'They've asked me to come here to find out the "story" behind the story. To be honest, my credentials as an investigative journalist are a bit flimsy. I've no idea how to hack your phone and I don't know any private detectives. I'm more used to writing about recipes for chutney and reviewing amateur dramatics, so if you'd rather not talk to me I'll just pretend I couldn't find you.' 'What? A journo with a conscience? That's got to be a first,' I said teasingly.
'Yeah, well, The Expat Times isn't exactly The Times is it, whatever the editor might like to think.'
'So how did you find me?'
'We got an anonymous tip-off at the office.'
'So much for the expat omertà,' I sighed, 'clearly I don't qualify. Look, to be fair, I think I've kind of had my fill of newspapers for the moment if you don't mind. I spent enough time dealing with the press when I lived in London so I was hoping to leave all that behind.'
'Really, what did you do in London? Off the record, of course.'
'Is there such a thing with journalists?' I gave her a wry smile. 'OK, well, I worked for a PR agency. Celebrities and films. Press liaison, media relations, that sort of thing.'
'Really? We've got a few celebrities round here too.'
'I know, Johnny Hallyday.'
'And that guy who was in a 1970s sitcom, what's his name?'
'Sorry, probably a bit before my time.'
'Yeah, well, if he didn't live here I probably wouldn't know his name either. And now you are a lady of leisure?'
'Lady of enforced leisure. I'm looking for a job but not really taken with chicken plucking, which seems to be about all that's on offer.'
'I know. It's not easy is it?' Sam thought for a moment. 'You know, I've had an idea. How are your writing skills?' 'Good, very good in fact. Why do you ask?'
'We need a new feature writer on the paper. I know it's not exactly your area but there's not much call for celebrity PR in these parts. How about we cut a deal? You tell me what happened at Tracey's house and I'll have a word with the editor.
What do you think?'
'I think you need to speak to your editor first before I say a word.'
'Give me five minutes, OK?'
Sam grabbed her phone from her bag and walked over to the other side of the square.
I watched as she talked and gesticulated, feeling ridiculously nervous. I'd done board interviews at one of the top PR agencies in the country and here I was with my stomach in knots over some little local newspaper I'd never heard of. But this could be a turning point in my new life. I couldn't deny that the money situation was making me nervous and this could be my way out.
After what seemed an age, Sam turned and headed back to the café. I tried to read her expression. Sitting back down at the table, she smiled.
'He's got a feature for you to write and if it works out, he'll take you on. Here's his number so give him a buzz and he'll brief you.' She took a shorthand notebook out of her bag and scribbled down a number and handed it to me.
'I think this calls for a celebration. How about lunch? My treat in return for the inside story on the "Tarrant Tussle". Might even stretch to a glass of the fizzy stuff.'
'Lovely,' I said, feeling quietly thrilled. 'Here's hoping that I didn't get this black eye for nothing.' I took my sunglasses off to show Sam the damage.
'Ouch! Looks nasty. I heard that there are a few photographers who've been on the wrong end of Tracey's right hook in the past.'
'Well, I wish I'd known that before,' I laughed. 'Right, what's on the menu then?'
Sam called the waitress for some menus and ordered a couple of glasses of champagne just for good measure. The waitress
reserved one of her most imperious smiles for this request. Champagne by the glass was clearly sacrilege in her world. 'Gosh, what's her problem?' Sam asked, clearly irritated.
'An "I've got a degree in law from Bordeaux University and I'm working as a waitress" sort of problem.'
'Ah well, I can understand that. I've lived in France since I was small, I've never even been to school in the UK, but they still think of me as being anglaise, which is shorthand for bottom of the pile when it comes to handing out jobs. It's not easy being a foreigner in France, even one who's lived here for years. Before I got this, I struggled for years even to find work as a cleaner. You might say "we're all Europeans" in England, but here it's "we're all French and you are Europeans". And you don't even need to be a foreigner. People from other parts of France are just as much outsiders. I met a woman in Bussières a while back who told me she understood how difficult it was being a foreigner because she was from the Charente, which is only a few hours away from here!'
'God,' I laughed, 'it's a different world, isn't it? I wonder how many of the people in the village have ever been to London or even Paris for that matter.'
'I doubt whether half of them have even been to Toulouse. Right, what are you ordering?'
'Hmm, I fancy a salad I think. I've got a bit of a croissant baby going on here.' I patted my stomach. 'If I don't cut down a bit, I'll be spending the summer dressed in tents. What's that one? Salade de gésier?'
'Ah yes, deliciously French if you like a spot of duck gizzard.'
'Duck what?'
'Gizzard. It's like a secondary stomach that a duck has which is full of grit…'
'Stop right there. Euuww, it sounds disgusting,' I said as I wrinkled my nose.
'Well, I'm going for the chicken Caesar. Will you order for me whilst I go and powder my nose?'
'Sure thing. Now, what shall I have?'
