'You bloody bitch. You did this didn't you?' she screamed, loud enough for the paps to stop their clicking and fall silent.
'But… no…'
'I knew it the moment I saw you, knew you'd be trouble, nosy cow. I said to Warren we was in the shit. How much d'you get from them? Must have been worth a few hundred quid, eh?'
I looked at her in shocked silence as Tracey launched at me, punching me squarely in the nose. I fell backwards on the ground, my sunglasses spilling off my face. Tracey threw herself on top of me, slapping and punching as I tried to protect myself.
The paps, realising they had been gifted the picture, possibly of the year, snapped away, leaving me at her mercy.
Suddenly I felt Tracey's weight being lifted off me and opened my eyes to see Julien with his arms around her, restraining her. She was no match for his strength and he picked her up, feet flailing as she tried to kick him, and carried her back to Warren, who was by now standing by the car looking on, about as much use as a chocolate teapot.
'Get her out of here,' Julien snarled, pushing Tracey roughly towards Warren.
I sat on the floor, blood dripping from my nose, tears making tracks down my dusty face. Julien picked me up gently, retrieving my sunglasses from the nettles at the side of the road, and led me towards Les Tuileries and sanctuary, the staccato clicking of shutters the only sound. Well, that and Madame Brunel's loud 'tsking' as we passed by her. I felt the eyes of my neighbours bore into me. What must they think?
The cool, darkness of the cottage was like a womb, keeping me safe from the troubles of the outside world. I sat on a chair in the kitchen holding a bag of ice to my eye while Julien tenderly bathed the blood from my face with balls of cotton wool dipped in salt water.
'Ooowww,' I winced. 'Sorry, I feel such a baby.'
'Keep still and it won't hurt so much,' he said, reaching for more cotton wool. 'Well, I think your modelling days are over for a while,' he smiled, trying to cheer me up as he gently dabbed at my nose. 'How bad is it?'
'Not good but at least nothing seems to be broken. Let me finish up here and you can go and look in the bathroom mirror.'
My face throbbed and I was fairly sure that I would have the mother of all shiners by the next day.
'Bon, that's the best I can do,' he said, tipping the bloody water down the sink.
I went into the bathroom and turned on the light over the mirror to get a better look. My eye was starting to close and the beginning of a purple bruise was taking shape underneath it. My nose was swollen, but fortunately still in one piece and my lip was split. I looked like I'd just gone through a couple of rounds with a heavyweight boxer. God, where did Tracey learn to punch like that? I could feel the first twinges of anger building up in the pit of my stomach as hot tears pricked the backs of my eyes. I'd only been trying to help and I'd never have told on her. That just wasn't me at all. I bet it was that bloody CeeCee. There was a loud rap on the front door. 'Julien, could you go and see who it is please?' I called from the bathroom. A few minutes later he tapped lightly on the door. 'It is the gendarmes.'
I went cold, feeling suddenly faint. Brilliant! Now I was going to be arrested for public affray. I'd had a morbid fear of the police ever since the local bobby had come to my primary school when I was growing up. Standing at well over six-foot six-inches, PC Berry had put the fear of God into my seven-year-old self, and from then on, I followed the letter of the law to the last full stop. I'd never even had a parking ticket.
'Shit, what do they want?' I asked him quietly, my voice shaking with nerves.
'They want to know if you wish to porter plainte, you know, press charges against Mademoiselle Tarrant.'
I leaned on the sink, relieved that they hadn't come to cart me away.
'Tell them no, would you?'
'I think you'd better come and talk to them yourself.'
'Do I have to?'
'Yes, come on. It is only the officers from Bussières, nothing to worry about.'
'Oh là là, mademoiselle,' said one of the officers, drawing in his breath sharply as he saw my bruised and puffy face.
'C'est bon, really, it's not nearly as bad as it looks.'
'They don't speak English, shall I translate?'
'Yes please, but just tell them that it's OK. I don't want to press charges.'
A long conversation ensued with much gesticulating and shrugging and the occasional question thrown my way. I tried to keep up with what was said but in the end gave up. Turning from Julien to the gendarmes and back again was making my head hurt. If this is what it took when I didn't want to press charges, I could only imagine how much more complicated it would be if I did. Despite everything, I didn't really blame Tracey. That sort of intrusion into your life was enough to tip anyone over the edge. I wondered whether I might just be going a bit soft in my old age.
Eventually the gendarmes seemed happy that they had everything they needed and I had a mild case of repetitive strain injury from signing my name so many times. The French certainly loved their form filling. Bidding me a good day (well, it could hardly get any worse), they left. 'I must go too. My tractor is still sitting on the hill and I must move it.' 'Thanks so much,' I said, 'really. Thank you.'
He didn't say anything, just enveloped me in his arms. It was the last straw for me. The tears came and I sobbed into his
shirt while he stroked my hair, gently kissing the top of my head.
