desmond asks as we dance to Roxy Music’s ‘Midnight Hour’. ‘You like him, don’t you?’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘I saw the two of you together when I arrived.’
‘Yes, but it doesn’t mean anything.’
‘Come off it,’ says Desmond, pulling a disbelieving face. ‘You do like him. I can tell.’
‘Yes, I do. But not like that. It’s just that he’s really funny. And it’s nice to have someone nearer my own age to hang out with. Anyway, he seems to have forgotten about me now. Look, he’s dancing with Miranda.’
‘Yes, I can see that,’ says Desmond, glaring in their direction.
We dance on, through the DJ’s endless chat – DJs in rural France, be they French or English, always talk over and between tracks – through Tom Jones, ABBA and the Bee Gees. Most people left immediately after dinner and the Christmas carols and there are only half a dozen of us on the dance floor, but strangely, I am enjoying myself. Over my shoulder I can see Miranda performing the cancan to ‘Tears of a Clown’. She looks like she is having a very good time. I dance with Desmond until the slow numbers are played, signalling that the evening is coming to an end. ‘Let’s go and sit down,’ I say, as I detect the start-up notes of a Phil Collins track. I might be in the middle of rural France, where none of my former friends can see me, but I’ve got to draw the line at dancing to Phil Collins.
Miranda and Jon, however, are still on the dance floor. ‘I thought he had a girlfriend?’ says Desmond, nodding in their direction. ‘Why isn’t he with her?’
‘She’s in the UK.’
‘Well, she’s a fool,’ says Desmond. ‘Look at him. If she wants to hold on to him, she should get herself out here as fast as possible.’
I look over to where he is pointing. Miranda is no longer doing the cancan. Instead, she has her arms around Jon’s neck and they are swaying along to ‘Lady in Red’.
‘They’re just having fun,’ I say. But I have to admit that I feel more than a little miffed at being upstaged by a woman twenty years older than me. And it feels strangely disloyal of her to have made such a beeline for Jon. There was I thinking that she had earmarked him for me!
We collect our coats and follow Darla and Geoffrey across the crunchy gravel outside the salle des fêtes. ‘How is Miranda getting home?’ asks Jon.
‘I’m assuming, since they arrived together, that Desmond is giving her a lift,’ says Darla, using a credit card to scrape the ice off the window.
But suddenly, I hear Miranda’s voice across the car park. ‘I’m not getting into that car with you. You’re an absolute tosser!’ she is shrieking at Desmond.
‘Miranda,’ he says, his voice firm but calm. ‘You’re drunk. Get in the car and I’ll drive you home.’
‘I don’t want a lift home from you,’ she replies. ‘I hate you!’
‘Oh dear,’ says Darla. ‘Looks like Miranda has drunk too much again.’
‘Fine,’ says Desmond. ‘Then go with them.’ He turns and calls over to us. ‘Darla! Miranda is coming with you. Can you make sure she gets home safely?’
I am shocked at the way Miranda – now wobbling across the gravel in her high heels – has spoken to Desmond and by yet another display of petulant behaviour. Jon gets out of the car to hold the door open and she climbs in next to me, so that I am no longer sitting next to Jon.
‘Hang on. I think I should go in the middle,’ he says, as the car fills with the heady scent of exotic oriental perfume.
‘That’s better,’ he says, sliding in next to me.
‘So, darling boy, aren’t you just thrilled skinny to be squeezed between us?’ says Miranda, putting her hand on his knee.
‘I can’t believe my luck,’ replies Jon.
‘I had to get away from Desmond,’ says Miranda. ‘Sometimes I really hate that man.’
‘Hate is a strong word,’ drawls Darla. ‘And Desmond is pretty good to you.’
‘Hmm. Well, it’s a two-way street. I’ve been good to him too,’ says Miranda. ‘But sometimes, he… he… really makes me mad.’
‘What happened?’ asks Jon.
‘Oh, let’s not go there,’ says Miranda. ‘Mais écoute! How many people in that room do you think will be getting some nookie tonight?’
‘Not many,’ mumbles Geoffrey from the passenger seat, breaking his usual silence.
‘Exactly what I think,’ says Miranda.
Jon chuckles. I sit in silence, intrigued as to what caused the bust-up with Desmond.
