Love in a Warm Climate

by Helena Frith-Powell

  I was planning to wink at Johnny, to smile to give him some sign that I did care and that everything would be all right. But when I opened the door to let him in, he had already gone.

  He didn’t show up for work the next day, or ever again. He didn’t answer my calls. I once went to RADA to see if I could spot him leaving or arriving. I did see him, laughing and chatting with a pretty dark-haired girl. I gave up after that.

  Six months after he left, I met Nick.

  “Johnny Fray stars in Peak TV’s brand new adaptation of Jane Eyre, starting Friday at 8 o’clock,” says a moody-sounding voiceover. I feel something move in the pit of my stomach but can’t really identify it. Could it be hunger? I haven’t eaten since Nick left. No, the thought of food makes me feel sick. I gaze at the TV. So now he’s going to play Rochester, my other all-time crush? A man who looks like Heathcliff playing Mr Rochester. You couldn’t make it up.

  “Can we watch?” asks Charlotte. “Please? Johnny would like us to.”

  They love Johnny. They only met him once, but he made a lasting impression on them. Partly because he took such an interest in them, but also because he gave them £20 each to spend on whatever they wanted. Edward bought a pair of Spiderman shoes that flash when you walk (very useful if I ever lose him in a dark room), Charlotte bought a huge furry dog and called it Johnny, and Emily bought two DVDs: High School Musical and The Sound of Music.

  We ran into Johnny when I took the children to stay with my mother in Devon last summer. We went for a pub-lunch in a small beautiful Exmoor village called Bampton. It was one of those rare British summer days that brings everyone outside. I spotted him as soon as we sat down in the garden with our food although I hadn’t seen him for more than fifteen years. My heart was thumping so hard I was worried everyone around us would hear it.

  He was with a whole gang of people who were all laughing at his jokes and gazing at him adoringly. He hadn’t changed at all. The unruly hair was the same, the ubiquitous cigarette was lit. But I suppose I would have recognised him from the television even if I hadn’t known him. Since I knew him and we had that kiss he had won an Oscar, which led to several TV shows and A-list celebrity status.

  He walked over to us as soon as he saw me. “Cunningham,” he said. He had always called me by my surname. “Still as lovely as ever. How are you, girl?”

  “Fine thanks,” I said, shaking all over. It was so strange to see him after so long. I wondered briefly if his first thought was ‘Oh my God, she’s got so fat’. If it was, it didn’t show – he stared at me with total affection.

  “How are you? Well, I mean I know how you are – rich and famous.” I added, rather embarrassed.

  “Yes, not bad for ‘just a waiter,’” he said, smiling. I was catapulted back to that meeting with Lady Butterdish.

  “Johnny, I didn’t mean it, you know…”

  “Cunningham, don’t be silly,” he said interrupting me by putting his hands on my shoulders. I felt my knees buckle slightly as he touched me. “We were young and silly and you did what you had to do to keep your job. Do you mind if I join you?”

  “Of course not,” I said. It was so good to see him. He still looked great; he didn’t look a day older and his eyes were just as mesmerising.

  He turned to my mother. “Hello Mrs Cunningham, how lovely to see you again. Last time I saw you was at Drake’s at Sophie’s birthday, wasn’t it? You haven’t aged a day.”

  “Thank you,” said my mother, looking terribly chuffed. Like most women, she actually believes people when they tell her she hasn’t aged in twenty years.

  “And are these your children?” he said turning to me.

  “Yes, this is Charlotte, Emily and Edward,” I said gesturing to the children, who all, rather miraculously, stood up, smiled and said hello. I was terribly proud of them. Nothing like a real live film star to make them pay attention.

  “Good Yorkshire names,” he grinned. “I’m a very old friend of your mother,” he told them. “Life throws at you many things, but very few friends. In fact, I fancied her. But I was too ugly for her.” He pulled a stupid face that made them all laugh.

  “You’re only ugly when you pull faces,” said Emily. “Otherwise you’re not.”

  She was right. Actually he looked better than most people do even when he was pulling a silly face.

