After a short while we turn off the motorway and begin winding our way through the countryside. Despite the heat, I buzz down my window, breathing in the warm scented air as we drive past fields of purple lavender and yellow sunflowers that seem to turn their heads to follow us. Old stone farmhouses and rolling hills, pretty villages and sweeping valleys; everywhere I look is picture postcard perfect. The Provençal landscape makes it hard to believe we just left Paris this morning; it feels like we’re a million miles away.
Gone is the fast pace of city life with all its pollution and traffic and stresses, and in its place is a natural landscape. We pass through whitewashed streets ablaze with pink and purple bougainvillea, shaded fountains and squares where locals and tourists gather under the dappled light of the plane trees, and old men in checked shirts and straw hats play boules.
Xavier is right. Already I feel like I never want to leave.
After nearly an hour of driving, we turn off from the road and steer through a pair of impressive iron gates.
‘Are we here?’ I ask, turning to Xavier. He’s been quietly reading the whole journey, engrossed in the contents of his briefcase, which I feel quite relieved about. For a moment there, I thought—
Well, whatever. I brush the thought quickly away before it has a chance to germinate. It doesn’t matter.
‘Yes.’ He nods, looking up from his paperwork as we begin rumbling down a long sweeping driveway that seems to go on for ever.
On either side of us are rows and rows of small bushy trees, as far as the eye can see, and I peer at them curiously until suddenly I notice the clusters of dark purple grapes hanging from each one.
‘Is this a vineyard?’
‘One of the finest in the area.’ He nods.
Of course. How could I not have realised? But then I’ve never seen one in real life, only in photographs. In my defence, they don’t have many vineyards in west London.
‘It has been in the Dumont family for many generations, it’s where Madame Dumont lived until she died.’
‘Yes, now I remember you saying,’ I murmur, gazing all around me at the sprawling estate. So this is where Emmanuelle came to, all those years ago, when she fled from the Nazis. I marvel at the endless stretch of lavender blue sky, the row upon row of ancient vines and the grandeur of the huge stone chateau we’re approaching. It all feels so vast and impressive and a million miles away from the busy cobblestoned side streets of Paris. What emotions must she have felt when she first arrived here to start her new life? I wonder if she knew she would never go back.
The car wends its way through seemingly endless acres of vineyards, before sweeping through manicured gardens and a lane of cypress trees that leads up to the chateau. Built out of yellow stone that glows golden in the sunlight, the main building is three storeys high with large arches and a wide terrace, while at one end there appears to be a bell tower and at the other a large turret, covered in ivy.
As we advance up the gravel driveway, the tyres of the Mercedes make a satisfying crunching sound before coming to a halt as we pull up at the impressive entrance. Immediately a man in a uniform appears, opening car doors and ushering us in through the large arched doorway and into the expansive entry hall, lit by a large Murano chandelier and hung with dozens of large portraits. A few words are exchanged between him and Xavier, who quickly translates.
‘We are to wait in the main salle,’ he explains, our footsteps echoing on the polished marble floors, as we are led through to a large vaulted drawing room where we are greeted by a huge fireplace, several antique sofas and lots of strategically placed lamps and expensive-looking ornaments. A grand piano sits in the corner, next to a wall on which is draped something that looks like the Bayeux Tapestry.
Actually, maybe that is the Bayeux Tapestry, I wonder, before quickly dismissing the thought. Of course it’s not, silly. That’s a priceless artefact and in some museum somewhere . . . But still. It wouldn’t surprise me. This place reeks of wealth. Everything in here looks like some priceless antique. No wonder Madame Dumont’s heirs have little interest in coming up to Paris for the auction. They must be absolutely loaded after inheriting this estate. The proceeds of the auction will probably be like loose change for them.
‘Please—’
Xavier gestures for me to sit down and I perch gingerly on the edge of one of the sofas. I’m being careful not to knock anything over. Clumsy is my middle name. I feel apprehensive and not just a little bit intimidated. Which is ridiculous. What did Mum always used to tell me whenever I felt nervous? Oh yes, it was to imagine the person in their underpants.
