Love in a Warm Climate

by Helena Frith-Powell

  I can see the two Spanish boys blush as they shake Lucy’s hand. She has that exquisite English-rose like quality about her that sends men mad, a kind of perfection that they only expect in porcelain dolls. I remember Lucy was even perfect when she was pregnant; she was one of those really annoying women unaffected by industrial weight gain, swollen ankles and water retention, rather like a superhero impervious to fire, bullets or any other calamity life throws at them. Lucy just grew a neat little bump that sat there, perfectly poised and firm, until a perfect little baby popped out and she popped back into her skinny jeans. It was almost enough to chuck her as a friend for, but she is the only one of the four of us who knows how to read a map.

  “Come into the house,” I say to them, leading them up the stairs. “Mummy, I put you in with the kids. You three will have to slum it between Edward’s room and the spare room. And NO sneaking over to the barn in the middle of the night.”

  “As if,” says Sarah. “I’m far too mature for that kind of behaviour these days.”

  We all look at her but feel the statement is too stupid to warrant any response.

  Sarah and Carla, as predicted, are sticking close by Kamal. They maintain it is because they need Kamal to keep an eye on their picking technique. The fact is, Colette could easily do that, but neither of them is that way inclined.

  Kamal goes off to take the trailer full of grapes to the cave.

  “So,” says Sarah, forgetting about her picking for a minute. “Tell me everything. How are you?”

  “Well, considering my divorce came through this morning and my estranged ex-husband is getting married in two weeks’ time, I’m in pretty good shape.”

  “He’s marrying that woman?” Carla shrieks. “That French puttana? Non é possibile. Why?”

  I sigh. “I really don’t know. He must love her, I suppose. Oh, I know it’s stupid, but this really means it’s over, there’s no going back. Nick and I are an item from the past. On September 15th he becomes Cécile’s husband.”

  “But what about you, cara mia. I understand you have been very busy?”

  I quickly stop feeling so sorry for myself and smile as I remember my kisses with Jean-Claude and Johnny. “I have actually, yes. Well, that is I have found two possibilities. One French, the other English.”

  “What she’s not telling you,” says Sarah, “is that one is a French aristo and the other a film star. I tell you girl, I am NOT feeling too sorry for you right now, even if Nick is marrying Miss Tiny-Tits.”

  “A film star? An aristo? Porca miseria,” says Carla, “What the hell have I been doing all this time? And I still can’t play tennis. Details please…”

  “There’s not much to tell really,” I begin.

  “People always say that when there is,” interrupts Carla.

  “She’s slept with them both,” laughs Sarah. “At the same time, à la française.”

  “Bien sûr,” I joke, cutting another bunch of grapes. I am finding it easier and easier to multi-task here; only a few hours ago I couldn’t imagine chatting while harvesting, but I now feel quite comfortable. “Obviously now I’m in touch with my inner French woman, one man is not enough.”

  “Enough for what?” says a deep voice behind me. I drop my secateurs on the ground.

  Jean-Claude is standing there beaming down at me. I introduce him to the girls, who stop picking and smile as he reaches through the vine to take their hands.

  “How charmant,” says Carla, visibly swooning. “I have so missed continental European men. Enchantée.”

  “Sophie has told me so much about you,” says Sarah. “It’s lovely to finally meet you. I gather you have been a bit of a knight in shining armour.”

  “Even more than I imagined,” I add, giving Jean-Claude a hug. “I found out just before you got here that Jean-Claude is the mystery benefactor behind Kamal. Isn’t that wonderful?”

  Carla, Lucy and Sarah all nod. “Any friend of Kamal’s is a friend of mine,” says Sarah. “Where on earth did you find such a lovely young man?”

  Jean-Claude looks at the ground for a split-second, reminding me fleetingly of the way Edward does the same whenever he has done something wrong. “That, my dear ladies, is my secret. Now if you’ll excuse me, I am going to see if I can help him with the sorting.”

  “Very nice, very nice,” says Carla as she watches him walk away. “Really Sophie, I’m impressed, he’s sexy, and obviously adores you.”

