Love in a Warm Climate

by Helena Frith-Powell

  There’s no denying it, this is your classic sexy older man. And he’s in my vineyard. Actually, he’s in M. de Sard’s vineyard. But what the hell? – he might even be worth getting shot at for.

  “Bonjour Monsieur,” I respond. It’s not a bad start. But then I do what I always do when I’m nervous. I start to gibber. Worse than that I start to gibber in incomprehensible French about the ‘méchant monsieur’ who owns the vineyard and how he should watch out for him and his gun-toting foreman.

  “We can speak English if you prefer,” he says in an accent so sexily smooth I almost swoon at his feet. Pathetic woman. I am even blushing. How did I become such a walking cliché? I will not be moved by a smarmy Frenchman and his charming French manner.

  “Oh, you speak English?” I say. There’s no fooling moi.

  “Yes, I was educated in England,” he replies smiling down at me, eyes twinkling. “Have you lived here long?”

  “Oh, just since the New Year. We bought Sainte Claire, over there,” I say pointing in the general direction of our home.

  “Yes, I know where it is. You say ‘we’? Who is we – you and your husband?”

  Of course my husband is no longer on the scene, but there is no need to let the handsome Frenchie know that, is there? Or is there?

  “We did, yes, but sadly he had to go back to London. So I am here alone now,” I smile.

  Why did I tell him I am alone? What’s wrong with me? I never flirt with anyone. I don’t even ever fancy anyone. Quick, I think – mention the children to make amends.

  “I mean I am here with the children. I, er we, erm”. Come on Sophie, which is it to be? “We have three children.”

  The children! Shit. I suddenly remember why I am here. It would be just like them to get run over while I am chatting up a stonkingly sexy Frenchman.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say rushing off. “I have to run; the children are on their way to the village and I want to make sure they cross the road safely. It was lovely to meet you.”

  “Enchanté,” he shouts after me. “Madame… What is your name?”

  “Sophie,” I shout back, waving as I run. “My name is Sophie. Bye.”

  When I get to the bakery my heart is beating faster than it does after fourteen sun salutations. Is that because of the run or the smooth-talking Frenchman? Maybe a bit of both. Whatever else, I feel very hyper. And damn it! – I forgot to ask his name. Will I ever see him again?

  “Mummy, Mummy, look what happened.” The children drag me to the front of the bakery to show me. Someone has thrown a brick through the window. I can’t believe it. This is meant to be a rural idyll, not downtown Brixton.

  The bakery is dark. There are shards of glass covering the window display of baguettes and wicker baskets and some on the street outside. A few villagers have gathered and there is a lot of muttering. I look around to see if there is anyone I recognise so I can find out what has been going on. Why on earth would anyone want to throw a brick through the window of the Boujan bakery, even if they don’t think much of their baguettes.

  I spot Peter, the male ‘wife’, and his daughter Amelia and walk up to them.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “There won’t be any bread tonight,” he responds and looks at me. “Not that you look like you’d eat any anyway. What happened to the voluptuous yummy mummy I was growing to love?” He takes hold of my hand and makes me do a twirl in front of him while whistling. “My, my you’re quite the little vixen now aren’t you? Even in your rather shabby gym kit. If I weren’t as gay as a badger, as my friend Brad calls it, I might be interested myself. Have you been on some drastic diet?”

  I nod. “Yes, I realised it was time to find my inner French woman before it was too late. But more to the point, what happened here?”

  “Apparently the baker was having an affair with his wife’s best friend. The wife caught them in the bakery covered in flour, kneading each other rather than the bread. Unseen, she ran back to her best friend’s house, took all her clothes and burnt them in a bonfire.” He leans closer to me. “Well, frankly, most of them needed burning. Anyway, then she packed her belongings and drove out of town in a rage, but not before she had put a brick through the window. A most unusual reaction really, considering infidelity is part of family life in France.”

