I feel nauseous and desperate to get home. Unfortunately, there is a diversion in place as we approach the square in Villiers.
‘Oh yeah. I forgot. It’s the Christmas market today.’
‘That’s OK. We can go around the back of the chateau,’ he says.
As we climb the steep winding road that leads around the chateau, passing old stone cottages and allotments, and with the church spire visible in the distance in the pale blue light, it all seems impossibly romantic. ‘We are so lucky to be living here,’ I say.
‘I know,’ says Jon.
I haven’t stayed out all night in years – and never in France – so it’s a strange sensation as we pull up outside my house. It’s not yet 7.30 a.m.
‘Thanks a lot for the lift,’ I say, realising that he has turned the engine off.
He turns and looks at me. ‘To be honest, I was hoping I could come in for a coffee.’
‘Oh, um… yeah, sorry. Of course. No problem.’
‘It’s just that I’d quite like to look around the market and it seems a bit silly to drive back to my village and then come back again,’ he says. ‘And I told Miranda I would go and look at her wood-burner this morning but it seems a little early yet.’
‘Oh yes, of course.’
Much as I like Jon’s company, I am dismayed. My headache is threatening to turn into a full-blown migraine. All I want to do is remove last night’s make-up, brush my teeth and fall into bed for a couple of hours with a glass of water, some ibuprofen and a good book. Now I have to entertain him until the Christmas market opens. As I get out of the car, I can hear shouts and bangs from the square, as the shopkeepers set up their stalls; and there is a frisson of excitement, a real sense of anticipation in the cold December air.
The petit salon is warm and smells of rose, thanks to the candles on the mantelpiece. It’s also in complete darkness because the shutters are closed. I leave them that way – it’s kinder on my head – but switch on the Christmas tree lights and red table lamps to make the room more welcoming. ‘The brothel look,’ says Jon, with a wry smile. I make him coffee and sort out green tea and two headache tablets for myself. He follows me into the kitchen while I do this, which is a little unnerving. ‘I wonder how Miranda is feeling this morning,’ he says, with a grin. ‘She’s quite mad, isn’t she?’
‘Yeah, she is.’
‘She seems like quite a laugh to go out with though.’
‘You seem very interested in Miranda.’
‘No. I have a girlfriend, who I love.’
Ouch!
‘Well, I can see why you might be attracted to Miranda,’ I persist. ‘An attractive older woman and all that.’
‘I’m not interested in Miranda in that way.’
‘Oh, really?’ I say, raising an eyebrow.
‘Look, the truth is, I need to increase my social circle if I’m going to live out here full time. Miranda seems like a laugh. And so do you. But that’s all.’
‘Hmm.’ I narrow my eyes.
‘Look, I’m really glad that I met you,’ he continues. ‘You’re the only person I know who’s close to my own age and it will be fun to go out together.’ He looks me directly in the eye and then says very pointedly: ‘But I’m not looking for anything other than friendship.’
‘That’s cool,’ I say, feeling very disappointed, though it seems to me that he doth protest too much. Either way, friendship is better than nothing. ‘Look, the boulangerie will be open now. Let’s go and get some croissants. We can look around the market while they’re setting it up.’
‘Excellent idea.’
I put on my hippy coat and we walk up to the square. The few neighbours that we pass on the way – all clutching baguettes from the boulangerie – look at Jon with interest.
Goodness knows what Gérard will make of my latest male friend. In the square, Christmas carols are being played through the antiquated sound system and the boulangerie is lit up with red lamps and white fairy lights twinkling in the windows. René Matout has really gone to town with his decorations.
‘See, the baker has gone for the brothel look too,’ I say, which makes Jon laugh. ‘It’s very fashionable in Villiers.’