  “Thank you, miss,” said Johnny. “You’ll be a good friend and you’ll have good friends. Look after them – life throws at you many things but few true friends.” As he spoke he turned to me and took my hand.

  “I’ve never forgotten your kindness to me all those years ago in London, giving me that job when I had no experience at all,” he said quietly, almost as if he were referring to the intimacy we had shared. For some reason it made me blush.

  “Your mother is a wonderful person,” he told the children. “I loved her when I was a boy.”

  “Why didn’t you get married with each other?” asked Edward. “Was she your darling?”

  “Maybe because you smoke,” Emily interrupted him, briefly removing her thumb from her mouth. “Mummy hates smoking.”

  Johnny laughed and thankfully didn’t tell them that in those days I used to smoke as well.

  He spent the afternoon with us, charming my mother and the children, who then didn’t stop talking about him for the rest of the holiday. As he sat chatting with us people would come up and ask for his autograph. It was a bit like hanging out with, well, a film star.

  He charmed me too; age had mellowed him slightly and made him more mysterious. And there’s nothing like a few millions and celebrity status to make a man more attractive. But more than any of that was the way he kept looking at me, with a mixture of curiosity and affection. And the memory of that kiss.

  *

  “We’ll see,” I tell Emily who is tugging on my waistband and looking at me pleadingly.

  “It’s on terribly late.”

  “And Daddy might not like it,” says Emily. “He doesn’t like Johnny like we do.”

  “That’s because he’s Mummy’s boyfriend and they kissed on the lips,” says Edward dancing around me. “Kissing on the lips, kissing on the lips,” he chants.

  “Edward, stop it now. He is not my boyfriend,” I say sternly, crossing my fingers behind my back. “I have never kissed him on the lips, he is an extremely old friend and Daddy is just teasing when he says he’s my boyfriend.”

  “When I’m grown up, I’d like a boyfriend like Johnny,” says Emily.

  “Why?” asks Charlotte. “He smokes, you know.”

  “Well, apart from the smoking I mean. But he’s rich and famous and on telly and that’s nice.”

  “Come on,” I say, “we need to get to school. Emily do you really need to wear your cat’s ears?”

  “But I can’t hear without them,” she protests. “And I have to learn French today.”

  I decide to let it go and try another time; there is enough going on today. At least Edward is not wearing ballet kit.

  We decide to walk to school. It means walking through the vineyards of our next-door neighbour, but I can’t see that he’d mind – it’s not as if we’re standing on any plants, as the vines are still just small sticks, but even if they were in bloom there are tracks between them. It is a crisp January morning and the air is cold enough to make your nipples stand on end – unless, like mine, they have lost the habit. There’s not a cloud in the sky. Wolfie the dog, who as the agent said, seems to live at the house, follows us, but at a safe distance. He was obviously badly treated by someone; he seems really scared of people. The only person he goes anywhere near is Nick. I guess I will feed him now – maybe that will help him to grow to trust me as well.

  We are all kitted out with hats and gloves and scarves, Emily of course with her cat’s ears on top of her hat. “Knitting with one needle, that girl,” Nick would say if he were here.

  I can never get over just how much clutter one needs, especially when there are three children
involved. And just where do all those missing gloves and socks go? Are they all partying together, making more odd socks in accessory heaven?

  There are already a few people standing at the school gates waiting for them to open when we get there. The school is made up of two small buildings: one for the kindergarten section and the other for the primary school. I recognise the yellow walls from the website, which has a lopsided photograph where you can just about make out the fact that it is a building and there is a playground around it. There are drawings in the windows of animals, trees and vines, obviously by the children. It is much smaller than the school they went to in London.

  My mobile phone rings. It is Nick.

  “How are you?” he asks.

  “Fine,” I say, not wanting to give anything away to the children. “Just fine. Do you want to speak to the young French scholars?”

  He talks to each in turn wishing them good luck. Edward hands me the phone back.

