'OK girl, back to the swimming. Enough of your filthy thoughts,' I said out loud, and turning over onto my front, I swam as if I was in an Olympic final, trying to wipe out the mental picture that had been building of me and Julien and…
'Oh look, it's The Little Mermaid!'
Tracey's flat estuary vowels broke through my thoughts. It was probably just as well.
'Ah, Trace, ever the comedian. You should actually try swimming yourself but it would probably wash your fake tan off.'
'Cheeky bitch. This is me, all me, this lot. None of your spray tans, thanks very much.'
I swam to the ladder and pulled myself up and out of the water. I hated that moment when you went from almost weightless to very weighty. It was an unwelcome reminder that I was heading towards being twice the woman I used to be.
'Chuck me a towel would you? There's one on the sun lounger.'
Tracey threw the towel, hitting me square in the face. 'There you go.'
'Take my eye out, why don't you?' I smiled.
'Where's the wine then? Got a nice chilled glass of rosé hidden somewhere?'
'You've got to be kidding. It's not even ten-thirty, you old lush. I'll go and get us some sparkling water.'
'With a shot of something?'
'Orange juice if you play your cards right.'
I dried off my hair then wrapped the towel round myself.
'Back in a minute, unless you want to come and keep me company in the kitchen.'
'Fack off, and miss all this sun? I've got a tan to work on. A real one.'
In the cool of the cottage, I stripped off my bikini and slid a sundress over my head. It was almost too hot for underwear, but taking into account my recent form, I pulled on a pair of cotton knickers. I ran a brush through my hair and twisted it up onto my head, securing it with some hairpins, then went into the kitchen to sort out the drinks. It was shaping up to be a scorcher of a day.
'Here you go,' I said, putting the tall glass full of ice-cold water down on the little table between the sun loungers.
'Blimey, it's hot.' Tracey took the glass and pressed it to her forehead. 'What's it going to be like in August, eh?' I took a long gulp of my drink. 'Hey, do you fancy going to the Fourteenth of July fête next week? I've heard it's a good night.'
'Yeah, why not? It's not like I've got anything else planned.' We sat in silence for a while, sipping on our drinks, both deep in thought.
'So, any news from lover-boy?' asked Tracey, interrupting my thoughts.
'No. Not a whisper. I think I may have blown my chance there.'
Tracey was silent for a while.
'Well, at least you did it in style. God, I'd love to have seen it. It must have been priceless, especially the bit when you knocked yourself out.' Tracey laughed so much she snorted water out of her nose.
'Thanks. Didn't you have somewhere you needed to be?' I said.
'Ooooooh, hark at you. Yep, got to go. Things to do, people to see and all that.'
'Yeah, right. You're about as much of a pariah as I am around here.'
'Oh for God's sake, stop mooning around and go see him if it bothers you that much.'
'Oh yeah, marvellous idea. Look what happened last time.'
'Yeah well, it's up to you; you're a big girl now.' Tracey got up, gathering up her bag and sunglasses.
'You should keep those on,' I said motioning to her shades. 'You're getting crow's feet.'
'Bitch,' Tracey smiled
'Cow.'
'See you later.' She air-kissed me on both cheeks then headed back next door.
I lay on the sun lounger clutching my glass, deep in thought about life, the universe and Julien d'Aubeville. Mainly about Julien d'Aubeville. Maybe it was for the best if I'd scared him off. I'd been in France for three months now without the whisper of a job. Well, there had been the one with the newspaper but the less said about that the better. I still dreaded running into poor Mrs Merriman. I'd heard on the grapevine that she had taken the disappearance of Snoopy very badly. I had intended to go over and explain, but every time I got in the car to go and face her, my nerves had failed me.
If I was being really honest with myself, I was even a little bit bored. All the sunshine and cheap plonk was lovely, but I needed more than that in my life. When I was bogged down with work and celebrities in rainy, cold London, the whole France thing seemed like the answer, but now I was here, I was actually missing it: the impossibility of getting a cab when it was raining, elbowing my way up Oxford Street, alcohol-soaked men falling asleep and dribbling on my shoulder on the last Tube home. I was even missing Zane and his lecherous comments and developing a nostalgic fondness for Shitty Kitty. I looked down at my feet, which seemed to be spreading now I spent my life in flip-flops, saw the chipped nail varnish on my toes, and longed for a new pair of shoes. You could take the girl out of Louboutins but it seemed you couldn't take Louboutins out of the girl.
Draining the rest of my drink, I took the empty glasses back to the kitchen. As I washed them up, the sight of the arnica cream that Laure had bought round, and which I had forgotten to return, caught my eye. Well, at least that would give me something to do. I put the glasses on the side to drain, picked up the cream and set off for her house at the other end of the hamlet.
I pushed open the old iron gate and let myself into Martine and Laure's garden. It was a mass of flowers and, on the far side, two raised beds were bursting with summer vegetables. Purple and green lettuces grew in neat lines, and tomatoes in a kaleidoscope of colours tumbled off plants growing up curly metal poles. There were tiny yellow ones, enormous black ones and ruby-red plum-shaped ones. 'You want to try some?' A voice behind me made me jump a little.
