Love in a Warm Climate

by Helena Frith-Powell

  “I do miss Daddy,” she says. “I miss his jokes and him being here, but I’m used to it now.”

  She looks so serious, so brave; I want to cradle her in my arms but am worried I’ll start crying. So instead I keep spraying the sorting machine.

  “I know darling girl, I miss his jokes as well. But he’ll come and see you soon.”

  He is due to come over after his honeymoon with the new Mrs Nick Reed to tell them about their wedding and take them back for the celebration party. They decided to keep the actual wedding very small.

  “Will he come back and live with us? Or is he staying with Cécile?”

  “He’ll stay with Cécile,” I say.

  “Will you be lonely? Or will you marry someone else?” she asks, adjusting her cat’s ears.

  It’s a good question. I think for a few seconds.

  “I won’t be lonely, I’ve got you. And for the moment, no, I don’t think I will marry anyone else. Not just yet anyway.”

  I turn off the hose. “Well done,” I say, “it’s all clean and ready for another day’s work tomorrow.”

  Emily puts down her cloth. “Good. Sleep well Mr Sorting Machine.”

  I join in the yoga session a few minutes late. Kamal has got Sarah and Carla doing sun salutations. He is directing their breathing, making sure it coincides with their movements. I find yoga relaxing even on my own but when you are being told what to do it is even more so. You just abandon yourself to your teacher and the only thing you need to focus on is doing the posture well, a big part of which is breathing in and out at the right time. It’s amazing how connected your body and breath are, how your breath can actually help you get into positions you thought were impossible. Especially things like forwards bends, which we are working on now. We are sitting on the floor with our right leg bent and trying to lean over the other leg as far down as we can.

  “Look,” says Sarah excitedly, I can touch my knee with my nose.”

  “You have to have a very big nose to be able to do that,” says Carla.

  From the village I can hear the tannoy with the disembodied voice of the mayor’s assistant announcing the arrival of the ‘marchand de coquillages sur la place’. I love that sound, though we only hear it here if the wind is coming from the south, which normally means bad weather will follow. On Thursday nights it announces that “Chez Jojo est sur la place”, Chez Jojo being the red and cream pizza van from which we get delicious Margaritas every week, bringing them home and covering them in rocket to eat like sandwiches.

  The wind here is remarkable; you notice it most when it doesn’t blow, because it is almost constant, even if just as a pleasant breeze, as it often is. There is the Tramontane that comes from the north and brings clear skies, drying the vines and the land like a hair dryer, and the Marin that comes from the sea, bringing mist, clouds and rain but seldom any mud as the wind dries the ground in a day or so.

  My forward bend and peaceful thoughts are interrupted by my mother running towards me shouting.

  “Fire, fire, there’s a fire in the vineyard. Come quickly, call the fire brigade!”

  We all leap up and run towards my mother, who is frantically waving and motioning for us to follow her. She runs towards the Cabernet Sauvignon vineyard, where we see flames roaring. I immediately think of my favourite olive tree, which is ridiculous – I should be more worried about the vines and all that money going up in smoke.

  We get there around the same time as the fire brigade; someone must have called them earlier. I see Jean-Claude showing them where to park and feel total relief. Once again he’s come to my rescue.

  Kamal has dragged the hose from the cave as close as he can get it and the rest of us work with the firemen to fill up buckets of water and throw on the flames.

  Carla, Sarah, Lucy and I stand in a line passing water-filled buckets to Jean-Claude, who throws them on the burning part of the field. It helps a little, but the main fire control is being done by the gallons of water sprayed from the fire engine.

  After about half an hour the fire eventually concedes defeat, like a dragon that has lost its battle for life.

  We all stand there surveying the damage like Scarlett O’Hara in Gone with the Wind. My olive tree is fine – a little bit charred with some damaged branches, but it will survive. However, about a quarter of the vines are burnt to a cinder. I am cursing the fact that we hadn’t yet picked them.