In the half-light of a winter morning, it is as if someone has cast a piece of pale, smoky-blue organza over the village. The air is scented with wood smoke and (outside the boulangerie, at least) vanilla, while the temperature is cold enough to turn breath to white vapour. It is how winter should be – and has been for centuries in this little corner of rural France. Underneath the steely sky, the marchands are busy setting up their stalls, cracking jokes, laughing and calling out to each other. The Christmas market is as much of a social event as it is about commerce. Every now and again they stop to stamp their feet and rub their hands together against the cold. Outside the mairie, a small merry-go-round has been installed overnight. The scene is impossibly romantic. I can’t stop thinking that I am in a movie. It’s a shame that Jon and I are only going to be friends as this would make a very memorable beginning.
René himself is behind the counter in the boulangerie, because of the earliness of the hour. He greets us with a warm grin and disappears into the back, returning with a tray of pains au chocolat.
‘Attention! You must wait five minutes before eating these,’ he warns, as he deposits them in paper bags. ‘They are very hot.’ Clutching the warm paper bags, we do a circuit of the square. With Jon at my side the world seems like a very friendly place. We pass familiar faces, French and English, who stop to say hello and I feel a warm glow inside at the realisation that I belong here. I am part of this. ‘Ahh Ka-renne, come by here,’ shouts a familiar voice in heavily accented English. Outside the wine shop Gérard, the owner, has set up a makeshift stand consisting of a wooden wine barrel, with samples for tasting. ‘Come, try a little wine,’ he shouts, his breath frosty in the cold morning air, his cheeks as red as the fleece Santa Claus hat that he is wearing. No doubt he wants to find out more about the latest man on my arm.
‘We’re just going to have some breakfast,’ I say. ‘But we’ll be back later.’
Across the square, the Liberty Bookshop is lit up and welcoming in the morning half-light and Jon suggests that we drop by. ‘It’s only ten to eight. The Libertys don’t open until ten o’clock,’ I say.
‘Come on. I’m sure they won’t mind,’ he says.
Through the windows, I can see Dylan moving around, getting ready for the busy day ahead. He looks surprised to see us but makes a decent stab at pretending it is normal for Jon and me to arrive on his doorstep together so early in the morning.
‘Can we come in for a coffee?’ says Jon.
‘Yeah, sure,’ says Dylan. After he has put the coffee on, he comes over to sit with us, padding across the tiled floor in his goatskin moccasins.
‘We just got back from a party near Confolens,’ I say. ‘That’s why we’re up so early. We stayed over at a friend’s house. On separate sofa beds.’
‘Cool,’ says Dylan. ‘And was it good?’
‘What?’
‘The party?’
‘Um, yeah. It was fun.’
We chat with Dylan for a while, mostly about the day’s events, which include a string quartet, a brass band and carol singers, and then we walk back to Maison Coquelicot. Jon is going to look at Miranda’s wood-burner, as promised. Since Desmond and Elinor live very close by, I ask him if he would mind stopping to pick up some wood for me. ‘Desmond said I could borrow some until my wood is delivered next week,’ I say.
‘No problem,’ he says. ‘Does Miranda know how to get there?’
‘She practically lives there.’
Once Jon has gone, I decide to crawl under the duvet and read. After all, it is Sunday morning. It feels very cosy and nice to be lying in bed as I hear my neighbours chatting and calling to each other below my bedroo
m window, on the way to the market. An hour and a half later, the doorbell rings again, and when I throw open the bedroom windows I see that Jon is back. He doesn’t look happy. ‘Well that was a complete waste of time,’ he says, as I open the door, allowing a rush of cold air into the warm house.
‘What happened?’
‘The shutters were closed. I rang the bell for ages and no one answered the door.’
‘She was probably hungover from last night,’ I say.
‘Yes, well, it was a little weird, because there was another car parked outside.’
‘Really?’
‘And it looked like Desmond’s.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. He drives a navy BMW doesn’t he?’
‘Well, that’s one of his cars, yes. How strange,’ I say, thinking aloud. ‘But it’s possible that he’s lent it to Miranda. He and Elinor have got quite a few cars between them and I know that Miranda’s old Citroën is always breaking down.’
‘But that’s the car that he was driving last night,’ says Jon. ‘I saw it in the car park. That’s how I recognised it.’