  “My goodness, and I thought we had moved to a sleepy village in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Not a bit of it,” says a man with a mop of grey hair standing next to us. He is carrying a copy of Le Monde and a book; I can just about make out the word Vichy in the title. He looks extremely intellectual. “I met a man in the bar here who claims to have invented the Internet.”

  Peter ignores him and the stranger moves on. “Well sweetie, it is in the middle of nowhere, but sleepy it ain’t. Unless by sleepy you mean everyone is sleeping with everyone else.”

  “Everyone apart from me that is,” I say, not without bitterness. “Having said that, I met a really handsome man just now.”

  Peter raises one eyebrow and looks at me questioningly. “Really?” he says. “Where?”

  “In the vineyard, you know by the Château de Boujan.”

  “Name?”

  “I forgot to ask. I could kick myself. But he was lovely. Very French, very, well, elegant really. And he smelt lovely. It’s the first man I have been attracted to for years.”

  Peter tells Amelia to go and look for some fish in the fountain.

  “And may I ask what your husband will think of your new vineyard friend?” he says when she’s gone. “Should you ever happen to find him again that is? I was under the impression you were not in the market for any side salad, even with French vinaigrette.”

  At first I feel like I have a twig caught in my throat. I can’t say anything. Then it all comes out. It pours out, in fact, more quickly than the water in the fountain the children are all mesmerised by in the square. I tell him everything, from finding the bra and to throwing Nick out to the Viagra incident (major eyebrow raise at that one) and the plan to tell the children this weekend.

  I barely draw breath. It feels good to get it off my chest. But then I feel like a fool. “Oh God I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t know why I told you all that, it’s not as if I even know you. But once I started I just couldn’t stop. I don’t really have anyone to talk to here and, well…”

  “A token girlfriend is better than no girlfriend at all?” he smiles, putting his arm around me. “Poor you, what a cad. How are you going to cope all alone? Will you stay?”

  “Yes,” I nod, scared to say any more in case I crumble again. His arm around me is almost making me cry, but I mustn’t in front of the children. And the whole village come to that. They might think I threw the brick through the window and am regretting it. Or that I’m missing the baker’s baguette…

  “I am going to stay, I am going to make a go of the vineyard. Heaven knows how, but I am determined not to be beaten by this.”

  “So you’re going to make the wine alone?”

  I suddenly realise how ridiculous this must seem. “Yes, well not totally alone. I have Colette. And a few books. And, well, lots of people do make wine.”

  Oh no, the eyebrow has shot up again; someone give this man some Botox. “Indeed, lots of people do. But most of them have more experience of the product than drinking it at dinner parties in Clapham. Have you any idea what it involves? I mean, I don’t want to put you off, but I’m just injecting a dose of reality into your dream of becoming the next Château Lafitte.”

  I look at him blankly.

  “You’ve never heard of it, have you?” He crosses his arms and faces me. “Oh. My. God. You want to be a wine maker and you have never heard of possibly the most famous, and certainly the most expensive, wine in the world. Sophie, I think you need to take a reality check. And you also need to keep an eye on that vigneronne of yours.”

  “Colette? Why?”

  “Well, I’m not one to gossip,” he begins, confirming just t
he opposite. “But let’s just say she has an interesting past.”

  Before I can ask him any more, the children have all rushed over to tell us about the fish who live in the fountain. Apparently there are three of them. One husband and two wives.

  “Sound like anyone we know?” quips Peter.

  “At least I was the first wife,” I retort.

  The crowd outside the bakery has been dispersed by the arrival of the police to investigate the crime scene. Not that any of the villagers are criminals – at least I don’t think they are. But if there is no reason to get involved with the police then it’s better not to, as Agnès my grumpy cleaning lady never tires of telling me. To the French, anyone in authority is there to make you pay tax, which you obviously have to avoid.

  I say goodbye to Peter. “Good luck with Château Corkscrew,” he calls after me. “Let me know if you need any grape-pickers come September. You do know you need to pick them, don’t you? Or did you think the vines just give birth to small perfectly formed bottles of Chardonnay?”

