L'amour Actually

by Melanie Jones

  I was lazing on a lilo in the middle of Tracey's beautiful free-form swimming pool. Every now and again, when the heat got too much, I'd paddle under the waterfall that flowed down some faux-rocks at the end of the pool.

  Since I had made my peace with Tracey, the two of us had been almost inseparable. Well, it was really the three of us if you counted the constant supply of Cristal champagne that soaked our days. Tracey turned out to have a heart of gold, a far cry from the foul-mouthed, promiscuous tart that the media portrayed. She'd had a rough life, dragged up by an abusive father who'd spent more time drunk than sober, and a stepmother who couldn't give a damn about her. Singing with a hairbrush in the sanctuary of her bedroom had been the only thing that kept her sane.

  In her teens, Tracey had put together a girl band, which she had unwisely called 'Premenstrual Tension' and, needless to say, they got exactly nowhere; but her aunt entered her for a national television talent show and the rest, as they say, is history. She hadn't won, but historically the runners-up had done better than the winners, although Tracey looked set to reverse that trend. The trouble was, the public just hadn't engaged with her, according to her former manager, and the affair with Warren was not a Good Thing. I thought about her question.

  'Oh, I don't know. Is it even worth the bother? He was pretty quick to jump to conclusions and flounce off in a temper.' 'That's 'cause he likes you, innit?'

  'Yes well, he's got a funny way of showing it. I don't know, Trace, he blows hot and cold all the time. One minute he's coming on to me, the next he's pulling away.'

  'Well, you're not his cousin are you? This is probably uncharted territory for him.'

  'Stop it will you, bad girl. They don't all marry their cousins.'

  'Nah, for the rest of them, there's always line dancing.'

  'So that's our choice is it? Cousin marriage or line dancing? Better get our cowboys hats on,' I said. 'There's a class starting in Bussières next week.'

  'Watch my lips. N.O. No, not now, not ever.'

  'Oh come on, it will be a laugh,' I giggled.

  'No, people only line dance because they have a defective gene.'

  'Oooh, hark at you, I didn't know they had such long words in Essex.'

  'Yeah, well that's the only one I know. Apart from that, nothing in my vocabulary's got more than four letters.'

  'Apart from vocabulary, of course.' I ducked as a flip-flop winged past my ear, narrowly avoiding spilling my champagne. 'Seriously though, you need to go and have it out with him. You can't hang around here forever swilling Cristal and comfort-eating croissants. You've got an arse the size of the Mississippi Delta already.'

  'Which is only slightly smaller than your mouth,' I quipped. 'Where's that bloody flip-flop? And while you're at it, more champagne.'

  Tracey dropped the bottle of Cristal into a floating cooler and sent it across the pool to me.

  'God, this is the life isn't it? Just a pity it isn't sustainable without a job. I've got to find something Trace, seeing as my budding journalistic career has gone pear-shaped after the cat affair.'

  'No luck with the estate agents?'

  The previous week I had dropped in to talk to the Belgian man who ran a property company in the square in Bussières. His website was very basic and I'd offered to redo it for him.

  'It's all about your brand these days, and you need to build yours. You need an Internet presence, a social media profile…'

  He'd looked at me as if I was speaking a foreign language, which I was, of course, although it was one he'd understood perfectly.

  'In a declining market you need to be more proactive.'

  He'd eyed me suspiciously but agreed for me to come up with a proposal for his consideration.

  'Oh my God, Trace, didn't you hear?'

  'Hear what? I don't leave here unless I need to eat these days.'

  'He was arrested the next day. Apparently he was selling properties that he didn't have any right to. Some poor English people were working on the roof of the barn they'd bought from him when a farmer came past and asked what they were doing. When they told him they had bought it and were planning to turn it into a house, he pointed out that the barn was his and no one was turning it into anything. It turns out that he'd never sold it. There was a hell of a row and the gendarmes were called. Apparently it's not the first time the Belgian's done it but they still let him trade.'

  'Bloody hell. Poor sods.'

  'They lost their life savings apparently.'

  'You've got to see the funny side though,' said Tracey, snorting champagne.

  'Oh, you would.'

  'Seriously though, do yourself a favour and go round and see Julien. Much as I enjoy your company, at the moment you make Posh Spice look like the Laughing Policeman.'

  'D'you think?'

  'Oh for God's sake, stop pre… prevar…'

  'Prevaricating?'

  'Smart arse.'

  'Fat arse. Oh no, that's me isn't it? OK. You win. I'll go this afternoon.'

  I looked at my reflection in the mirror, turning to left and right to check it from all angles.

  I'd chosen a strappy sundress and a floppy straw hat that I hoped made me look a bit ethereal. My black eye was now just a faint smudge that was barely noticeable and I'd smothered my sun-kissed skin in a scented moisturiser.

  Letting my imagination run away with me, I saw myself walking through the fields of sunflowers to his farm where he'd be fixing a tractor or something, preferably bare-chested. He'd see me, drop everything and run through the fields to sweep me up in his arms. What happened next I was going to keep to myself.

