‘Do you want me to light the fire?’ asks Jon.
‘That would be so brilliant,’ I say.
It’s all very awkward. ‘Well, now that everything is under control,’ I say (when it blatantly isn’t), ‘I think it’s time for a glass of champagne.’ In my experience, there are few situations that cannot be improved by opening a bottle of glacially cold pink Laurent Perrier. Unfortunately, this isn’t one of them.
‘It’s a bit early for alcohol, isn’t it?’ says Jennie, accepting the glass reluctantly.
‘It is Christmas,’ says Jon, getting up from his knees, the fire now going. I switch on the Christmas tree lights to add a little more atmosphere to the room. They sit in stiff silence, side by side on the sofa, and there seems to be little chemistry between them – at least none is evident from their body language. I bring the parsnips and carrots into the sitting room in a bowl, so that I can chat to them as I peel. But it is not easy doing both at the same time and I am really glad when the doorbell rings again. Elinor, Desmond and Miranda sweep in, in a wave of cheery greetings, perfume and party clothes. Miranda is dressed, as always, as if for a cocktail party in a fitted purple satin cocktail dress and a sparkly hairband, while Elinor is wearing plum-coloured velvet, a colourful embroidered shawl and lashings of jet beads around her neck. They have both made quite an effort.
‘Darling boy! What a lovely surprise,’ says Miranda, as she walks into the room and sees Jon. Desmond looks taken aback and more than a bit displeased.
I take their coats, sort everyone out with a glass of champagne and leave them to chat while I get down to serious business in the kitchen. Miranda and Elinor, seated side by side on the sofa, are on sparkling form. I can hear Elinor giving a humorous account of the terrible food at a ‘ladies do lunch’ event that they both recently attended in one of the local, British-owned auberges. It is followed by peals of laughter. ‘Anything I can do to help?’ asks Jon, following me into the kitchen.
‘No, no, it’s all under control,’ I say.
‘Is it?’ he says with an arched eyebrow. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yeah, almost. You can hand around those olives if you like.’
Jon goes back into the sitting room and Desmond appears. ‘Well, this is a surprise,’ he says. ‘What’s that Jon Wakeman doing here? And with his girlfriend too, I see.’
‘I invited them for a drink.’
‘Yes, I noticed. They’re drinking all the champagne. That means far less for us.’
‘They’re hardly drinking anything,’ I say.
‘Are they staying for lunch?’
‘I don’t think so. I think they are going to their neighbours’.’
‘Good.’
Why, I wonder, does Desmond dislike Jon so much?
‘Here,’ I say. ‘If you want something to do, you can open this.’ I hand him the bottle of Chateau d’Yquem that I was given earlier in the year at the launch of an anti-ageing cream made from d’Yquem’s famous grapes. The sweet, golden wine is very expensive and said to go particularly well with seafood and white meat, so I am serving oysters, langoustines and giant prawns for the first course in order to show the wine off to its best advantage.
‘I hope you are not pouring this while he is still here,’ says Desmond. ‘I’m sure he won’t appreciate it.’
Miranda appears with an empty bottle of champagne. ‘Isn’t this marvellous? It’s such a nice surprise to find Jon here too. Isn’t he adorable?’
‘He’s not to be trusted, that man, I’m telling you,’ says Desmond.
‘Oh do shut up. You’re just jealous,’ says Miranda.
I send Desmond back into the sitting room with Miranda to top up everyone’s glasses. I open the oven to check on the turkey and then try and turn it over using oven gloves, sending hot fat splashing everywhere. ‘All under control, darling?’ asks Elinor. Standing at the kitchen door, she can tell from my stressed pink face that it isn’t.
‘OK, what can I do to help?’ she asks, rolling up her sleeves. I set her to work, assembling the seafood platter. She clears up the potato peelings first and is heading towards the bin when I remember the nasty surprise (particularly for a vegetarian) lurking within. ‘Give those to me,’ I say, but it is too late. She has seen the turkey’s face peering out from the top of the rubbish pile.
‘Good god,’ she says, an appalled expression on her face. ‘What’s that?’