'Oh, hello. Um, thanks, um, they do look lovely,' I said, turning to face Martine who was a vision in a pink nylon housecoat set off with lime-green rubber clogs. As usual, a couple of hens were following behind her. 'I have more than I can eat so I would be happy for you to take some.'
'Thanks, that would be really nice. I've just bought back the arnica cream that Laure brought round. I'm sorry it's taken me so long… wait a minute, you're speaking English.'
She smiled warmly at me. 'Yes, I can speak it a little,' she said, taking the tube of cream from me. 'I'm very rusty but I manage.'
'More than a little from the sound of it. Where did you learn?'
'Come inside. Would you like a drink? A little tisane maybe?'
'I'm sorry. A what?' After my experiences with Philippe d'Aubeville there was no way I was going to say yes to anything I wasn't totally sure about.
Martine smiled at me. 'Don't worry, it has no alcohol. I won't do what Philippe did.'
I groaned. 'You heard then.'
'I think most people have.'
Martine opened the door and indicated for me to go through. 'The kitchen is at the end of the hallway.'
She pulled out a chair from beneath an old pine table. 'I shall make you one of my special tisanes. It's full of fruit and herbs from my garden and is perfect for all sorts of bruising. Heads… hearts…'
Inexplicably, I felt tears start to well up in my eyes and I looked away for fear that Martine would notice. 'Is it that obvious?'
Martine smiled. 'Love is complicated but you must take care. Sometimes, things are not what they seem.'
I swallowed hard and had the uncomfortable feeling that she was giving me a warning. 'What do you mean?'
'Oh, don't take any notice of me. I'm just rambling on.'
Martine pottered around the kitchen, pouring scoops of dried herbs and fruit into an old china teapot.
'There,' she said finally, 'we will just leave that to draw.' She sat down across the table from me.
'So Martine, oh, is it OK to call you Martine? I don't actually know your surname.'
'It's OK, Martine is fine.'
'So where did you learn to speak English so well? I mean, it's a bit more than managing.'
'Many years ago I lived in Paris. I shared a chambre de b
onne with an English girl.'
'What's a chambre de bonne?' I asked.
'It is the cheapest way to live in Paris. They are the old servants' quarters at the top of their masters' houses. They are usually very small so you get to know each other well,' Martine laughed. 'She taught me English and I taught her to dance. It is a long time since I have spoken it though.'
'Well you're pretty amazing, if you don't mind me saying. So were you a dancer?'
Martine suddenly looked coy. 'Yes, I was. Not that you would think so now.'
She got up from the table to pour the tisanes into two glass cups and put one down in front of me. 'Let me know what you think of it.'
'So what sort of dancer were you? Ballet?' I asked, sipping my hot tisane.
'No, burlesque…'
I spat out my tea in shock. 'Oh my God, I'm so sorry. It's just I wasn't expecting you to say that.'
I was worried that I had offended her but the twinkle in Martine's eye told me otherwise. Without commenting, she took a cloth from the sink and mopped up the table.
'So, burlesque?'
'Yes, I danced at the Moulin Rouge.'
'No way! Really?'
'Just a moment.'
Martine got up from the table and went to the room next door where I heard her rummaging around. She returned with an old black and white photo in her hand and gave it to me.
'That's me.' She pointed to a beautiful young girl with thick waves of dark hair cascading down her back and dressed in a sequinned outfit with a huge pink feather fan. She had a figure to absolutely die for. 'And that is your Queen. It was in 1981 when she came to visit the Moulin Rouge.'
'Oh wow, you were so beautiful.'
Martine blushed. 'It was a long time ago, a lot has changed since then.'
'How amazing though. You must have some stories to tell.'
'Yes, dancing took me to Paris but love kept me there.'
Martine smiled mysteriously and sipped on her tisane, her eyes averted.
'So how did you end up here?' I asked.
'Oh, I come from here originally. I was born in the big house next door. It was our family home for many years. You can imagine the scandale when I left here to dance half-naked in Paris. My father never spoke to me again. He thought I had been bewitched by the Parisian side of the family.'
'And what made you come back?'
'Oh, I don't know. After my husband died I didn't really want to stay in Paris. I wanted a simpler life back here in the country. There was also Laure. She is my niece. She suffered brain damage in a car accident which killed her parents, so there is only me to look after her.'
'Oh my goodness, that's terrible. Poor thing.'
It all made sense now; her slightly strange behaviour, her crippling shyness, the way she always seemed to be off somewhere else. I felt a wave of sympathy for them both.
'Well I'm not really sure that she is very aware of what is going on in her life. That is one small mercy, and she has her little pony, have you seen him? He's in the field on the hill. He was the last present from her parents so he's very precious.'
'The white one? Yes, we met on my first day here. He's very sweet.'
