L'amour Actually

by Melanie Jones

  Chapter Nine

  Six Weeks Later

  The weeks flew by, with one sultry day slipping into the next. So far, all the niggly little things had gone swimmingly. I had the internet set up, the phone was connected and Nick had sorted out Sky TV so I could even watch Corrie if the mood took me... which it didn't. He'd even arranged to have the pool cleaned and the once green and slimy water was now clear blue.

  I watched my pallid skin turn a light mocha and my hair bleach blonde in the sun. It used to cost the best part of £150 at Franco's but here was nature doing it for free. The bad old days in London were becoming little more than a distant memory.

  Mind you, so was a pay cheque. My savings, such as they were, seemed to be disappearing rather faster than I'd anticipated. Things were just so much more expensive than I'd imagined. I needed to start looking for a job.

  I was still trying to shake the feeling that I was on holiday and for the moment at least, I was happy with my own company and with the solitude of my little cottage. Being so totally alone in such peace and quiet was unusual. I'd wondered if I might hate it but in fact I didn't, not so far, at least. I hadn't seen Tracey Tarrant since the day I arrived, though I knew that she was still there, holed up with her footballer, inexplicably beyond the reach of the paparazzi it seemed, and I still hadn't organised any French lessons. Oh well, one day.

  I turned over on the sun lounger and unhooked my bikini top so I could get a nice even tan. I sighed contentedly and dozed in the late May sunshine, half-listening to the frantic chirruping of the cicadas. God they were noisy! The glass of chilled rosé I'd had with my lunch made me feel sleepy and before long I had dropped off, dreaming, as I did rather too often these days, of Julien. I was sure he liked me but he kept holding back. We had met up several times for drinks, even for lunch once or twice, although if I was being honest with myself, it was more that we both ended up in the café at Rocamour at the same time. He flirted with me and I with him but then something always seemed to stop him making that final move. Fortunately, the Julien of my dreams was a little more forward.

  We lay tangled up by the side of the pool in the woods. Julien brushed my hair from my face. I looked up into his eyes which were heavy with lust, my mouth parting slightly. He leaned towards me. Finally he was going to kiss me. He drew nearer and nearer. Our lips met. He tasted of…

  ... grass? My eyes sprang open. 'Bloody hell! What the…'

  A large horse, ridden by an even larger woman, was nuzzling my face… in my garden… by my pool! I hate horses. Little ponies are fine, but this huge beast… I lay rooted to the sun lounger, fingers gripping the towel underneath me as I tried to calm myself.

  'GET. IT. AWAY,' I said to the woman, slowly and carefully enunciating my words.

  'Oh, don't be such a girlie, he just wants to say hello, don't you Kaiser?' boomed the woman, dismounting so heavily that the ground shook. 'Just need to use the lavvy. Don't worry, know the house well. I can find my own way.'

  I sat up and she thrust the reins at me. I stared, open-mouthed. The cheek of the bloody woman!

  'Just a minute…' I shouted as my visitor, oversized rear end clad in tight jodhpurs which gave the unfortunate impression that she had a couple of puppies romping inside them, strode off towards the house, unzipping her jodhpurs as she went. I held the reins distastefully between my thumb and forefinger and stared at the horse. It stared back. It was a huge black and white thing with hairy feet and hooves the size of dinner plates. It soon got bored with the Mexican stand-off and its head went down to crop the grass on my lawn. I wasn't entirely sure what to do so I opted for just sitting still and hoping that it would ignore me.

  Several minutes passed before the woman returned, tucking her shirt into her jodhpurs as she walked. 'Don't mind me using the facilities do you? Got caught short, what.'

  I opened my mouth to protest that actually, I wasn't keen on strangers rocking up and using my toilet, but before I had a chance to say anything, the woman bellowed at me.

  'Ride, do you?'

  God, couldn't this woman do anything quietly?

  She stuck out her hand before I had chance to answer. 'Clarissa Blythe-Cholmondeley-Walker,' she said, 'but most people call me Chummy. Won't bother with that bloody kissing lark. Damned unhygienic if you ask me.'