‘I’m so sorry. You weren’t meant to see that,’ I say, hastily covering the beak and hairy neck with a plastic bag.
‘Oh, goodness. I feel quite ill,’ she says, clutching the edge of the table. ‘I’d better sit down.’
Jon reappears and I tell him what happened. ‘Where is it?’ he says, laughing. I point to the bin. He deftly uses a plastic bag to dispose of the neck and head in the bin outside. After washing his hands, he hovers by the fridge as I start to lay the table.
‘Why don’t you stay and join us for Christmas lunch?’ I say.
He looks very tempted. ‘I’d like to,’ he says, ‘but we promised our neighbours that we would have Christmas lunch with them.’ He pauses. ‘Though it looks like it’s going to be a lot more fun here.’
Jennie appears in the doorway. ‘Sweetness, I think it’s time we were going,’ she says, her voice brittle.
Desmond is immediately more relaxed once they have gone. ‘You know, I’m not sure I like this Jon Wakeman,’ he says.
‘Oh stop it,’ says Miranda. ‘You don’t even know him. You just feel threatened because there is another man around for a change and it threatens your position as leader of the pack.’
‘I’m beginning to think that you fancy him,’ says Desmond.
‘Don’t be so ridiculous,’ says Miranda. ‘He’s just really good fun. And very helpful. He promised to have a look at my wood-burner.’
‘I thought I told you I would do that,’ says Desmond.
‘Yes, you did,’ says Miranda. ‘Several months ago. And I’m still waiting.’
‘He seems perfectly nice to me,’ says Elinor.
‘I don’t think he’s trustworthy,’ says Desmond.
Disagreements over Jon aside, Christmas Day with my adopted family passes in a convivial blur. We pull crackers and wear the paper hats, and Miranda has bought party poppers that shower brightly coloured curls of paper over the table. The turkey, which only Miranda and I are eating since Desmond and Elinor have brought their own nut roast, is delicious, as is the Chateau d’Yquem. After the Christmas pudding and chocolates, we exchange gifts. I receive a cheese knife from Miranda, who knows I like kitchen gadgets (something I have in common with Dave) and an amaryllis from Desmond and Elinor. Miranda’s gifts seem especially thoughtful: she has bought Desmond a chocolate brown corduroy jacket. He tries it on for size (it fits perfectly), pronounces himself thoroughly pleased with it and gives her a hug, saying, ‘You have such great taste, Miranda, you really do.’
Elinor also expresses delight at the scented candle that Miranda has bought for her – beautifully wrapped in gold paper with a flourish of red ribbon. ‘A sensual blend of sandalwood and aphrodisiac blend of ylang ylang, guaranteed to delight the senses,’ she reads from the box. ‘How lovely. I will burn this in my yoga class.’
‘Do be careful, darling,’ says Miranda. ‘I don’t want Florence Coppinger coming over all frisky during downward dog.’ (Florence Coppinger being a silver-haired lady in her seventies, permanently on the hunt for a man since her husband died last year.)
‘And this is for you,’ says Elinor, handing Miranda a little package that turns out to be a hair slide with a black feathery plume attached.
‘Oh, isn’t it darling!’ says Miranda, jumping up and kissing them both, like a small child.
Over lunch, I wonder again about the dynamics of their relationship. If there is any tension between the three of them I cannot see
it. Instead, they seem to genuinely enjoy each other’s company and despite previous tension between Miranda and Elinor, coexist happily once more in a threesome. Later, emboldened by the Chateau d’Yquem – and with Miranda and Desmond dancing to an ABBA record in the petit salon – I broach the subject with Elinor as she helps me to clear up in the kitchen.
‘You know, you make quite a trio,’ I say.
‘What do you mean?’ says Elinor, and I realise straight away that I have said the wrong thing. She stops piling up plates and looks directly at me.
‘I just think it’s great that you and Desmond and Miranda hang out together and are such good friends.’
‘Why? What have you heard?’
‘Nothing. I just think it’s lovely the way you and Desmond look out for Miranda, and that you all get along so well together.’
Elinor is silent and it is obvious that she does not want to discuss it.