  “Yes, I agree, a real hottie and sooooo French, good enough to eat,” adds Sarah.

  “However did you manage to seduce him? What’s your secret?”

  “It’s all about matching underwear,” I laugh. “Once you’ve cracked that you can seduce anyone.”

  Lucy is the only one who is not overjoyed with the presence of the hot frog, as Sarah immediately dubs him.

  “What do you know about his past?” she asks. “He might be married for all you know, or have a terrible secret in his cellar.”

  “Yes, or maybe he has a trail of mistresses from here to Marseille,” adds Carla.

  “Don’t judge everyone by your own standards Carla,” says Sarah. I can see this is going to get ugly. “It is perfectly possible that the man has never been married because of some tragic saga or long-lost love.”

  “But you have to admit, he’s too glamorous to be single and just wandering around the vineyards,” says Carla.

  “If you like older men,” says Sarah, grinning at Kamal who has come back, and gently placing a bunch of grapes in the white bucket.

  “He was in love with an Englishwoman,” I say. “But his brother ran off with her.”

  “Oh poor thing,” says Sarah. “These Englishwomen, you just can’t trust them.”

  “I would rather blame the brother,” says Lucy. “God my back hurts, how much longer do we have to do this?”

  “Only another two weeks to go for you ladies,” laughs Kamal returning with some empty buckets.

  He seems to inspire them and they pick with renewed vigour.

  “So what has happened with this Frenchman?” asks Carla. “Is he your lover?”

  “No,” I say, embarrassed to be talking about it in case Kamal overhears. “No, he’s, well…”

  “But you have snogged, I know you have, several times,” says Sarah.

  “Yes I remember you telling me about the first kiss,” adds Lucy. “You said it was… hang on, it was a great quote, I even stole it for my book. You said it was ‘like the first sip of champagne, utterly fresh, exciting and delicious.’ That was it.”

  “You’re writing a book?” asks Kamal who has come closer to help Lucy separate two vines. “What about?”

  Lucy blushes slightly. “It’s a kind of a memoir, about a love affair between a young man and an older woman.”

  Kamal grins at her.

  “But really it’s mainly fiction,” she adds. “I mean I didn’t… well, you know.”

  “What Lucy is saying, is that it’s erotic fiction,” says Sarah, gazing at Kamal before adding. “I did most of her research.”

  “Well, if you ever feel like researching any erotic non-fiction, let me know,” says Kamal to Sarah and winks before wandering off to get the trailer.

  Lucy and I make big eyes at each other in the manner of silly schoolgirls. Sarah looks like the cat that’s got the cream as she watches him walk away. Carla looks like she’s about to stab Sarah with her secateurs.

  It’s going to be a long harvest.

  *

  At dinner hardly anyone has the energy to speak, let alone flirt. We eat pasta and drink red wine and by 9pm we have all collapsed into our beds. I fall asleep within seconds and am woken by my phone ringing. I reach for it with closed eyes, assuming it must be Johnny from LA again, with some scheme or other.

  “Johnny, it’s the middle of the night, you are not good for my beauty sleep,” I groan.

  Silence.

  “Hello?”

  “Soph, it’s Nick.”

 
I sit up in bed and look at my clock.

  “Nick, it’s 3am. What are you doing? The kids are all asleep, why are you calling?”

  He sighs. “You know, Soph, Cécile and I are getting married in less than two weeks’ time.”

  “You called me at 3am to discuss your wedding plans?”

  “No, not at all. I’m sorry, Soph, I just really needed to talk to you. I mean, we never really talked about the reality of us splitting up and me getting married and all that, and well, I just couldn’t sleep and was lying here fretting and so just thought I would call and just…”

  “Just what?”

  “Well, just make sure this is what we really want. Make sure that we’re sure this is the best thing. That there really is no chance for us to get back together.”

  Is he for real? I say nothing.

  “I mean it’s all happened so quickly, Soph,” he goes on. “We had a life, a future, and I know I’m the one that messed it up, but is there really no chance for us?”

  I am still speechless.