  The children and I walk towards home, I look across the vineyards in the hope that the handsome French stranger will reappear. No such luck. But Wolfie comes running towards us. As he runs it looks as if his tail is going round in a large circle behind him, almost in time with his eager steps. He is so happy to see us I feel floods of relief that we are not going. But I am worried about Peter’s “reality check”. It’s clear I have a long way to go.

  My worrying is interrupted by my mobile phone ringing.

  “Hello darling, how are you coping?” It’s my mother.

  “I’m fine, thanks,” I reply. At least I was until she called. Oh help, she’s bound to want to interfere in some way. “How are you?”

  “Oh very well, thank you. But I’m worried about you. I’ve been talking to friends and I think what you need is a holiday. This sort of thing is very traumatic. Can you get away from the vineyard?”

  “Mother, I’m fine, thanks, really. I can’t go anywhere. I’ve got to get things organised here. There’s a lot to do, you know.”

  “I realise that, darling, but there’s no point wearing yourself out. I have a plan, leave it with me.”

  “Please do not plan anything,” I tell her. The last thing I need is my mother carting me off somewhere when I have a whole dictionary of wine-making to inwardly digest and make sense of. “I am coping, really, thanks anyway.”

  “Is that Granny?” says Emily, “Can I talk to her? I want to tell her about the brick.”

  I hand over the phone to my daughter. Charlotte, of course, immediately wants to do the same thing, so I have to distract her by promising she can chose my outfit for the dinner party.

  She is thrilled. “Mummy, you’re going to look like a princess,” she says confidently, marching me up the stairs. “Do you still have your wedding dress?”

  “I think a wedding dress might be a bit over the top for a dinner party,” I say.

  “Do you like dinner parties?” she asks.

  “Sometimes,” I say. “It all depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On what they talk about really, or who is there, if they are fun or not.”

  “What do they talk about?”

  I remember Nick complaining about dinner parties in Clapham. “Well a lot of people talk about commuting and nannies and schools,” I say.

  “What’s computing?”

  “Commuting; it is getting to and from work.”

  “That doesn’t sound interesting, that’s just about trains.”

  “You’re right. But I hope as we’re in France and we don’t have to commute anywhere, or have nannies, they will talk about something else.”

  “I hope so too,” says Charlotte as we walk into my bedroom and she makes a beeline for the wardrobe. “Otherwise you might fall asleep. Who’s going to keep us?”

  “I will get you ready for bed and then Agnès will come.”

  “Oh noooooo,” wails Charlotte. “She’s so grumpy. Please Mummy, do you have to go?”

  At that moment half of me feels like doing what I always feel like doing when one of my children asks me for something. I want to give in. I want to hug her and tell her that no I don’t have to go and see the relief and happiness in her lovely little face.

  Then a rational voice comes into my head and tells me that my children will survive one evening with Agnès and that I need to get out, to make friends, to make a life here. It’s all right for them, they’re at school. If I don’t go out I’ll never meet anyone. I can’t expect to make friends in the vineyard every day.

  “I’m sorry, darling,” I say. “I really want to go, and you can watch a film and then go to sleep, and she might be in a really good mood this evening.”

  “Who?” asks Edward, who has just come in, closely followed by Emily and my mobile phone. “Who might be in a good mood?”

  “Agnès,” Charlotte spits out. “Mummy is going out and Agnès is keeping us.” She makes me sound like the most evil woman alive, or ‘the worst mother in the world’ as Edward calls me when I refuse him something that he wants.

  I hold my breath waiting for them all to start wailing, squealing and shouting at me. They do. But I am not going to spend my life as a single parent held hostage to a lot of noise, so I shoo them all into the bath and start thinking about what to wear to dinner.

  Charlotte will not be budged from either my wedding dress or the little black number that I wore on my first date with Nick. Just for fun I try it on. There is no way I will get it over my hips, is there? Oh my God, there is! But the zip will surely refuse to do up? Okay it’s half-way up, but what happens next? I freeze out of fear of being stuck there like a contortionist, unable to get either in or out of the dress. This happened to Carla once in H&M in Oxford Street. In the end she had to get three sales assistants to wrench her out of the thing.