'I was only trying to help her,' I sobbed. 'I didn't tell them she was here. I'd never do that to anyone… I might think it, but I'd never do it. I can't stay here now. Madame Brunel hates me. I can't imagine what the others think either. I feel completely and utterly humiliated.'
'Listen, what is it you say in England? Today's news is tomorrow's chip paper? Something like that. By next week it will all be forgotten and everyone will have someone else to talk about.'
I smiled up at him. 'Thanks, but I'm not so sure. Listen, you go. I'll see you soon.'
He cupped my face in his hands and kissed me gently on the lips. I tried to kiss him back but the pain of my split lip made me wince. I stood back to let him out of the cottage. Bloody typical, I thought as I watched him leave, the nearest we get to full-on kissing and I've got a fat lip. I went back to the kitchen, pulled out a chair and sat down, head resting in my hands as I felt my lip and eye throb in unison.
A few minutes later, there was a gentle tap on the door. Fearing it was the paparazzi again, I dropped to the floor and commando crawled to the window where I could just about get a clear view of who was on the doorstep.
Pulling myself up slowly, I peeped out of the window, straight into the face of Laure, who was peering through it, her hand shading her eyes. It was hard to tell who surprised who first. Both of us screamed and jumped.
I opened the door, intending to apologise for frightening her, but before I'd even had a chance to say bonjour, she thrust a tube of cream into my hand and made a rubbing motion on her face, indicating that I should use the cream on my bruises. 'Arnica,' she said, smiling shyly.
I was genuinely touched at the unexpected display of kindness and without thinking, threw my arms around her neck and hugged her tightly. I felt the young woman stiffen in my embrace and knew that, once again, I had transgressed another of the unspoken rules of the French countryside.
'Sorry, désolée,' I said, releasing her straightaway. Laure scurried away like a scalded cat, the chickens running along behind her.
'Cocked up again,' I said out loud.
Opening the fridge, I helped myself to a glass of ice-cold rosé and went outside to sit by the pool and consider my future. France certainly wasn't what I had imagined. I realised how wrong I had been to think it would be just like home but in a different language. Maybe I'd been stupid to think that it was that easy just to take off and start a new life somewhere else. I hadn't planned it, the spontaneity of my decision making me feel a bit like a modern day adventurer, but even I had to admit that the secret to any sor
t of 'adventuring' was planning. After all, Sir Ralph Fiennes didn't conquer the North Pole on a whim and a prayer.
I desperately wanted my friends around me now, even Alex. He drove me mad sometimes but we always had fun and he gave the best hugs. He was a bit like an old woolly jumper. Comfortable, but a bit scratchy in places. I suddenly realised that I missed London, my friends and my mum and dad, and that I had neglected them since I had left. I had been so wrapped up in my new life that I had barely spared a thought for theirs. The Brits I had met were all a lot older and I felt I had little in common with any of them. I had thought there would be more people of my own age here but most people, even the French I'd met, were nearer to my parents' age than mine. I had also expected there to be more clubs to join and activities to take part in, but so far, apart from the classes at the Club in Bussières, I hadn't found anything. CeeCee had seemed like a breath of fresh air, but in reality, back in London we would move in completely different circles and I wasn't sure I could buy into this idea of being friends with people just by virtue of a shared nationality. I'd had high hopes for my friendship with Nick's wife but my trip to his disco at La Fontaine had been depressing to say the least. 'Ernie, the Fastest Milkman in the West' was almost impossible to dance to and his wife, Libby, a frazzled, nervy woman in clothes that could have done with a good wash if I was being honest, was never going to be my new best friend. Nick seemed to make sure every hour of her life was filled with doing 'important jobs' for him and I knew I would have little in common with a woman who had to ask her husband's permission to go out.
The peace of the countryside was lovely but in the last few days I'd realised I was starting to miss the buzz of the city, the cafés and restaurants – it was fair to say that the famed French gourmet food was little in evidence in this part of France, from what I had seen. It was all duck, duck and canard and what the French couldn't put in a can wasn't even worth thinking about. I thought back to the series made by a certain celebrity chef about the cuisine of south west France and came to the conclusion that he must have been taking mind-altering drugs, which, bearing in mind his spaced-out appearances in the tabloids recently, wasn't beyond the realms of possibility.
My view of France came from books, magazines and A Place in the Sun; the reality, I was starting to realise, was a bit different. Even the job front was proving a challenge. I had bought all the local papers and scoured the job sections but there was nothing, unless I wanted to work in the local chicken factory – even if they would give me a job with my limited French. No, not even limited, more like non-existent; besides, it wasn't quite what I had in mind.
I'd never felt quite so alone in my life. Alone was starting to feel like lonely. Lying back on the sun lounger as tears streamed down my face, I stared long and hard at the clear blue sky. It was another lovely sunny day and the promise of more to come. But was it enough? After all, there was more to life than good weather.
