The French for Christmas

by Fiona Valpy

  I pass round the plate of aperitifs, urging Mathieu to take the last of the cheese puffs, and then go into the kitchen to heat the chestnut soup.

  Suddenly, rudely interrupting the comfortable flow of chat next door as Mathieu and Eliane quiz Didier about his experiences in Africa, a strange noise drowns out the gentle bubbling of the pudding in its pan and the peaceful roar of the fire in the belly of the range. It’s a loud and insistent beeping, underlain by a deep rumble that seems to make the very walls of the house shake. We crowd into the hallway. ‘What on earth...?’ I say, bewildered.

  Flinging open the front door, we’re confronted by the slowly reversing bulk of a vast truck that’s edging into the yard, its tall sides catching the oaks’ branches, causing the mistletoe to toss alarmingly, and sending a flurry of broken twigs cascading to the ground.

  ‘The driver must be lost,’ says Eliane, shaking her head disapprovingly. ‘What does he think he’s doing? He’ll upset the horses.’

  ‘On Christmas Day of all days too,’ Didier exclaims.

  The driver’s door opens and a stout, balding man jumps down from the cab, giving us a cheery salute. And then my jaw nearly hits the muddy ground. Because the passenger door opens and out clambers none other than that famous celebrity chef of the moment, my own estranged husband, Will Brooke.

  ‘Thank goodness for satnav, hey, Dylan? We’d never have found this place without it. Surprise, Evie! Oh, and a very Merry Christmas to you all. Are we in time for lunch?’

  For a few moments, all I can do is stand and gape. Is this another one of those dreams, where everything has been going so wonderfully and then suddenly, out of nowhere, Will turns up and throws cold water over it all, bringing me back to a reality that I’d really rather not confront? But no, Didier, Eliane and Mathieu are definitely real, standing there in the doorway behind me. And Will and the driver look pretty darn solid too.

  My husband strides towards me across the yard, crunching through the crust of melting snow, and engulfs me in a warm bear hug. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a slight flurry of movement as my three neighbours tactfully retreat into the house, giving us a moment. But what must Didier be thinking? And my own thoughts are a jumble of confusion as I struggle to make sense of what’s happening here...

  I draw back so I can see Will’s beaming face. ‘But what...? And how...?’

  He laughs, delighted that the surprise has totally flummoxed me. ‘Dylan, come and meet Evie.’ He ushers the truck driver forward. ‘Evie, this is Dylan Burke, trucker extraordinaire and knight in shining armour.’

  I shake Dylan by the hand. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ I say, although I have to admit he makes a somewhat unlikely ‘knight’: with his cheerful, pudgy face and short stature he bears a more-than-passing resemblance to Danny DeVito.

  ‘So this is the famous Evie,’ he beams, pumping my hand up and down with enthusiasm. ‘Will’s told me all about you on the drive down.’

  ‘Nightmare journey,’ Will chips in. ‘I got your email, Evie, and it made me realise how crazy this is, us being apart. So I jumped in the car as soon as I could get away. Managed to get as far as Orléans and then the snowstorm struck. The car’s still stranded in a motorway service station. I had to sleep in it the night before last, bloody freezing it was. I kept turning the engine on so the heater would work, otherwise I might have died of hypothermia. Anyway, the next morning the whole place was completely snowed in, the car half-buried in a drift. Battery completely dead. I met Dylan here in the café. We waited until they’d ploughed the autoroutes—Dylan was listening in on the radio so he knew what was going on. Spent last night sleeping in the spare bunk in his cab. Then this morning he reckoned it was safe enough, so we set off again. What a hero; I wouldn’t be here without you, mate.’

  ‘It’s no problem, Will, since I was coming this way in any case.’ The cheery trucker turns to me. ‘Got a delivery of wine to pick up and it turned out we were making for the same place. Reckoned seeing as I’d missed Christmas at home by now, I might as well carry on. Gotta get through, come hell or high water, that’s my motto. Lucky your lane was so well gritted—wasn’t sure we’d be able to get up it otherwise.’

