Bordeaux Housewives

by Daisy Waugh

  Except for the children, having a wonderful time in the swimming pool, and for the Mayor, never more than a yard from the turning camera, the Haunts’ Melon Feast is not greatly enjoyed by anyone. Though Mathilde has provided a veritable banquet and Emma, true to form, has created nothing less than a melon-themed wonderland on the Haunts’ small terrace and adjoining sitting room, guests are too conscious of the cameras to relax; either too keen to draw attention to themselves, or not keen enough. In any case, no one can concentrate. Added to which Horatio is making very little attempt to put his guests at their ease. He spends most of the party searching for his mobile, or calling Maude’s on the landline and getting no response.

  ‘Well, Jean Baptiste, darling,’ Emma sighs, after he untangles her long thin arms from his neck for the third time, ‘I think I shall go and find Horatio. He was looking awfully miserable a minute ago.’ She sniffs. Pulls an open bottle of wine and an extra glass from the drinks table beside her. ‘And while the cat’s away…’ she mutters, more to herself than to him.

  Jean Baptiste says nothing. He watches her gliding across the garden, the skirt of her pale yellow dress floating in the breeze. She knows he’s watching her. There was a time, not long ago, when she would have assumed that he would follow. That any man would follow. But these days, suddenly, she’s not so sure. Not so sure of anything any more.

  ‘Hey Horatio,’ she says, finding him alone in the kitchen, sitting herself down on the window seat beside him. ‘You look very like a man having a bad time at his own party. If you don’t mind my saying.’

  ‘Say whatever you like, Emma,’ he replies, quite pleased to be distracted from his own thoughts. He shuffles along a bit to give her room. ‘I’m having a bloody awful time, actually. Half the people out there I’ve never met in my life, and most of the others I usually take great pains to avoid. I wish they’d all go away. Except you, obviously,’ he adds politely. ‘I mean, you and a couple of others.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Emma murmurs, edging close to him. ‘…It’s not a good party, is it?’

  Horatio says: ‘Don’t suppose you’ve seen my mobile, have you? On your travels? It must be somewhere. I’m worried sick about Maude. I’m –’ He stops suddenly.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ smiles Emma. ‘Not interested in your secrets this afternoon, Horatio. In fact,’ she adds, ‘I’m not sure I’m interested in your secrets at all any more. I’m beginning to wonder if you have any.’

  ‘Really?’ Horatio laughs. ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Well. Unless it’s an elaborate double bluff, which I doubt, it seems to me you can’t have too many secrets to hide or you wouldn’t have allowed these idiotic people to film you, day in and day out.’

  Horatio beams at her. ‘Sorry to disappoint,’ he says. ‘I told you we were boring.’

  Emma licks her lips. ‘I didn’t say you were boring, Horatio…But you’re not drinking. Give me your glass, darling. I’ll fill you up.’

  Outside, Daffy, having laid her plate of delicious mini-quiches on the buffet table by the kitchen, has edged her way across the garden and is standing in the shade, in a far corner of the terrace, quietly watching the other guests, impressed by their ability to find so many things to say to one another. She could join in, of course. There are a few people she recognises from the bar, and though they don’t seem to have spotted her yet she knows she could go over and say hello to them. They would be friendly.

  But there is only one person Daffy can think about at this party; only one person she really wants to talk to, and she’s been racking her brain since the moment she got here, trying to think of a way to approach him. She doesn’t want it to seem…She wouldn’t want to make him think…Her mouth is dry. She feels sick. Though he’s fifty yards away, with his back towards her, she can feel his presence burning her skin.

  She stands unnoticed, except by Jean Baptiste, who takes care not to look her way. He talks amicably to his beautiful sister Arielle, and to a stream of others, mostly women, pinkcheeked from the sun and wine – but his mind is elsewhere – on Daffy.

  He’s pretending to listen to the Mayor, showing off to a group of Englishwomen about his own little lunch party the following day, also for the cameras.

  ‘Sadly, Madame Haunt has been called away in a family emergency, but her husband assures me she will return in time for my little lunch…I think it’s so important that your English viewers can see how nicely we mix together, English and French. Unlike in some villages, as you know, where there is sometimes some small resentment about this “English invasion”…’

  ‘So tell us, who are you inviting, Olivier?’ asks a one-time installation artist called Stella, 44, who has three little English children currently invading his village school; and a husband who commutes from London and earns a fortune as a management consultant for the National Health Service. ‘It sounds like great fun!’

