L'amour Actually

by Melanie Jones

  I'd been so intent on inspecting the old barn that I'd hardly noticed the gap in the trees, which offered the most spectacular vista. I gasped. It was so beautiful. To one side, it was heavily wooded with scrub oak, thin trunks, like spiky fingers, poking up through the earth. To the other, newly planted wheat fields stretched as far as I could see and at the bottom, a little river flashed Morse code to me in the sunlight.

  On the opposite side of the valley was Rocamour, so named because of a huge rock that used to overhang an old picnic area where marriages were reputed to have taken place.

  I had read the story about the origins of the name on an expat website. Unfortunately, during one such marriage, the rock inexplicably parted company from the hillside which had cradled it for centuries and fell onto the wedding party, killing everyone. Their bodies remain to this day entombed beneath the rock, captured in time. Still, at least the bride would never have to worry about her husband forgetting their wedding anniversary.

  The village was what was known as a bastide, a fortified enclave built high on a hill so the local lord could keep an eye open for invaders, usually English ones, during the Hundred Years War. Judging by the number of British people reported to live in the area, it had clearly been a wasted effort.

  A lone tractor puffed its way up the hill burping out little clouds of smoke from its exhaust and a bit further over, I could make out a small figure hunched over rows of vines on terraces carved out of the hillside. I marched down the hill with a purposeful stride, reasoning that the sooner I got to the bottom, the sooner I could start up the other side to the village. I was dying to see what it was like and had tried to google it before I left, but apart from some historical stuff like the rock, I had no idea what to expect.

  I stopped briefly to pet a fat white pony that whickered softly as I passed. Limpid brown eyes peeped out from behind a long forelock and he reminded me of the ponies in the Norman Thelwell books that my gran kept in her toilet. I rubbed his soft pink nose and pulled up a handful of grass which he ate as if he hadn't been fed in months.

  'You little piglet,' I said, smiling. As I walked on down the hill, the pony followed me meekly, matching me stride for stride. As we reached the end of his paddock and he could follow me no more, he whinnied pathetically for me to come back and pet him again.

  'Later,' I called out to him, 'later.'

  Further down the lane I came to a beautifully maintained vegetable plot. Alan Titchmarsh would have been green with envy at the neat rows of plants. Along the far boundary, several rows of vines stood to attention basking in the sun that would shortly nurture their grapes. There were no houses nearby and I wondered who the plot belonged to. Whoever it was clearly spent a lot of time on it.

  At the bottom of the hill, I stopped on the little bridge and watched the river running beneath. Silver slivers darted about in the water and further downstream I caught sight of the brilliant rainbow plumage of a kingfisher waiting patiently for his moment to dive under the water for his lunch. I turned and leaned against the bridge, allowing the sun to fall on my face, warming me gently. Bliss! This time last week I would have been doing battle with the London crowds, like a salmon trying to swim upstream, getting my ankles kicked, deafened by the traffic, head pounding from the continuous honking of car horns. And now? I listened. Nothing, no thing. Not. A. Thing. Even the faint whirr of the tractor's engine had faded. For a London girl like me, it was quite disconcerting.

  The road to Rocamour wound up on the opposite side of the valley so, checking both ways, I stepped out into the road. I had, of course, forgotten that in France they drive on the right so my look right, look left and look right again should have been reversed. As I stepped into the road, out of nowhere, a speeding car hove into view, the driver honking wildly when he saw me. Caught by surprise, I leapt backwards straight into the ditch behind me, a ditch which I painfully discovered was full of stinging nettles.

  'Ow, bugger, shit!' I shouted, trying to extricate myself without doing any further damage. Scrambling up the bank onto the side of the road, I sat down to rub my itchy legs. Country lore told me that wherever there are stinging nettles, there are dock leaves, but looking around there was nothing but recently mown grass. I sat for a minute, watching as blotchy patches appeared on my bare skin and cursed my luck at falling down two French ditches in one day.

  Bloody driver didn't even stop, I thought, as I pushed myself off the ground and nipped sharpishly across the road, making sure to look the right way this time, before continuing up the hill towards Rocamour. It was certainly much steeper than I'd thought and within minutes I was breathing heavily, feeling the sweat on my back. Stopping, I bent over, hands on knees, to try and catch my breath. So much for a gentle walk into the village each morning to buy freshly baked croissants! And so much for the expensive gym membership that I'd been forking out for the past two years. I continued on, thinking that I'd never felt more unfit in my life and by the time the final bend was in sight, my thighs were burning and my chest was on fire.

  I stopped again, pretending to admire the view, as a gaggle of noisy ramblers, most of them older than me by a good twenty years, strode past with no signs of flagging. Surely I should be fitter than this? With a final push, and determined not to be beaten by a bunch of Saga louts, I rounded the bend into the village.

  Chapter Four

  A blue and white sign announced that I had finally reached Rocamour. On my left was the church that I had just been able to make out from my garden. It was bigger than I thought it would be, far too big for what seemed like such a small village. The clock appeared not to have moved for many years and was suspended in time at three thirty-five. Next to the church was a small épicerie. I'd check that out later but right now, I had more serious work to attend to.