Noélia came and stood by the table, order book and pen poised.
'Can I have a minute?'
'No, we are busy. It is late. I need your order now or the kitchen will be closed.'
'But it's only one o'clock,' I said through gritted teeth.
She shrugged her shoulders.
'OK. Chicken Caesar for my friend and… oh, I don't know. What do you suggest?' I smiled, thinking this might be a way to get the stroppy waitress on my side.
'If you would like a nice local dish, I would suggest salade d'andouillette. It's a type of local sausage.'
'Yes, that sounds nice. I'll have one of those.'
As she headed back into the kitchen, I became aware of the sound of singing. It sounded like 'La Marseillaise', the French national anthem. Round the corner came a middle-aged man wobbling dangerously along on a bicycle, clearly drunk. As he neared the café, singing off-key, the wobbling reached a critical point and the bike disappeared from under him, depositing him in a heap in the road. He lay there motionless.
'Oh my God!' I cried, my hand going to my mouth, as a car sped into the village narrowly missing the inebriated body.
Without thinking, I rushed into the road. 'Someone call an ambulance,' I shouted.
An uncharitable snigger spread around the terrace of the café. 'I wouldn't bother with him, love. That's just Armand, the village drunk,' called a tattooed man in a Spurs football strip.
God bless the Brits abroad, I thought.
'Monsieur, monsieur, you have to move.' I shook his shoulders but he just grunted and rolled over, settling comfortably in the road. The alcohol fumes coming off him could have knocked out an elephant at twenty paces.
I tried to sit him up so I could get my arms around him and drag him towards the pavement, but he was a dead weight and every time I managed to get him sitting up, he would flop over to one side before I could get a good grip on him. It was like juggling with an octopus.
'Oh for God's sake,' I muttered under my breath as another burst of 'La Marseillaise' made me jump, 'give me a break will you?'
'Never a dull moment with you around, is there?' I looked up to see Sam standing over me, a broad smile on her face.
'Sam, thank God. Give me a hand here will you?'
Taking one arm each, we strained and pulled until Armand's snoring bulk was safely deposited out of harm's way. I picked up his bike and wheeled it to the pavement, propping it up agains
t the wall.
'Bloody hell, he weighs a ton for such a small man. Better stick him on his side, just in case.' I rubbed the small of my back. 'Come on, let's get our lunch.'
We sat back at our table and I made sure I glared at the assembled diners who had done nothing to help.
'There's a law in France about failing to help someone in need, you know,' I said loudly. I remembered reading about it a while back. Something to do with Princess Diana's death and the paps taking photos rather than getting help. Noélia suddenly appeared next to us holding two plates loaded with food.
'Salade César for you madame,' she said putting one down in front of Sam, 'and for you, mademoiselle, salade d'andouillette,' putting the other plate in front of me with a flourish and a slight smirk. I thought I detected the slightest intake of breath from the diners nearby.
'Er, thanks,' I said, looking at the pale, whitish sausage nestled among the salad leaves and tomatoes.
'Andouillette? You're adventurous,' said Sam pulling a slightly disgusted face.
'Why? Noélia suggested it,' I replied.
She was lingering by the door of the café, watching us, the faint smirk lingering on her lips. 'I must admit though, it's a bit smelly,' I remarked.
I picked up my knife and fork and cut into it before popping a bit in my mouth and chewing enthusiastically. I smiled at Sam. The smile started to fade almost as quickly as it had appeared and was replaced by a look that was a cross between horror and desperation.
'Bloody hell,' I said, my mouth still full of andouillette, 'what is this stuff? It tastes like… like… shit. Literally.'
'Pig's colon sausage?'
I gagged. Flapping my hands in front of my mouth, I motioned to Sam to pass me a serviette and spat the foul-tasting sausage out into my hand.
'Pig's colon? What the…'
'It's the colon that gives andouillette its particularly "fecal" taste. I call it the sausage of the eternal stench.'
'That bitch! It smells like a public toilet during a cholera epidemic.' I pushed my plate to one side.
'What have you done to upset her?' Sam asked. 'I mean, andouillette? It's only one step down from a full-on fatwa.'
'I wish I knew. She's been like this with me since day one. How's your chicken Caesar?'
'Lovely actually. Do you want to share?'
'No but thanks anyway. My mouth still tastes like a sewage farm.' I took a large swig of my champagne. 'There, that should deaden the taste buds a little bit.'
'Look,' Sam dug around in her bag, pulled out a plastic carrier and passed it under the table to me. 'Scrape it all into this then she'll presume you've eaten it. Don't let her think she's got one over on you.'
Surreptitiously, I tipped the remains of my salad into the bag and slipped it into my handbag, hoping to goodness that it didn't leak, then I put my plate back on the table and placed my knife and fork neatly side by side.
A few minutes later Noélia stopped at our table.
'How was your meal?' she asked, looking directly at me.