  “Don’t worry,” says Kamal. “They will come back quickly. It could have been a lot worse.”

  My mother comes and puts her arm around me. “I’m sorry sweetheart, but at least no one was hurt.”

  “Are you insured for this sort of thing?” asks Lucy.

  “I don’t know,” I say, shaking my head, still unable to believe what has happened. But it’s true that it could have been so much worse; the fire could even have reached the house with this wind and the dryness right now. But how on earth did it start and what can I do to make sure it doesn’t happen again?

  I look over towards the firemen and see Jean-Claude receiving treatment for burns. Poor man, he was here right at the beginning, he must have tried to stop it with his bare hands. He walks towards me when he catches me looking at him. I feel like running into his arms but don’t want to make a spectacle of myself.

  “I’m so grateful Jean-Claude. Thank God you were here. It could have been so much worse.”

  Instead of answering he just looks at me with pain and sadness in his eyes.

  “Jean-Claude, what is it? What’s the matter? Are you all right? Have you been badly hurt?”

  He shakes his head. Oh my God, I think, it looks like he’s about to cry.

  “Jean-Claude, don’t worry, it’s over, everything’s fine. We just need to find out what started the fire so we can avoid it happening again.”

  He puts his bandaged hands on my shoulders and looks me in the eye.

  “I started it, Sophie,” he says, before walking away.

  Rule 25

  The fantasy is often better than the reality

  The French Art of Having Affairs

  The harvest is almost over. There have been no major disasters since the fire and most of the grapes are safely in. The fermenting period is about to begin in earnest for the vines we have picked. But tonight it is party time.

  I am still not feeling in much of a party mood after the fire and the discovery of Jean-Claude’s betrayal, but I feel I owe it to all my helpers who have done a great job. Carla and Sarah, spurred on by a desire for Kamal’s approval (and his body) have worked like Trojans. Colette and Calypso have been fabulous too, Calypso not working every day but whenever she’s been able to.

  Lucy has used her time as a manual labourer to think about how her memoir should end.

  “I suppose a happy ending would be that my heroine slots back into her old life without anyone noticing?”

  We all nod in agreement.

  “A book needs a satisfying ending,” she goes on. “Is that satisfying enough?”

  “Maybe the reader should be left with a hint that there is something more to come around the corner?” says Sarah.

  “Is that realistic?” says Lucy.

  “Yes!” we all shout at once. “Otherwise what’s the point?”

  The party is going to take place mainly outside, on and around the terrace by the kitchen. We have a band coming to play; some friends of Colette’s who live towards the mountains and play anything you want to hear. I have given them a list of some songs I would like. She tells me they are in their late 50s but will play for free, so who am I to be ageist? And rather like Alice in Wonderland finds no point in a book without pictures, I see no point in a party without music.

  Johnny has promised to come. He is in Paris filming and will be here by 8 o’clock. I haven’t seen him since his last visit but we have been in touch constantly. I am really looking forward to seeing him. I thought I had made my decision, but I was clearly wrong.

  I keep thinking about Jean-
Claude. He came by with a letter the day after the fire. In it he explained what had happened.

  “I just can’t believe it,” I told the girls after I’d read it. “It’s the kind of thing you expect from an Agatha Christie novel, not the sort of thing you think will happen to you.”

  Basically the situation was this. Jean-Claude’s brother, the one he fell out with over the English girl, had actually hired Kamal, who was unaware that he was being paid to spy, he just thought the brothers wanted to help me.

  Alexandre, Jean-Claude’s brother, was intent on getting hold of Sainte Claire as a way to gain forgiveness from Jean-Claude, because Jean-Claude had always loved the property and spent a lot of his childhood there with his grandmother.

  For the boys it had always been a kind of haven, somewhere they could run to and get away from the endless socialising and arguing of their parents in the château.

  Alexandre had tried to buy Sainte Claire before Nick and I did, he was the one who had made the lower offer, and he just couldn’t raise the cash to match our bid. He didn’t ever hear about it being for sale again during the time I was leaving.