Chapter Eleven
'Jesus Christ!' I was glued to the television screen, eyes wide in horror. The breakfast television presenters were doing their round-up of the front pages of the national press and there I was, in all my glory, on the front of the seediest tabloids with Tracey Tarrant sitting on my chest laying into me like a woman possessed. I sank down on the sofa as the two presenters read the story of my fracas with Tracey. It had, it seemed, made all the British papers. One had run a particularly unflattering 'knicker shot' of me sprawled on the ground. Thank goodness I had worn some decent underwear. I quietly fumed.
'So who is this mystery woman and why was she brawling with Tracey Tarrant in public? Could this be another strand in the complicated web that is the love life of Warren Hartson?' asked the presenter.
I snorted my coffee. Me and Warren Hartson? As if! I wouldn't touch his sort with a barge pole. Overpaid tosser!
Pressing the button on the remote control, I turned off the television in disgust. My head was still throbbing, my eye was almost completely closed, and this wasn't making me feel any better.
I sat out on the terrace in the sun, unsure what to do next. The last of the milk had gone and yesterday's baguette was today's offensive weapon so I knew I had to go up to the village for supplies, but could I bear it? Maybe no one had seen the television report and I knew that newspapers didn't arrive in the village shop until the following day… Oh, for goodness sake, who was I kidding? I knew they all watched British television; the constant dialogue about the latest plot lines from EastEnders and Corrie at the café was testament to that; and they were constantly moaning about the British news. They would be up there, crowded round a newspaper, sniggering at my misfortune.
Nothing for it but to 'man up' as Alex would have said if he was here. No point hiding at home. If people knew, then so be it. There was always that expat omertà that the photographer had mentioned. Maybe they'd close ranks around me. Time for 'the hat' again, I thought. Last time it was to hide my mosquito bites, this time it was my black eye. Life so far had been nothing if not eventful. I went into the bedroom and rummaged around for it on the top of my wardrobe. Shaking it out, I placed it artfully on my head, trying different angles to ensure the maximum amount of shadow to hide my bruises. 'Right, time to face the music,' I said to my reflection in the dressing table mirror.
Picking up my car keys, I held my head high and set off for the village. Halfway down the hill my mobile suddenly sprang to life. It was like the 1812 Overture played in its entirety. I pulled in to check who was texting me and saw a steady stream of texts coming in. It seemed as if everyone had seen the story. A full five minutes later my phone was still binging with incoming texts and Facebook messages. I had a look at the first few.
Daisy: 'Bloody Hell, girl, what have you been up to? Call me xxxxx'
Charlotte: 'It was you, wasn't it? Always knew you'd be famous! Lol J'
Alex: 'OMG! What's been going on. Call, text, anything but soon x'
Alex: 'Give me a buzz soon as x'
Alex: 'CALL ME'
Alex: 'Call me PLEASE!'
Parking up in the square, I headed into the shop, ostensibly to buy my baguette and milk, but really to check that they didn't have any of the day's papers. I surreptitiously flicked through the English language papers on the revolving stand. Everything was dated from the day before. Sighing with relief, I went to the till to pay. Claudine gave me a sympathetic look and diplomatically didn't mention my black eye.
The terrace of the café was fairly busy with the usual suspects and I could hear the gentle hum of their conversation wafting across the square. They'd probably been there since breakfast waiting for the sun to come over the yardarm, which seemed to happen about ten o'clock in the morning round here, so with any luck they had missed the news. I decided to go and get myself a coffee.
As I reached the terrace, there was a group of people huddled round a table deep in animated conversation. It could only be one thing. Before I had time to turn round and walk away, the conversation stopped and they all turned to look at me. That's twice I've stopped the conversation since I got here, I thought. Someone giggled.
There was nothing for it. With head held high, I pulled out a chair and sat down, adjusting my hat downwards to hide my war wounds. The same supercilious law-graduate server, Noélia, who had been there on my very first visit, came to take my order.
'Vous désirez un café? Un thé? Un coup de poing?' She threw me another of her spectacularly sarcastic smiles. I was flustered. 'Um, er, I'm sorry, I didn't understand the last bit?'
'She asked if you wanted a punch,' said a voice from a table behind me. 'I think it's her idea of humour.'
Evil thoughts ran through my mind as I ordered myself a coffee, 'with milk and no violence', matching sarcastic smile for sarcastic smile.
'I don't suppose you've heard the last of it,' said the woman again.
I turned to her.
'God, is there anyone who doesn't know about it?'
'Probably not. It's the most exciting t
hing that's happened since the maire of Laborie bought a Harley-Davidson and roared off into the sunset with the woman from the cleaners in Bussières. I'm Sam, by the way.'
'Hi. I'm guessing that you already know who I am.'
'Well, I won't pretend I don't. Do you mind if I join you?'
'No, be my guest,' I said wearily.
'Listen,' said Sam. 'I work for The Expat Times, "The Premier Newspaper for the Expat Community".' She said the slogan in a deadpan voice.
L'amour Actually Page 10