Goodbye, Jimmy Choo

by Annie Sanders

  There was a long silence.

  “Okay, it might be professional suicide as far as my cash flow is concerned, and you are going to have to pay me what you can whenever you can too.”

  “You are top of my long list of creditors,” she lied, and spontaneously she kissed him on the cheek. “Crispin, you are a darling.”

  Chapter 7

  Izzie rubbed her eyes. When were they holding the awards for the Most Boring Web Site Ever? This government agency was a surefire winner. Mind-numbing though it was, it paid reasonably well, and there was about two weeks’ worth of it. With Frank still crashing around in the loft and shaking his head sadly whenever she asked him how it was going, she was not in a position to be picky.

  The whole Marcus thing had calmed down since the day of the great Oxford expedition. He’d apologized for getting shirty and seemed quite up about the meeting. He was trying, too—kept asking her about her work, had massaged her shoulders one night, they’d even made love, and he’d actually made lunch one day—cheese on toast, but still. He’d seemed resigned to the time she was spending over at Maddy’s too, provided she sorted the kids out herself. Definitely a change for the better!

  When she arrived at Huntingford House, forensic evidence in the kitchen—half-drunk cups of coffee and overflowing ashtrays—revealed Maddy had had a working lunch. But she was nowhere to be seen, although from the fresh pile of notes, she had clearly been busy translating the journal.

  Izzie made fresh tea, buttered a few scones, and took some out to the sheds for Crispin, whose reassuring, bearlike presence and quiet comings and goings had lifted the mood of the whole place. A smell of sawdust filled the air, and Izzie found him contentedly sweeping up shavings and making small repairs to the sheds he would be using. He was a bit of an enigma, old Crispin. Obviously well bred and educated, he seemed as comfortable with her and Maddy as he was with his hairy-arsed colleagues. She had noted with amusement that he answered his mobile as “Chris”—much more suitable. Crispin was the name for a bishop or a diplomat, not a jobbing builder.

  “Thanks, Izzie. That’s smashing! She was around earlier, and her car’s still here, but I haven’t seen her. She was out roaming the fields earlier with Pasco. Came back with a big basket of rowanberries.” He shook his head, laughing quietly to himself, and went back to his work.

  Her shoes too light to go trudging, Izzie went back into the house to wait. She was just correcting Maddy’s spelling in her notes—erratic to say the least—when she heard the scrunch of a car on gravel. A moment later the doorbell rang out. Probably someone looking for Crispin. Yep, through the glass panels she could definitely see it was a man, and a pretty big one, too. She opened the door with a cheery, “Hello! If you want the sheds, they’re further on up the drive. Can’t miss ’em.”

  But the man who turned round at the sound of her voice was definitely not a contractor. You don’t get a tan like that in Ringford in November. Instead, Izzie found herself staring up at a bronzed face, slightly puzzled, clearly amused, somewhat familiar. She knew her mouth had dropped open, but she didn’t seem able to close it.

  He looked at her intently and, with lean brown hands, he pushed his floppy hair back off his forehead, and shook his head slowly. With a soft French accent like honey dripping on hot toast, he responded, “Non. Not the sheds. I’m looking for Madeleine, my cousine. Is she here? You are a friend?”

  So this was the cousin from the photo. “Oh yeah! Maddy’s told me about you—I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name . . . er . . .”

  “Jean Luc.” He smiled, his eyes crinkling warmly at the corners, and shook her hand. “Is Maddy here?”

  “Yes—I mean, no. She’s around, just out in the garden somewhere. She’ll be back in a minute. Come in and have some tea.”

  “In the garden? That doesn’t sound like her! I’ve got some things for her—I’ll bring them in.”

  She watched with unashamed pleasure as he strolled over to the mud-splashed Range Rover and stretched luxuriously. He was really quite an attractive man—they sure knew how to breed them in that family. By no means eye candy, he had a kind of battered charm, a bit like an old suitcase. Izzie led the way into the kitchen, and he followed, carrying a couple of wine boxes.

  “Are you staying long?” she asked, filling the kettle at the tap.

