L'amour Actually

by Melanie Jones

  I put the car into reverse, eased out the clutch and manoeuvred it gingerly backwards round the side of the cottage, then headed up the drive. At the top, I had to think for a minute about which side of the road I had to be on, but as I'd seen all of three cars on the lane since my arrival, the chances were it wouldn't really matter.

  I passed Laure in her front garden and waved and smiled but was rewarded with nothing but a wary stare that followed me until I rounded the corner to head down the hill out of the hamlet.

  As we passed the vegetable garden that I had noticed on my first day, I saw an elderly man stooped over a hoe, tending to his crops. I tooted the horn and waved. He stared back at me. What is it with these people? I thought. They all seem so unfriendly. I wave, they stare. I wondered whether to broach the subject with Julien, but not wanting to seem critical of his fellow countrymen, I let it go.

  'Salut, Hubert,' Julien called out of the open car window. The old man waved and the shadow of a smile passed across his face.

  Oh fine, I thought, bristling ever so slightly, ignore me, why don't you? 'So, who's that then?'

  'Him? That is Hubert Marcel, he lives in the house down the lane just before yours, you know, the one with all the rubbish in the garden?'

  'Can't really say I've noticed but then it's a bit tucked away I suppose. Maybe I'll pop round and say hello.'

  'Watch him, he's an old dog.'

  'Oh come on! Him? He's got to be at least eighty.'

  'He's fifty-three.'

  'Ah.'

  As we drove past, I caught sight of a woman coming out of the shed behind Monsieur Marcel. She was wearing a tiny gold bikini and heels, the perfect outfit for gardening. She swaggered over to Monsieur Marcel, her rather ample décolletage bobbing as she walked, and planted a kiss on his cheek. He squeezed her bottom playfully.

  I nearly drove the car into a tree. Clearly there was life in the old dog. 'So, er, who's the woman?'

  'Oh, that's Christine. She used to be married to his brother.' Julian told me matter-of-factly.

  I arched my eyebrows. Maybe Claudine in the shop was right about all the intermarriage. 'His brother? Did he die or something?'

  'Oh no, Hubert's wife ran off with Christine's husband last year. They live down in Marseilles now.'

  'Escaping the scandal eh?' I smiled knowingly at Julien. He looked at me nonplussed.

  'No, he was transferred with his company,' he replied, clearly thinking this sort of wife swapping was the most natural thing in the world.

  'Oh… right.' Life in the country was clearly never boring.

  At the bottom of the hill, I turned right towards Bussières. With the window down, the wind in my hair and a gorgeous man in the seat next to me, I thought I'd never been happier.

  The tensions of London were slowly washing away. I could feel my shoulders dropping gradually and the constant knot in the back of my neck was hardly noticeable any more. Fields of young wheat waved languorously in the sun. The sky was the fresh blue of cornflowers and puffy, white clouds scudded across it at a leisurely pace. That seemed to sum up this little part of France to me. Leisurely. Everyone seemed to have more time. No one was rushing around with a Starbucks in one hand and a sandwich in the other; in fact, no one was rushing at all. I smiled to myself and thought, you clever girl, you've done the right thing.

  My mind went back to the moment I had broken the news of my move to my friends. It was on my birthday and I had planned to meet up with my best mates at The Archangel, my favourite restaurant. With a few bottles of the bubbly stuff pre-ordered and a table booked for eight o'clock, I was ready to party.

  I had worked in celebrity PR since leaving university and although my friends thought it unspeakably glamorous, especially as I worked with so many famous faces, the truth was I'd had enough of my boss, a misogynistic public school idiot who had changed his name from Clive to Zane to try and be cool. The job paid well but I rarely seemed to have the time to spend it, what with the twelve-hour days I regularly worked. I had been starting to wonder if there was more to life than collapsing in front of the television each evening.

  It all started when I'd had a full day ahead of me accompanying one of our clients, Kitty Moseley, to a photo shoot for a Sunday supplement. Kitty was probably the most temperamental and demanding of the not-quite-supermodels and while her agent might describe her as 'elfin', 'a stunning pre-Raphaelite beauty' and 'a consummate professional', I'd describe her as a pig from hell.

  Things had got off to a bad start when I forgot to order Kitty's super-skinny double latte with extra foam and a shot of vanilla. Well I hadn't actually forgotten, it was more that I hadn't been told that Kitty was incapable of functioning without one. Kitty had thrown a complete hissy fit and insisted that her Reiki master, a pumped-up body-building type with the unlikely name of Derek, be summoned so she could get her chakras re-aligned before she could possibly start work. Kitty retired to the dressing trailer to have them put back wherever they were supposed to be, leaving Bruno, the photographer, and the rest of the crew to spend the next two hours glaring at me. Mind you, judging from the moaning that was coming from the dressing room, I was fairly sure that it was more than just Kitty's chakras that were being re-aligned.

  When we eventually got to work, Shitty Kitty, as I now called her under my breath, insisted that make-up be on standby after every single shot as she had discovered… shock, horror… the most enormous spot on her chin, so enormous that no one in the room except her could see it. Meanwhile, her personal assistant, an Eastern European called Evelina, who towered over everyone in a pair of 6-inch heels, stood off camera telling her she was 'so beautiful, darlink' every few minutes until I thought I might just barf right there on the floor.

