L'amour Actually

by Melanie Jones

  'With a real French toilet?'

  'That,' I said pointing towards the bathroom, 'is a real French toilet. And you might want to change your shoes. I discovered fairly quickly that killer heels have no place in the country.'

  'Get them away from me!' Charlotte squealed, hopping from one foot to another as we ran the gauntlet of Martine's chickens. My own chickens had treated her with studied indifference. 'Oh, for heaven's sake, Lottie, they won't hurt you.'

  She squealed as one pecked her shoe, dropping her bag in shock. It landed squarely in a fresh pile of chicken poo.

  'Oh my God, that's a Mulberry bag.' She picked it up carefully. 'Look at the state of it!'

  I tried hard to stifle a giggle while Charlotte glared at me, wiping at her bag with a tissue.

  The door opened and Martine's smiling face appeared round it.

  'Come in, come in. Make yourself at home.'

  She led us into the lounge where Laure stood shyly by the window, twiddling her hair between her fingers.

  'Salut, Laure,' I said. 'Je te présente mon amie, Charlotte.' I kissed Laure on both cheeks.

  'Hi,' said Charlotte, waving at her. Laure stepped forward to kiss her but, to my embarrassment, Charlotte backed away leaving Laure looking confused.

  'Lottie!' I hissed. Hurriedly, Charlotte stuck out her hand, which Laure took and shook politely. She muttered something that I couldn't quite make out then left the room.

  'I'll just go and make some coffee,' said Martine quickly, following Laure out. 'Jesus, Lottie, that was really rude.'

  'Look, no one goes in my personal space without my say so. And anyway she doesn't look that clean.'

  I was horrified. 'What are you talking about? She's got some learning difficulties but she's certainly not dirty. I can't believe you just said that.'

  Charlotte shrugged her shoulders and looked away. 'Sorry, but she's your friend, not mine. You might be used to all this, but I'm not.'

  I shook my head, disappointed at her attitude but before we could talk further, Martine returned with a tray of steaming cups of coffee to find an uneasy truce between us.

  As she set the tray down, she looked from Charlotte to me, not sure what had happened, but aware that something had.

  She gave us each a cup of hot, black coffee. 'Sugar? Milk?'

  'Yes please,' said Charlotte, taking the sugar bowl from Martine.

  'So, Charlotte, you are here for a long weekend, I hear.'

  'Yes, just a few days. I can't take too much time off work unfortunately. I work in the film industry, as assistant to a producer.'

  'Really? That must be a lot of fun.'

  'Yes, it is. I forgot to say,' she turned to me, 'that last job I did has been nominated for a BAFTA. How brilliant is that? I'll be off to the awards next February.'

  'Wow, that's great. Well done.'

  'Yes, félicitations, as we say in France.'

  'Thanks,' Charlotte stared down at her cup, still sulking from our earlier contretemps. I could have kicked her!

  'So,' I quickly interjected, trying to retrieve the situation, 'Martine used to dance at the Moulin Rouge, didn't you Martine?'

  'Really,' said Charlotte half-heartedly, 'how exciting.'

  'Yes, it was,' the older woman answered. 'Would you like to…'

  'Oh, I've got a mobile signal, will you excuse me a minute, I have to go and check on my emails,' Charlotte interrupted, jumping up like a scalded cat.

  She rushed out of the room into the garden, where Martine and I could see her talking animatedly on her phone.

  I sat awkwardly, sipping my coffee. Every now and again, gales of laughter could be heard coming from the garden as Charlotte glanced over at the house. I had the uncomfortable feeling that she was laughing at us. I seethed inside, not wanting to let Martine see. How could she be so rude? Had I been like that before? So totally self-obsessed?

  'She's not like you, is she?' Martine said.

  'No, she's not. Not anymore at least,' I replied, leaving the comment hanging in the air.

  'Don't worry. From what I've seen of her, I don't think she's the sort of girl who would understand the way we live in the country.'

  'I know. I mean, who would turn up in the French countryside in a pair of heels?' I smiled.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  'Come on, lazybones, get up!' I jumped onto the bed next to Charlotte, shaking her shoulders gently.

  'Whaaa? Wassamatter?'

  'It's time to get up. Come on, or we'll miss the market.'

  Charlotte sat up, rubbing at her eyes and running her hands through her thick, chestnut hair. 'What time is it?' 'It's seven-thirty. Time to shake a leg.'

  'Seven-thirty? I'll bloody shake you. What are you doing waking me up so early when I'm on holiday?'

  'Well if we don't get to the market by half-past eight all the croissants will be gone. You're in France now. You're having some delicious full-fat croissants for breakfast. None of your boiled grapefruit nonsense.'

  'I happen to like grapefruit and, for your information I have never boiled it. Hmm, looks like you've been enjoying one too many croissants yourself.'

  I sucked my stomach in. 'It's my French Winter Survival Suit. Just in case I get snowed in. I could survive on my own fat supplies for at least a week. You, on the other hand, would be dead within a day.' I pinched Charlotte's skinny arm. 'Anyway, come on, get moving.'

