Bordeaux Housewives

by Daisy Waugh

  ‘Holiday?’ Skid’s mind casts about for some way to work this new information to his advantage. And draws a blank. ‘Oh, yes, absolutely.’

  ‘Absolutely…’ mutters Timothy, glancing at Daffy, imagining more specifically some of the holiday activities he has in mind for tonight. ‘So…Awfully sorry about the inconvenience. But there you have it. Daphne informs me you’re rather friendly with Emma Rankin.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘So perhaps you might stay with her tonight.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘Good. Well. That’s settled then. Have a good evening. Incidentally,’ he adds as he’s about to hang up, ‘how much is my dear wife charging you per night to stay in this little building site of hers?’

  ‘The –’ A figure hasn’t even been discussed. ‘I think, er – Has she said? I ought to remember, but d’you know, I can’t? I think it’s about twenty euros a night.’

  ‘Twenty euros a night? Good God, Skid! I was considering offering you a small discount. For the inconvenience. But if that’s all she’s charging…’

  ‘Well it may be more. I haven’t really done the maths. Perhaps it’s twenty-five.’ And there is a hint of a sneer in his voice. Before he can stop it.

  ‘Is that so?’ Timothy says coolly. ‘Well I think you’ll find it’s been increased considerably on your return. Good night, Skid. Have a good evening. And send greetings to Emma. I don’t expect to see you while I’m here. But enjoy your stay, won’t you?’ He hangs up quickly. Before he throws up. It takes him a moment to collect himself.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Daffy asks nervously. ‘Timothy? Are you OK? You sounded a bit funny.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he snaps, pulling himself together. His hands are shaking. ‘Right then. Lock the place up, will you?’ He looks again at her blue cotton dress. ‘And get some sensible clothes together. I’m taking you to dinner first. There are various things we need to discuss.’

  Among them, Skid. Timothy has decided he doesn’t want Skid staying at the hotel any longer.

  ‘But how am I going to tell him that? He’s been staying almost a month.’

  ‘Then he’s been staying quite long enough. Is he up-to-date with his bill? How much are you charging him?’

  ‘I – er.’ She flushes. But she’s prepared for the question, since she heard Timothy posing it to Skid. ‘Forty euros a night. It’s normally meant to be fifty. Or it will be, when the place is all finished. But I thought, as he was staying so long and everything. And with the place being in a bit of upheaval…’

  ‘Very good. And is he up-to-date with his bill?’ he asks again. He looks at her expectantly.

  She looks at him. ‘Oh, yes,’ she says.

  ‘Good. Excellent…I think you ought to send me your accounts at some point,’ he adds, carving off a chunk from his filet de boeuf and pushing it into his mouth. ‘Also –’ he continues, a trickle of garlic butter and animal blood slipping down his chin. He dabs it away and swallows before continuing. ‘– Also, in general, Daphne, we need to discuss your…clientele. For want of another word. I must say I wasn’t entirely happy at the calibre of the people I saw there when I arrived this afternoon: three gentlemen who looked more like suicide bombers than desirable customers in one corner. They weren’t talking in French, you know. God knows where they came from. You, Daphne, absolutely nowhere to be seen. And a mongol girl with orange lips in the corner. Holding a broom. Frankly, Daphne –’

  ‘She’s called Sara,’ Daffy interrupts sharply. To her own amazement. ‘I mean –’ She clears her throat. ‘– she’s called Sara…She’s ever so nice.’

  ‘…I dare say.’ A long silence. Daffy, uncomfortable in the sensible clothes Timothy picked out for her, pushes her magret de canard around her plate. She has dropped sauce from the duck onto her dress – the peach-coloured silk evening dress she wore to Emma Rankin’s dinner. It had felt tight enough back then. Now, after six weeks of loose supermarket T-shirts and cotton skirts – and delicious lunches with Jean Baptiste – she can feel the dress biting all over her body. Every time she moves or breathes she feels certain the wretched thing is going to split. For the first time in ages, Daffy has lost her appetite for dinner. ‘…If you’re not going to eat, Daphne,’ Timothy says at last, ‘I suggest you put down your knife and fork.’

  She puts them down.