  I breathed a small sigh of relief and shook her hand, wincing slightly as Clarissa's calloused hand crushed mine in a vice-like grip.

  'Heard some new blood had moved in. Glad to see the back of the last incumbents to be honest. Came to see if you were a horsey gel. Would be good to have someone to ride out with, although Kaiser's safe hacking out on his own. Goes in front or behind quite happily.'

  I tried to conceal a smirk. 'Uh, no, not really. I'm kind of frightened of them,' I admitted.

  'Stuff and bloody nonsense. I'll let you ride Kaiser here, he's a real school master. Can be a bit forward going on open ground and goes like a bloody rocket if you give him his head but he's got a lovely light mouth and great elevation.'

  I frowned. What sort of strange language was this woman talking? 'I quite like cats though,' I added hopefully.

  'Cat lover, eh? Want to get yourself down to that cat charity place in Bussières. Bunch of bloody do-gooders if you ask me. Always on about neutering the feral cats. Just shoot the buggers, I say. You want to get yourself a nice Labrador or something.'

  'Um, actually I'm a little bit allergic to dogs.'

  Clarissa looked at me witheringly. Clearly in her eyes I was beyond any hope.

  'Well, anyway, having a little soirée tonight and thought you might fancy coming along to meet a few of the chaps. Sevenish? I'll send the old man to pick you up. That way you can have a few bevvies. Rodders can go for a few hours without a drink, bless him.'

  I opened my mouth to say thanks, I really fancied an early night but Chummy was already heaving herself back up into the saddle, poor Kaiser having to brace himself to take her weight.

  'See you later. Seven.'

  I watched her ride off, ample behind jiggling in time with the horse's footsteps. Footsteps or hoof steps? I would rather hack my leg off with a rusty nail file than spend a few hours with Clarissa and her friends.

  Four hours later, having failed completely to come up with a single reasonable-sounding excuse for not going, I was sitting in the passenger seat of Chummy's Range Rover listening to her husband Roddy, ex-Grenadier Guards, wittering on in a voice that was so plummy that his upper lip didn't even move.

  'F'nah, f'nah, f'nah…'

  I smiled and nodded. I could have been agreeing to have his lovechild for all I knew. Mercifully the car journey was short and within a few minutes, we were turning into a long sweeping drive lined on either side by cypress trees. 'F'nah, f'nah, f'nah…'

  Yes of course I'll dress up in a French maid's outfit and whip you with a wet haddock, I thought, starting to enjoy my little game.

  The car turned between two impressive stone pillars.

  'WOW!' I exclaimed as a miniature Disney chateau appeared in front of us. Perfectly symmetrical, its tall, narrow towers pointed up towards the scarlet-hued early evening sky. The sun, dipping low, bathed the red brick in a warm, rosy glow and sparkled off a lake set back behind the chateau, surrounded by parkland and woods. The gravel driveway formed a perfect semi-circle edged with lavender and pale pink roses. Steps, flanked on either side by topiaried box trees, led up to a plain, white front door directly below a wrought-iron Juliet balcony. It was, quite simply, divine.

  Roddy came around the car to open the door for me then led me up the steps into a magnificent panelled hallway with rich, chestnut parquet floors.

  'Here she is!'

  Clarissa swept into the hallway, like a galleon in full sail, dressed in a flowing tent dress. 'Hello, Clarissa, so kind of you…'

  'Chummy, name's Chummy. Only people who call me Clarissa are Mater and Pa.'

  'Err, Chummy.'

  'Come on through and meet everyone.'

/>   She led me through a cavernous music room with a grand piano in the corner and out through French windows dressed in sheer muslin onto a raised terrace overlooking the lake.

  'This is the most amazing house, Cla… err, Chummy. How long have you lived here?'

  'Had it for years now. Rodders bought it from the dosh he got from a business deal.'

  Must have been some deal, I thought, but before I had a chance to wonder, Chummy whispered to me, 'Iran', before tapping one side of her nose and giving me a knowledgeable look. I had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. Chummy clapped her chubby hands. 'Chaps, she's here. Come and say hello. Rodders, bring some bubbly.'