For the first time, it occurs to me that Desmond and Miranda might be having an affair. It seemed too obvious – they spend so much time together and so obviously enjoy each other’s company and there is definitely a kind of chemistry between them – but now I realise that this might be some weird kind of double-bluff. And it would certainly explain why I had seen so little of Elinor recently. She probably knows about it and is really upset. But I push the idea out of my mind.
‘So I’m afraid I couldn’t get your wood, because I didn’t know how to get to Desmond and Elinor’s without Miranda,’ Jon is saying. ‘But I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we drive over to my place later? I could show you my house and we could bring back some wood from my barn.’
‘OK,’ I say, pleased at the idea of seeing his house. ‘That sounds good.’ Now that my hangover has gone, I can’t think of anything nicer than spending the rest of Sunday with Jon.
I open the shutters to let light into the dark sitting room. In the narrow street outside I can see neighbours with baskets full of shopping from the market.
‘Shall we go and have a look around the market again, now that it’s all set up?’ Jon suggests.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘Look, if you don’t have anything else planned, why don’t you stay for lunch? I could buy some vegetables in the market and we could have sausages and mash.’
‘That would be nice.’
The Christmas market is in full swing when we reach the square, and I can see through the windows of the Liberty Bookshop that it is packed, with both French and ex-pat faces that I recognise. Jon and I walk around the outside of the mairie first, past a profusion of oyster sellers and saucisson producers offering samples of their wares. Most stands sell just one product: a fancy cheese from the alps or Pineau, a sweet grape liqueur from the Charente, bottles of herb-infused olive oil or identical fat, round jars of foie gras. Another stall offers unusual breads, some of them the size of small boulders, a few sliced in half to reveal the dense, snowy-white texture beneath the crust. I try a small square offered by the marchand and it is too delicious to resist. I buy one of the boulders and have it cut in two, so that I can give one half to Jon.
We pass a stall selling a colourful patchwork of soaps from Marseilles in a profusion of scents – lavender, vanilla, vervain, rose, sweet pea, jasmine, honeysuckle – and stop at another offering bouquets of mistletoe and holly that have probably been cut from the branch that morning. I buy one of each, and then we stop at another market stall selling willow log-baskets to watch a man quietly weaving more strands of willow into a sturdy round basket.
The square is now filled with the smell of food: the scent of sugar and vanilla from a stand busily selling crêpes and warm, spicy apple juice is superseded by the aroma of fried onions and sausages from a neighbouring marchand as we walk around the market.
‘Oh look,’ says Jon suddenly. ‘There’s Desmond.’ Sure enough, Desmond is walking around the square alone. He is wearing jeans and a leather flying jacket, his camera in his hands. He comes straight over as he spots us and I fling my arms around him, pleased as always to seem him. But he is looking subdued, not his normal ebullient self.
‘What brings you over here?’ I ask.
‘Oh, I just thought I’d get out of Elinor’s way for a bit,’ he says. Desmond is noticeably cool with Jon. ‘Hello,’ he says. “What a surprise to see you here. You don’t live in Villiers do you?’
Jon explains that no, he doesn’t; he’s just here for the market. We continue strolling around the market in an uneasy threesome, stopping to look at the life-size nativity scene in front of the mairie. Someone has stolen the big doll that was supposed to be baby Jesus and the crib is empty. But Mary and Joseph are still in situ. The stuffed figures look charmingly homespun, but three live donkeys give the scene some authenticity. ‘Look,’ I say, pointing to an animal with a long shaggy coat, like dreadlocks. ‘A Rastafarian donkey.’
‘It’s actually a very rare breed of donkey,’ says Jon, ‘called a baudet du Poitou.’
‘How do you know that?’ I ask, impressed that he knows this kind of stuff.
‘I’m planning to have one in my garden.’
The donkeys are already at the fence and eating out of Jon’s hand.
‘I know – you could give them some of these carrots and turnips that I just bought,’ I say, offering him the bag of vegetables that I had bought for our lunch. He bites the turnips in half with his teeth before offering them to the donkeys, which strikes me as a very thoughtful gesture.