  ‘So here we are—just like the Three Wise Men, except there’s only two of us. We made it just in time for Christmas, though I’d meant to get here a couple of days ago to surprise you.’

  ‘Well, it certainly is a surprise!’ I smile, a little wanly I guess, not entirely sure that I’m as pleased to see Will as he evidently is to see me. I pull myself together though. It is Christmas after all, and they have made a very impressive effort to get here through the snow. And what am I supposed to do, turn them away from the inn, behaving like The Grinch or Ebenezer Scrooge? Will and I clearly have some serious talking to do, but first of all, mindful of my guests, I figure we’d better have our Christmas lunch.

  ‘Come in out of the cold. You’re very welcome. And you got here just in time—we’re about to sit down and eat.’

  We crowd into the warm sitting room, where Didier pours the last of the champagne into two glasses for Will and Dylan, and I make the introductions. ‘My neighbours, and very good friends, Eliane, Mathieu and Didier.’ Will shakes their hands, still pleased with his surprise, sure of his welcome, secure in his right to be here. So I guess he’s not picking up on the undercurrents of bewilderment (from Eliane and Mathieu), bemusement (from Didier), and awkward confusion (from me) that mingle with the scent of pine needles and wood smoke in the warm, sunlit room.

  I hustle through to the kitchen to add two extra place settings to the table. Luckily there’s easily enough food to go round as I’ve prepared enough to ensure I’d be eating leftovers (always the best bit of any Christmas meal) for several days to come. Didier comes into the room, carrying the empty champagne bottle.

  ‘Didier, I’m sorry. I had no idea he was coming...’

  He puts a finger on my lips, stopping me mid-sentence. ‘It’s okay, Evie.’ He smiles, but there’s a seriousness behind it. ‘You don’t have to explain. I think perhaps there is unfinished business between you and your husband?’

  ‘Why, no! Well, not on my part anyway. I don’t know...’

  ‘Hush, Evie. Not now. I know this is difficult for you. If you want me to leave I will.’

  I take his hands in mine for a moment. ‘No, I don’t want you to leave, Didier. That is the very last thing I want. I’m sorry; this isn’t exactly how I’d planned the Christmas meal. And I don’t know why Will’s here, but it doesn’t change anything...’ I trail off, unconvincing and unconvinced.

  Then Didier looks so sad, and he says, ‘But yes, Evie. I think perhaps it changes everything.’

  And I turn away because, in this moment, suddenly I don’t know. Last night, I felt I’d woken up at last from a long sleep, my strength renewed, ready to contemplate a life filled with possibilities. But now, with the reality of Will’s presence in the house, that future looks like a silly dream. How could I possibly have believed any of it could really come to pass in the cold light of day? I’m still married. I made those vows. I still owe it to Will to make another effort, especially in view of the effort he’s made to get here, to be with me on Christmas Day. His atonement, perhaps, for not being there that other time when I needed him. Eliane said I have to forgive him. Does that mean getting back together, picking up where we left off? Reason—and the fact that I’m still legally married to him—says so. But, on the other hand, every instinct in my body is saying non, in a very French accent.

  Pulling myself together, I serve the soup, lacing it with a swirl of cream. Will is regaling the assembled company with stories about filming his cookery programmes, switching effortlessly from English to fluent French for the benefit of Dylan, Eliane and Mathieu. I wonder, fleetingly, what’s happened to his mystery assistant, Stephanie whatchamacallit, but I guess the answer is evident in Will’s presence here.

  ‘Mmm, this soup is delicious. What is it? Chestnut? What a great rec
ipe! We’ll have to incorporate it in a programme sometime.’

  We? Is that the Royal We, Prince William? Or does he really mean ‘we’ as in Will-and-Evie? I glance across at Didier, but he’s studiously avoiding catching my eye. The fact that he’s concentrating hard on crumbling a piece of homemade soda bread into smaller and smaller pieces is the only clue as to what’s going on in his head. Eliane looks at him and then at me, her wise grey eyes calmly taking it all in.

  I turn to the truck driver, who’s sitting beside me. ‘So tell me, where are you from, Dylan?’

