The Yellow Villa

by Amanda Hampson

  Dominic appears to be enjoying the experience but Ben is definitely not. He feels like a child having to wait for Dominic to come over and act as translator. He only managed three months of language lessons before he left Sydney and was sucked in by all the talk about immersion being the only way to learn. It’s slow and frustrating. He might be immersed but he’s also isolated. He has a collection of single words, nouns and verbs, but lacks the ability to join them together and has had to resort to a translator app, with limited success. The slightest deviation in pronunciation renders him unintelligible. Half the time he can’t understand what people are saying to him or what he’s even saying to them. It’s made him realise how impatient he’d been in the past with migrants to Australia who didn’t speak English. It seemed so basic. How would they possibly expect to make a life in an English-speaking country without the language? Now he sees it’s not that simple. It’s a long, hard slog to proficiency, let alone fluency.

  Mia doesn’t care about the electricity being out. She’s disillusioned with the twenty-first century and craves a quieter twentieth-century life. Ben manages to work things out with his scrum master and he and Mia find plenty to do around the house. By the end of the week they have power, heat and a very large bill to settle. But, as Dominic promised, it’s no more than expected, which is something.

  Chapter Ten

  Dominic watches with detachment as Susannah berates him. He tries to recall when she developed this annoying habit of unnecessarily raising her voice. She used to be so calm and relaxed; so easygoing. Her voice was soft, even seductive on occasion. Now she screeches at him in a way that he finds embarrassing despite being the only witness. Has she actually become unhinged, teetering on the verge of some sort of breakdown – or is she acting? She’s fairly convincing, so it’s unlikely she’s acting.

  Now she rushes from the room and bangs around in the kitchen, the kettle whistles, the fridge opens and closes. Dominic puts another log on the fire and settles back with his magazine, anticipating the arrival of a nice cup of tea. But when she returns, calmer at least, it’s apparently tea for one.

  She settles purposefully into the armchair opposite him. ‘I’m sorry I lost my temper, but …’ She pauses, evidently tightening the rein on herself. ‘I cannot understand why you would see it necessary to invite the Tinkers, as our guests, to one of the most expensive restaurants in the whole of Toulouse.’

  Dominic has been thoroughly looking forward to this occasion, so it’s disappointing that she’s taking this adversarial position. Nevertheless, he’s determined not to allow her to dampen his enthusiasm for the jaunt. ‘Aren’t we making them our new best friends? What better way to consolidate the relationship?’

  ‘Dominic, it’s not a business arrangement. We don’t need to network with them. We don’t have to impress them in the way you think. It is obscenely expensive and most likely not to the Tinkers’ taste. And we cannot afford it!’

  ‘Sus, you worry too much about money. Reggie won’t mind —’

  ‘Mind? I mind! I’m the one who has to call him begging for money. It’s humiliating. Every time I call, I hear the disappointment in Daddy’s voice.’ She gives a little sob and comforts herself with a sip of her tea.

  ‘That’s your imagination, Susie. Reggie doesn’t begrudge sending the odd feather for his little girl’s nest.’

  ‘I’m not a little girl and it’s not the odd feather, it’s a whole flock of … whatever … and it’s every month! And there’s no feathering involved! We need to pay the electricity bill so we don’t get disconnected. A meal for four at Grégoire’s would cost as much as that bill! You have to make an excuse … get out of it.’

  ‘Oh, that would be awkward. A very poor show to invite, then un-invite.’

  Her eyes bulge like a horse about to bolt. She tosses her head, completing the effect and it occurs to him it’s probably meno-pause that makes her so mercurial; so easily frustrated.

  ‘The Tinkers are real people, Dominic. They’re not going to be dazzled by you swanning about lording it over everyone at Grégoire’s. Out-sommeliering the sommelier. They’ll think it’s pretentious. They will be embarrassed by you throwing money at them. Money we don’t have!’ She finishes with a shout, leaps up and gallops from the room, followed by the two mutts who loyally trot after her.