  Half an hour later, I was discovering that my dream was slightly less romantic in practice. Pollen from the sunflowers was lightly coating my skin, stuck to the scented moisturiser that had seemed such a good idea at the time, and the local bee population seemed to have trouble discerning me from a flower head. The ground underfoot was baked hard and rutted, so rather than floating delicately through the field, I was stumbling and tripping like a drunk whilst batting away angry bees. The farm hadn't seemed far away from the cottage, but now I was walking, it just didn't seem to get any closer. And it was bloody hot.

  Eventually I reached the farmyard and stopped to lean on the gate, catching my breath and straightening myself up a bit. The farm looked quite run down, not what I had imagined at all. It was littered with rusting farm equipment and here and there, mangy-looking dogs were snoozing in the sunshine, tethered to long chains. The yard was dominated by a large barn, which seemed to be in an advanced stage of decrepitude, tilting drunkenly to one side. From the barn I could hear the assorted lowing and snorting of cattle and pigs.

  Between me and the farmhouse was a very oozy-looking yard. Next time I'd make sure to visit before milking. Hitching up my dress, I started to make my way towards the house, dodging the cowpats as I went. With my innate ability to trip over a matchstick, I could only hope I would make it safely to the other side. The dogs opened lazy eyes and scratched, but took little notice of me before returning to their slumbers in the heat.

  I knocked on the door. After a few minutes it was opened by a small, round man dressed in shorts and little else.

  'Bonjour, er, Julien? Julien d'Aubeville? Ici?' With my still-limited French it was the closest I could get to asking if he lived there. I pointed to myself. 'Amie'

  The man beamed at me.

  'Philippe d'Aubeville,' he said and stood back, beckoning at me to come in. He led me into the house and down the hallway, which curiously had a toilet cubicle in the middle of it. In the kitchen, he swiped a fat tabby cat off a chair and motioned me to sit down before disappearing off, I presumed, to find Julien. On the stove, a large pan was bubbling away filling the kitchen with steam that made the windows run with condensation.

  I studied my surroundings. In my mind, I imagined a French farmhouse kitchen to be full of old copper pans and jars of preserved fruits, with definitely a dresser at the very least. This looked like some
thing from the unfashionable part of the 1970s. The cat sat at my feet, staring up at me, clearly annoyed at being so unceremoniously removed from its sleeping place.

  'Hello kitty,' I said, leaning down to stroke it. It hissed and went back to staring at me with unblinking eyes.

  'OK, so we won't be friends then. Well to be fair I don't have a good record with cats so you're probably doing the right thing.'

  I sat back and waited, feeling slightly unnerved, and waited for Julien. Without warning, the cat jumped on my lap, making me jump and for a brief moment I remembered the lifeless body of poor Snoopy lying in the road. It still made me feel ill. 'So now you want to be my friend, eh?' I said, tickling it under the chin.

  It settled down on my lap, curling up into a ball to resume its afternoon siesta and I stroked it absent-mindedly while I waited. Out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw a movement, then another. Looking down at the cat, I saw my lap was speckled with little black dots. Little black moving dots. Fleas! I leapt up, sending the cat flying and yowling onto the floor. 'Jesus Christ,' I muttered shaking out my dress and brushing off my arms and legs.

  'Bonjour, mademoiselle,' said a voice behind me. I turned to find Philippe standing in the doorway with a similarly small, round woman with the trademark vivid orange hair, although hers had the added attraction of a sort of tiger-striping effect. It clashed with her fuchsia-pink floral housecoat and the concertina'd stockings set the whole ensemble off beautifully.

  'Bonjour monsieur, madame,' I said, standing up to greet them.

  Philippe pointed to his wife, 'Madeleine'. The woman gave me a semi-toothless smile, motioning at me to sit down again. They joined me at the table, Monsieur d'Aubeville next to me, Madame opposite, then sat in silence staring at me, smiles fixed to their faces.

  I wracked my brains for something to say, but I had still barely progressed beyond a running commentary on the weather and a request for the location of the toilet, and I already knew where that was. This place really wasn't what I expected. Julien seemed quite cosmopolitan but this was just on the decent side of feral.

  'Speak little English,' said Philippe, when it became obvious that we couldn't just sit there smiling at each other for much longer.

  'Speak little French,' I laughed.

  'Drink?' he said, pointing to his mouth with his thumb.

  'Oui, yes please. My mouth is very dry after my walk.'

  Madame d'Aubeville got up to switch on the kettle but her husband had other ideas. 'No, we have bière.'

  'Oh no, really, I don't like to drink in the afternoon,' I said thinking of the liberal amounts of champagne I had already downed.

  But Monsieur d'Aubeville was having none of it. Before you could say la plume de ma tante he was prising the caps off two bottles of beer, one of which he placed in front of me.

  'Santé,' he said, raising his bottle to me.

  'Cheers.'

  'Cheese? You want cheese?'

  'Oh, no, I said cheers. It's what we say for santé in England. Cheers,' I said again, over-enunciating the word.

  'Cheese,' replied Monsieur d'Aubeville, saluting me with his drink. Madame d'Aubeville sat impassively at the table, hands folded in her lap. I wondered what was keeping Julien.

