Dedication
On This Side in France
To Claire Larmenier,
who holds my head above the chaos that surrounds my life —
usually of my own making.
To Mimi and Harry Taylor,
who continue to love and support their errant and wayward
mother.
To my friends and neighbours in St Saturnin les Apt —
you light up my life.
Je vous aime tous.
Contents
Dedication
Chapter One: Home Is Where the Heart Is
Chapter Two: Eggshell White
Chapter Three: The Wild Thyme Patch
Chapter Four: The Arrival of the Pocket Venus
Chapter Five: The Long-term Clients
Chapter Six: Carpe Diem — Seize the Carp?
Chapter Seven: Domus Latina
Chapter Eight: The House Fairy
Chapter Nine: Right Before Your Eyes
Chapter Ten: The Mark of Zorro
Chapter Eleven: Joyeux Noël 2002
Chapter Twelve: Advance Australian Fare
Chapter Thirteen: Provençal Painting Lesson
Chapter Fourteen: The Poisoned Right Arm
Chapter Fifteen: A Venetian Wedding
Chapter Sixteen: The Bottom of Things
Chapter Seventeen: You’ve Got Mail!
Chapter Eighteen: The Fat Lady Sings
Chapter Nineteen: The Farewell Tour
Chapter Twenty: Stripped Bare
Epilogue
About the Author
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
Home Is Where the Heart Is
Christmas 2001
By the end of November, the temperature in sunny Provence suddenly shoots downwards. Perfect one day and even better the next becomes the exact opposite, and the inhabitants go about their business of preparing to hibernate for the next three to four months, taking cover from the arctic winds which sweep across the fields, rattling windows and shaking doors. Christmas decorations are brought out early to convince shoppers that there is good cheer aplenty. Songs about sleigh bells, jingle bells, White Christmas, snowballs, reindeer, snow and frost ring out across the airwaves.
We had been living in the south of France for eleven months and still could not extricate ourselves from dreams of crashing surf, sunburn, spicy Asian food, mangoes and cherries and the cricket. Yet the bronchial dilator, along with a year’s supply of Ventolin capsules to ease the children’s chronic asthma attacks, never saw the light of day; every month they were pushed further into the depths of the bathroom cupboard. There are air-quality tests taken annually in the Luberon that prove that it continues to have the least pollen and pollution in France. This dry, pollen-free climate had been an unexpected bonus for our health. The remarkable physical change in both Mimi and Harry was not a factor I could overlook lightly. At a family meeting, we had decided that we would stay in France for three years and then reassess the situation. These family meetings were held almost nightly, and our assessment of our position changed dramatically in line with the type of day we had had. The very fact that I repeated as a daily mantra that we had an achievable three-year goal that we were working towards — as a team, I dared to add — made the children believe that I actually had a firm grasp on our family’s destiny. Always trying to show both sides of the argument, I pointed out that it was also essential in life to remain totally flexible. This was really an escape hatch that I had built into my argument, because the reality was that I had very little idea what I was doing and I was quite prepared to throw in the towel the moment the going became too rough.
Even with our three-year plan, we needed a quick trip back to Sydney at Christmas time for a break from all things French. The French, after all, were just too French! We were three Australians who still called Australia home.
Apart from sitting almost perfectly still in the same seat in a flying metal tube for over twenty-four hours, the long flight from France to Australia was effortless. There was absolutely nothing I could do to resolve all the tricky questions that had been playing on a continuous loop in my mind during those twenty-four hours. Even I wasn’t particularly sure why I had chosen to take my children and live in the south of France; on a different continent — not even in the same hemisphere. During this visit our friends and family in Australia would be asking why we were living there and how long we were staying. The answers were somewhere in my befuddled mind. Somehow I had to convince everyone that I knew exactly what I was doing, even though I could see gaping holes in my logic. Friends would say behind my back that grief from my bereavement, nearly six years previously, as well as excess alcohol, had finally taken a firm grip on my reasoning. Maybe they would be right; but at the time we moved to France, I had never felt surer about anything.