  It’s exhausting to watch Susannah expend so much energy agonising about money and lacerating herself at the prospect of having to ask Reggie to spot them a few quid now and then. It’s coming her way eventually in any case, why not dip their fingers in now and pull out a few bob to make life more comfortable? It’s not as though it will have any impact on Reggie, he owns half a mews in Kensington and collects rent from more than a dozen tenants. His coffers runneth over and they might as well flow to the needy.

  Dear old Reggie. A typical Eastern European émigré, educated and cultured, who arrived with a battered suitcase, broken English and an over-developed sense of gratitude towards his adopted country. He started a small business buying and selling second-hand washing machines. Then new ones. Opened his own shop. Then another shop or five. Watches every penny and never had a welfare cheque in his life. Ninety years old and still the man about town, he’s got a few good years in him yet. Dominic has grudging pride in his father-in-law, although he doubts very much if that’s reciprocated – grudging or otherwise.

  What Susannah fails to recognise is that Reggie enjoys playing benefactor to his youngest daughter. Her elder sister, Rebecca, has no need of assistance. She and her husband, the avaricious Simon, share Reggie’s spartan philosophies. Those two have never known the joys of a gloriously decadent meal or glass of thirty-year-old Bordeaux. They famously won’t even buy a bottle of water because it’s available free from a tap. You can’t get Evian from a tap. They prefer to channel their money into property and more property, and good on them, but there’s more to life than wealth accumulation.

  Dominic had relished the idea of taking their new friends to Grégoire’s. The anticipation of the outing had him reminiscing about the old days when he had the time, money and friends to indulge in long lunches at London’s finest establishments. Back then he had interesting and influential friends, none of your ‘aspiring’ this and that. One was an artist who regularly hung in the Hayward, another a music producer, a third was the managing director of one of Britain’s largest newspapers, a fourth an ex-con turned bestselling author. Skilled raconteurs who kept each other enthralled from the first aperitif to the final brandy. People who shared an unspoken agreement that nothing kills the appetite like a bore. These were men with knowledge and opinions who were not afraid to voice them – none of your namby-pamby political correctness. He smiles, remembering how other patrons would often look longingly at their table, envying the hilarity and camaraderie. All men, obviously – few women can tell the simplest story without making it five times longer than necessary and dragging some emotional hoo-ha into it.

  Yes, there was something luxuriant about a long lunch. Something decadent and self-indulgent that he has always adored, and the fact that all the other chumps were working was part of the pleasure. Back then he was also working. He’d never been one of those food critics who jotted in a tatty little notebook. He simply soaked it all up. The ambience or lack thereof, the demeanour of the staff, the professionalism of the serving process and then the main event, the food itself. He possessed the taste equivalent of a photographic memory: once tasted, never forgotten. And not just the flavour but the texture, fattiness, dryness, various aromas, both fleeting and volatile, consistency and the myriad flavours. His taste receptors had a workmanlike ability to deconstruct even the most complex dishes. He could discern which herbs and spices the chef had been heavy-handed with and identify even the most subtle of flavours. He could distinguish contrasts across an extensive continuum from sweet to tart. He could taste the quality of the butter, the oil, the salt and even the freshness of the flour. It was really endless and his virtuosity was u
tterly wasted on ninety-nine per cent of the meals served by establishments claiming to be restaurants. They were simply waiting rooms that happened to have (often substandard) kitchens attached. Those kitchens were staffed by the reluctant and the recalcitrant, motivated by the tyranny of the ticket machine and the threats of their superiors.

  Grégoire’s is a world away from all that. Chef Louis Lefevere has earned his two stars and continued to elevate his art. Not in an effort to grab that third accolade and satisfy some egotistical desideratum, but to continue dazzling and delighting his clientele. Lefevere is a softly spoken, thoughtful man and the atmosphere in the kitchen is one of quiet concentration. In short, Lefevere is Dominic’s kind of chef, one who can be relied on for superior quality and immutable consistency.