  Shitty Kitty got more demanding as the day wore on but the last straw was a request for a particular, and very hard to find, bar of organic chocolate. Sometimes I felt more like a glorified babysitter than a PR professional. I was tempted to remind her of the link between chocolate and bad skin but decided that it might be wiser to let that one go. Bearing in mind the theme of the shoot was 'urban decay' and we were filming in a derelict warehouse in an unfashionable part of the East End, the chances of finding anything more than a bar of Dairy Milk were fairly hopeless. I tried to explain politely to Kitty, but the look she bestowed on me could have frozen the blood of an Eskimo so as the clock ticked relentlessly down towards eight, I set off in the pouring rain to find a taxi and a bar of chocolate.

  What felt like hours later and £40 lighter, I arrived back at the shoot with possibly the only bar of this particular organic chocolate in the whole of the East End. I walked through the warehouse door, chocolate held triumphantly aloft. 'Here you go! Who's a clever girl then?' I said to an empty room.

  Where the hell were they all? A noise behind me made me swing round and I came face to face with a man-mountain with a flattened boxer's nose and a snarling Alsatian at his heel. I saw my whole life flash in front of me as I pressed myself against the wall.

  'Sorry, love, don't mind Brutus here, he's a big softie really.'

  I looked at the dog, took in the bared teeth and strings of drool hanging from each side of his mouth and thought I might beg to differ.

  'I'm the night watchman. No one here I'm afraid. They left about an hour ago. I'm just locking up now.'

  'What? But… but...' I was beside myself with rage. 'She insisted she had to have this bloody chocolate. I've traipsed halfway round frigging London trying to find the exact one she wanted. It's my birthday and I'm supposed to be sitting in a restaurant in the West End with my boyfriend and a bunch of friends, not standing in some godforsaken warehouse running errands for that… that…'

  'Sorry love,' the night watchman said. 'You want me to get you a cab or something?' 'Oh, yes, sorry, yes please.' I felt near to tears at the unfairness of it all.

  Twenty minutes later, as I sat in the back of a cab watching the rain drumming on the windows and the long queue of traffic up ahe
ad, I knew I'd be lucky to make The Archangel before ten o'clock the next morning, never mind that night. I tapped out a quick text to Alex, my boyfriend.

  'Gonna B L8. There ASAP. Hugs xx'

  Almost instantly, my phone dinged and Alex's reply appeared on the screen.

  'Hurry up, we're all waiting for you. What time? X'

  'Well thank you so much for your sympathetic reply,' I muttered to myself in a snarky voice, sticking my tongue out at my mobile.

  NEVER! I tapped in before deleting it.

  '10ish. Start without me.'

  He didn't even bother to reply to that one.

  With time on my hands and the traffic showing no signs of moving I started to reflect on my life. I was exhausted and just recently the bad days had started to outnumber the good ones. On the one hand, I did love my job, at least there was never a dull moment, but on the other hand, I knew I wanted something more. A gentler pace of life maybe? God, was this the first sign of a mid-life crisis? I was expecting that to start around forty-five, not twenty-eight.

  My phone sounded the arrival of a new message. Alex, I thought, but it wasn't him. In fact, I didn't recognise the name at all and stared at it for a second, trying to work out who it might be. Funny how you do that, isn't it? It's like getting a letter and recognising the handwriting on the envelope, then spending ages trying to work out who it's from. I clicked it open.

  'Bonsoir, thank you for your interest in Les Tuileries. I can confirm that it is available to rent if you are still interested...'

  I frowned at the screen, thinking it must be meant for someone else. Suddenly it dawned on me. A few weeks ago, after another particularly rough day, I'd been trawling the French property sites that my old friend Polly had suggested to me, and found a lovely cottage for rent. On the spur of the moment, I had sent an email asking if it was available. This must be it. I smiled to myself. It wasn't really a serious enquiry. I'd email back and make up some excuse. I clicked on 'reply' and began to type, then stopped. Maybe, I thought.

  Eventually, over two hours late, the taxi pulled up outside The Archangel. I paid the driver the equivalent of the GDP of a small African nation and headed inside. My friends were sitting at a table, tucked away in the corner. I stopped to watch them. Alex was in full flow telling one of his dreadful jokes, Charlotte, my best friend since forever, was already a bit the worse for wear, no doubt something to do with all the empty bottles littering the table. Daisy, my sister and her boyfriend Finn, were creased up with laughter at Alex's joke. Justine and Suzy, my old university friends, were deep in conversation. From the debris on the table, I could see that they had started without me. I felt ever so slightly annoyed that they really hadn't waited. It was my birthday after all. On impulse, I took my phone out of my pocket, scrolled to my emails and clicked on 'send'. Hundreds of miles away, in the south-west of France, another phone announced the arrival of a new message.

  Alex looked over and saw me. 'Hey, birthday girl,' he called. I smiled at him and walked over to join them.

  'Hi sis,' said Daisy, 'bad day?'

  'Pretty much. By the way, I'm moving to France.'