  ‘Right, then.’ Timothy refrains from referring, once again, to the fact that she’s fattened up – since, though he dislikes what it implies, he finds it oddly attractive. Ditto the slightly wilder hair. She blow-dried it this evening before dinner; something she’s not bothered to do for weeks. But even so, it looks thicker, looser. A little wilder. And her roots are showing. She looks cheap, he thinks. Sexy. ‘The point I’m making, if I may speak, is that in business, as in life, first impressions count. And frankly, when I walked into that bar this afternoon, do you want to know what I thought?…What do you imagine I thought, Daphne, when I first walked in? Here I am. A potential customer – an excellent potential customer, I might add. What do you imagine were the first thoughts that went through my head?’

  Daffy frowns. He’s waiting for an answer. The right answer. But she has no idea what it is. When he walked in this afternoon he wasn’t a potential customer, he was the owner. The question, so far as she can see, doesn’t make sense.

  ‘What’, he says again, ‘do you imagine were my first thoughts on coming into your – establishment?’

  ‘…Where’s my wife?’ she hazards. She glances at him. Tries again. ‘…Something about the suicide bombers?’ Timothy sees suicide bombers everywhere.

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘…I don’t know, Timmie,’ she says at last. There is a hint of irritability in her voice. They both notice it. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says quickly. ‘I mean, what did you think? – I know it doesn’t look like I’ve done a lot with the bar yet. As soon as the bathroom’s done we’re definitely going to give it a lick of paint. But we – I…The thing is I really think it looks so lovely as it is. Just sort of French, and normal. And people don’t seem to complain…Timmie, please. I know it’s important, first impressions and everything. I know I’ve got a lot to learn about running a business and I really want to learn it. But please – please. You keep changing the conversation. Can’t we talk about James? He sent me a letter last week saying he was missing me and it broke my heart. I miss him so much. Will he – might he – You’ll let him come out over the holidays, won’t you?’

  ‘I thought it looked disgusting. I thought it looked dirty, drab, uncared for. Chock-a-block with broom-holding freaks, and people whispering, possibly in Arabic. And dogs!’ he squeaks. ‘Animals. Everywhere! I tell you what I thought. I thought: “I’m taking my wallet and I’m walking out of here.” That’s what I thought. Here I am, an excellent potential customer. And I’m taking my wallet somewhere else.’

  At that moment Daffy wishes fervently that he would. She looks at him. Feels a wave, suddenly, of intense dislike – hatred, almost. An alien feeling for Daffy, whose natural emotions regarding her husband have always been smothered by an all-encompassing fear.

  ‘We were talking about James,’ she says sullenly.

  He shakes his head. ‘No. We were talking about the Hotel Marronnier. My Hotel Marronnier, incidentally.’

  ‘And by the way they weren’t talking in Arabic. Actually. You may think they look like suicide bombers, but they were talking in French. They’ve just got funny accents…They can also speak in English. Which is how I know that they’re all very, very nice people. They’re here once a week, that’s all. And I don’t see how them just being there really does any harm.’

  It’s possible, had they been alone, that he would have struck her about then. He wants to – looking at her ungrateful face. Instead he inhales through his long, thin nostrils, and exhales again. And smiles. He taps, with his index finger, on the half-eaten slice of bread beside his plate. Tappety-tap.

  ‘I want the mongol o
ut. I want the animals out. And I want the damn wops out, wherever they come from. Whatever language they speak. I want the place refitted from top to toe. And I want my wife dressing like a lady. Is it clear? My wife will run a respectable, decent establishment, or no establishment at all. It’s very simple. And then,’ he says, ‘and only then shall I allow my son to spend time in it. I had been intending to send him out as soon as he broke up, but I can see now it’s out of the question. The place won’t be ready. He’ll spend the holidays with my mother.’

  ‘No!…Timothy, James is my son too!’

  ‘I’m fully aware of that.’

  ‘You can’t keep me from seeing him!’

  He smiles. Doesn’t even bother to argue.

  ‘If you won’t let him come out here then give me my passport at least. I’ll go to England and see him. I can’t – I can’t go on not being able to see him. I can’t…I’ll do anything, Timmie. Only please, give me back my passport!’

  ‘Not yet,’ he says. ‘You’re not ready to come back to England yet. You need to be properly settled here.’