  'You live London?' he asked

  'Yes. Have you been?'

  'No London. Algeria.'

  'Oh, right.' I wasn't sure I entirely got the connection.

  A flea jumped onto the table and, without thinking, my hand flew out to squash it. Monsieur d'Aubeville laughed. 'Everywhere, les puces, everywhere.'

  I smiled weakly. 'So, Algeria? What did you do?'

  'War. Civil War.'

  'Ah.' As conversation stoppers went, that was up there with 'I put kittens in wheelie bins for my own amusement', but Monsieur d'Aubeville was not put off.

  'I soldier. Fight. Kill many men.' He mimed shooting a gun with his two fingers.

  'Right, er, good.'

  Madame d'Aubeville continued to sit impassively.

  'So your farm. Animals? Wheat?'

  'Cows, pigs, for food. I kill them.'

  There was a bit of a theme going on here.

  'And…' he cast around for the right word then opted just to make a quacking sound.

  'Ducks?' I offered.

  'Yes, for foie gras. My wife, she make pâté out of anything.'

  I was a little bit concerned about the 'anything', especially bearing in mind the number of dogs outside in the yard.

  He turned and babbled to his wife who got up and disappeared off, before shortly returning with a large slab of pâté. With great ceremony, she cut a large slice then placed it reverently on a plate before rummaging in a drawer for a knife and fork. Honestly, you'd think the French would know how to serve pâté. It needed a nice oatcake or a Bath Oliver, but here they just seemed to eat it on its own. To be polite, I tucked in, even though I wasn't terribly hungry. 'Mmm, delicious,' I said, smiling at Madame d'Aubeville.

  'Museau de porc,' she said shyly. I had no idea what that was so I shrugged helplessly at her.

  Madame d'Aubeville took my arm and led me over to the saucepan, which was still bubbling furiously on the stove. Lifting the lid she let me look inside. As the steam cleared, half a pig's head appeared, its one eye staring reproachfully at me. I screamed and jumped backwards, nearly overturning the pan.

  Monsieur d'Aubeville laughed a deep, rumbling laugh that was totally out of proportion to his size and slapped his thigh.

  Even the silent Madame d'Aubeville cracked the slightest of smiles.

  'Désolée, sorry, sorry,' I laughed. 'It just made me jump.'

  I went back and sat down at the table, comedy-fanning myself. On top of the pig's colon sausage, I now had the pleasure of pig's head pâté. Was there no part of an animal the French didn't eat?

  Still chortling, Monsieur d'Aubeville got up and went to a cupboard, returning with a deep scarlet liquid in a wax-topped bottle. It looked dangerous.

  'Non, really. No more.' I put my hands up to him. 'Too much.'

  'For the choc,' he said, pouring several fingers into a glass that he'd found on the draining board. It looked none too clean but I was sure that whatever was in the bottle could kill salmonella at thirty paces.

  I took a sip and gasped as the heat of the liquid trickled down my throat and into my stomach. It brought to mind the one and only time I'd tried Polish Pure Spirit. That was about 80 per cent proof and this didn't taste that far behind. It made my eyes water.

  'Bon, very good,' I croaked.

  'Eau de vie,' said Monsieur d'Aubeville, saluting me with the bottle.

  Water of life, I thought. A very romantic name for high-octane paint stripper. It was more likely to kill you.

  'Santé.' Monsieur d'Aubeville tipped his head backwards and downed his shot, bringing the glass down with a bang on the table.

  'Oh là là, c'est bon ça,' he said, shaking his head and flapping his cheeks.

  'Very good,' I agreed sipping mine a bit more decorously.

  'No, not like that. You drink like me.'

  The alcohol was already starting its inexorable march to my head but in the interests of entente cordiale, I followed suit, downing the rest of my drink in one and banging the glass down on the table.

  I wondered where Julien was. I'd been there a good while and there was no sign of him. Probably busy milking a goat or something.

  Monsieur d'Aubeville was already pouring himself a second glass. Just my luck to be stuck with an elderly French binge-drinker. I looked across at Madame d'Aubeville. Surely she'd say something. It was only early afternoon and he was already power drinking, but she just sat impassively, with an expression that gave nothing away.

  Reaching across he took my glass and refilled it.

  'No, really, no more.'

  'No policemen. We drink.'

  He stood up and started to sing 'La Marseillaise'. What was it about inebriated Frenchmen and their national anthem? He motioned at me to join hi
m. I'd only ever managed to crack the first verse of my own one, never mind this, but Monsieur d'Aubeville was determined to educate me. 'Allons enfants de la Patrie…' he sang tunelessly. 'Le jour de gloire est arrivé.'

  He translated it as best he could as we went. It was all a bit politically incorrect to my London point of view, all about bloody standards and fields running with the blood of our enemies. Considering all the fuss that was made over 'Land of Hope and Glory' for its colonial overtones, it was surprising that a national anthem should be so triumphalist. Gradually I started to pick up the words and, aided by another glass of Monsieur d'Aubeville's ruby nectar, I was starting to enjoy myself a bit.