  ‘Dudley. Centre of the universe. It’s near Birmingham. I work for one of the biggest hauliers in England. “Logistics” as they call it nowadays.’

  ‘And do you have family there?’

  He nods, slurping his soup appreciatively. ‘The missus and the two sprogs, Ziggy and Zowie.’

  ‘Great names, aren’t they?’ Will chips in. ‘As you can tell, Dylan’s a huge Bowie fan.’

  ‘Yeah. And my parents called me Dylan after Bob. They were big fans of his, y’see. So it’s a bit of a tradition in my family. Rock ’n’ roll!’

  ‘But that’s terrible that you’ve been separated from them at Christmas time,’ Eliane exclaims when this is translated. ‘They must be missing you very much, and you them.’

  He nods. ‘I wouldn’t normally be on a long-haul trip at this time of the year. Make a point of being at home, usually. Only this year we were short-staffed. So I took this run, thinking I could do it there and back in two days, easy. That storm came out of nowhere, way worse than anything they were forecasting.’

  ‘But you must call your family,’ Eliane insists.

  ‘I tried on the mobile just now, but can’t get through.’

  ‘Do you have Internet here, Evie?’ asks Will. ‘So he can call?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘I do,’ offers Didier. ‘After lunch you can come to my house and Skype them if you’d like. Fortunately everything came back on again this morning.’

  ‘Oh, cheers mate, that’d be epic. I’m planning on kipping in the cab tonight—won’t be going anywhere after this wine,’ he holds his glass out so that Mathieu can re-fill it with some of the very good Bordeaux rouge from the château, ‘but then I hope I can do the pick-up tomorrow morning and head home straight away. The rate this snow’s melting, the roads should be clear by the morning.’

  Didier gets up to help me clear the soup bowls. ‘What else can I do, Evie?’ he asks, as I smile my gratitude, eager to try and re-establish the connection between us that seems to be in danger of melting away, just as the snow’s sparkle has melted from the apple tree beyond the window, leaving only bare, brown twigs once again. There’s no sign of the robin, either, as if, with Will’s arrival, the spell has been broken for him too.

  ‘That’s okay, thanks, Didier, I’ll take it from here,’ says Will, appearing between us, rolling up his sleeves and picking up the carving knife with a flourish. ‘Here, Evie, I’ll carve and you can serve. What is this? Pork loin stuffed with truffles? Wow, that’s another great recipe.’

  Didier retires gracefully, and as he goes back to his seat at the table, we exchange a glance. His expression is blank, giving nothing away as he takes in the cosy domestic scene with Will—playing a starring role as Master of the House—carving and me serving up the plates of food. All I need is a frilly apron and a starched cap and I’d be the archetypal French maid. I feel my hackles rising, but bite my tongue. This is hardly the time for a domestic disagreement, which could just open the long-closed floodgates of unfinished business between us. But I know how it must look to Didier, so I try to convey regret and the fact that Will’s presence doesn’t necessarily change things between us. Then I catch myself, realising that the word “necessarily” is the key one here. Of course, as Didier said, Will’s presence changes everything. I am officially still married to him, after all. And—a ghastly thought suddenly occurs to me—perhaps Didier thinks I’ve been playing him along, deceiving him as to exactly how separated Will and I actually are. Will isn’t helping this possible scenario either. He’s breezed in here, acting as if it’s his undisputed right to march in and take over. Too much exposure to celebrity will do that, I guess. His ego has clearly grown somewhat in the past year and now he’s beginning to believe his own publicity, seeing himself as the star of the show wherever he goes. Well, he always did enjoy an audience...

  We settle back down at the table and raise our glasses of 2009 Bordeaux Supérieur (an excellent year, Mathieu pronounces, with an appreciative smack of his lips).

  ‘To the chef,’ Didier says, his eyes meeting mine.

  ‘Thank you, everyone,’ butts in Will, taking the credit for having carved the pork. ‘And to Evie too,’ he adds, magnanimously. ‘Great meal, babe.’

  It’s such a barefaced cheek that I have to stop myself from gasping in annoyance by taking a sip of my wine.