  ‘Timmie, he needs me! He’s a seven-year-old little boy. He needs me!’

  ‘He needs a mother capable of providing him with a respectable place to stay. It’s no good arguing, Daffy. I’ve made my decision. Now it’s up to you. If you want to see James, get your house in order. I won’t have my son exposed to these sort of influences. And that’s final.’ He glances across at her, notices – at last! – the downcast eyes, the familiar quiver around her lower lip – and relents a little, for once. ‘Come on,’ he says quietly, giving her a pat on the arm. ‘Don’t cry, dear. Get on top of things, and you’ll see your precious James before long…’

  ‘But when?’

  ‘As soon, as I say, as you get your place in order…’ He pats her again. Looks down at the peach-coloured chiffon silk, straining magnificently at her new womanly hips. ‘You’re not going to eat that bread, are you, Daphne?’ he says, smiling at her. ‘You certainly don’t need it. So put it down. Good girl. We’ll go upstairs…’ She looks ready to argue again. She looks horrified. ‘And who knows?’ he says smoothly. ‘I may even have a little surprise waiting for you up there…a little document, beginning with a P…?’

  ‘You’ve got my passport?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he lies. ‘If you’re very good…’ Timothy gives a little burp. It’s been an excellent dinner. ‘I don’t think we’ll bother with pudding. I’ll have my cognac sent up to the room…’

  OLD MAID

  A call comes through – reverse charges; Horatio assumes it has something to do with Fawzia, who’s not called them for almost a week, and they’re growing worried; worried enough to break all the rules and try to make contact with her instead. But it’s not Fawzia, nor Ahmed, her husband, nor anyone to do with her. It’s Murray, of the Sony PD150. His mobile’s been stolen, and Len’s has run out of charge.

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ Murray says. ‘Didn’t know what else to do.’

  ‘Where the hell are you?’

  ‘We’re making our way up to you now, as a matter of fact. We got a bit waylaid. But we’re here now!’ He snorts. ‘Anyway, Simon’s gone and rented us a car, which we’re meant to pick up at Bordeaux and then drive on to you.’

  ‘OK…Well. That’s a shame because –’ Horatio wonders how he might put them off. At least until tomorrow –

  Murray interrupts – as Simon has primed him to, at the first sign of prevarication: ‘I already called Mayor Bertinard, by the way. He’s all set up to meet us tomorrow a.m. round at yours. I said ten o’clock, not before!’ He snorts again. ‘You’ll thank me for that. He wanted to make it eight!’

  – But it seems pointless. He and Maude have been waiting so long for this, he’ll be glad to get the whole thing over and done with. ‘Fine. When will you be here?’

  ‘That’s the problem, mate.’ Murray laughs again. ‘You’re not going to believe this, Horatio. But the stupid pillocks back in London went and booked us on the wrong flight. We’re actually in La Rochelle! And nobody around here seems to speak English. So we’re a bit stuck…Any chance you could come and pick us up?’

  ‘None at all.’

  ‘What? Oh, come on, mate! We’re bloody stuck. Up shit creek without a paddle, and so on. Up shyster street without a fucking…paddle. As the saying goes.’

  ‘Give us a call when you know what time you’re going to arrive,’ Horatio says. ‘I’ll call the Marronnier in the village and tell them to expect you tonight. Good luck.’ He hangs up before Murray has a chance to argue with him.

  He wanders out to the swimming pool where Maude, for lack of any urgent work, is sitting in the shade with the children, playing Old Maid. She glances up at him. ‘Who was that?’ she says, throwing down a pair of aces. ‘Not Fawzia?’

  ‘No. Unfortunately not.’

  ‘– Superman, darling, that’s not a pair. That’s a Jack and a King. You’ve got to stop cheating.’

  ‘I was not cheating. See? They’re exactly the same…’

  ‘No they aren’t.’ She turns back to Horatio. ‘So? Who was it?’

  ‘Murray Whatsisname. The camera guy. They’re on their way, I’m sorry to say. We’ve got a few hours to get ourselves organised.’