  “Ah hah! Your famous English hospitality.” He laughed richly as he put the crates on the table. “Well, there is nothing much happening on my farm, so I crept away, but I cannot stay too long here. I have horses, and they miss me when I am away. But I have to check my little cousine is all right.”

  He took in the kitchen. “She has done a lot since I was here last.” Then he swung round and looked straight at Izzie. “How is she now?”

  She answered carefully, trying to make her response as sincere as the question had been. “It’s been hard for her. There’s so much for her to take on board. I mean, her life has changed totally. I’ll admit, I’ve been worried at times and I didn’t know what to do to help her. But just in the last week, I think she’s starting to feel—not exactly feel better—but it’s as if her compass is pointing ahead again, as if she knows the way she has to go now, even if she’s not sure how to set about it.”

  Jean Luc frowned and nodded slowly. “Yes, I can feel what you mean. It’s a strong image. You must be a good friend to her if you can see all this. But I don’t remember seeing you at the funeral.”

  Making the tea, she thought hard before she replied. “It seems strange now that I put it into words, but I haven’t known her long. I never even met Simon. We met up a couple of times, but when I heard about the accident, I came right over and—well, I’ve been here almost every day since.”

  He shrugged his square shoulders, easing them inside his thick leather jacket. “Sometimes it happens like that. She is very lucky to have you.”

  “She certainly is!” Maddy’s voice came from the door. “Hello, stranger—what the hell brings you here?”

  He spun round, and Maddy flew into her cousin’s arms, squashing Pasco between them. He picked them both up, squeezing them tight, streams of delighted French bursting from them simultaneously. Izzie smiled to herself and got on with making the tea, discreetly clearing the table before they sat down.

  She shyly produced some scones she’d made at home. Jean Luc exclaimed in delight. “Most of your food is sheet, but proper tea I love.” Then he went out to the hall, returning moments later with boxes full of food he had brought with him. “When you come to England, you have to bring your own food.” He laughingly deflected their jeers. “Oh yes! Really.”

  Like a magician, he produced pots of jam sealed with wax, honey, pâtés in glass jars, cheeses, big tomatoes, a couple of frisée lettuces, some cured ham, several bottles of local wine, olive oil, and a homemade-looking bottle of vinegar . . . on and on it went. The women clapped and gasped in delight, reached into the boxes, giggling as he pretended to slap their hands away.

  “Last, but not least. Please don’t open this, my little Pandoras!” He produced a tightly sealed plastic bin bag, and announced dramatically, “Madeleine, you have made me a smuggler! Here is a bag of the smelly weed, just for you. The disgusting, the unspeakable centpertuis. I can’t begin to guess—I don’t even want to guess—what you are going to do with it. But I had to come here to check if you really are crazy!”

  “And now? What do you think?”

  “Now,” he replied, putting his arm round Maddy’s shoulders in an affectionate squeeze. “Now I am quite reassured. You are completely crazy, but you have a crazy friend too. Ça-y-est! C’est bien! You are quite fine, giggling like schoolgirls!”

  Izzie jumped to her feet. “The kids! I’m going to be late. You too, Maddy! Lovely to meet you, Jean Luc.” And she dashed from the room.

  Marcus was busy that evening, too busy to ask her what she had been up to, and she had to admit she was relieved. She was a bad liar and didn’t entirely trust herself to be offhand
in her description of Maddy’s cousin. Marcus had always been the jealous type and he was bad enough when she started drooling over Jeremy Paxman during Newsnight. He never left her unchaperoned during University Challenge. Boss-eyed from a further grapple with the government document, she gave up at ten thirty and surrendered herself to the pleasures of Sex and the City. For the first time she found herself analyzing the characters’ flirting techniques—it was so contrived and she knew she’d never be able to imitate them even if she wanted to. There was no doubt Jean Luc was a bit of a flirt, and today had been fun. She’d revelled in the attention. “Oh for God’s sake, Isabel,” she berated herself as she turned off the TV. “He’s French. They do flirting at baccalaureate.”

  The next day, Izzie returned to Maddy’s house straight after the school drop-off. They’d arranged by phone the night before that this would be the day of the great cook up. She only hoped it would go better than the thyme and parsley hair conditioner Maddy had already attempted. She’d had to throw the pan out, and the backs of Izzie’s ears were still bright green.