  Dominic is well aware that his tastebuds are not regenerating the way they once were; nevertheless they are still more abundant and vastly superior to most people’s. This is partly a gift of DNA but mainly a lifetime of exercising them, challenging them and keeping them accountable. He regards himself as one of the world’s elite, a person whose gift and vocation are perfectly compatible. The finesse of his palate is legendary. He’d been called a taste savant in his time, the Rain Man of gastronomy; this is his raison d’être. Naturally, Lefevere only knows him as Monsieur Harrington, the British expat with a refined appreciation for haute cuisine.

  Dominic sighs, his pleasant reverie interrupted by the sounds of Susannah’s distant sobbing. Hormones. Thank God to have been born a man. He could probably postpone the Tinkers’ lunch for the moment; perhaps a windfall will come in the meantime.

  Chapter Eleven

  The village is shrouded in mist when Ben arrives to buy paint at the hardware shop, the French term for which is la quincaillerie. A tricky word he practised saying a dozen times but each time Mia corrected him. Frustratingly, he can’t hear the difference between what she’s saying and what he’s repeating. They sound identical and he wonders if she’s just being super picky.

  He has arrived at la quincaillerie too early but decides to wait since there are limited opportunities to get through that door. It’s closed on Wednesdays and weekends and not open until 10 a.m. on other days. Naturally, also closed for lunch from midday to sometime mid-afternoon. At home, hardware stores are guaranteed to be open for business twelve hours a day, seven days a week. Here retailing is more like a hobby. ‘Yes, come by if you really need something. We’ll probably be around’ – indifferent shrug – ‘just not too early, or at lunchtime …’

  He leaves the car and walks up and down the street restlessly. There’s nothing of interest in this part of the lower village. There is a café, which has little going for it apart from possibly being warm, but it isn’t open for some reason. A dress shop with a window display that even to his inexpert eye looks thirty years out of date. The only attraction this morning is the smell of baking bread from the boulangerie. He buys a croissant and sits on a low wall outside to eat it.

  The lifeless street and grey stone buildings are depressing. The cold here has a dull, heavy dampness to it. He looks to his phone for diversion and finds himself checking the surf-cam at Narrabeen where the glassy ocean mirrors the pale pink and aqua of the early evening sky. He watches a perfect set of five A-frames roll through, one after the other. A dozen or so guys, black specks drifting on their boards out the back, take it all for granted. The buttery croissant is cloying in his mouth, his body craves the sting of salt water. He longs for that clear dome of endless blue sky over Sydney and the smell of sunscreen baking on hot skin. He misses the drama of Sydney weather. The thick drowsy humidity and towering banks of cumulus clouds that signal the oncoming southerly buster; a cool change that belts through every house, slamming doors and windows, reviving the entire city from its stupor. Rain that comes down in such a deluge that you have to shout to be heard over it. That’s what you call weather.

  He feels an odd tightness in his chest, as though he might burst into tears. He puts his phone away quickly and looks up to see Thomas Van den Berg, the Dutch owner of the B&B, walking across the road and giving him a friendly wave. Although Ben finds him a bit annoying, he seems pleased to see Ben and asks how the house is coming along. He listens with interest to the story of the electrical problems.

  ‘Of course. This is old houses for you,’ says Thomas, always keen to make it clear that he has never been surprised by anything in his entire life. ‘But you don’t need to deal with Morel. He’s a difficult character. There’s a Brit here in the village who does all the expat work. Everyone uses him. Tony. Nice guy. Speaks the Queen’s English. Mate.’

  Despite Ben’s efforts to explain to Thomas how to integrate the term ‘mate’ into a sentence, he persists in adding it as an awkward afterthought, like an exclamation mark.

  ‘Dominic Harrington recommended Morel,’ says Ben. ‘Anyway, it’s done now.’

  Thomas shrugs. ‘Two difficult characters. Members of a secret society?’

  ‘I’m sure he had his reasons. Perhaps his pricing is better?’ suggests Ben.