  ‘Fine.’ She looks at her cards. Doesn’t look at Horatio again, and he watches her, sitting there on the grass, playing with their children. It’s such a perfect scene: the wife and children that he loves so much. He feels the gulf between himself and Maude growing by the day, and he hates it. He misses her. He longs for the time, not so very long ago, and yet it feels like months, when she would have put out an arm, smiled at him, asked him to join in…

  So he stands there awkwardly, not certain any longer quite where he fits in. ‘You all look like you’re having fun!’ he says, after a silence. He sounds like a dad from a TV advertisement: monstrously jovial. The children look at him curiously. ‘What are you all playing?’ He takes a step closer to them.

  ‘Old Maid. And Superman’s cheating,’ says Tiffany, standing up. ‘He keeps putting down cards that aren’t pairs.’

  ‘I DO NOT!’

  ‘Anyway, you can play if you want,’ she says, handing her cards to her father. ‘You look a bit bored. I’m going for a swim.’

  ‘Tiffany!’ snaps Maude, ‘You can’t desert a game in the middle just because you’re losing!’

  Tiffany replies with a splosh and doesn’t resurface until she’s swum a full length underwater. Maude clicks her tongue irritably. She doesn’t want Horatio to join in.

  ‘Come on. Hurry up,’ Superman says, offering up his cards, all bunched up in his small, fat hand, with just one card popping up above the others. Horatio, dutifully, takes it. Expresses shock and amazement to discover he’s pulled out the Old Maid.

  ‘AAAAH HAAAA!’ yells Superman ecstatically. ‘HA HA HA HA!’ Pointing at his father, rolling onto his back with glee. ‘YOU’RE the Old Maid! Old Maid! NOBODY loves you. NOBODY cares! Better go in the garden and eat worms and then die!’

  Maude can’t help it. She laughs.

  ‘Well, all right, steady on!’ mumbles Horatio. ‘Take it easy, Superman. The game’s not over yet.’

  KITCHEN FURNITURE

  In the time they’ve had since Len and Murray first disappeared to the Costa Brava, the Haunts have been busy at work on their smokescreen. They have devised various scenes to keep the film crew distracted. Best of all, Arielle, Jean Baptiste’s beautiful fruit-farming sister, has agreed to let the Haunts be recorded picking her fruit as if it were their own, and then piling it into crates to take to market. She has agreed to lend them a truck to transport the crates in, and offered them advice on how to rent a market stand in a village beyond Olivier Bertinard’s jurisdiction. She has done all this for her brother, because she loves him, and because she understands the Haunts once helped him out, though in what capacity Jean Baptiste refuses to say. She’s also, to a lesser degree, done it for Horatio; for fun. Because she
finds him attractive.

  Maude and Horatio have also decided they should throw a party.

  ‘A fruit-harvesting party,’ Maude said. They were in the kitchen at the time. She was cooking; slicing courgettes for the children’s supper, which they would both leave on the side of their plates. Horatio was meant to be unloading the dishwasher. He was getting around to it, leaning on the kitchen islet, munching on slices of raw courgette, and flicking through a new issue of The Week.

  ‘Brilliant,’ Horatio mumbled. ‘Something rustic and charming.’

  ‘We can say it’s a local tradition. Among the fruit farmers. Or something like that. We should invent a little tradition.’

  ‘A melon festival,’ agreed Horatio. ‘Which ends up in a special Melon Mass. D’you think the curate would agree? We could all get pissed on melon-flavoured cocktails and then head off to church for a service…’

  She smiled a little at that. Couldn’t help herself, and Horatio had been shocked by how happy it made him. ‘Very funny,’ she said coolly. ‘But actually, seriously. Something along those lines wouldn’t be a bad idea…If we have a party we can spend ages organising it and cooking for it and so on. Which will take the focus off our bloody non-existent fruit stand. Don’t you think?’

  He nodded, rubbed his hands together, suddenly enjoying the prospect of a party. He put the magazine aside. He and Maude haven’t thrown a party since their wedding. ‘Right then,’ he said. ‘Who shall we invite?’

  And they looked at each other.

  ‘Not Emma Rankin,’ Maude said at once.

  He frowned. ‘Don’t be absurd, Maude. We can’t have a party and not invite Emma. We can’t. She always invites us to her parties. Plus I should think we owe her about six dinners. We can’t possibly not invite her.’

  ‘No.’