  Maddy was in the kitchen, weighing out the centpertuis for the base tincture that seemed to appear in most of Luce’s recipes. Izzie looked around for Jean Luc and hovered near the cooker. “So,” she ventured at last, “did you eat all that cheese last night?”

  “No way!” retorted Maddy. “Can you imagine the nightmares you’d get from that lot? Jean Luc made some yummy soup. I thought we’d have the leftovers for lunch. He should be back by then.”

  “Oh—right. Well then, let’s get on with this. Have you got an apron I could use?”

  Maddy looked her up and down, and bit her lip to suppress a smile. “Yes. You’d better cover that jumper up. Wouldn’t want to get any green smelly goo on it, would we? You’re looking particularly scrumptious today. Your hair looks nice like that.”

  Izzie pretended to concentrate on the recipe. “I just blow-dried it differently for a change, you know.”

  “Yes, I know,” Maddy replied cheerfully. “I absolutely know! Now, are you ready for me to open this bag? Jean Luc says it smells worse than his socks—and having gone camping with him, I can tell you that’s pretty appalling! With just him rattling round in that huge old farmhouse, I don’t suppose he bothers much. Ready? Pheeeew! He wasn’t exaggerating. Here—add the water. It might smell better once it’s boiled down.”

  Two hours later, the centpertuis had been reduced to a small quantity of goo but smelled far worse. Even with all the windows open, the stench was appalling. The two women stared into the pot in disgust at the evil, bubbling mess.

  “God, this is vile!” laughed Maddy.

  Izzie glanced at the translated notes from Luce’s book. “Oh Lord! We’ve got to simmer it for another half hour. Luce is very specific about her timings, isn’t she? I’ll set the timer so we don’t forget.”

  “Fat chance of forgetting something this smelly! For God’s sake, pass me the pan lid. I’ll stick it in the bottom oven. The stench is making me gag. Oh sod it! I’ve burned my wrist on the door. This had better be worth it.”

  “Quick! Run your arm under the cold tap,” said Izzie as Maddy pulled off her oven glove and inspected the red weal rapidly forming on the inside of her forearm. “That looks nasty. Hang on—doesn’t Luce say this goo is supposed to be good for burns? Have a go!”

  Izzie wiped a dollop of cooled purée from the wooden spoon they’d stirred it with and gently dabbed it onto the burn.

  “Do you think it’s all right to use it neat?” asked Maddy doubtfully, peering down at her arm.

  “It’s just a plant. Can’t do any harm, can it?”

  Maddy grimaced. “They said that about hemlock. Actually it feels quite soothing.”

  They heard the front door bang, and a deep voice call out, “Oh non! Ce n’est pas possible! The smell is just awful!”

  This time, Jean Luc embraced Izzie too—three kisses—then held her at arm’s length, his hands cupping her shoulders and looking her up and down appreciatively. “You look like a summer sky, Izzie. That blue—just perfect for you.”

  He turned away to unpack the groceries from supermarket bags. “I was nearly chased from the store,” he complained. “How do you buy cheese in England if you don’t open it up and smell it? And what is so terrible about squeezing melons? Does that make me a pervert? This is a crazy country. You should see the market in St. Jean du Gard. You would love it. So full of color, fragrance. You must come over again soon, Maddy—both of you, why not?”

  Maddy took off her apron. “Tempting idea, but right now I’m hot and sweaty after all that boiling—I’m going to have a shower. We’ll have lunch in about half an hour, okay? Jean, why don’t you open a bottle of that Coteaux du Languedoc? I bet Izzie’s never tried it before!” And she left the room.

  Silence fell. Izzie pretended to read Maddy’s notes, now splattered with drops of green sludge. She was acutely aware of Jean Luc moving quietly round the kitchen, but didn’t dare turn round. She heard him getting down plates from the rack and mixing up a dressing for the salad. The silence was agonizing. What was it about this man? Why couldn’t she just behave normally? The sound of the cork squeaking, then popping slightly as it left the bottle was followed by a clink of glasses and a mouthwatering gloop-gloop.

  Jean Luc cleared his throat. “Er, Izzie . . . you want some?”