Martine got up to put the photograph on the side. There was a certain grace about her that I had never noticed before.
'It must have been hard, with your Dad, I mean.'
'Well, yes, but French families are funny things. There is so much animosity between the country people and the city ones so when his sister married a teacher from Paris who was working down here, she was treated like a traitor. I knew what I was letting myself in for but my desire to dance was too strong and I couldn't just stay here and work on the farm. My father used to own all the land around Les Tuileries and it was expected that we would stay here and work with him. He was a difficult man though. In the end, both of my brothers left to go somewhere else and he had to sell off the farm. All that is left is this house.'
For all her bravado, I could see that the rift with her father had been painful. Time to change the subject, I thought. 'This is lovely, this tisane. Is that what it's called? It's so refreshing.'
'Thank you. I'm glad you like it. You can come round any time and have another. We don't get many guests these days.'
'So, if you've come from here, you must know the d'Aubevilles well,' I said, just a bit too brightly. I was almost sure I saw Martine's face cloud over briefly.
'Well yes, I went to school with their father and I've known the twins all their lives.' She picked up her cup and sipped the tisane, giving me the feeling that that particular conversation was over.
'I don't suppose…' I started, 'no, never mind.'
'What?'
'Well, the thing is, I need to learn French. You couldn't teach me could you? I went down to the Club in Bussières but, well, it wasn't for me really.'
'Oh dear, the Club. I don't think many of them really speak French although they like to think they do. I think it's just an excuse to suck you into their expatriate world.'
'That's the feeling I had too. So would you?'
'Well, why not? How about if I teach you French and you let me practice my English with you?' 'Perfect,' I said, smiling brightly at her. She smiled back and I knew straight away that we would be friends.
Chapter Eighteen
'Come on, Trace. At this rate it will be over before we even get there.'
It was seven o'clock and I was leaning on the door frame outside Tracey's bedroom waiting for her to finish getting ready for the Bastille Day party in the village. I'd been there for a good twenty minutes and was itching to go.
My first French lesson with Martine had gone really well that morning and I'd casually asked who was going to be there from the hamlet. Martine was a wise old bird and had realised straightaway what I really wanted to know. She had put her head to one side, regarding me with a look that I couldn't quite make out.
'Love is a funny thing,' she had said. 'It makes us forget the rules we normally live by, throw caution to the wind. Be careful. Don't get your heart broken.'
I had laughed. 'Oh don't worry about me. My heart is made of reinforced steel. It takes an awful lot to break it.'
Secretly though, I had been unsettled by Martine's comment. Were they just the wise words of someone who had been there before, or was there something else I should know? I had pushed it to the back of my mind, determined that tonight it was make or break with Julien d'Aubeville. Maybe I would be a little bit more subtle this time. Never mind my heart, I didn't want to break any bones. 'Oh, shaddup moaning. I'll be out in a minute.'
When the door finally opened, Tracey came out wearing possibly the shortest skirt in the Northern Hemisphere with a tight-laced gold basque which created a décolletage that you could balance a tray of drinks on. She'd teamed it up with a pair of towering gold platforms. The shoes had probably cost more than the monthly wage of many of the people in the village. 'What do you think?' she asked, giving me a twirl.
'Er, well, um, it's, well it's… not really suitable for this sort of thing if you want me to be totally honest.'
'Perfect. That's just the reaction I wanted.'
As we drove down the hill in darkness, the glow from the festivities was visible on the other side of the valley and the gentle hum of music could just be heard. It was a beautiful, star-filled, balmy night and for once, I couldn't even be bothered to pull Tracey up on her driving as we careered down the winding hill.
The village was decorated in red, white and blue bunting with open-sided marquees dotting the grassy area by the salle des fêtes. A stage had been set up at one side with a dance floor in front and fairy lights woven through all the trees; it looked quite magical. I had run into Chummy during the week who told me good things about the celebrations. Apparently no less than twenty-one maires or mayors from neighbouring villages were attending. The number who attended, Chummy told me, was a barometer for how successful your Bastille Day celebrations were. I guessed that the high maire count m
eant that Rocamour's was a triumph.
We parked in the village square, which was uncharacteristically busy with cars vying for the remaining parking spaces, amid hooting horns and light-hearted banter from the drivers.
'Got the tickets?' Tracey asked.
'Yes,' I replied, patting my handbag as we walked through the village to the festivities. 'Wow, doesn't it look great?'
Outside the salle des fêtes, a pyramid-shaped metal contraption with hooks round it sat atop a blazing wood fire. From each hook hung a huge joint of meat.
'How good does that smell?' I commented to Tracey.
A wine stall and bar were already doing a roaring trade, people weaving between the tables weighed down with bottles of red and rosé, and in the far corner, a band was playing. I spotted Martine sitting at a small reception table with Madame Brunel, swapping tickets for plates and cutlery. She smiled warmly when I saw her, offsetting the scowl that Madame Brunel threw at me.
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