Desmond, meanwhile, hangs back. I notice that he is taking photographs of the donkeys, from such an angle as to cut Jon out of the shot. I go and stand next to him. ‘So did you spend the night with him?’ he asks.
‘Yes, I did.’
Desmond looks displeased.
‘Over at Darla’s. On separate sofa beds,’ I add. ‘Look, can you take a picture of us both with that shaggy donkey?’
‘If I must.’
I go to the fence and stand next to Jon. Desmond gets ready to record the moment with his camera. And then, just as I am stroking the baudet on the nose, it bites my hand. Hard. Jon is laughing.
‘It’s not funny. Look, it’s left an imprint,’ I say.
‘Show me,’ says Jon, and he takes my hand and examines it.
‘I think you’ll live,’ he says.
‘Look, I’ll leave you to it, shall I?’ says Desmond suddenly. ‘I’ll see you soon, Karen.’ And he leaves without the usual kisses.
Back at Maison Coquelicot, Jon opens the bottle of Madiron that he just bought from Gérard, while I prepare the vegetables.
‘I don’t think Desmond likes me,’ he says, pouring out two glasses of the dense purple-black wine.
‘He was probably annoyed that you were dancing with Miranda so much last night,’ I say.
‘What do you mean? There’s nothing going on between me and Miranda.’
‘Yeah, but Desmond doesn’t know that. He’s very protective towards her.’
I light a candle to make things more festive and we eat lunch at the refectory table in the kitchen. Afterwards, he helps me to decorate the fireplace with the holly and mistletoe that I bought in the market, and then we sit on opposite sofas, chatting about life in France and renovating houses in general. With the Christmas lights twinkling, and candles burning, only a roaring fire could improve the setting.
In the late afternoon we drive cross-country with a limpid winter sun casting a pale light over the flat frosty fields. Everything looks much more alive than it did in the dull mist of morning. Jon, I can tell, adores the countryside. Whenever he sees an interesting bird in a field, he slows down to take a better look. I am not at all interested in birds – and I can only just about tell t
he difference between a sparrow and a cockatoo – but I do a good job of pretending.
He lives in a small village about 12 kilometres away, in a double-fronted stone cottage with blue shutters, surrounded by a stone wall. Behind the house there is a huge barn and a lot of land. I shiver in the cold as he shows me around the various outbuildings, explaining which livestock will live where, and as we roam round his large, wild-looking garden, he points out his walnut and cherry trees and the patch of overgrown land that will be home to the rare breed of pig that he is planning to stock. ‘Pigs are brilliant for clearing land,’ he explains.
He shows me into a very tidy barn where he keeps wood, and he puts a pile of logs of different sizes in the boot of his car ready to take back to Villiers. Then he gives me the guided tour of his house, starting with the cosy, cluttered kitchen. It is obvious that he is very good at DIY – he has even done the electrical rewiring himself – but he is clearly years, not months, away from opening his B&B. Nearly every room has yet to be stripped of the mandatory brown flowery wallpaper, and redecorated.
Back in the sitting room, he gets down onto his knees to light the enormous wood-burner.
‘OK, now watch! This is how you do it,’ he says, creating a small, methodical pyre of scrunched-up newspapers and firelighters, with small sticks of wood layered on top. ‘You need to have gaps between the pieces of wood. That way the air can circulate.’
The fire gets going almost instantly, which is a relief because the house is freezing. I sit in a chair close to the fire, watching the flames, while he goes into the kitchen to make coffee. Then he sits down next to me with his laptop and shows me photographs of the rare breeds of animal that he plans to have. In addition to spotty pigs, these include strange fluffy black hens, and creamy-beige-coloured cows. While he is explaining the merits of the fluffy black hen, the phone rings. It is a friend in the UK. The conversation that ensues seems to be for my benefit.
‘Yeah, went to a dance last night… with three very attractive and entertaining women… one of them is here with me now…’ He looks at me and flashes a cheeky grin. ‘She’s got blonde hair… offered me the use of her spare room… told her that it was very nice but I’ve got five of my own… no, she hasn’t got Sky Sport… otherwise I would have taken her up on the offer straight away.’ He winks at me.
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