'Delicious, thanks.' I pushed my empty plate towards her. She picked it up with just the merest arch of a perfectly plucked eyebrow and stalked off.
'Ha! One to you,' smiled Sam. 'More champagne, I think.' She called Noélia over again. 'We'll have the rest of the bottle, please.'
We sat, drank and chatted well into the afternoon. It was so nice to find someone who I seemed to have so much in common with and to be able to tell my side of the Tarrant saga. A few more like her and I'd be sorted. The champagne and sunshine combined to make me feel slightly light-headed, with that nice fuzzy feeling you get right before you've had too much.
'Hello.' I froze at the sound of a familiar voice, that nice warm feeling evaporating in an instant. Turning in my seat, I shaded my eyes against the sun.
'Alex? What the hell are you doing here?'
'Well, if you'd answered your phone or sent me a text I probably wouldn't be but I saw the news and the bloody mess you'd got yourself into, so I cancelled all my meetings and flew straight over.'
'But why Alex? I'm fine. I can look after myself.'
'Well, I might beg to differ on that one.'
I glared at him, feeling a rising tide of annoyance at his attitude.
Sam coughed politely.
'Oh, sorry, Alex, this is Sam. Sam, this is Alex, my, my…'
What was he? Surely he didn't still think he was my boyfriend did he? But the way he was looking at me, with that proprietary way than men have, made me wonder.
Sensing my discomfort, Sam jumped in. 'Hi Alex, nice to meet you. Can I get you a glass of something?'
'Thanks, but no. I've been mainlining coffee since early morning so I think I'd better steer clear of any stimulants for a while.'
Alex pulled out a chair, sat down and stretched out his legs. He had been a rower since he was kid and still had the physique of an athlete despite the fact that his arms got more exercise lifting drinks than they did with a blade these days. We all stared uncomfortably at each other. A hush had descended over the terrace as everyone sensed an oncoming drama. 'Look, you guys obviously have stuff to talk about and I'd better get back to the office,' said Sam. 'Here's my card. Give me a call and we'll get that feature sorted out.'
She handed me a business card, then wished Alex goodbye and kissed me on both cheeks. 'Don't worry about the bill. I settled it earlier,' she called over her shoulder. 'Speak soon.'
I picked up my champagne and sipped it, secretly wanting to down it in one to give me a bit of Dutch courage.
'Alex, you can't just march in here like this. Sam and I actually had some business to discuss. How on earth did you get here anyway?'
'Plane, then I got a taxi from the airport. Cost me a bloody fortune. I only came up to the village to try and find out where the house was, so it was a bit of luck to find you here.'
'Yes, wasn't it?' I answered snippily.
'So how's things? Apart from the neighbour situation of course.'
'Good.'
'Got a job yet?'
'No, not yet. I've got a few possibilities but nothing firm. I'm doing a piece for a local newspaper which might lead to something. That's what Sam and I needed to talk about before you came barging in.'
'Look, I've come to take you home. It's obvious you aren't coping here.'
'I'm sorry?' 'Oh come on, you've got no job, no friends to speak of…'
'Excuse me, Alex, but did you not just arrive to find me in the middle of a business lunch? And who says I've got no friends? I may not have a London-style social life but that's not what I'm here for.'
'And what are you here for? God knows why you want to live in the arse-end of the universe.'
'Trou du cul,' I said flatly.
'What?'
'That's what you call it in French. Trou du cul. It literally means bum hole.'
'Yeah, well, thanks for the French lesson. Come on, it was all a nice idea but enough's enough. It's been one disaster after another ever since you got here, from what Daisy's been telling me. Face up to it, darling, you're just not cut out for The Good Life. I saw Zane the other day and he said he'd always have you back at the agency.'
'Oh, and how is Clive?' I said, emphasising his real name, 'and less of the "darling" too.' I picked up the paper napkin and started shredding it into tiny pieces. 'Alex, I'm fine, honestly I am. I really like it here and…'
'Look, let's go back to the house and get you packed up. I've booked you a ticket on a flight back to London tomorrow morning.'
'You've. Done. What?' I said quietly through gritted teeth.
On the neighbouring table, an elderly, prune-skinned woman and her equally wrinkled husband were watching our conversation as if it was a Wimbledon final, heads swivelling first to me, then to Alex and back again.
'Look,' I said in a whisper, 'we can't do this here. Let's go back to the house and we can talk about it properly.'
I picked up my bag and with a tight smile at the next table
, I stalked off towards my car. Alex ran to catch up, taking my arm. I shook him off crossly. As we passed the still sleeping body of Armand, the old drunk farted loudly and mumbled 'bravo' under his breath.
'Bloody lowlife,' Alex growled.
'Oh, leave him alone, he's not doing anyone any harm. If he wants to rot his liver that's his call.'
'Please don't tell me we're going in that rust bucket,' he laughed, pointing at my cherished Renault 5. I threw him a withering look and opened the door to let him in.
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