  Across the square I saw the village café, its outdoor terrace shaded by scarlet awnings in sharp contrast to the bright green foliage of a huge lime tree. Tables were spread out in the shade, many of them already occupied and it obviously did a good lunchtime trade. Oh yes, this was much more like it. People!

  Choosing a table in the sun so I could catch a few more rays, I flopped down in a seat, completely exhausted. An elegant, perfectly coiffured waitress appeared at my side and looked me up and down with a slight whiff of distaste. I imagined how I must look; stung legs, beetroot-red face and hair looking like it hadn't had close contact with a grooming implement for some time. I flattened down my dress and tried to smooth my hair in a feeble attempt to make myself more presentable. 'Mademoiselle,' asked the waitress imperiously, 'que désirez-vous?' Désirez? Desire? She must be asking what I wanted to drink.

  'Un beer?' I said hopefully. Alexandre Dumas, when he came to England to learn the language, had said that English is just French badly pronounced so I worked on the premise that 'beer', pronounced with a vaguely French accent, would do the trick. The waitress sniffed and turned on her heel, disappearing into the gloom of the interior of the café. I breathed a sigh of relief when she returned a few minutes later with a glass of ice-cool beer, condensation running down its sides. 'Trois euros, mademoiselle,' she said placing a till receipt in front of me.

  Nearly three quid for a glass of beer? That's a bit steep, I thought, it's not even a pint. No wonder they don't binge drink in France! I rooted round in my purse and handed her the fifty-euro note. 'Sorry,' I apologised, 'it's all I have.'

  The waitress's glare was only marginally warmer than a nuclear winter as she flounced off into the bar, before returning a few minutes later with a small saucer piled high with euro coins.

  'Sorry, it's all I have,' she said with a sarcastic smile.

  I took the change without comment. Not much point upsetting her any more than I already seemed to have done. Sitting back, I contemplated my surroundings and fellow patrons of the Café du Midi. If I closed my eyes, I could almost be back home, there were so many English voices. Must be a popular spot with holidaymakers I thought, sipping on my ice-cold beer. Picking up
the menu to see what was on offer, the prices seemed eye-wateringly high for a small village café. It was important to pace myself on the money front until I found a job, so eating here on a regular basis was definitely out for the moment.

  Opposite, the little village shop seemed to be in darkness. Funny, I thought, you'd think they'd be open to take advantage of all the lunchtime trade. A sign on the corner pointed to La Poste, the post office and another to a quincaillerie. I had no idea what that was and made a mental note to add it to my growing list of words to check out in my dictionary.

  Stretching out my stinging legs, I pulled my skirt up slightly in the hope that the sun might do something to disperse the ugly-looking white lumps that had spread across them from ankle to knee. I closed my eyes and tilted my face up towards the sun. A cold beer and sunshine in April. Heaven.

  'Mince alors!' exclaimed a male voice behind me. (I made a mental note to look that one up too). 'What has happened to you this time? Another accident? You are certainly accident lying down!'

  Julien! I scrabbled to pull my skirt down. Lying down... lying down? I was nonplussed.

  'Oh, accident prone. Accident prone, that's what you mean.' Google Translate had a lot to answer for.

  'Some lunatic Frenchman nearly ran me over and I had to jump out of his way. I ended up in a ditch... for the second time today. It's becoming something of a habit. No real harm done,' I continued, noticing his concerned look, 'just fell into a load of stinging nettles. Hurts like shit... merde,' I added.

  Julien smiled. I hadn't noticed the dimple in his left cheek before. It gave him an air of vulnerability that I found very attractive. To be honest, I found just about everything about him attractive.

  'Can we join you? Louis will be here in a minute.'

  'Yes, of course,' I moved my bag so he could sit down next to me.

  'Are you eating?' he asked.

  'No, not today. Another time maybe.'

  'And you are settling in all right?'

  'So far, so good. Well, apart from all the ditches I keep falling in to, I suppose.'

  From behind my sunglasses I studied his face. He really was gorgeous. There was something about him that made me want to just reach out and touch him. 'So…' we both said at once. I laughed, feeling suddenly very self-conscious.

  'Ah, l'anglaise again,' said Louis as he pulled up another chair without waiting to be asked and sat down. The moment was lost.

  'Something to drink?' asked Julien, nodding his head towards my half-empty glass.

  'Oh, thank you but no. If I have one more drink at lunchtime, I'll be sleeping all afternoon. No, one is my limit, especially if I'm not eating.'

  'That is pas normale for an anglaise, an English girl. I heard you all drink like a poisson… a fish,' said Louis. I wasn't entirely sure whether he was joking.

  'You know, you really shouldn't believe everything you read in the papers,' I replied. Louis just shrugged his shoulders.

  'So,' he said as his brother disappeared into the bar to order them both a drink and something to eat, 'you have been to this part of France before?'

  'Well, not exactly. I've been to Paris but not here. I've not had much chance to spend time anywhere really, what with work and all that. I used to work in PR. Celebrities and stuff.' He looked decidedly unimpressed.