  ‘Ahh! Unfortunately it’s very small. Only the Haunts and ourselves. This is what the producers want, you see. Just a quiet lunch…for the Haunts and ourselves…’

  Jean Baptiste wanders away towards the house. He turns into the kitchen and finds Emma, leaning so close to Horatio that Horatio must be able to see the pores on her skin, smell the red wine and empty stomach on her breath. Jean Baptiste shudders. He wonders, suddenly, how he ever could have found her attractive.

  From the look on Horatio’s face, it seems he’s experiencing a similar awakening. ‘Emma –’ he’s saying kindly, but leaning noticeably away from her ‘– perhaps we should get out and mix with some of the guests. Don’t you think?’

  Emma stops. Looks at Horatio, still with her face half a centimetre from his. A pause, and Emma’s lips curve a little. She sniffs. ‘Good idea,’ she says softly, moving away from him, slowly standing up. ‘Come and say hi to my lovely girlies. They’re out by the pool with your children.’

  Jean Baptiste slips away before either notices him.

  He finds Daffy holding a glass of wine, standing alone by the bough of an old yew tree, in the furthest corner of the garden.

  ‘You’re hiding,’ Jean Baptiste says, coming up behind her. It makes her jump. ‘Why come to a party if you spend all the time hiding behind a tree?’

  Daffy turns towards him, startled. ‘Oh!’ She smiles. ‘Well, there’s no one I really want to talk to,’ she says simply. ‘I mean – apart from you. I came to talk to you. I’ve been sort of sitting here, trying to summon up the courage. I was just about to come over – But, you know, after last time…’ She laughs. ‘And you’ve been looking a bit busy.’

  ‘Busy?’ he says. ‘Talking nonsense to these shiny-faced women?’

  ‘Well – you know. I suppose I was waiting…until there was no one around. Jean Baptiste, I wanted to apologise.’

  He considers her for a moment. ‘I don’t want your money, Daffy,’ he says at last. ‘You must know that.’

  ‘Oh God. Of course! Of course I do. I know that! It was only Skid.’ She stops. Looks at him. ‘Jean Baptiste, I am so sorry.’

  ‘Forget about it.’

  ‘But it was so insulting, and I know you’re not like that. I know it.’

  He shrugs. ‘It doesn’t matter. Now it’s finished.’

  A silence falls and Daffy wonders how to fill it. She knows he mustn’t leave. She knows this is her chance to say something – but what?

  I love you.

  No. Of course not. Apart from anything else, she’s – married. So she nods towards the swimming pool, half-visible between the branches of the yew tree. ‘I was listening to the children. They sound so carefree.’

  He steps closer to her, settles beside her, against the tree trunk. ‘They don’t have to pay taxes,’ he says.

  Daffy smiles. ‘Or worry about things like…’ She falls silent. Can’t think of anything, or nothing she wants to say out loud. ‘Worry about things like…’

  ‘What do you worry about?’ he asks her softly, faintly teasing. ‘What keeps you awake at night, Daffy?’ />
  They’re sitting so close she can feel the warmth of him through the fabric of his shirt. She can feel the vibrations of his voice in the pit of her stomach. She clears her throat, and giggles suddenly. ‘Oh God, Jean Baptiste. Believe me. You don’t want to know!’

  ‘Ahh, Daffy. But I do.’

  ‘No,’ she says, moving a little away from him, trying to collect herself. ‘Believe me, seriously – I don’t think you do…I think you’d be horrified…’

  ‘Then I’ll tell you what keeps me awake at night…’ He turns slightly and looks at her through those clear green eyes. The shrieks of the children by the pool, the distant haw-haw of the expats’ party – fade into the background, to silence…Daffy looks back at Jean Baptiste, and waits.

  ‘But I’m married,’ she says suddenly.

  He laughs, as surprised by her bluntness as she is. ‘You are married. But I don’t see it.’