‘Welcome.’
I almost jump out of my skin as I turn round to see a large man stride into the room. Extremely tanned, with snow-white hair, he’s smoking a cigar and wearing slippers with crests on them, billowy linen trousers and a shirt that’s open way too far to reveal his extremely large paunch.
Actually, on second thoughts, forget the underpants thing.
‘It is wonderful to meet you,’ he booms, blowing out a large cloud of cigar smoke, through which he appears like a singer from an eighties music video. Grabbing our hands, he shakes them vigorously and introduces himself as Felix.
‘I hear you are from England?’ he says, fixing me with eyes that are too closely set together.
‘Yes, London.’ I nod.
‘Oh, how I love London,’ he says, in an accent I can’t quite place, ‘We lived there for a few years before we moved to Gstaad.’
Of course, it’s one of those international accents that super wealthy people always have.
‘You live in Switzerland?’ I make an attempt at conversation.
‘Hell no,’ interrupts a loud voice and a woman appears in a bright pink tracksuit, carrying a ball of fluff.
Blonde and terrifyingly thin, at first I think she’s my age, but as I focus in I realise she’s probably closer to fifty, though it’s hard to tell as she’s had so much work done and is wearing sunglasses. The kind with rhinestones on the side, though in her case I wouldn’t be surprised if they were real diamonds.
‘The Swiss are so damn boring I insisted we move to Manhattan. Trust me, once you’ve seen one cuckoo clock, you’ve seen ’em all.’
‘This is my wife Trixie,’ says Felix, looking slightly pained. ‘She’s American.’
‘Texan,’ she corrects icily. ‘Unlike my husband who’s Swiss, in case you hadn’t noticed.’
Felix fidgets in his monogrammed slippers and sits down on an armchair, looking suddenly more like the henpecked husband than the wealthy landowner. I watch him sucking on his cigar, like a baby would on a dummy, and suddenly feel rather sorry for him.
Well, trust me, you haven’t met Trixie.
‘And you must be Xavier,’ she purrs loudly, directing her gaze greedily towards him. ‘So awesome to put a face to a voice.’
Adjusting the ball of fluff, which I now realise is a small dog, she proffers a spidery hand, dripping in diamond rings, for Xavier to kiss. Which he does with the utmost grace and a murmuring of ‘Enchanté?’.
‘And you are?’ Finally she turns to me, as if only just noticing I’m here. Her inflated top lip curls slightly as if there’s a bad odour.
‘Ruby Miller,’ I introduce myself, holding out my hand for her to shake.
She ignores it and, turning back to Xavier, instead whispers loudly, ‘Who is she?’
‘Miss Miller is here to deliver the catalogue for the auction,’ he says, not letting his smile slip.
‘Oh, I see.’ Her face registering, she turns back to me. ‘So where is it?’
‘Um, one moment, it’s in my bag . . .’ Feeling all eyes upon me, I scramble around in my backpack and pull it out.
‘Felix, look after Snookies,’ she commands, plonking the fur ball on his lap. He winces as it digs its painted nails into his linen crotch. Something tells me that wasn’t an accident on Trixie’s part.
Taking the catalogue from me, she quickly flicks through,
a disappointed look on her face. ‘I thought you said she had a Picasso?’ she demands, looking up at Felix.
‘It was just a rumour,’ he says defensively.
‘There’s some rare china,’ I say brightly, remembering Harriet’s excitement when we first walked in.
Turning to me, she gives me a withering look.
‘My wife’s just a little upset,’ explains Felix.
‘Oh, of course,’ I say, realising. I suddenly feel bad for the less than kind thoughts I’ve been having towards Trixie. She’s obviously grieving. ‘I’m very sorry to hear about your loss,’ I say hurriedly. ‘Please accept my condolences.’
‘Oh, it’s no loss to me,’ she tuts disparagingly, ‘We weren’t related. Monsieur Dumont was my husband’s great-uncle, or something like that. I can never remember the boring details.’ She bats her hand around dismissively.
‘Second cousin once removed,’ corrects Felix, barely concealing his annoyance.