  “Let’s talk later,” I say. “I need to focus on the kids.” I hang up before he has a chance to say anything that might make me cry again.

  “Are you the new girl?” says a voice behind me as we wait for the school gates to open.

  I say yes, more out of surprise than anything else. The voice is English and belongs to a man wearing a light pink shirt, with big brown eyes and a mop of blond hair.

  “Hi, I’m Peter,” he says, leaning forward to kiss me on the cheek three times. Can’t this man count? “We kiss three times down here,” he explains. “Twice is Parisian. They hate the Parisians here.”

  “Right,” I say. “Good to know. Do you, er, live here?”

  “Yes darling, have done for two years. This is Amelia, our daughter. She’s seven.” He gestures towards an Asian-looking girl wearing a Hello Kitty Alice band and pink dungarees.

  “Oh that’s great,” I say. “My girls are seven too. Maybe she can help them settle in.” I look around for Charlotte and Emily. They are already chatting to a girl with masses of blonde hair wearing a tie-dye dress. They are speaking English.

  “Hey, I thought we were supposed to be in France?” I joke.

  “This is our new friend,” says Emily. “She is going to translate for us.”

  “I could do with one of those,” I say turning back to Peter. “I have to go to the social security office this afternoon. Does your wife live here too?” I ask.

  He starts laughing. Amelia saunters off to join the others.

  “Darling I AM the wife,” he says, taking hold of my hand and patting it. “My other half is Phil. We adopted Amelia from Vietnam when she was a baby. We both worked in advertising in London and decided enough was enough. No more rat race, no more rush-hour tubes or fear of crime. So here we are!”

  “Oh God I’m so sorry, how stupid of me,” I bluster.

  “Don’t give it a second thought. It’s an easy mistake to make. It’s not as if I’m wearing my gay pride T-shirt. Anyway, what brings you here? Someone told me you’re going to make wine?”

  “Yes, that’s the plan, although it will be a slow start. Nick, my husband is going to keep working in London for the next few months…” I trot out that line as if it is still true. What else can I do? I can hardly tell Peter that only one of us around here has a husband and it’s not me.

  “Oh, you poor thing,” he says, once again patting my hand. Now that he’s told me he’s gay it seems perfectly obvious. “Well, if you ever need anything, I’m your girl!” he says, sounding like Jack Lemon in Some Like it Hot. “By the way, I’ve got my shopping hat on today. Anything you need from town?”

  “No, thanks, that’s sweet of you. Where do you go?”

  “Carrefour in Pézenas, it’s the best place around, and then of course Pézenas market on a Saturday for all the fresh stuff. Must dash, see you this afternoon for the school pick-up.”

  The bell rings and we say goodbye. I walk the girls to their bit of the school and watch proudly as they stand in line wearing their matching jeans, dresses and ponytails. I am not one of those mothers with twins who insist on dressing them the same to confuse the rest of the world, and actually Charlotte and Emily are non-identical twins so are easy to tell apart, and of course Emily has her additional ears. But today I thought it might be useful to show a united front. I changed schools when I was little more times than I care to remember and I would have loved to have had a twin with me. There is nothing quite as scary and lonely as that feeling of walking into a school playground not knowing anyone or having a clue where anything is. But the girls seem totally unaffected by all this newness and march into school with great confidence, chatting and smiling all the way.

  They barely notice me say good bye. I walk with Edward to the nursery section of the school, the maternelle.

  The nursery mothers are already assembled. I look at them. They are not a glamorous bunch; most look to be housewives or wine growers and they are not all pencil thin, thank God. One of them stands out; she has blonde ringlets and is very pretty. But I’m relieved to conclude that the mum-upmanship I so loathed in London is not going to be an issue. There people would look at the label on your jeans before they look at your face. And there is no worse start to the day than feeling dowdy and worthless in comparison with other thinner, richer and more fashion-conscious mothers. Here it is clear that no one cares if your jeans come from the local market or Prada. In fact they’d probably think you were deranged to spend enough on a pair of jeans to buy you a whole new wardrobe in downtown Béziers.