  “Nick…this is all…too late,” I manage finally.

  “Is it though, Soph?” He has warmed to his subject. “Is it really too late? Do we want to throw everything away? Is it not worth trying again, for the kids, for us?”

  “Nick, you’re having pre-wedding nerves. Did you call your ex-girlfriend before we got married too?”

  He laughs. “No. Soph, I am deadly serious.”

  “And so am I. Forget it Nick, you created this situation, it’s all of your making.”

  “I know, I know, but that doesn’t make it any easier for me.”

  “Easier for you? How the fuck do you think it’s been for me? Coping alone and being dumped for a French woman with small breasts? But I have coped and I am trying to make a success of things and I think it’s bloody selfish of you to phone and put a spanner in the works just as I am getting things together.”

  I feel tears coming on and I do not want to cry. I have already cried way too much over this man.

  “And then there was the Viagra incident – just the icing on the cake of my total humiliation and hurt.”

  “She spiked my drink, Soph. It was meant to be a joke, only it backfired. I just want to talk about this, so we can be sure.”

  I turn on my bedside light. Is this what I want? I imagine Nick lying next to me. Do I want him back in my life? In my bed?

  I take a deep breath.

  “I’m hanging up now, Nick. This is what you wanted and you got it.”

  “When the gods want to punish you, they answer your prayers,” he says quietly.

  “Indeed,” I say and hang up.

  I throw some clothes on and go outside. There is no way I will ever sleep now. I hear noises coming from the Sauvignon Blanc vineyard. Kamal is there with the Spanish lads doing some night-harvesting.

  “Give me secateurs,” I growl.

  “And good morning to you, too,” he grins.

  We work by the moonlight, which is so bright that our shadows and the shadows of the vines are thrown onto the ground. I remember Jean-Claude’s quote about our nights being like the days up north. The cicadas are quieter but still chirpy. There is no wind. It is a still magical night and it has an immediately calming effect on me. Of course I have wanted Nick to call and beg to come back. It is only natural. We still have three children together and I want what is best for them. But too much has happened now for that to be an option. I would never be able to trust him again and, quite apart from that, I reflect as I look at my vineyard and over towards the Château de Boujan, I have finally moved on.

  When I have finished my row of grapes, I tell Kamal I am going for a walk to stretch my legs. I walk over to Jean-Claude’s château. It is now 5am. He is unlikely to be awake, but this can’t wait any longer. I call his mobile and hope he has left it on.

  A very groggy frog answers the phone.

  “Oui?”

  “Jean-Claude, it’s me, Sophie. I’m sorry to disturb you, but I need to see you. I’m walking over to your house now, can you come downstairs and open the door please?”

  “Yes, of course, are you okay?”

  “Yes, never been better.”

  “But what is so urgent? Sophie, it’s 5 o’clock in the morning.”

  “I know and I’m sorry about that but I just had to see you right away.”

  “Okay, okay, I am on my way.”

  I imagine him getting out of bed. What will he be wearing, I wonder? Does he sleep naked? Or does he have striped cotton pyjamas? These are all things I am prepared and eager to find out.

  When I get to his house he is standing just inside the door with a white towel wrapped around his waist. I am relieved to see he is smiling as I walk up the steps.

  “So, ma petite vigneronne, to what do I owe this surprising wake-up call?”

  I walk up and stand opposite him. I breathe in his smell; a lavender eau de cologne mixed with something that is all him. I put my arms around his neck and kiss him. He is startled but then relaxes and kisses me back. He puts his arms around me and pulls me closer to him; I can feel him growing hard under his towel. I release myself to pull my T-shirt over my head and pull off my jeans. I don’t go as far as my knickers and bra (matching, natch), but I do say a silent prayer that the Hitler moustache will be less obvious in this dawn light.

  “Mon dieu,” he says. “You’re so beautiful.”

  I smile and kiss him again, and remove his towel. Luckily there are no neighbours to see us. I am loving the feel of his naked skin against mine and the anticipation of what is to come. I caress his shoulders, his back, his buttocks. He really is gorgeous, toned and firm.