  He held out a glass of the black-red wine and smiled slowly. Izzie sat down at the other side of the table, and took a slug, nearly choking on the earthy, full-bodied flavor.

  He smiled ruefully. “Yes—wines from the south can be a bit too bold.” He sat back with his wine, content in the silence.

  Izzie could stand it no longer. “Gosh, isn’t it quiet now?”

  “Yes, isn’t it? Wherever Maddy is there seems to be lots of noise and laughter. It’s always been that way—when we were children, she always was the wicked one. She used to drive Giselle crazy. Mind you, that’s not far to go. Have you met Giselle?”

  Thank God. He’d got the conversational ball rolling, and she could relax. “Oh yeah. Once met, never forgotten. Within five minutes of meeting her she had me driving her to the station!”

  He laughed. “That sounds just like her. She’s an institution. Notre Gigi nationale.”

  “Gigi! That doesn’t sound like her at all.”

  “I know—it’s why I always call her that.”

  “Maddy must be much more like her father.”

  “I think so, yes, except for the addiction to clothes. I don’t really remember him, but I do remember playing football with him on the beach. He used to organize us all into games. He had such energy.”

  “Jean Luc, how did he die? What with Simon, I haven’t dared ask.”

  “Oh it was so stupid. He died during a routine operation—for a knee injury from rugby, I think, when he was young or something unimportant like that, but it went wrong. Giselle fell apart, though she’s reinvented her history now, and that was when they came to spend long summers with us in Antibes.”

  “I’ve seen the pictures,” said Izzie, remembering the fresh young faces of the teenagers in Maddy’s box.

  “At first I was very angry about it—I was adolescent and bad-tempered. I hated her because everyone felt sorry for her, and I was expected to keep an eye on her. But after a while I began to look forward to them coming. Then Peter—have you met him?—anyway, he arrived on the scene and he’s such a good man. He simply took on Giselle and Maddy with all their sadness.”

  Izzie shuddered. “God, imagine having that happen twice in your life.”

  “That’s why it’s so amazing that wherever Maddy is, she manages to make it fun. But come on, Izzie, I don’t know much about you—except that you’ve been a very good friend to her.”

  “Oh well, not much to tell. All very boring really.”

  “I doubt that very much. Do you have children?”

  “Yes, two. Charlie is eight and Jess is six. They’re a great team but they t
ake turns to drive me crazy. What about you?”

  “Me? No. No children.” Izzie was desperate to ask more, but couldn’t catch his eye as he fiddled with a loose button on his cuff. “But we were talking about you, Izzie, so stop trying to change the subject. You don’t look like a country girl—have you always lived here?”

  Under his gentle questions, she found herself telling him about the move to Ringford, and even about the trouble she was having settling in with the natives. But for all the details she gave him, to which he listened with quiet intensity, she found she was deliberately avoiding the subject of Marcus. She couldn’t quite work out why, or maybe she didn’t want to. And stranger still, Jean Luc didn’t seem curious about the missing link. But within no time, she was telling a man she had only just met about feelings she had barely ever voiced, even to her own husband.

  “But don’t you realize”—he smiled—“that these dreadful women you talk about feel entirely threatened by you? You are intelligent. They are cretins. You have charm. They are vulgar.” Izzie could feel herself flush. Get a grip, woman! “And you have ten times more verve than they could ever hope to have.” Suddenly the kitchen timer burst into life. Phew! Saved by the beep. She leaped to her feet and grabbed a tea towel. “Time for lunch!” She carefully lifted out the dark green Le Creuset pot, and placed it on top of the Aga.

  “Well, that’s the end of that pan,” laughed Jean Luc. “She won’t want to use it again now.”

  “I’d better give it a stir and make sure it’s not sticking.” She went as if to take off the lid, and he came to stand beside her.

  “For God’s sake, don’t take that lid off,” shrieked Maddy as she reappeared, her hair wet and tousled from the shower. Jean Luc moved away quickly. “The neighbors will be asking awkward questions about the state of my septic tank!”

  “Oh, ladies! It’s no worse than your usual English cuisine!” he muttered into his wineglass, then ducked to avoid the tea towel Izzie had lobbed at him.