  Chapter Eight

  The little town of Bussières, normally deserted save for a few elderly women sitting on the benches in the square, was buzzing with people. The square had been completely taken over by stalls, some with brightly coloured awnings, others with umbrellas in stands, shading the merchants from the sun.

  Julien directed me into a small car park behind the village square. In the shade of a row of plane trees old men in black bérets were playing boules, the sound of their light-hearted shouting and joshing mingled with the gentle thwack of the metal balls that they were throwing with alarming accuracy. On the benches which lined the pitch, rows of elderly women sat, shoulder to shoulder, some gossiping, some knitting, others just watching the world go by. It was the perfect French scene. Someone waved. It was Louis. 'Salut,' he called. He spoke briefly to his opponents and came towards us.

  'Well, you two don't make it easy, do you?' I said after we had exchanged kisses. 'I'm sorry?'

  'Look at you both in white T-shirts and jeans. How's a girl supposed to tell you apart?'

  'I've already told you,' replied Julien, 'I'm the good looking one!' Louis threw him a withering look.

  'Oh, yes, so you like to think. Can I just take him a moment?' He put his arm round his brother and led him away, talking quickly, their heads close together. Even if I understood French, I would never have been able to work out what they were saying. They stood a little way off and it was clear that what Louis had to say, Julien didn't want to hear. There was a lot of gesticulation and for a brief moment, I saw him look over at me, suddenly making me feel very ill at ease. I was fairly sure Louis was talking about me.

  A few minutes later, Louis headed back to his boules game, giving me a brief wave as he went.

  'Everything OK?' I asked as we headed for the market.

  'Yes, fine. It was just something about the farm.'

  I had an uncomfortable feeling that he wasn't telling the truth.

  'Bon,' said Julien, 'first we have to buy you a panier, a basket. No proper French woman would be seen at the market without one.'

  Sure enough, everyone around me seemed to have a hessian basket, from which peeked out fruit or vegetables and the odd baguette here and there.

  At the corner of the market, I could see a swarthy-looking man was standing amid a colourful spread of bags. 'Over there,' I said, pointing to the stall. We wandered over to have a look.

  'Bonjour, la belle mademoiselle,' he said, bowing gracefully to me. After that, I was lost. He launched into his well-rehearsed sales patter while I stood looking on hopelessly.

  'What did he say?' I asked Julien.

  'Well after he told you that you were the most beautiful woman in the market today…'

  I laughed. 'Charmer!'

  '… he said that he has the best selection of bags in south west France and that you should have this one with the blue to match your eyes.'

  Market-trader speak was clearly pretty similar the world over. I picked up the basket that the man was pointing out. It was a basket. I'd never had one before. They weren't really de rigeur in Knightsbridge. It wasn't Mulberry but it would probably do.

  'How much is it?'

  The man, anticipating the question, launched into another long spiel. I turned to Julien.

  'He said that he sold the same basket to the Comtesse de Lavaur only last week and that normally it would cost fifty euros, he has to feed his family, eight children you know, but he said it is yours for twenty euros.'

  'Deal.' I rooted in my bag for my purse and handed over a twenty-euro note in exchange for my new shopping basket.

  The man thanked me elaborately, wishing me a pleasant day in very broken English, before moving on to the next customer.

  'OK,' said Julien, 'now you are practically French.'

  I smiled up at him. 'You're so being so kind to me, Julien. Thank you. I really appreciate having someone take me under their wing.'

  'Under their wing?' He looked confused.

  'I mean, to take care of me, show me the ropes, that sort of thing.'

  'Bof,' he said shrugging in that particularly French way, 'it is nothing. Anyway, you are a nice girl. Who wouldn't want to help you?'

  I could think of one or two back in London who wouldn't exactly be queuing up. I doubted that the lovely Kitty Moseley would pee on me if I was on fire, but what did that matter? I was in France with the best-looking man in the northern hemisphere. I felt a funny, fluttery feeling in my stomach again. It wasn't like me to be so demure. Normally I'd have had a few drinks, thrown my arms around him and then regretted it all in the morning. He was different though. I liked him. I mean, really liked him.

  'Listen,' he said, 'I have to go and do some things. It's all boring stuff, for the farm. Do you want to stay here and I will meet you again in one hour?'

  'Oh, yes, OK,' I replied, tr
ying to mask my disappointment. 'Maybe we can get a coffee or something when you get back? Shall we meet in the café on the corner?'

  He did the bisous thing on both my cheeks and walked off through the market. I watched him go. He really was rather splendid. I sighed then set off to explore, deciding to do the full tour before buying anything.

  It was a far cry from my local market which was the place to buy pet food, cheap batteries and knock-off CDs. There were stands selling fruit and vegetables, wrinkled old farmers selling eggs and a few onions, boulangers with bread of every shape and size imaginable, fresh flowers, a fishmonger with a giant pan of paella bubbling away, scenting the air with delicious smells, there were even plastic crates of fluffy rabbits. I stopped to pet one through the bars. I hadn't really expected pets to be on sale. 'You want?' said the woman who seemed to be in charge of the stall. 'Oh, no, it's all right. Thanks anyway.'