  I raise my glass towards Will and Dylan. ‘And to unexpected guests.’ I emphasise the word “unexpected” just a tad. ‘It’s such a surprise having you here, Dylan, Will.’

  Will nods, choosing to ignore the fact that I’ve put a little distance between us for Didier’s benefit.

  ‘Yeah, I know. It’s been so hectic with all the publicity and the interviews, and I’m going straight back into the studio in January to film a new series. But when I got your email, Evie, I realised what’s really important is us. Time we got back on track, eh, now you’re your old self again. I said to the production team I want you on the show. Non-negotiable. Of course, they want me to carry on fronting it, because—as they say—I am the show. But there’s a role for you, Evie. And I reckon we can take it even further, working together as a team.’

  Rose’s prediction, all those weeks ago, comes back to haunt me: ‘I give him a year. He’ll soon realise how much he needs you and your recipes once the honeymoon period wears off.’

  Despite the fact that it’s Christmas and I’m the hostess here—and I ought, therefore, to remain gracious and serene at all times—my temper flares. Well, I’m not a French-Irish redhead for nothing.

  ‘We’ll have to see, Will. We have a lot of talking to do.’ I fix him with a steely glare. ‘Things have changed in the past year, for me as well as for you. I’m not so sure I’ll ever be my “old self” again. And maybe that’s a good thing.’

  Didier looks up suddenly, from where he’s been concentrating hard on chasing a morsel of meat around his plate. And do I imagine it, or is there a gleam of fresh hope in his eyes?

  Will’s expression of bewilderment at my outburst morphs suddenly into one of suspicion as he intercepts this glance.

  ‘But for the moment,’ I continue, regaining my composure, ‘let’s just enjoy our Christmas meal and be thankful that we have so much when there are others who have so little.’

  Eliane, who’s been watching these exchanges closely, her expression one of calm amusement, picks up on the cue and helps me out. She turns to Didier. ‘Tell us, have you had news from Africa? What’s happening in South Sudan now? We seem to hear so little in the news these days. Is it still as troubled there...?’

  Will looks a little petulant as the conversation is diverted from him, but he quickly perks up again as he engages Dylan in a conversation about the new TV series.

  ‘Can’t wait to get home and tell them that I had that Will Brooke in my cab,’ the trucker chuckles.

  ‘I’ll get you and your wife tickets for the show if you’d like,’ Will offers magnanimously, back in celeb mode again.

  ‘Could you, mate? That’d be epic. She’s your biggest fan!’

  Didier helps clear the plates, and I smile my gratitude to him.

  ‘And now, against all the odds, the Christmas pudding!’ I turn it out carefully onto a serving plate and begin to warm a little Cognac gently in a pan. ‘The Château d’Yquem is in the fridge. Would you like to open it, Didier?’

  Will materialises once again, insinuating himself between us,
and now I’m definitely getting the impression that this is turning into a testosterone-fuelled contest.

  I smile, ruefully. I guess I should be pleased to have Prince William and Bradley Cooper slugging it out over me—insofar as their impeccable English manners and French courtoisie allow them to slug, that is—but my potential enjoyment of the situation is ruined by the fact that I know I’m going to end up hurting one of them. For all his bravado, Will has shared some of the darkest, deepest moments of my pain, and I can see that, without the timely distraction of his newfound television career, he would have been a broken man. Fleetingly I wonder again, should I give our marriage another chance? It’s certainly true that I’ve changed during my time here, managing, at last, to find a way to live again after losing Lucie. But do I want to go back to life in London? To the glamour and reflected glory of being Will’s wife? To start over? Try for another baby who will help heal our loss? It’s a safer option than the alternative: launching out on my own; going back to the States to try and find a publisher for my book; maybe opening a bistro of my own somewhere; or perhaps fulfilling the Thibaults’ vision of a cookery school in a French château, bringing the world to this beautiful corner of France. And then, out there too, there’s the possibility of a relationship with Didier. Is our connection as profound for him as it is for me? Are we too damaged, in our different ways, to be able to embark on learning to love again, or does our pain bind us together in an understanding that goes deeper than anything I’ve ever known before with another man?