The years before the move had been a roller-coaster ride of grief, pain and struggle. My beloved husband Norman died in 1995 after a terrible struggle with cancer, leaving me a single mother of two young children with only bittersweet memories of our happy life BC (before cancer) for comfort. A black hole of grief and alcohol swallowed me up, from which I finally emerged thanks to the staunch support of family and friends. Including, strangely enough, Latin Ray — former lover, former high-flying businessman, always besotted with Latin (hence known variously as Latin Ray or the Latin Lover). Just as I was coming up for air and starting to make a life and a home in Sydney for our family, my mother Sheilagh died and it was clear that a new era was beckoning. A six-month break in another country seemed just what Mimi, Harry and I needed — and so we came to the medieval village perché of Saignon, teetering above the busy market town of Apt in the heartland of Provence. Before I knew it I was forging a new life as the proprietor of three houses — two holiday rental properties in Saignon, and another house for us to live in, near the village of St Saturnin les Apt — making friends, making mistakes (lots of them) and learning the unwritten rules of life in a small French town. Bubbling away in my head now were a host of questions, with one big one leading the way:
1. How can Raymond and I have a relationship across two continents?
2. Are we doing the right thing, living in France?
3. Will we make money out of our properties or will they drive us to penury (and me to drink)?
Mimi and Harry were now seasoned travellers so they had been able to sleep most of the way, whereas I always found that long-distance travel gave me time to mull over problems and decisions, which inevitably led me to drown my thoughts in far too many combinations of exotic alcoholic beverages, aspirins and the dubious congealed food in small foil packages that was available to bored travellers on demand during the course of the voyage. My legs were encased from the knees down in surgically approved elastic stockings that had apparently cut off all blood supply to my lower limbs, in an effort to avoid deep vein thrombosis. Underwear had rubbed red welts into my skin, which was dry and papery from dehydration. A long hot shower was the only remedy for my aching body and overactive mind, followed by the prerequisite pots of tea and toast that would be waiting at my father’s home. Everything else would have to wait.
I hummed festive carols about a white Christmas, sleigh bells and peace on earth and thought happy thoughts of toast and tea, but they vapourised instantly when a customs officer put a hand on my shoulder and asked me to come with him to have my bags inspected. A small piece of tinsel holly was tucked discreetly into a buttonhole in his shirt pocket but the welcoming smile was missing. Don’t make a scene, my children mouthed to me silently. At the ages of almost eight and ten respectively, Harry and Mimi understood the workings of officialdom and they knew only too well my ability to cause a fracas. I struggled to keep m
y mouth tightly shut and my views to myself. Offending items were taken out of my bag and waved under my nose: Belgian chocolate Christmas decorations. The felonious baubles had been sighted and duly noted as they passed through one of the many X-rays that scanned vigorously for food, plants and seeds in an effort to keep contagious diseases away from the pristine Australian shores. The label stated in numerous languages that they were Christmas bells; however, on the flickering grey X-ray screen they resembled misshapen hand grenades. After the terrorist attack on New York’s World Trade Center three months previously, nothing was being left to chance. The expensive chocolates were left in the safe hands of the customs inspector and we were free to wheel our remaining luggage into the arrival lounge and into the arms of our family. Mimi and Harry began to sneeze, cough and wheeze. Their little shoulders took on that all too familiar hunched-up look that signalled the beginnings of asthma attacks.
The children dragged themselves off into various parts of their grandfather’s home for a short recuperative nap before the first round of family visits, which had been scheduled for lunchtime. The urge to swim in the salty sea and feel the sun on my skin outweighed the desperate tiredness that was sweeping over me in spasmodic waves. Experienced travellers are divided in their opinions of the best way to combat severe jet lag, but having travelled extensively from a young age, I always attempt to exercise as soon as possible after a long trip. Swimming or diving through pounding surf usually washes away the cobwebs and temporarily gives me the impression of having beaten the dreaded jet lag — until it king hits me in the late afternoon.