The conversation, as we drive through the blacked-out countryside, switches to wood-burners. Miranda has a problem with hers – problems with wood-burners, it seems, being endemic at this time of year – and Jon offers to take a look. As the car pulls up outside her house, he says that he will drop by tomorrow morning.
‘Oh would you?’ My dear boy, you really are a gem,’ she says. She climbs out of the car blowing kisses to everyone. ‘Hope to see you again before I’m very much older,’ she cries. We wait as Miranda skips up her dark path and opens the front door before giving a cheery final wave.
‘I feel so sorry for her,’ says Darla, as we drive away. ‘It must be freezing in there. Her wood-burner is her only source of heating. And she can’t use it. It really is too bad.’
‘She seems quite vulnerable,’ says Jon.
‘Miranda always has that effect on men,’ says Darla. ‘They all want to look after her. Don’t tell me you’ve fallen for it too.’
‘I wonder what caused the argument with Desmond?’ I say.
‘Oh, probably just the drink talking,’ says Darla. ‘They’re always falling out and then getting back together. I don’t think she could survive without him. But I’m surprised Elinor puts up with it.’
‘So how well do you know Miranda?’ Jon asks Darla.
‘Pretty well. Miranda can be very hard work,’ says Darla. ‘And sometimes it’s hard to have sympathy.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She’s a flirt,’ says Geoffrey.
‘I realised that,’ says Jon, chuckling. ‘But very good company.’
‘She ought to be careful,’ says Darla. ‘She flirts with every man she meets. She did it with our local baker Bernard. She invited him to dinner and I watched her do it with my own eyes – and then the next day, he turned up on her doorstep…’
‘What happened?’ asks Jon.
‘She was outraged. I told her, “Miranda, you have no right to be. It’s very dangerous flirting like that and then not following through.” Poor Bernard was really confused.’
‘But she’s an attractive woman,’ says Jon. ‘I can see why he fell for her.’
Back at Darla and Geoffrey’s, Darla invites us into the kitchen for a nightcap.
‘I think I am ready to turn in,’ I say, bored with talking about Miranda. Jon, on the other hand, shows no sign of flagging. Darla leads me through to the sitting room, where there are two pull-out sofa beds. As we make them up with beige flowery sheets, Darla asks if I have met Jon’s girlfriend. ‘No, but I saw her once in the Liberty Bookshop. She’s a bit older than him.’
‘Really?’ she says. ‘Jon likes older women? Maybe that means I stand a chance?’
‘I think Miranda got there first.’ I say.
After saying goodnight to Darla, I unfurl my sleeping bag and zip myself into it, feeling disappointed that Jon hasn’t followed and the evening doesn’t look
like it’s going to end in a cosy conversation à deux. I leave the light on for him and try to go to sleep. He does not come to bed for at least another hour, which is annoying since I was hoping for an amusing dissection of the evening. When he finally creeps into the room, I ask him if he would mind getting me a glass of water.
‘OK,’ he says, and goes back into the kitchen for another fifteen minutes.
‘Oh, you’re still dressed,’ he says, surprised, as I extend a fully clothed arm out of my sleeping bag for the glass of water.
‘Easier to make a quick getaway in the morning.’
I wake up at around 6.30 a.m. with a dry mouth and a thumping headache. I am surprised to find that Jon is sitting on the edge of his bed, looking over at me.
‘You’re awake?’
‘I couldn’t sleep.’
‘Was your bed uncomfortable?’
‘No, I was wondering whether or not to jump on you.’
WHAT? ‘Jump on me?’
‘Yes.’ He pauses. ‘To stop you snoring.’
‘I was snoring?’ I say, horrified.
‘No, I’m kidding you,’ he says. ‘I just couldn’t sleep.’
‘Shall we just get up and go?’ I suggest, really keen to get back to my own bed.
‘I was hoping you’d say that,’ he says. We fold up the sheets and duvets together in silence and make the beds back into sofas.
We creep out of the front door, so as not to wake anyone. It is cold and not yet fully light outside and my head is pounding as we drive back through the grey, misty countryside, which is punctuated with opaque pockets of fog.
‘I’d better not tell Jennie that we slept in the same room,’ he says suddenly.
‘Why not?’
‘I just don’t think she will like it.’
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