The door to the bathroom opened and Kéving walked out, dressed in a towel. I looked at him horrified. I hadn't, had I? Well the evidence was directly in front of me, so clearly, I had. He dropped his towel, standing stark naked in the middle of the room with a rather impressive erection.
'Oh my God, what are you doing?' I hissed at him, leaping out of bed to grab the towel and wrap it round him again. He looked understandably confused.
'How did you..? Oh never mind. I've got to get you out of here.'
I saw his clothes spread across the floor on the other side of the bedroom and hastily ran round, gathering them up in my arms before shoving them at him and turning him round, pushing him back into the bathroom. 'Get dressed,' I ordered him.
There was a knock at the door. 'Tea,' called Chummy, pushing it open without being asked.
I slammed the bathroom door, telling Kéving wordlessly not to make a sound.
'So how are you this morning?' Chummy asked, putting the tea down on the bedside table.
'Yes, I'm fine, good. How about you?'
'Yes, I'm fine too. Tired after the skiing but well rested. We plan to leave around midday today so we aren't too late home.'
'Great. Yes. OK.' I replied.
There was a bang in the bathroom and a muttered 'putain'.
'What was that?' Chummy asked.
'Oh, nothing, probably just something falling over in the bathroom. I'm dreadfully untidy.'
I noticed a stray pair of men's blue boxers on the floor and pushed them under the bed with my foot.
'Well, breakfast is in twenty minutes then we'll pop you and CeeCee back to the ski shop to return your skis.'
'OK. I'll be ready.'
'You can come out now,' I whispered through the bathroom door to Kéving, having waited a few minutes after Chummy left to make sure the coast was clear. He came out, fully dressed but minus his underwear, looking confused.
'Look, I don't know how this happened, but I'm a guest in their chalet so I shouldn't be bringing strange men back for sex.'
Clearly this was something that didn't figure in the French psyche. Kéving started to protest but I shut him up. 'Look, I've got to get you out of here without anyone seeing you.'
I opened the door a crack and peered through onto the landing. There was no sign of anyone. From downstairs, the sound of voices could be heard from the kitchen and I strained my ears to hear if everyone was there. I couldn't miss Chummy's voice, which could probably be heard in Spain and the low growl of Rodders' voice confirmed he was there too. CeeCee, if she had come home, would no doubt still be sleeping off the mother of all hangovers.
Kéving was standing looking dejected in the middle of the room, his boots in his hand.
I beckoned, motioning him to be quiet, then quickly led him out onto the landing. I stopped at the top of the stairs and listened again. Rodders and Chummy were still in the kitchen and from my room it was a straight run down the stairs to the front door. I tiptoed down, beckoning Kéving to follow me, wincing every time a stair creaked and at the bottom, held up my hand to stop him, and listened again. Chummy was reading out some hysterical story about immigrants from an English tabloid newspaper she had got her hands on. That would keep her occupied for hours.
I waved Kéving on again. We were nearly home and dry. I carefully pushed down on the handle of the door, praying it wasn't locked, but the planets were aligned. The door opened soundlessly and a rush of wintry air blew round my bare legs and I quickly pushed Kéving outside, still in his socks. He turned to say something to me but I put my hand across his mouth.
'Has someone left a bloody door open again?' boomed Chummy. I heard a chair being pushed back from the table and quickly shut the door on Kéving before bolting for the stairs again. I took them two at a time and had practically reached the top by the time Chummy hove into view. She looked up at me.
'Not dressed yet? Come on, lazybones. Can you call CeeCee for me?'
'Sorry, yes of course. I won't be a minute.'
Chummy returned to her 'state of the nation' discussion with Rodders in the kitchen leaving me to slump against the wall, heart pounding and breathing like a steam train. I composed myself then headed to CeeCee's bedroom to wake her up. Later, with my stomach filled with bacon sandwiches and coffee, I went upstairs to finish packing. I wandered round the bedroom, retrieving make-up and toiletries from the bathroom and damp socks from the radiator and stuffing them carelessly into my holdall.
Downstairs, CeeCee was begrudgingly running round with the vacuum cleaner while Rodders tidied up the kitchen. Chummy had drawn the short straw and was on boot room and toilet duty.
Once Chummy was happy that the chalet was left as we had found it, CeeCee and I bundled our suitcases into the car while Rodders strapped the skis to the roof.
'I'll just do a quick whizz round to make sure we haven't forgotten anything,' said Chummy. 'I know what CeeCee is like.'
I settled myself in the back with a book for the journey, while Rodders tried to tune the radio into anything that wasn't white noise or crackle.
After a few minutes Chummy reappeared and turned to lock the front door. In her hand I caught a flash of blue fabric.
'Oh shit,' I said under my breath, remembering Kéving's boxers that I had left under the bed.
'What is it?' CeeCee asked me.