  ‘Oh, but it’s still – I mean, Timothy doesn’t see it either, I think sometimes. But we have a beautiful, wonderful, lovely little boy…The loveliest, sweetest little boy…I wish you could meet him…’

  ‘I would love to meet him. And I will meet him, I am sure, very soon.’

  ‘I hope so…’

  He puts a hand on her shoulder. ‘Daffy,’ he says softly, ‘I tell you what is in my thoughts at night, every night…You, Daffy.’ She says nothing for a moment. He watches her, waiting. Can’t read her expression. ‘I think about you all the time…I can’t stop.’

  ‘…Thank you,’ she says at last.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ he smiles.

  ‘I mean – I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say…’

  ‘Well –’ he shrugs. ‘Maybe you could tell me I am a fool. Or maybe you could tell me you think about me sometimes – occasionally. Or maybe –’

  ‘Jean Baptiste, you must know I think about you constantly. I never stop. Every time I hear a sound outside, every time I hear the bar door open – I hope it’s going to be you. I – But it’s not – Don’t you see? I have Timothy and James…’

  They are interrupted by the approaching voices of Emma and Skid, deep in their usual drawly conversation.

  ‘Shall we just do it? Here? Under the trees?’ Emma is murmuring, half-giggling, bored to death. ‘Or d’you think Mayor Bertinard might arrest us?’

  ‘He’d probably watch. He’d pull out his filthy little prick and have a gentle tug on it.’

  ‘We could make it a threesome.’

  ‘Em, poppet, you’re disgusting.’

  ‘Not really.’ She stops, only a couple of metres from where Daffy and Jean Baptiste sit, partially obscured by the branches. She doesn’t see them, or she pretends not to. ‘Shall we do it?’ Emma says.

  Skid manages not to groan, but the suggestion fills him with dullness. On the other hand, his cash supply is now low enough to be the cause of some genuine alarm, even with Daffy’s free board and lodging to keep him going. He’s going to have to do something about it at some point. Screwing Emma under a yew tree would certainly be a step in the right direction.

  Emma says, not waiting for him to reply, ‘Actually, Smuttie, I’ve had a masterstroke.’ She sniffs. ‘A brainwave. A fabulously brilliant fantastically erotic – brainwave.’ She takes his elbow and pulls at him. ‘Let’s fuck,’ she says, her voice quite loud, rich with malice, ‘only let’s do it in Maude and Horatio’s bedroom!’

  ‘Christ, Em.’ Skid pretends to chuckle, not in the least aroused by the idea. ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘It’ll drive them crazy!’

  ‘Do we care?’

  ‘Oh, don’t be a priss, Smuttie, sweetheart,’ she says, leading him away. ‘It’ll be fun. It’ll be hilarious…’ She salts the warm air with her musical, malicious laughter and she and Skid amble back towards the house. ‘…Maude and Horatio will be furious…’

  ‘Crikey,’ Daffy laughs in amazement. ‘She’s actually a bit crazy, isn’t she?’

  Jean Baptiste rolls his eyes. ‘You think so?’

  ‘Perhaps we should warn Horatio?…You’re his good friend. D’you think you should say?’

  ‘Oh non. What does it matter? Ils peuvent toujours changer les draps.’ Jean Baptiste takes her by the hand and stands up. ‘Come with me,’ he says, pulling her towards him. ‘Allez. Let’s get away from here.’

  LONG DRIVE HOME

  It’s been a long drive from St Malo to La Grande Forge and Maude is keen to get it over with. Now that the risk has passed, she yearns, with a sickly physical urgency, to be reunited with her children. And with Horatio, too. They need to talk. Or they need to fight. They need to sort out a lot of things, somehow, when the cameras have gone. She told Murray she’d be back in time to be filmed at the Melon Feast, but now, as her small green van beetles through the parched mid-August landscape towards Montmaur, she wonders if she can really face it, having to invent stories about her mother’s health in front of the cameras, having to greet Horatio as if they weren’t on the point of…She wonders what she’ll do if, when she arrives, she finds Emma and Horatio in a corner together? She doesn’t believe she’ll be able to control herself.