  Forty minutes later, I was at the market with Charlotte trailing behind, still complaining about the fact that she hadn't had time to straighten her hair.

  'Oh, for goodness sake, would you stop moaning for five minutes,' I told her firmly as I led her to my favourite fruit and vegetable stall. 'Look at it all, delicious and local.'

  'Well, if you call Morocco local,' said Charlotte sniffily, pointing to the board hanging above the oranges, which clearly stated that they came from North Africa.

  I rolled my eyes at her and went back to choosing some carrots.

  'And it's all muddy. You'd never find it like that in Waitrose.'

  'You'd never find it so fresh in Waitrose either. Look at these,' I said pointing to a pile of fresh, dewy lettuce. 'I actually know the lady who grows these. She lives a few miles away. They'll have been picked this morning.'

  Charlotte looked unimpressed. I sighed, realising I was flogging a dead cheval and carried on with my shopping, ignoring her griping. God, did I use to be like this I wondered?

  After an hour of dragging my increasingly irritated and irritating friend around, I gave in. 'Come on, let's go and get a coffee, then we can go home and demolish these croissants.'

  'That's the best idea you've had in ages. I don't suppose there is a Starbucks near here?'

  'I think its six hundred miles to the nearest one,' I said drily. 'Come on, I'll take you up to the café in the village.' At the Café du Midi, Claire was busy working behind the bar.

  'Oh, hello. I wasn't expecting to see you here today,' she said, looking from me to Charlotte.

  'Hi Claire, no Noélia today?' I had quite fancied seeing her try to get the better of Charlotte. 'This is my friend, Charlotte. She's staying for a few days.'

  'No, she's er, busy today. Hello, Charlotte, nice to meet you. What can I get you? Why don't you take that table at the back?'

  'Actually I think we'll sit by the window so we can watch the world go by.'

  Claire looked a bit uncomfortable, not her usual bubbly self, and she kept glancing anxiously towards the window.

  'Are you waiting for someone? I asked her.

  'No, no, it's fine really.'

  I ordered a grand crème for Charlotte and a petit café for myself. The dreadful Muffy was there sitting at a table with a man I didn't recognise, but whose florid face marked him out as a drinker. They were swilling down the first of what were probably many glasses of red wine and barely bothered to acknowledge me, offering limp handshakes to Charlotte and a half-hearted bisou to me as we passed.

  'He's cute,' Charlotte whispered
to me as she caught sight of Jack through the door to the kitchen.

  'And very married, you wouldn't stand a chance with him,' I whispered back.

  'Maybe not, but it would be fun trying.' Charlotte thrust out her chest and winked at me. 'Don't even think about it,' I warned.

  'So, what do you think of my little corner of France?' I said, changing the subject.

  She thought for a moment. 'The thing is, this is all very lovely,' she swept her arm around, taking in the quaint café and the sleepy little village, 'but it's not really you, is it? I mean, you're a London girl. It's all very well playing at being a French peasant and all that, but at some point you've got to go back. You have no job, you say your savings are practically gone. If you are out of the market in the UK for too long you'll never get back in again.'

  I worked hard to quell my rising annoyance with her. Charlotte and I had been friends for so long and had barely exchanged a cross word, but I was seeing her through new eyes. How had I not noticed her thoughtlessness? Had she always been so self-centred? Or was it just that I had changed since arriving here? I felt a lump in my throat as I realised that we may never again have the closeness we had once shared.

  'Actually Lottie, that's where you are wrong. This is absolutely me. The new me. You know, when I look at you, all I see is how self-centred you are, how judgemental.'

  'Judgemental?' Charlotte exploded. 'Me? Judgemental?'

  'Keep your voice down, if you don't mind,' I chided her, seeing Muffy's head turn in our direction. 'Yes, judgemental. Look how you were with Martine and Laure yesterday. You treated Laure like she was something nasty you had just stepped in and you couldn't wait to leave. You spent the whole time – when you weren't on the phone that is – looking as if you had a bad smell under your nose. Don't think Martine didn't notice. I was mortified.'

  I looked down at my cup of coffee, not meeting Charlotte's eyes. Behind the bar, Claire was bustling around noisily. We were the only people in the café so there was no way that she could have missed the argument. She threw me a sympathetic look.

  Charlotte stared out of the window in silence while I quietly fumed. How dare she come over here and criticise my life and my friends? I felt tears stab at the back of my eyes. I had so been looking forward to her visit and so far it was a disaster. She was the first to break the silence. 'Oh look, a wedding. I wonder who it is?'

  I looked out of the window. Sure enough, at the mairie, a crowd had gathered, all dressed in their best threads, the men wearing buttonholes.

  As we watched, the happy bride and groom appeared on the steps and I gasped. I felt sick and my head started to swim. Charlotte looked at me. 'Oh my God, it's him isn't it?' she said, reaching across to take my hand.

  I nodded mutely as Julien leant to kiss his new bride to the cheers of the crowd. At the bar, Claire had stopped what she was doing and was watching me intently, a look of concern on her face. As we watched, the wedding party crossed the square and disappeared into the church for the blessing.