After lunch, the four of us sit by the fire in the petit salon to watch the Queen’s speech and later we have tea with mince pies and some of the delicious clementine cake that Elinor has made. There is a potentially embarrassing moment early in the evening, when Miranda tipsily suggests that we all remove our clothes, but Desmond simply laughs the idea off. With admirable cool, Elinor simply replies: ‘Not now, darling. I’m quite happy with mine on, thank you.’
‘Spoilsports! You know you want to,’ says Miranda.
‘You know, you have done a fantastic job here,’ says Desmond, moving the conversation on (for which I, for one, am very grateful). ‘I don’t just mean Christmas Day – which has been excellent – but the way in which you’ve done up this place. You really should be proud of yourself.’
I think back to a year ago, when the room we are now sitting in was bare, with untreated floorboards and stacked high with cardboard boxes and building materials. Maison Coquelicot has come a long way since then. With the log fire crackling and fairy lights glittering, it is the ideal setting for Christmas Day. We laugh, chat and – with the exception of Elinor, who is the designated driver – drink quite a lot of alcohol. It is close to midnight when they leave. After waving the three of them off, laughing and happy, into the frosty, navy-coloured night, I stretch out on the sofa and watch the tangerine flames of the log fire. It has been a really lovely Christmas Day.
Chapter 20
New Year’s Eve
The week between Christmas and New Year is quiet, spent mostly at home writing an article on the return of the clutch bag. I have no plans for New Year’s Eve and am not bothered – I am more than happy to spend it home alone with my wood-burner – but a few days before, Mathilde calls to invite me to a New Year’s Eve dinner at her house. Desmond, Elinor and Miranda, she tells me, are also invited. I readily agree, imagining that réveillon with my French friends will be civilised and low-key. And it is – until shortly after midnight.
Dessert has been cleared, champagne opened to toast the New Year and I am chatting to Sebastian about the renovation of his boat, when suddenly it all kicks off at the other end of the table. ‘I hate you!’ Miranda is shouting at Desmond. ‘I really do.’ She slams her glass down hard on the table, causing it to smash and Mathilde to run for a cloth.
Miranda is a fatal combination of drunk and angry. I do not know what she is angry about but Desmond appears to be bearing the brunt of it.
‘You’re a spineless tosser,’ she is shouting.
The rest of us sit in shocked silence, apart from Elinor who looks quite serene as Miranda verbally assaults her husband. Mathilde and Sebastian look at a loss as to what to do. Mathilde tries to make a joke of it, saying, ‘Eh come on, Miranda, Desmond he is not so bad.’ But Miranda is having none of it. ‘You don’t know the half of it,’ she shouts. ‘You really don’t.’
‘I think it’s time we got you home,’ says Desmond, trying to laugh it off.
‘Don’t you dare talk to me like I’m a child,’ says Miranda. ‘DON’T YOU DARE. Or I’ll tell these people everything. And you won’t bloody well like that, I’m sure.’
‘Come on, darling,’ says Elinor. ‘I’m tired and I think it’s time we all went home.’
Eventually Miranda, wobbling on her heels, is escorted to the door by Elinor and Desmond, who makes a hurried apology, and they are gone.
‘Oh la la,’ says Mathilde. ‘New Year’s Eve. It seems to drive some people crazy.’
‘That and drink,’ says Sebastian.
‘I wonder what caused the argument?’ I say.
‘Miranda, she was saying something about broken promises,’ says Mathilde. ‘Desmond said she had to wait a little longer and then she went crazy.’
‘Oh, it’s probably something to do with mending her wood-burner,’ I say. ‘He’s been promising to do that for ages.’
Mathilde shrugs, Sebastian pours another glass of champagne and that is the end of the matter.
End of year dramas seem to follow me around, to the extent that two years ago, I implemented a ‘No Going Out on New Year’s Eve’ rule, for which I foolishly made an exception tonight. I still cringe when I think of my swansong New Year’s Eve in London, the events of which are the reason why Dave and I are no longer friends.
As I say goodbye to Sebastian and Mathilde, I imagine Miranda will wake up tomorrow morning full of remorse and regret. Naively, I had thought that Dave would too; but I waited in vain for an apology. Instead, he behaved like the wounded party, and has not spoken to me since.