  A glass of champagne was thrust into my hand as Chummy led me round the small gathering making her introductions.

  'Squeezy and Quentin, live over the hill, Le Cornau. Binky and Teddy here are in the village.'

  'So where do you live?' asked Quentin

  'I'm renting Les Tuileries in St Amans.'

  'Aaaahhh,' they all sing-songed in unison, giving each other knowing looks. I looked at them quizzically, hoping someone would enlighten me.

  'Why do I feel like I'm the only one who isn't in the know? It's not the toilet is it? Honestly, I've got used to it. It's a bit rustic but I've got thighs of steel now,' I said slapping them firmly.

  They looked bemused. Clearly it wasn't the sanitary facilities that had them all winking at each other. 'Don't you know about the last tenants?'

  The voice, with the faintest hint of a Welsh accent, belonged to a stringy woman who had obviously spent far too much time in the sun. Coal-black, mean-looking eyes peered out from a leathery, wrinkled face framed by a harshly-chopped dyed black bob. She looked a bit like a tortoise in a wig.

  'I'm Muffy by the way. Pleased to meet you.' She stuck a thin, calloused hand out.

  'So, what's the story then?'

  'Religious cult.'

  'No! Really? At Les Tuileries? Do tell.'

  'I always knew there was something wrong with them. They didn't mix with anyone. Not like Gerry and Barbara who lived there before. They were just like us, lovely people.'

  Maybe they just had an allergy to people with ridiculous names, I thought, groaning inwardly. I thought I'd left this sort of attitude behind.

  '… spawned loads of brats, never let anyone in the house and they were… you know…'

  I looked quizzically at her. 'What?'

  'You know.'

  I raised my eyebrows in question. 'No, sorry, you'll have to give me a clue.'

  'Foreigners.' She said foreigners in the same way as you'd say 'syphilis' or 'paedophile'.

  'But we're foreigners too aren't we?' I was genuinely puzzled.

  'No, not foreigners like us.'

  'Like what then?'

  'Well, you know, they were... black.'

  I looked at her, horrified. Surely this sort of bigoted attitude didn't still exist in the twenty-first century, even out here?

  'So that makes them a religious cult? Maybe they were drug dealers too or running a white slavery ring? Come on, that's a bit racist isn't it?'

  I tried hard to be polite but this stupid, ignorant woman had really got my back up.

  'Oh, don't mind her. She wouldn't recognise a racist comment if it ran up and stuck a burning cross on her lawn would you, Muffy, dear?'

  A young girl in her early twenties, with the self-assuredness that comes with money and privilege, walked across the terrace swinging her hips like a supermodel, lustrous chestnut hair flowing down her back like a shampoo advert.

  'I'm Cecilia. Cecilia Blyth-Cholmondeley-Walker but you can call me CeeCee. Nice to meet you.' She put out a hand with long, manicured fingernails and shook mine firmly. 'Yes, she's my mother,' she said, nodding towards Chummy. 'Who'd have thought, eh?'

  There was certainly little to link the tall, lithe CeeCee with the rotund, lumpy Chummy.

  'I can't stand bloody horses either. Come over and sit down,' she said, motioning to a low rattan sofa a little way away from the others. 'Let's leave the oldies to themselves. All they ever talk about is how France is like England in the 1950s anyway.'

  'What? You mean racism, wife-beating and rickets?' I smiled.

  Cecilia sniggered. 'Oh, I can see you and I are going to get along famously.'

  'And wait till I tell you who's living next door to me,' I whispered into her ear.

  Chapter Ten

  I sat out on the terrace with my regular breakfast of croissants, which I picked up each morning from Claudine's shop, and a big mug of café au lait. I was going to have to cut down on the croissants though I thought, feeling the slight pinch around my waist where my shorts were digging in. Better still, I should be walking to the shop, not taking the car. Ah well, I'd start my croissant-free diet next week. I licked my buttery fingers and took another sip of coffee as I heard yet another car making its way up the hill. It was unusually busy in the otherwise sleepy little hamlet. The road ended in open fields just past Les Tuileries so normally the busiest it got was the farmer pootling along in his old white Citroën van to check on his crops. Strange.