  ‘Fawzia? Ahmed? Everyone? Are you awake?’ she calls through to the back. ‘We’re getting quite close to the village now. What I’m going to do – I’m going to drive down a little track I know – it’s about a mile from where you need to get to. I’m going to give you directions to the Marronnier Hotel. It’s in the main square, so you can’t miss it…’

  Ahmed’s face appears behind her, followed at once by Fawzia’s. They look tired, both of them; much older suddenly. ‘Excellent,’ Ahmed says. ‘You are very kind, Maude. Very kind.’

  ‘The owner of the hotel is a sweet woman. English. A bit dozy, I think. But very sweet. She won’t be there, I happen to know, because she’ll be at our party. But there’ll be a girl called Sara in the bar. Don’t be put off by her appearance. She looks a little goofy – well, she is a little goofy, I suppose, and she wears mad orange lipstick. But she’s lovely. She can’t speak a word of English – In any case you’ll be much better off being let in by Sara. She’ll show you your rooms and so on; to be honest I don’t think she’s able to do much more than that. But at least – I mean with a bit of luck it won’t occur to her to ask too many questions…And after that you’re just going to have to stay put until Horatio and I have got your new papers together. OK?’

  Ahmed nods. ‘How long will it be?’

  ‘Not long. Only with these TV cameras hanging around we may get interrupted. Worst case, a couple of days. Best case, by this time tomorrow. And whatever you do, while you’re here, do not try to contact us –’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes. I know that.’

  ‘Do not admit to anyone that you know us. There are enough rumours flying around about us as it is. Try to keep to your rooms. If anyone asks where you come from, what you’re doing here –’

  ‘You forget, Maude,’ Fawzia reminds her gently. ‘We have done this before.’

  ‘Yes. Of course you have. Sorry…But you’ll need some kind of a cover story. Something that absolutely doesn’t link you with us in any way.’

  ‘We have our story prepared.’

  ‘Really? What is it?’

  Fawzia shakes her head. It doesn’t matter. ‘So. We will walk to the village and wait for you at the hotel. And when you are ready you will contact us by mobile?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Maude pulls in to the dirt track. After a bumpy minute or two, she draws to a halt, skirts the horizon, sees no one, and switches off the engine. A welcome silence fills the van.

  The track has led them through a field of maize and into a small wood, dappled with hot August sunlight and filled with butterflies. Maude takes the children here for picnics sometimes. It’s a beautiful spot, good for secret business – and for lovers’ walks. Right now, floating in from the other end of the little wood, are Jean Baptiste and Daffy, not touching yet, but talking, deep in conversation. They don’t hear the van.<
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  ‘I don’t think we should meet up in the village,’ Maude continues. ‘When the stuff’s ready I’ll call, and we’ll meet up back here. OK? So better remember how to get here.’ She turns around. Ahmed and Fawzia are bent over their three sleeping children, trying to wake them up.

  ‘Everyone OK back there?’

  ‘All fine. We’re fine,’ Ahmed smiles. ‘But it would be nice to get out of the van.’

  ‘Mmm? Oh, God. Sorry. Yes, of course.’ Maude makes her way to the double doors at the back of the van, takes one last look around her, and opens them up. ‘Crikey. You poor things,’ Maude says. ‘You poor things…’ They’re so cramped between the furniture, they can’t even stretch out their legs, and there is a pervading stench of sweat, stale crisps and old banana skins.

  The two small children and the gangly Hassan slowly pile out, followed by Fawzia and then Ahmed, carrying a black briefcase, something Maude hadn’t noticed at the beginning of the trip.

  ‘What’s that?’

  Ahmed hands it to her. ‘Money,’ he says simply. ‘For you.’

  ‘What?’ Maude tries to pass it back to him but he lifts his arms, refusing to take it. She puts it on the floor. ‘Ahmed, please.’ She’s embarrassed. ‘I’m not – I don’t want it. This isn’t about money. And anyway, you guys need all the money you can get now.’

  He laughs. ‘You think we haven’t prepared for this day? Believe me, my friend, we have plenty of money.’

  ‘But you have relations…Other people who really need it…’

  ‘Take it,’ he says briskly. ‘Take it – or leave it here in the field for some lucky farmer to discover. I’m sure he would be very happy. Do what you like with it, Maude. It’s for you to choose.’ He looks at her directly. ‘For the moment I have nothing else I can offer you. Only money. We want you to take it.’ He turns to Fawzia for support.