  'But still, you made the decision to move here. C'est bizarre,' he said breathing out in a long, low whistle and shaking his head.

  I bristled ever so slightly. Put like that, it did sound pretty naive.

  'Well, how much different can it be here than in England? I'll find myself a job. I'm not worried what I do. It doesn't have to be anything high powered, I'm happy to work in a bar or something as long as I can make enough to live on. My friend Tania moved down to Dorset, which is very rural and found herself a job straight away.'

  'Sacré bleu, I have a real lunatique anglaise here. Whatever you read in the newspapers is probably not true, or possibly it is true in Paris, but certainly not down here in la France profonde. Chômage...' Louis searched around for the word '… inemployment...'

  'Unemployment,' I corrected, a snarky note slipping into my voice.

  'Unemployment,' he repeated, emphasising the first syllable, 'is over ten per cent in the country, maybe up to twenty-five per cent in the ados... the young people. And they are French. They have no problems with the language. How you think that you will find a job? You don't even speak French. Even to work in a bar you almost have to go to the Fac... the university now. Look at Noélia,' he nodded his head towards the waitress who was leaning on the door frame looking like someone had stolen her favourite teddy. 'She has a licence in law from Bordeaux and she still can't get a job.' God, I thought, no wonder she looks so pissed off!

  'Well there seem to be loads of English people here, maybe I can find a job with one of them,' I replied defensively, hoping for Julien to reappear. They may have been identical but their personalities were very different and Louis was making me feel slightly uncomfortable.

  'Pah,' Louis almost spat, 'they mostly work on the black, you know, cash only. You need to find a proper job so you can get healthcare and pay your taxes, get yourself a French pension.'

  I hadn't even given that side of things a second thought. I had just assumed I'd find a job, apply for it, get it (of course) and then the rest would fall into place.

  The throaty roar of a car engine put paid to any further discussion on the subject as a Mercedes convertible, which I knew belonged to my bonkers neighbour, raced into the village and turned sharply into the square behind the church. The woman I'd had a run-in with earlier was at the wheel, hair flying out behind her and the same oversized sunglasses shielding her eyes. The clunk of a car door closing was swiftly followed by her appearance – young, spray-tanned a rather alarming shade of orange and wearing a tiny sundress that erred only just on the side of decency and left little room for imagination – or lunch. Long legs led down to a pair of Jimmy Choos that I knew didn't leave much change out of £1,000. She seemed so out of place in this little French village.

  I suddenly had an epiphany. 'Bloody hell!' I exclaimed loudly. All heads swivelled in my direction.

  Louis looked at me as if I had lost my mind, though in fairness that was pretty much how he'd been looking at me since the whole 'moving to France' conversation.

  'I know who that is,' I hissed in his ear. 'That's Tracey Tarrant.'

  She'd been a runner-up in one of the interminable talent shows that had filled my Friday nights, losing out to some boy band from Dagenham. Her record label had dropped her after her second album bombed and rumours had recently appeared in the tabloid press of a very ill-advised affair with a married footballer. So this is where she'd disappeared to. Just wait until the girls back home heard about this one! I whipped my mobile out of my pocket. Damn! No signal again. I watched as Tracey made her way round the terrace until she found a table on her own at the back, half hidden from passers-by. No one seemed to take much notice of her.

  Despite the shade from the lime trees, she kept her sunglasses fixed firmly on her face and seemed at pains to hide herself. Shortly afterwards the reason became clear. The Porsche Cayenne, the one with blacked-out windows from the airport, purred into a parking space in front of the village shop.

  The doors opened and a heavily-muscled leg, clad in shorts, appeared from the door, closely followed by the six-foot-two-inch frame of… flaming hell... it was him!

  'Warren Hartson!'

  It seemed that there had been more to the rumour than just idle gossip, and with his media darling of a wife apparently playing away from home with some actor in Los Angeles, he was clearly putting his free time to good use. I leaned across the table towards Louis.

  'Do you know who that is?' I hissed. 'It's only Tracey Tarrant. She nearly won a talent show a few years ago and there's been a rumour that she's been having a fling with this married footballer – and that's only him, Warren Hartson, he plays football for Chelsea.' I wai
ted for a response. Louis looked at me, baffled.

  'Him I have heard of. He is good but he is not Zizou,' he whispered back. 'But her, I have no idea who she is. Is she unwell? She is a very strange colour.'

  Ignoring the urge to ask who on earth Zizou was, I pressed on.

  'You must have heard of her. She had a single out that went to Number One. It was called "Light Up My Love".'

  Louis frowned and shook his head. 'The French radio stations are not allowed to play much foreign music. Anyway, we have our own celebrities here, so we are not much interested in yours. Johnny Hallyday has a château very close to here.'

  It was my turn to look baffled. 'Johnny who?'

  Louis looked almost offended. He turned to Julien who had finally arrived back with the drinks.

  'Elle ne sait pas qui est Johnny Hallyday!'

  Julien feigned turning away and walking off in disgust then turned back to me smiling, 'You don't know Johnny Hallyday? You have much to learn about France. You have the Internet at your house?'