  I had convinced myself I was over Julien d'Aubeville but the pain of his treachery was suddenly as raw and new as it had been months before. I noticed he was still limping from the injuries he had received in the fire though he looked every bit the happy groom. Next to him, Jo looked radiant. My grief hit me head on and I bit my lip, trying not to cry.

  'Come on, darling,' said Charlotte, 'let's go while they are in the church.'

  I shook my head. 'I have to stay,' I whispered.

  'Don't torture yourself like this,' she said, 'please, let's just go.'

  'No,' I snapped, 'I'm staying here.'

  Quietly, Claire slipped a glass of brandy in front of me. 'For the shock. I'm sorry. I should have said something.'

  I stared wordlessly at the door of the church through which they had disappeared.

  'Thanks,' said Charlotte, realising that I was not going to reply.

  Some time later, the bride and groom reappeared on the church steps to the renewed cheers of their guests. They were smiling and laughing for the photographer. Around them, their friends, the same ones who had ignored me for so long, jostled for position in the photographs. I caught sight of Noélia among the guests. Well, that explained a lot. It was the perfect tableau of a French country wedding. A rustic horse and cart, decorated with white ribbons was waiting to whisk them off to wherever they were having their wedding breakfast. Even the pale winter sun had come out to shine on them. The sudden peal of the church bells made me jump. Outside, the happy couple waved to their guests and climbed into their carriage.

  I stood up quickly, knocking the chair over, and ran for the door, a maelstrom of emotions churning around inside my head. Charlotte lunged at me across the table but she wasn't quick enough.

  'Don't,' she called out to me. I went out and stood on the terrace watching the cart as it turned round in the square, passing right by the café, with Julien sitting on the side nearest me. Jo, busy waving to her friends and family, didn't notice me standing there.

  Charlotte appeared next to me and quietly slipped her hand into mine, squeezing it hard. I looked nervously at her. As the cart drew level, Julien looked across in our direction and started slightly when he saw us. I noticed that he did at least have the good grace to look embarrassed although he did try an awkward smile. I watched him, my head following the cart as it made its way past me. Julien shifted uncomfortably in his seat but within seconds he was gone and I was left standing there. Charlotte put her arm around me. 'You OK?'

  'Yes, thanks. I'm fine. Really I am. I just wanted him to acknowledge me.' I felt completely wrung out.

  'Come on, let's go home,' said Charlotte, gently taking my arm.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  'Come on, darling, eat up.' Charlotte placed a plate of croissants in front of me then sat down and poured us both a mug of hot chocolate.

  I said nothing but wrapped my hands around the mug and lifted it to my mouth, stopping to blow on it. I still felt shaken. Basil sat on my lap, purring loudly, wondering why I wasn't stroking him. Charlotte buttered a croissant and twisted the top off a jar of apricot jam she had found at the back of cupboard.

  'Eww, what are you doing? Growing the cure for the common cold? You got any more jam?' I shook my head.

  She shrugged. 'Nothing for it then.' She spooned out a thick crust of fluffy, green mould and flicked it into the bin.

  'It's fine underneath. Don't be such a wimp.'

  'She speaks!' smiled Charlotte.

  'Oh, ha ha. Come on, pass me the butter. You have to feed a broken heart don't you? Or is it a cold? Or a fever? Oh well, let's just feed all three.'

  We ate in silence, both lost in our own thoughts; I thought about the events of the morning, aware that Charlotte was watching me surreptitiously, quietly concerned for me. Finally, she broke the silence.

  'So what now?'

  'What do you mean, what now?'

  'Well, you can't stay here can you? Not now.'

  'Why not?' I snapped.

  She came round the table and sat down next to me, putting her arm round my shoulder.

  'You gave it your best shot but this isn't living the dream, with your ex-boyfriend and his new wife just down the road. You'll be running into them all the time. Are you strong enough for that? And what happens when the cottage is sold? You need to be back at home where we can all take care of you, not stuck here in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of wine-soaked expats.'

  I got up, picking up Basil and cuddling his soft, warm body to me and went to the window. From there I could look out over my beloved valley, not looking its best it was fair to say, but still beautiful to me. In spite of everything, I couldn't really imagine being anywhere else.

  'Lottie, I know you don't understand but I love this place. I've changed so much since I moved here that I hardly recognise the person I was. I think I'm much more self-reliant, much less consumer-driven. I feel like I've got back in touch with the real me.'

  'Oh stop
, you're sounding like one of those dreadful self-help websites.'

  'You can laugh, but honestly, I think I've realised how unimportant most of the crap in my old life was. Who needs hundreds of pairs of shoes and a diet of reality television and talent shows? Here I live in flip-flops in the summer and wellies in the winter and I have time to read now. I've even learnt a new language. Well, more or less. OK, the money is an issue, granted, but I've got my flat on the market. All I need is a buyer.'

  'But your savings have nearly run out and you still don't have a proper job. How will you manage?' said Charlotte. 'I'm sorry but I just don't think you are being realistic.'