Jon phones the next morning to say he will pick me up at 1.00 p.m. to go to Sarah Merryweather’s annual party. I have never met Sarah but apparently her gathering is the place to be (among ex-pat Brits at least) on New Year’s Day. ‘So how was your New Year’s Eve?’ he asks.
‘Not bad. I went to Mathilde and Sebastian’s for dinner.’
‘You didn’t drop in at the Libertys’ party then?’
‘No. Did you?’
‘Yes, I went after I dropped Jennie off at the airport. But I didn’t stay long. I thought you might be there but you weren’t.’
Jon arrives half an hour early, clutching a card that says ‘Bonne Année 2007’. On it he has written: ‘To Karen, I hope that 2007 is the start of a great friendship.’ He is obviously trying to reinforce the ‘friendship only’ message.
‘Thanks’ I say, putting the card on the mantelpiece. ‘Yes, I’m looking forward to having at least one friend out here who isn’t eligible for an old age pension.’ Hopefully, this will reassure him that I have got the message loud and clear. ‘Shall we go?’
‘Well, there’s something I wanted to tell you first,’ he says.
‘Oh?’
‘Darla told Jennie that you and I were having an affair.’
‘She did what?’
‘We bumped into her at a party and she said that you and I had slept together at her house – the night of the dinner dance in Anzac. I think she meant it as a joke, but it caused a lot of trouble. I had to really persuade Jennie that we slept in the same room but on separate sofa beds.’
‘That’s really outrageous of Darla,’ I say. ‘I hope Jennie believed you?’
‘I think so,’ he says uncertainly.
I start to laugh. ‘That’s really hilarious,’ I say.
‘I know,’ he says with a shrug.
We drive in silence through the countryside, which is radiant in the crisp, winter sunshine, the trees and hedgerows veiled in lacy white frost. Jon is not very talkative. I tell him about the little drama yesterday evening but I get the impression that his mind is elsewhere. ‘What time does the party start?’ I ask.
‘Two o’clock.’
‘Two o’clock?’ I repeat, astonished. ‘But we’re going to be over an hour early. Something you should know about me is that I don’t like to be early for anything.’
He turns from the steering wheel and looks at me intently.
‘That’s OK,’ he says. ‘I thought we could drive around a bit, since it’s such a nice day.’
And so we drive around, past fields and through little hamlets for almost an hour. At one point Jon says, ‘Oh, look. A pig farm.’
He stops the car and we get out so that he can admire the pigs and take some photographs of the piglets, which I have to admit are very cute. He tells me some interesting facts about pigs. ‘Did you know, for example, that they keep the inside of their houses spotlessly clean?’ he says.
‘Er no,’ I say.
As he mentioned before, he is planning to buy some rare breeds of spotted pigs, including a type called Oxford Sandy and Blacks. He shows me another picture in his digital camera. They are very cute with black spots and sandy coloured skin but, shamefully, my first thought is what a fabulous pair of shoes you could make from their spotty hides. They remind me of a pair of Christian Louboutin shoes that I gave to the dépôt-vente. I realise I have a long way to go before I think like a country girl. We get back in the car and drive around some more. On New Year’s Day France is even more deserted than usual. We haven’t passed any other cars for about half an hour. Jon considerately slows the car right down to a crawl as we pass a woman on horseback.
‘Didn’t we pass through this village about ten minutes ago?’ I say.
‘Yes. I think we did. I must have gone round in a circle.’
This is strange. One of the things I have learnt about Jon is that his sense of direction is infallible. It’s as if he has an inbuilt GPS chip in his brain.
‘I know,’ he says suddenly. ‘Let’s go to Monkey Valley. I’ve got an annual pass.’
‘Monkey Valley?’
Has he gone mad? Monkey Valley is the most popular of the local tourist attractions, and highly rated by people who have visited it, but I am dressed for a party, not for roughing it with monkeys, no matter how amusing their behaviour.
‘Yeah, if you want to,’ I say. Fortunately, when we arrive, the gates of Monkey Valley are locked – and will remain so until April. ‘That’s a shame,’ I lie.
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