‘Whatever.’ She shrugs. ‘I never met the guy, his wife was already a widow when Felix and I got together. It’s the third marriage for both of us,’ she adds in explanation and glances at her husband with an expression that says it won’t be her last.
‘She seemed like an interesting lady,’ I prompt.
‘Crazy you mean,’ she scoffs. ‘She lost her mind in the end you know. She spent the whole time living in the past, talking nonsense—’
We’re interrupted by a young girl in a uniform carrying a tray of drinks.
‘Refreshments, anyone?’ asks Felix, helping himself to a large glass of rosé.
‘Just water for me, thanks,’ I say and Xavier says something in French to the girl, who pours us both a glass from the large jug.
‘This iced coffee tastes weird,’ frowns Trixie, taking a sip from her drink. ‘Did you make it with sweetener like I told you?’
The young girl looks at her warily and murmurs something about sucre.
Trixie glances at Felix for a translation, then explodes. ‘Sugar!’ She looks like she’s just been poisoned and thrusts the glass back at the girl. ‘Just bring me a San Pellegrino with ice.’
As the young girl scurries out of the room, she tuts loudly. ‘Honestly, you can’t get the staff here like you can back home.’
‘We’ll be home soon my dear,’ soothes Felix, then glances at me. ‘There’s been so much to sort out, it’s been exhausting for my wife.’
I look at her, sprawled out on the sofa, and doubt that very much.
‘Well, the auction is all taken care of,’ I reply, then add pointedly, ‘My boss Harriet has worked around the clock to get everything ready.’
‘So all we need to do now is finalise the sale of the chateau,’ continues Felix.
I look at him in surprise. ‘You’re selling it? But I thought it had been in the family for generations?’
‘There’s no room for sentiment in business,’ replies Trixie, looking to Xavier for confirmation, ‘isn’t that right?’
I glance at him, surprised he’s never mentioned this.
‘We’re just finalising the paperwork,’ he says with a nod. ‘Mr Nawasaki and his corporation have just a few more questions before the finances are put in place.’
I feel an unexpected sense of loss. God, what a shame. They’re selling it to a Japanese corporation. And no doubt for a small fortune. I glance at Trixie and Felix and can’t help thinking how nothing seems to have any value to them apart from its monetary one.
‘Plus my husband would only drink it dry,’ she adds, shooting a contemptuous look at Felix, who’s draining the last of his glass. ‘Darling, if you need me I’ll be with our lawyer going over the particulars,’ she says curtly, and getting up from the sofa she plucks the fluffball from his lap and turns to Xavier. ‘Shall we?’
Xavier and I exchange glances and then, before I know it, she’s linked her arm through his and is leading him swiftly from the room.
23
Leaving me with Felix.
Oh god.
‘So, Ruby—’ He nods, regarding me from his armchair, his hands clasped round his paunch, which looks more enormous than ever now he’s sitting down, ‘—do you mind if I call you Ruby?’
‘No, not at all.’ I smile politely.
‘Such a pretty name.’
‘Thanks.’ I fidget uncomfortably under his gaze. Damn, I wonder how long Xavier is going to be?
‘They shouldn’t be too long,’ he says, as if he can read my mind, ‘though my wife will want to go over the small print.’
‘Yes,’ I say, though judging by the way Trixie had looked at Xavier, I don’t think it was the small print she was interested in.
‘In the meantime, why don’t I give you a tour of the estate?’
I’m torn between wanting to sit tight and wait for Xavier and wanting to look round the estate where Emmanuelle lived.
‘That would be great, thanks,’ I reply, my curiosity winning out.
‘It’s the largest in the region,’ he boasts, hoisting himself up from his armchair with a loud grunt. ‘We produce more than a hundred different wines including champagnes.’
‘Wow.’
‘Though I haven’t yet tasted them all, despite what my wife might say,’ he adds with a small laugh. ‘But then my wife and I take a different approach to things. She takes care of the business side of things, whereas I prefer to be a lot more hands-on.’
‘I see,’ I say, feeling his hands-on approach round my waist as he ushers me out of the room. Once through the doorway, I quickly step to one side. ‘Please, after you,’ I say, gesturing for him to lead the way.