'Damning evidence.'
'Yours I think,' Chummy said, handing them to me.
'Look, I'm sorry, I can explain…' I stammered.
'Nothing to explain,' she replied, no hint of annoyance in her voice at the liberties her young guest had taken. 'You want to wear boy's pants, that's your business. Look pretty comfortable to me.'
CeeCee stifled a giggle and I kicked her hard.
'Right chaps, ready to go,' said Rodders, looking at everyone in the rear view mirror.
'Ready,' we said in unison.
I smiled at CeeCee and made a gesture of wiping my brow before settling back for the journey.
As we started our slow descent of the mountain, I rested my head on the window and reflected on the past few days. I wasn't really the 'one night stand' type but surely the fact that I'd had one meant I was definitely moving on from Julien. I was certainly thinking less and less about him and when I did, the all-consuming pain I had felt a while ago seemed less acute. A weekend of skiing and a one night stand were no real cure for a broken heart, but they didn't seem to have done me any harm.
Chapter Thirty-six
'Shit, shit, shit,' I shouted to the empty barn flinging the axe so hard that it hit the far wall, throwing up a spray of stone chips.
I had spent the past two hours trying to split wood for the wood burner. It was like reinforced steel and the pile was depressingly small. On top of that, I had blisters on my palms. The snow had lain thick on the ground like a vast white overcoat for the past week and St Amans had been largely cut off as the temperature dipped to minus twelve during the day. Even with the wood burner running full blast 24/7, I had been sleeping in a coat and gloves. On the third day, the pumps running the water up to the hamlet had frozen and the taps had run dry. Today, thankfully, it felt noticeably warmer.
'This is supposed to be a bloody First World country,' I shouted again, stomping over to pick up the axe and attack the wood again, 'and here I am chopping wood and melting snow for water like some bloody medieval peasant.'
I lifted the axe over my head and swung it viciously at the log, hitting a knot in the wood so the axe vibrated painfully up my arms to my hands. In the cottage the phone rang and grateful for something else to do apart from chop wood, I rushed to answer it.
'Oh, Madame Mollet, how are you?' I said when I heard the estate agent's voice on the line. 'Do you have some more viewings lined up?'
'No, actually I have phoned to tell you that we have found a buyer for Les Tuileries.'
My stomach lurched. From what she had said, houses often took years to sell in France so I had never actually thought it woul
d happen while I was still living there.
'A buyer? Well, um, that's good news for Monsieur Marin, I suppose. So what happens next? What sort of timescale are we looking at?'
'I have emailed you a letter giving you one months' notice of the termination of your tenancy agreement.'
'One month!' I felt my stomach hit the floor. 'I thought the agreement said three months?'
'I'm sorry, but if you read it again you will see that in the case of a sale of the property the landlord has the right to give only one month. I will bring a copy of the letter to you as soon as I can, but I wanted to make sure you knew as early as possible.'
I opened up my laptop and clicked on the email from Madame Mollet. It was there in black and white. I had one month to leave my beloved cottage and find somewhere else to live.
'Well, that's that then.'
'I'm sorry,' Madame Mollet said. 'You have been a good tenant.'
'Do you have anything else on your books that might suit me?'
'I'm afraid not. I don't really do that many rentals, just for some long-standing clients.'
'Right,' I said abruptly. I knew this day would eventually come, but now it had, it felt like a bereavement.
'Well, I must go. I will see you soon.'
'Right,' I replied.
'Goodbye, mademoiselle.'
'Goodbye.'
I sat down on the sofa. For once in my life, I had no idea what my next step would be. Should I stay in France? Could I stay in France? I had been clinging on by my fingertips for the last few months. Maybe it was a sign that I should give up this particular dream. The thing was, I really didn't want to. But then, what choice did I have? I had no money, my flat in London wasn't selling; I would shortly have no home, I had no job and my love life was in tatters. My life sounded like a second-rate country music song. My phone beeped to signal the arrival of a text. It was from Charlotte.
'Living it up at the Baftas. Lots of people asking after you. Hope all is good en France. C xxx'
This time last year it would have been me there; glammed up, hair newly cut and highlighted, nails done. I looked at my hands. The blisters had started to bleed and my nails hadn't seen a manicure in months. My feet were clad in muddy wellies and the last time I had tried on a pair of my heels, my feet were too big for them, the end result of months in sandals and flip-flops. Country feet. Outside, I noticed that it had started to rain. At least it would clear the snow but it very much reflected my mood. I sat, staring into space, mentally arguing with myself about my next move. I had always been a fighter. A typical Capricorn, stubborn and unwilling to give in, but for once I felt totally defeated. Whichever way I looked at it, my French dream was surely over.