  He got Jean-Claude involved in the day-to-day working of the plan and told him to get as close to me as possible, because he is based in Aix, where he lives with their aunt, having split from Jean-Claude’s English fiancée.

  “It seemed like a good plan to begin with,” Jean-Claude wrote. “I supposed a little part of me also wanted revenge on Englishwomen in general. But that night when I went to the cave to put vinegar in your Cabernet Sauvignon I realised I just couldn’t go through with it. I had grown too fond of you. I wanted to tell you everything then and there but I was worried you wouldn’t understand. We French have a very different attitude to family and love and land. I was convinced you would think I was a crazy person. So instead I tried to get Alexandre to stop. But by then he was on some kind of mission, he gets obsessive, like he did when he stole my fiancée. He said I had clearly lost my head to yet another English salope and needed saving from myself. I saw the fire as I was walking over to help with the harvest. Alexandre got one of the village boys to start it I’m sure. I got there as soon as I could to stop it and minimise the damage.

  I don’t expect you to forgive me, I have behaved abominably, but I just want you to know that you and the children are the best thing that ever happened to me. You gave me a whole new view on life, with no bitterness or ambition or feuds.”

  I have no idea where Mr Fox, as we have nicknamed him, is now. Probably sulking in his lair. Thank God the girls were all here to cushion the blow, although two betrayals in less than a year does seem slightly excessive. Could it be third time lucky with Johnny? Or maybe this is a sign that I should give up on men. I could always ask Calypso for some Sapphic tips.

  Right now though I have to get ready for the party. It has been an exhausting few weeks.

  The most important thing, of course, is to decide what to wear. It is still extremely warm. I need something sleeveless if I’m not going to end up in a sweaty heap. I opt for a pretty flowery pink strappy dress I picked up in Pézenas market for only 20 euros. It is cut on the bias, and the right length for me, if I go by the St Tropez method of measuring lengths.

  Charlotte and Emily come into my bedroom. They are dressed in lovely pink and white polka-dot dresses my mother brought them from London.

  “You look gorgeous girls,” I tell them. “Emily, is there any chance you could not wear your cat’s ears for once?”

  “No,” she says.

  Edward comes in wearing his Spiderman suit.

  “You look stunning, Mummy,” he says. Stunning is his new word; he uses it in most sentences.

  “Thanks baby,” I say, brushing my hair and adding a final touch of lip-gloss. “Let’s go downstairs.”

  Kamal and the girls have done everything. The terrace looks lovely, lit up with fairy lights and lots of candles in brown paper bags. This is an old trick of Carla’s: put some sand in a brown paper bag and then pop a candle in, and the effect is great while being so much cheaper than buying candleholders.

  “We put the candles in,” says Charlotte proudly.

  “All of them,” adds Emily.

  “I did too,” says Edward.

  “No you didn’t,” snaps Charlotte, “you just got in the way.”

  A diversion is created by the band arriving in a battered old white Renault van. Simon and Ray, the singer and lead guitarist, who both greet me like a long-lost sister. Simon looks like he’s rocked with a few girls in his time, he has a definite twinkle in his eye. Ray has an impressive moustache that reminds me of a character in that poem I often read to the children; The Walrus and the Carpenter. Ray surveys the terrace and at the stage we have created for them using wooden planks.

  “Groovy,” he says, looking anything but.

  “Is that the Walrus?” whispers Edward to the girls, clearly thinking along the same lines as I am.

  Emily tells him to be quiet. I send them off to help my mother, who is preparing some inedible eats for the guests.

  I look around. I feel a real sense of achievement. The first harvest is over, the wine is bottled and ready to be sold with around £10,000 already pre-ordered thanks to my wine bonds and marketing drive to local restaurants and hotels. Of course there is a long way to go before the business is really stable, but it is a great beginning. My personal life may be all over the place, but the cicadas are chirping and I finally believe that Domaine Sainte Claire can be a success.