Carefully avoiding the glance that I knew was coming my way, I asked for the keys to my father’s car to drive across the Spit Bridge and into Manly — its surf beach was second only in reputation to the internationally renowned Bondi Beach on the other side of the harbour. Manly was also the home of my Latin Lover. Sex, sun and surf: I wanted all three but found that even at forty-three years of age, it was difficult to admit this to my father. With the keys in my hand, I did not wait for the lecture about jet lag and driving, let alone the suggestion that I might be over the limit at nine o’clock in the morning after twenty-four hours of nonstop drinking. I fobbed off my father’s questions about who I might see in Manly. The children were fast asleep. The dreaded asthma attacks had been avoided but the watery eyes and running noses had started as the polluted pollen-laden Sydney air rushed into their lungs. For a short time I was free. The lure of Manly was just too strong. During the trip I had memorised my list of urgent things to do first:
1. Have a shower.
2. Speak to my sister Kate and her family.
3. Organise when and where to meet them on Christmas Day.
4. Organise the Christmas festivities.
5. Buy a well-fitting bra.
6. Avoid speaking to Raymond.
7. Avoid having sex with Raymond.
8. Break up with Raymond.
It wouldn’t have taken a genius to work out the fundamental flaw in my relationship with Raymond, my Latin Lover, my Mr Darcy, my first true love, whom I had met when I was twenty-two and impressionable. Destiny and my parents’ influence had pulled us apart. But much to my father’s horror, Raymond had come back into my life.
Raymond had come, at my insistence and for the first time, to live full-time with us in France from January to October 2001. His job was to offer me physical and emotional support while I started up my holiday rental business. I also desperately hoped that he would be able to show me how to set up the financial side of a small business, as that was his line of expertise but it was something completely alien to me. As a side issue, I expected him to fall thoroughly and hopelessly in love with me and never want to leave my side because the veil of confusion would finally be lifted from his eyes, enabling him to make wonderful vows (similar to marital ones) of dedication, commitment and loyalty.
It wasn’t as though I had asked him to join me in the depths of the Amazon jungle or in the deserts of North Africa. Our new French home was in the prettiest part of the Luberon Valley, sixty kilometres east of Avignon and about the same distance from Aix-en-Provence. We were surrounded by endless vineyards, cherry orchards and olive trees that stretched gloriously across the countryside. Every month there was an extraordinary change in the landscape; the purple irises on the side of the roads in April followed by the profusion of red poppies in May made most people’s jaws drop. But nothing ever compares to the simple beauty of fields of waving lavender stretching in long straight lines across the rolling hills or the sunflowers that take over in late July. Many men would have killed for a short sabbatical from life in these surroundings with no strings attached.
Our fairly average household consisted of one bereaved widow, two children and two recent additions, our kittens Sootie and Tiger. I doubted whether it was the kittens that had tipped the scales to make life unbearable. To be fair, Raymond had said from the beginning that he would never stay in France and live with us forever. Deliberately, I put his words out of my mind for ten months, knowing that the power of true love and the beauty of Provence would eventually win him over. But it had not. And now I was in the process of reassessing True Love.
Raymond now lived in Manly, whereas I remained steadfastly with my children in France. We were more than geographically challenged. But as I now lay in the twisted sheets of his bed and tried to fit together the pieces of my puzzle, to the best of my ability, I could feel myself sliding down the slippery path of total intoxication with this man and it had nothing to do with the fabulous bottle of French champagne that he had plied me with the moment I walked through the door.