As the day rolled slowly on towards evening and the light started to fade, I knew that it was time to give up. I had given it my best shot, no one could argue with that. I had arrived in France as a naive London girl, slightly selfish and self-centred, and clearly with no idea what life in a foreign country involved. How far I had come. I now spoke passable French, I knew a fair bit about keeping chickens and had embraced a new culture. I had developed strong and hopefully lasting relationships with my neighbours and for the first time in my life, I felt as if I belonged in a community. It hadn't always been plain sailing and I had made lots of mistakes along the way.
I saw headlights coming down the drive. Probably Madame Mollet with the termination letter. With a heavy heart, I stood up and went to the door. No point in delaying the inevitable.
'Bonjour, Madame Mollet,' I said, opening the door. 'That was quick.'
A draught of cold air blew in.
'Bonjour, mademoiselle,' she held out a letter, 'your notice of termination.'
I took it wordlessly and shoved it in my pocket.
'Also, I hope you don't mind but I bought the new owner round. She wanted to have a look at the cottage.'
'Well, really you should have asked before. I mean, it's a bit of a mess.' I was faintly irritated by her presumptuousness.
'I'm sure she won't mind,' Madame Mollet said smiling. She stood back and the new owner stepped into the light from the open door.
'Surprise!'
'Tracey? Tracey bloody Tarrant? What the hell are you doing here?'
I didn't know whether to laugh or cry, but before I had a chance to do either, Tracey threw her arms around me, hugging me tightly. Then she stepped back, holding me at arm's length and looked at me.
'Bloody hell, you look pretty shabby. What's happened to you?'
Madame Mollet interrupted, 'If you don't mind, I have business to do in Bussières so I'll leave you to it.'
I led Tracey into the house and sat her down on the sofa.
'Well of all the people in the world, I never expected to see you again. I texted you, you know.'
'I know, I did get it but I was in the studio so I didn't have a chance to reply and then too much time had passed. You know how it is. I was too embarrassed to call you.'
'But not too embarrassed to make me homeless though?'
'Look, I've got so much to tell you.' Tracey looked round the room. 'God, this place would freeze the balls off a polar bear. Why don't you turn the heating on for God's sake?'
'Er, Tracey. Look around you. What's missing from this picture? Radiators maybe?'
'Glad to see that your sarcasm is still alive and kicking.'
'Just one of my many qualities.'
She stood up. 'Come on, grab your coat… oh, you're already wearing it. We're staying at a hotel in Villeneuve. I'll get you a room there and you can come and warm up. My shout. Then I can fill you in on what's happening.'
'We?' I asked.
'Oh shit. I've left him in the car. Hurry up, grab some overnight stuff, he's probably frozen to the steering wheel.'
'This is Nathan.'
'Hi Nathan,' I said, climbing into the back of the BMW four-wheel drive. In the half light I could barely make out his features but his deep, rich American voice, when he greeted me, was warm and friendly.
'So when are you going to tell me what's going on?' I asked as we purred along the road to Villeneuve.
'When you're cleaned up and wearing normal clothes. You look like a bleedin' bag lady. I had no idea you'd let yourself go so much after I left.'
I punched her on the shoulder.
'Ouch. That hurt.'
'No more or less than you deserve, just leaving like that.'
'Yeah, I'm sorry. The thing was, I knew what was going on. You know, with Julien.'
'You knew? How?'
'Remember the time we met his girlfriend, what was her name? Jo, that's it. It was at la danse country.' She said the last bit with a ridiculously exaggerated French accent.
'Yes,' I said, curiously.
'Well remember I went out for a fag while you were getting the licence thingies.' She turned to Nathan. 'Can you believe that you have to have a licence to line-dance in France? Imagine how well that would go down with the Good Old Boys back home!'
In the glow of the street lights, I saw his face crinkle into a smile.
'Yes, I remember,' I said.
'Well he was outside picking her up. He had no idea we were there. He nearly crapped his jeans when he saw me.'
'You saw him with her? And you didn't say anything?' I was stunned at the betrayal.
'I tried to, honestly, I really did…'
'Oh my God. The day when the hunting season started?'
'Yes, but I lost my nerve. So where did that leave me? I knew he was cheating on you, and on her, but I couldn't tell you. I felt awful. I couldn't be around you knowing what I did. Then the opportunity came up to go to LA and I jumped at it and I'm glad, otherwise I might not have met Nathan.'
He reached across and grabbed Tracey's hand, pulling it towards him and putting it in his lap.
At the hotel, Tracey checked me into a room while Nathan parked the car, then sent me upstairs to take a long bath and warm up.
'Nathan seems nice,' I said to Trac
ey. She smiled and made googly eyes at me.
'You really like him then?'
'Like? It's l'amour actually if you really want to know.'
'I'm really pleased for you, Trace.'
She smiled. 'It's so good to see you again,' and gave me a big hug. 'Right, better let you get sorted. See you down in the bar when you're ready.'
L'amour Actually Page 31