  An hour later and the cicadas are drowned out by Hotel California. It’s amazing how the proportions of a space change when it is filled with people, the noises of chatter, of glasses clinking, laughing and music. The crowd takes on a sort of life of its own. I am loving the buzz of my own party, of my friends bonding, eating, drinking. Is this how cicadas feel every evening? Is this why they are constantly chirping?

  For the first time since Jean-Claude went from lover to villain I feel really relaxed and happy. That might also have something to do with the white wine, the fact that the stress of the harvest is over, and also the anticipation of Johnny showing up later on.

  Kamal and Sarah are dancing; they look good together. It was only a matter of time. She is still seeing her CEO lover but obviously she does as she pleases when they’re not together. Maybe I should behave a bit more like her. Why does it have to be all or nothing with me? If I had taken Audrey’s advice and had a fling with Johnny at the same time as Jean-Claude, then I might not have been so heartbroken about the duplicitous frog. Being faithful has certainly never got me anywhere. I am beginning to think these French women are on to something.

  “Is your friend Carla married?” Tim nice-but-dim is suddenly standing next to me.

  “No, but you are,” I smile.

  He gives me a stern look.

  “She’s divorced,” I go on. “But normally she goes for tennis coaches.”

  Tim’s face lights up. “I used to teach tennis in the Army, we had marvellous facilities at Aldershot. Thanks, Sophie. Oh, great party by the way.”

  He skips off back to Carla to discuss forehand slices, or whatever it is tennis players talk about.

  I go and sit next to Lucy, who has been entertaining the children by telling them short stories.

  “Do you miss your kids?” I ask.

  She smiles. “I know I should, but I’m having such a lovely time, to be honest I haven’t really thought about them that much. I think I needed to get away for once. I really love it here, you’ve done a marvellous job, you know. You have so much to be proud of.”

  I feel close to tears. This is the kind of thing my mother should say but never does.

  “Thanks Lucy, and thanks for all your help during the harvest.”

  “Oh, all that bending over, sweating and suffering in the scorching sun, you mean? I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Cheers, here’s to you, Sainte Claire and your future together.” She raises her glass.

  “
And you’re okay about Josh?”

  She twitches her nose, a little in the way Samantha from Bewitched does when she casts a spell. This is as close as Lucy will normally get to showing any emotions.

  “I miss the excitement of him being there, and of course the sex. But the book is a good substitute.”

  “How are things with Patrick? I mean, are you…?”

  “Having sex?” she interrupts. “Yes. Not much, but probably as often as most couples who have been married for almost 10 years. Of course it’s not as much fun as sex with a young man who looks like a Calvin Klein model, but I am determined that my affair will not break up my marriage. I would never forgive myself. Are you OK, after the Mr Fox incident?”

  I am about to answer when a loud, familiar sound drowns out our little party.

  Of course it’s Johnny and his chopper; why can’t the man make a more subtle entrance? And being pathologically scared of heights, can I really marry a man who travels in a helicopter?

  The locals look terrified; I think they assume anything loud with lights is going to be the taxman. I walk over the vineyard to meet him. I feel a little giddy and the walk does me good. It’s amazing how much wine you find yourself downing as you stand around and chat. Without even meaning to I am slightly tipsy and feel the need to sober up. Nothing like the wind from the helicopter blades to do that; my breath is taken away as I get closer and see Johnny jumping down the steps towards me, doubling over to avoid the worst of the wind.

  “Hey gal,” he shouts and waves. When we get close, he puts his arms around me and I look up at him.

  “Good to see you, Cunningham,” he says, planting a kiss on my forehead.

  “You too,” I smile. “You certainly know how to make an entrance. They’re expecting President Sarkozy down there.”

  “I hope they won’t be too disappointed,” he laughs. “Shall we?”

  He extends his arm to me and we walk towards the rest of the party. I am grinning like the cat who got the cream as I arrive with my film-star friend. Carla, Lucy and Sarah are all jostling to be the first to greet him.