  He moves aside to close the door and then slowly removes my bra. He starts to circle my nipples with his tongue. This sends ripples of pleasure and lust throughout my whole body. I suddenly realise how very long it has been since I really wanted to be made love to; right now I could beg him to pin me down and just do it. But maybe that wouldn’t be very ladylike? These French are a bit more romantic than your bog Irish.

  He kneels down in front of me and removes my knickers. I run my fingers through his hair and hope he is not going to be too amazed by the lack of pubes. Bloody Audrey and her Madame Figaro articles. He doesn’t flinch but starts to circle my clitoris with his tongue. Now I really am going to explode. I’m having that kind of combination between tickling and ecstatic sensation, I half want it to go on forever but part of me can take no more. I kneel down to join him and take his cock in my hand, enjoying my first touch of it, moving slowly up and down. It is what Sarah would call a porn-star cock. I can barely get my hand around it.

  “May I take you to bed?” he says, grinning.

  “You may indeed,” I reply and go with him upstairs.

  Rule 24

  Fidelity is for other people

  The French Art of Having Affairs

  There is a click inside me, a sort of inexplicable and strange physical manifestation of Nick’s wedding. I look at my watch but I know before I see the hands what the time is. It is just after 3pm and Nick will have just said his vows at Chelsea Registry Office. He is another woman’s husband. Will he be faithful to her? Maybe as she’s French she won’t much mind. She’ll be off doing her own thing in her own corner, as Audrey puts it.

  I found Cécile’s bra in Nick’s bag less than eight months ago. Only nine months, but it seems like a different life. Nick’s infidelity, him leaving, marrying Cécile, me shagging a French aristo and snogging a film star, me running a vineyard. How is it possible that all that has happened in less time than it does to carry a baby to term?

  I am sorting the vines in the cave. The children sit outside in a circle. Charlotte is organising a quiz.

  “Is it better to be Spiderman or to have a Ferrari?” she asks Edward.

  “To have a Ferrari,” says Edward.

  “Right answer! Now, what is the nicest animal in the world?”

  “Horses,” says Edward.

&nb
sp; “Wrong answer! Emily?”

  “Sheeps?”

  “That’s the right answer,” says the quizmaster. “Now, Edward, what is the best country in the world?”

  “Is this the London question?” asks Edward. “I want the London question.”

  “I want gets nothing,” says Charlotte.

  “France?” asks Emily.

  “Wrong! The right answer is England because there is daddy there and Granny.”

  “Granny’s here,” says Emily.

  “Only for a holiday,” snaps Charlotte. “Don’t argue or you won’t be allowed to play. Now, what is the best thing for you that you can eat?”

  “Apples?” tries Edward.

  “Wrong answer. Emily?”

  “Is it drinking?”

  “No, it’s fruit.”

  “But apples are fruit,” protests Edward but gets an old-fashioned look from his sister.

  “Now what is the word we should be saying all the time?”

  “I know, I know,” says Edward. “Ketchup.”

  “Wrong! Emily?”

  “Please and thank you.”

  “Is the correct answer. Well done Emily, you won.”

  “What do I win?”

  Charlotte is lost for words for once. I can see tears welling up in Emily’s eyes at the thought of winning for no reason.

  “You win the right to come and help me clean the sorting machine,” I tell her.

  This has an immediate effect. My most expensive and newest piece of equipment is normally out of bounds. This miraculous piece of machinery sorts the grapes from the stems ready for the fermentation process. At the end of each day it needs careful cleaning, which I am doing with a hose and some cloths.

  Emily now joins in. The quizmaster and her friend go off to find my mother.

  “How are you darling?” I ask her.

  “Fine, how are you?” she responds.

  I laugh. “What a polite young lady you are,” I say. “I was just wondering if you missed Daddy or if you’re all right. I don’t really get to talk to you very much.”

  It’s strange, I feel almost shy with her. I am so rarely alone with my children; they are always a troop, a gang of three answering back and bickering. For once I am alone with my little Emily and I am able to hear how she feels about things without the others shouting her down.