  Thomas laughs out loud. ‘The day a Frenchman makes a cheap price for a foreigner we can expect roses to fall from the sky.’ He glances up expectantly, his palms open to the possibility. Ben’s pretty sure that even Thomas would be surprised if it did happen. There’s an awkward moment until he drops his hands with a disappointed shrug.

  Ben forces a laugh. Who is the joke on here? Thomas going on about roses falling from the sky, or him for not being able to sort out these things for himself? It really is like being a child again; you only get told what people want you to know.

  ‘Well, then,’ says Thomas, sensing his little performance was less than amusing. ‘Lana was going to get in touch and invite you for dinner. The business is quiet now. We’ll close for a month at the end of December and go back home for Christmas. So, it’s time to party.’

  ‘Sure, great. I’ll let Mia know. Actually, her mother’s coming soon. You should come over and meet her. I’m just getting the paint for her room. She speaks Dutch.’

  ‘Is my English not up to standard? Mate.’ Thomas tilts his head to one side playfully. He laughs and gives Ben a friendly clap on the shoulder, saying they will leave it to the girls to set up. ‘We will come to you and then you to us. As you know, Lana’s an excellent cook. I hope you like herring – she does the best.’

  Herring. Was there anything worse than raw pickled fish? Did that even qualify as cooking?

  Back at the house, Ben lays out the drop sheets carefully and prepares the paint, stirring it thoroughly, dampening the roller and brush in preparation. He selects his favourite coding music, commonly known as psychedelic trance, puts in his earbuds and turns up the volume. Mia loathes this music, and he can completely understand why, but it helps him concentrate. As he rollers the white paint onto the old ceiling it glows like a strip of fluorescent light. He feels a sense of calm descend on him. This is the beauty of manual labour – your body does the work but your thoughts are your own. Programming is the opposite – the body is the demanding infrastructure that houses the workhorse.

  Ben rarely lets his mind just wander. His thoughts are more regulated, like a committee meeting where issues can be raised and considered, decided or discarded. Mia and Olivia often bag him out about compartmentalising his thoughts – a male trait, apparently – as though this were a fault rather than an asset. It’s his belief that the piling of one worry on top of another is what makes Mia get so anxious. Not just overthinking but intertwining everything in a big tangled knot where everything is dependent on everything else and there is no way forward and no way out.

  One thing his work has taught him is that it’s not a way to resolve problems. If there’s a fault in the system, first isolate and identify the source and run tests to see which parts of the system are affected. Once the fault is accurately located, it can be relatively straightforward to resolve. That process can be applied to everything. Almost everything. Not love, for instan
ce. When it came to Mia, he didn’t seem to even have the ability to examine his choices. There’s no compartment for her, she is the operating system and everything else is a peripheral. But as he works coating the ceiling, deleting the smoke and grime and everything that has happened in this room, the word ‘folly’ keeps coming back to him. He stops for a moment and checks it on his phone: ‘lack of good sense; foolishness’.

  Mia makes him foolish. He knows that. Buying this house had been the only way he could think of to get Mia back, to rescue their relationship. If it failed, it was on his head. They could both end up broke and alone. He had failed her once, he couldn’t fail her again.

  Chapter Twelve

  Susannah lies on her bed crying furious tears, a pug tucked into each armpit. He calls it generosity. It’s bloody well not. It’s irresponsible. He’s like a teenager who wrecks the family car and argues that the keys should never have been left around to tempt him. Reckless. Does she give him too much latitude? She shouldn’t have to watch him like a child. What is wrong with him? It’s pathetic the way he wants them to admire him. He couldn’t admit the electrician had gone three hundred euro over budget, some stupid misunderstanding about the cost of materials. His French isn’t as good as he makes out. He often gets things wrong. Could she confess to the Tinkers? Guilt-trip them into paying their own bloody electrician’s bill? They obviously have plenty of money. They’d be so embarrassed. She couldn’t bear it. After all, it’s not their fault her husband is such an idiot. He’d have to make an arrangement with Monsieur Morel.