  Curious to know what was happening, I downed my coffee, grabbed my sunglasses and set off to investigate. I didn't have to go far. It seemed that my neighbour, Tracey Tarrant, was the reason for all the action. The tall, wrought-iron gates to her house were surrounded by what looked suspiciously like paparazzi. Seedy-looking men with long-lens cameras strung round their necks hung about chatting and smoking, every now and then glancing through the bars of the gates towards the house.

  Hanging back a bit, looking more than a little bemused at the press invasion, were Monsieur and Madame Brunel, Martine and Laure in their housecoats and Monsieur Marcel. Just to make it really French, Martine's chickens had come along too. I smiled at my neighbours and was rewarded with a row of blank looks. Clearly the fact that I was also a foreigner meant I was guilty by association and, in any case, Madame Brunel had definitely not forgiven me for our first meeting. When I'd returned her housecoat, clean and folded, she had just snatched it from my hand and slammed the door in my face before I'd even had a chance to say thank you. She probably took it straight out the back and ritually burned it to cleanse herself of the evil of the foreign whore. Monsieur Brunel, on the other hand, definitely had a twinkle in his eye whenever I saw him, although his wife had clearly banned him from any further contact with me. I was almost certain that I could detect the slightest hint of a smile, even now.

  'Excuse me,' I said to the least scary-looking of the photographers, a smallish man with a shaved head and several cameras trampolining on his rather ample belly, 'what's going on?'

  'It's Tracey Tarrant, innit,' he replied. 'We've been looking for her for weeks, ever since she run off with our boy, Warren. His missus is not happy at all.'

  'Well that's a bit rich coming from her. She's not exactly living a nun's life in LA is she?' I said, feeling a moment of pity for Tracey. Yes, she was a bit brash and vulgar, but there was also an air of vulnerability about her that I found intriguing. She held the world at arm's length, scowling and swearing at anyone who got too close. She'd been the subject of more than a little media bitching and 'Tracey shows her flabby thighs' type stories. The Daily Mail had even published that photo of her getting out of a car in a tight dress and no knickers. They must have had to lie on the floor to get that one.

  'So how did you find her?' I asked. 'I mean, she's been here for weeks and she's not exactly been hiding herself.'

  'Beats me. Maybe there's still honour among thieves, so to speak, you know the expat omertà. Don't tell on us and we won't tell on you. Anyway, we got a tip off from someone who had "inside information".'

  My stomach lurched, thinking about the conversation I'd had with CeeCee at her mother's party the previous week. She couldn't have, could she?

  'So, um, who was it?' I asked, nervously.

  The man tapped the side of his nose, then went back to his vigil.

  'So, i
s she even there? I don't see her Merc,' I said.

  On cue, the silver convertible purred round the corner with Warren at the wheel and Tracey in the passenger seat, a scarf wrapped around her head making her look a little like Audrey Hepburn, just more orange. Seeing the press pack, Warren jammed on the brakes and the car skidded to a halt. I saw Tracey's stunned expression, mouth open in a perfect O. With the sort of quick thinking that had made him the star striker for his team, Warren rammed the car into reverse and shot backwards, only to meet Julien coming round the corner in his tractor. They were caught, like love rats in a barrel. The paps engulfed them in seconds, cameras flashing in their faces as they tried to fend off the hordes. The photographers shouted evermore provocative questions looking for the one shot that they could sell to the tabloids, while Tracey tried to fight her way out of the car and make for the safety of her house. Warren sat there motionless, his face in his hands. I looked on in horror. Whatever I thought of Tracey, this just wasn't fair. A sense of righteous indignation made me push my way through the rabid photographers. This was a moment for the sisterhood to stand up against the common enemy. Sharpening my elbows, I barged towards her. As we met, Tracey's face twisted into a mask of rage.