  Edward’s new teacher Magali is waiting for him along with her classroom assistant Sylvie. I have read about Magali on the school’s website, which says she has been working at the school for ten years. She doesn’t look older than twenty. Maybe she went straight from nursery school into teaching.

  “Bonjour Madame Reed,” she says smiling. “Et bonjour Edouard, comment ca va? Bienvenue à l’école de Boujan.” She shakes my hand and says something that makes Sylvie laugh. Edward looks dubious. I’m not surprised; I can’t understand what she’s saying either. Sylvie looks like the stricter one; maybe they have a ‘good cop bad cop’ routine going. They would need to do something to control the thirty or so toddlers I see fighting their way into the classroom.

  I am always in awe of people who actually chose this career. ‘What do you want to do when you grow up?’ ‘Be surrounded by screaming excitable and disobedient children whom I will calm down enough to teach to read.’ Yep, sounds good.

  “Bonjour,” I begin. Oh help. What the hell do I say next? Edward seems more confident than I am; he starts to walk towards her. She leans down to greet him then takes his hand and starts walking towards the classroom. This is all going swimmingly.

  She turns and nods as if to say ‘that’s all’ like Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada. I walk back towards home. Have I really just left my three children in a foreign school? How callous it sounds. But there is no other way; I can hardly sit in their classrooms making sure they’re all right. Although it might be good for my French grammar.

  Sarah says the best way to learn a language is to take a lover whose native tongue (no pun intended) is the one you want to learn.

  “I learnt Spanish in three weeks,” she told me proudly before we moved here. “And it would have been less if we hadn’t spent so much time having sex.”

  If I were planning on staying, I might consider it.

  I walk back through my neighbour’s vineyard towards home. There are worse school runs, I reflect, as I see Wolfie come out from the ditch to join me at a distance and the mountains ahead.

  I am just thinking about starting to sand down the shutters before I paint them with the new olive-green colour I’ve chosen to make the house easier to sell, when I am almost deafened by an almighty bang. It comes from nowhere. The shock makes me jump up in the air. I look around me, terrified. It can’t be thunder – there’s not a cloud in the sky.

  A split-second passes and then it happens again. I crouch behind a bush. This
time there is no doubt as to what it is. It’s a gun. Who the hell is shooting at me? And why?

  My first thought is that I have been hit. I look down, dreading to see where I am bleeding from. I can’t feel anything; my whole body is shaking. The faces of the children pass through my mind and I scream out loud.

  “Qu’est-ce que vous faites ici Madame?” says a voice. A rather unattractive man wearing far too many layers of dirty clothes carrying a rifle is standing above me. He looks like Baldrick on a bad hair day.

  I am still too stunned to speak (let alone in French) and far from convinced that I am still alive. Is this what happens when you die? There is no pain: just a man in a cloth-cap with dodgy teeth. I scramble to my feet and try to explain that someone just tried to kill me.

  “C’est une propriété privée ici. Vous n’avez pas le droit de vous promener.” he tells me, pointing his rifle in my general direction. “You have not the right,” he repeats in English when he sees I am not responding to French. I leap away from him.

  “Not the right?” I yell. Who the hell does this man think he is? Anger is now taking over as I realise I am alive and not bleeding to death and that this is the man who shot at me. “You haven’t got the right to go around shooting at innocent people, what the hell were you thinking of, you could have killed me.”

  I’m not sure how much he understands but it feels good to shout. Hell, it feels good to be alive.

  “Vous n’êtes pas de Paris?” he asks.

  Am I from Paris? I translate the phrase in my head. What the hell has that got to do with anything?

  “Non.” I say, remembering that should he try to kiss me, I need to kiss him three times. Happily he doesn’t.

  “Hmm. Bien. But anyway, you have not the right to walk on le terrain of M. de Sard.”

  He throws his rifle over his shoulder and walks away. Great, I think: as well as matching underwear I’m going to have to invest in a matching bulletproof vest.

  Rule 6

  Be breathtaking, be sexy; but above all be discreet