Within one hour of landing in Sydney, I had lied to my father. Yet again I had lied to myself as I made a detour to Raymond’s bed rather than heading for the beach: so much for my swim. Over the previous twenty-four hours — and the six weeks since Raymond left our home in France — I had come to the hard decision that it would be best if we went our separate ways. Passionate lovemaking and alcohol had once again weakened my resolve. Yet again I would need to reconsider my position.
How could our relationship survive the distance? Casual friends said that absence makes the heart grow fonder, whereas my closest friends repeated the old adage of out of sight, out of mind. We were attempting the impossible: keeping the flame of love alive across two continents, two hemispheres and a ten-hour time difference. Yet for the past six weeks of his absence, I had thought of nothing else. My life was completely and utterly out of balance.
Barely six weeks previously, outside the departure gates at Vienna airport, with a smile that split his crooked face in two, Raymond had pressed me to his lips and told me that he loved me and that we would visit each other at least three or four times a year. Good lying on his part, wishful thinking on mine. But then he had positively bounded through the sliding doors towards the plane that was Australia-bound. His tour of duty was over and he was heading home to surf, sun and cold beer. There had been times when he had actually enjoyed France, but the joy of carrying the morning baguette under his arm with a black beret on his head did nothing to assuage the discomfort he felt overall at being in France.
Manly, with its beautiful surf beach, was the best place on earth for him. France didn’t even come in second. He couldn’t wait to swim in the Pacific Ocean, feel the warm yellow sand between his toes, and drink cold Australian beer at the Steyne Hotel in Manly on Saturday mornings with his mates (all with widening girths) while their wives — if they still had them — went out to do the weekly shopping. We would just have to see how it worked out. Raymond believed that the hurdles would be small. We agreed not to discuss the future and to let it take care of itself; it was pointless to talk about it in any case, as there was very little room to compromise. All of these dismal, negative thoughts evaporated when Raymond reeled me into his arms yet again. After an absence of six weeks, he knew how to make a woman feel special. He loved me, he repeated insistently, and that was all we needed to make thin
gs right.
The two weeks at Christmas were spent with friends and family by the beach, swimming, overindulging, laughing and drinking, playing tennis and reading books. Periodically, I wished that I could turn the clock back and that I had never left Sydney. My whole life had revolved around Sydney, my late husband Norman and my children. We were blessed with a wonderful extended family, including an assortment of aunts and uncles and cousins. After my husband’s death, time did heal a certain amount of grief but a catchphrase continued to haunt my days and nights: life is so very short. Don’t waste a precious minute. Destiny stepped in and the children and I found ourselves struggling through the middle of a horrendous European winter against the backdrop of the stark beauty of Saignon and surrounds. It was here that I learnt about life — or rather what constituted the essentials for my family and me.
As the temperature spiralled upwards during our Sydney holiday, so too did the pastiche of thoughts that whirled around unrestrained in my mind about the past few tumultuous years. Memories surfaced of the death of my husband, the ongoing saga of our financial affairs that was finally resolved in the Supreme Court, my alienation from Norman’s family, my mother’s death, and buying a new family home in Sydney only to discover that in fact France would become our home. My preferred European address had always been more along the lines of a wonderful villa among the cypress trees on the rolling blue-green hills of Tuscany, but this had not come to pass. Instead, for better or worse, we launched ourselves into a new life among the sixty-five million inhabitants of France. The linchpin of my success had been my incredible good fortune on the Sydney Stock Exchange, which had allowed me to buy three small properties in the south of France. Our lives spun around on an axis, hurtling us into a three- to five-year financial plan that was formulated and changed on a daily basis.
The aim of our Australian holiday had been to see family and friends, in particular Latin Ray, while also saying goodbye to our old lifestyle and loosening some of our remaining ties in Sydney. And this included Raymond. Yet no matter how many times I broached the subject with Raymond during our brief holiday, I couldn’t bring myself to say that it was all over between us. As our time in Sydney drew to a close, I reasoned that I could move forward in our new life in France while things continued to be unresolved between us. The small impediment was that I still loved him.
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