He pouts slightly, his large fleshy hand still outstretched, then, seeming to think better of it, drops it by his side and walks dutifully ahead, chewing on his cigar.
‘So did you know the Dumonts well?’ I ask, trying to sound nonchalant as we pass through the long marbled hallway.
He shakes his head. ‘Not at all. I met Monsieur Dumont a couple of times as a young boy. Our families were not close.’
‘And Madame Dumont?’ I persist.
‘Just once at her husband’s funeral over twenty years ago. She was old and rather frail even then, hard to believe she was deemed to be quite a beauty in her youth . . .’ He pauses by several black and white photographs on the wall, and gestures to one of a couple.
‘Is this them?’ I gasp, peering at an attractive young woman in a ballgown, standing stiffly next to an older, smartly dressed man.
‘Yes, it was taken for Paris Match. They were quite the society couple in their day. The magazine even featured their wedding.’
It’s the first picture I’ve seen of Emmanuelle and I gaze at her face staring out from the photograph. It’s not how I imagined her to be; she’d sounded so alive in Henry’s letters, so happy, and yet here, despite her beauty, she looks empty.
‘Rumour has it she’d been a dancer before she was married.’
‘Yes.’ I nod, then catch myself. ‘I mean – really?’
He nods. ‘Though no one ever saw her dance. Apparently she would always refuse if asked, even by her husband.’
I think of her dancing with Henry, on their first date at the jazz club in Paris and then later, secretly together in her apartment. His descriptions of what a wonderful dancer she was are so vivid, so full of happiness and joy, it’s so sad to think she never danced again. Yet, in a way, I can’t help thinking it’s because she still loved him. That even after she was married, to dance with anyone else, even her husband, felt like a betrayal.
But in that case, why did she marry Monsieur Dumont? Why did she choose him over Henry? I feel a sense of indignation, quickly followed by resignation. Much has changed in the past seventy years, nothing more so than the sense of duty she must have felt, and which she must have ultimately given in to. And yet, even though I only know Emmanuelle through Henry’s letters, somehow I didn’t think she would.
You spoke of society and tradition, of rules to be followed and a
ppearances to be maintained. Yet you also spoke of your secret desire for freedom. Of being true to yourself. Of being able to follow your heart wherever it leads you.
‘But then by all accounts their marriage wasn’t a happy one.’
‘It wasn’t?’ I turn to him expectantly. ‘Why?’
‘Monsieur Dumont could be quite a bully. I was rather scared of him as a boy.’
My eyes flick back to the wall of photographs. There are various ones of them at different society events, and then I see a framed page taken from Paris Match that must be of their wedding.
It features a photograph of a bride and groom, surrounded by bridesmaids. The setting is lavish. The dress is exquisite. Emmanuelle looks beautiful. But I can’t stop staring at the older man with a handlebar moustache who is now her husband. His expression is hard and unflinching. If a picture tells a thousand words, then none of those is love.
I glance at the date in the corner: 19 July, 1945. I feel a beat of surprise. So she didn’t marry him until after the war. Five years after she fled Paris.
‘Please, this way.’ Felix gestures towards a door and reluctantly I turn away, my mind still full of questions, and follow him down a small staircase, which leads into a series of dimly lit rooms with arched ceilings. ‘These are the wine cellars,’ he says.
‘Wow,’ I murmur, my eyes adjusting to take in the hundreds of large oak-aged barrels piled high, row upon row of them.
‘I call it the church as it’s quite a religious experience,’ he continues, spreading wide his arms like a preacher in a pulpit. ‘Here we have over fifty thousand bottles stored in oak kegs – Merlot, Cabernet, Pinot, Côte de Provence . . .’
‘It’s quite impressive.’ I nod.
And a little unsettling, niggles an internal voice, as I realise we’re down here alone.
‘Everything is climate controlled . . .’
I make more favourable noises.
‘. . . all the bottles are aged a minimum of three years . . .’ He leads me further into the shadowy depths, ‘. . . and three times a day we turn them—’
Love From Paris Page 20