  “They were all women,” she complained. “Otherwise I might have bought the damned thing.”

  I might starve to death in my bedroom, unable to move or raise the alarm because the dress is too tight.

  I keep going, rather gingerly. It seems to close smoothly. Yes! Maybe I will have to invest in a whole new wardrobe before buying the harvesting machinery I need? It’s a tricky one; new barrels or new bras? Maybe I should have kept Cécile’s. It would almost fit me now.

  I look at myself in the mirror. I can’t believe I can wear this dress again. Suddenly I feel reborn. And of course you can never go wrong with black. It seems ironic that every time I look at it I am reminded of my first date with my then husband-to-be. Should I be in tears over this fact? Maybe, but being able to get the bloody thing on and done up has certainly staved off depression for now. I carefully take off the dress and carry on with my beautifying.

  I rub a conditioning oil treatment into my hair. My arms are so tired from the endless downward dogs I’ve been doing along with the work in the vineyards, I can barely lift them to my head.

  Next it’s time for a face pack. I have bought a small sachet containing some wondrous mix from the pharmacy in the village. It only cost five euros so I’m not expecting miracles, but as I’m learning from my book about French women, the more time you spend pampering yourself and getting ready to go out, the more confident and attractive you feel. I rub the gunk all over my face; I look like a deranged ghost. I guess the plan is that once you take it off you look so much better you think the damn thing has worked.

  I decide to take full advantage of my appearance to scare the children. I creep up the stairs to their bathroom and am about to jump in with a ghostly wail when I hear Emily’s voice.

  “Well, where is he then? He hasn’t been here for a long time, and no one ever talks about him. That’s what happens when people die. I saw it in a film.”

  “But if he had died, Mummy would have told us,” says Charlotte. “And he has called us, lots of times.”

  “Not for two days,” says Emily.

  “If who died?” asked Edwa
rd. “I don’t want anyone to die.”

  “Daddy silly,” says Emily. “Don’t you ever listen?”

  Edward starts crying.

  I run in and the girls both scream in horror. I have forgotten I look as dead as they think their father is.

  “Edward, girls! Daddy is NOT dead, don’t be silly,” I say, leaning down to hug them.

  “You look terrible,” says Charlotte.

  “Really bad,” adds Emily.

  “It’s just a face pack to make my skin nicer, don’t worry,” I explain.

  “So where is Daddy?”

  I decide that half an hour before I am going out is not the time to tell them about Cécile and her strategically placed bra.

  “He has had to work a lot but is coming out this weekend, so you’ll see him then,” I say cheerily. “Now come in, let’s get into our jim-jams.”

  By the time they are ready for bed and settled in front of the video with Agnès in charge, I have about 15 minutes to get ready, but I do at least remember to wash my face pack off.

  I arrive at Calypso’s house at quarter past eight – politely late – carrying a bottle of wine and some flowers. Maybe this time next year I will be carrying one of my own bottles of wine. But suddenly that seems a long way away.

  The door is flung open by a man wearing chinos and a pink shirt. He is blond, slightly balding, quite round-faced and friendly-looking. His body looks like it has undergone a lot of heavy-duty training.

  “Hello, you must be Sophie. I’m Tim, Calypso’s husband,” he says grabbing my hand and shaking it vigorously. “Come in, come in, thanks so much for the wine, do give the flowers to Calypso, she’ll be thrilled.”

  I follow him into the sitting room saying a silent prayer that there won’t be a sandstorm this evening. I never did buy that bulletproof vest.

  Calypso is sitting with another couple on a large cream sofa. There are drinks on the table in front of them and bowls of nuts and crisps. I am introduced to Robert, who then introduces his rather mousy wife Helen as his ‘other half’. They were either both too busy to get changed or they are taking the shabby chic look to extremes.