by Sarah Long
‘How many bank holidays do they actually have in this socialist paradise?’ asked Simon. ‘There were four of them in May alone, as I recall; it’s a wonder they ever get any work done.’
‘Says the man whose life is one everlasting holiday,’ Beth retorted.
‘After a long and hardworking career, you may recall.’
‘It’s the perfect season for fireworks,’ said Nicola. ‘A hot midsummer night is so much better than rainy November for standing around outside. There’s also the Bal des Sapeurs-Pompiers – that’s the fire brigade. We can pay two euros a head to go to the party at the fire station. Shall we?’
‘Ooh yes!’ said Leo.
‘I want to go and vlog it,’ said Fizz. ‘Mademoiselle Bovary checks out the local talent. Will you come with me, Leo?’
Leo put down his sketchbook and clapped his hands in delight.
‘Is the Pope Catholic? Or should that be, are firemen hot? Either way, the answer is yes.’
‘I’ve got another idea, too,’ said Fizz, stretching her arms over her head and arching her back. ‘It came to me when I was running round the lake and saw you all sitting around having your picnic. Beth, you can help me with this one – I could do with your professional expertise.’
Beth pushed her sunglasses up.
‘Oh yes, what for?’
‘You know that Manet painting, Le Déjeuner sur l’herbe? I saw it in the Musée d’Orsay when I was on the Erasmus year of my course. It shows a naked woman and her scantily dressed friend casually having lunch outdoors on the grass in the company of two fully dressed men. It’s so bold – the naked woman is staring right at you! Too scandalous to be shown at the Paris Salon so Manet exhibited it in the Salon des Refusés instead. Well, I was thinking, we could do a brilliant re-enactment of it here! I’ll be the nude, Nicola can be the woman in the background, with Dom and Leo in Edwardian dress! Directed by Beth, of course. It would be so cool!’
Beth sat up, suddenly energised.
‘I love that painting! I can see it right now: she’s sitting by her discarded blue dress, with a basket of bread and fruit tumbling over the ground beside her . . . What’s more, we have that trunk of old clothes that I found in the attic – they will be perfect! Let’s do it right now!’
*
Four hours later, they were almost ready for the shoot. The grand salon was converted into a dressing room, with Leo and Dominic parading around in frock coats from the chest in the attic, which by happy circumstance fitted them to a tee. Nicola was wearing a gauzy vintage nightdress and sewing a black tassel on to a hat to complete Dom’s outfit. Fizz had unpacked a blue dress and straw hat that she had last worn at a friend’s wedding, and a basket found hanging from the rafters in the arrière-cuisine was deemed a perfect replica of Manet’s original.
‘The light is perfect now,’ said Beth. ‘We just need Will to come back with the goods.’
Will had been sent out to buy peaches and a round loaf of bread – and the more challenging task of finding two fake beards in a fancy dress shop.
‘Here he comes,’ said Leo, looking through the window, ‘preceded by the satisfying crunch of wheels on gravel, one of my favourite noises.’
Will came in with a tray of lush peaches, a boule of bread, and a couple of elasticated black beards in cellophane wrapping.
‘You won’t believe how far I had to go to source those beards,’ he said. ‘Halfway to Paris! A massive warehouse full of fancy dress; it was a shame I had such a limited brief. Hope they’re all right.’
Dom slipped his beard on, along with the tasselled hat.
‘You look perfect,’ said Fizz.
‘Very dashing,’ said Will. ‘It’s just a shame my brutal haircut ruled me out from appearing in this, but I can see why I fail as an Edwardian.’
‘I don’t like this at all,’ said Leo, pulling his on with distaste. ‘I’ve always loathed facial hair. Why are you coming at me with those scissors?’
Beth started snipping at his beard.
‘Yours has to be more meagre than Dom’s if we want to be authentic.’
‘Let’s get on with it, shall we?’ said Dom. ‘I’m sweltering in these clothes.’
They walked down to the spot near the lake where they had picnicked earlier. Beth spread the blue dress out on the grass, placing the hat on top of it and tipping over the basket of peaches and bread.
‘You sit there, Dom. Hold the cane and stretch your leg out – that’s it! Leo, you go there, facing him, lift your right knee – perfect. Now you, Nicola, get behind them and bend over as if you’re looking for something, and hold your dress in with your left hand – great!’
Fizz stood next to Beth, watching the scene.
‘And now for you, Mademoiselle Bovary,’ said Beth, with a reassuring hand on her shoulder. ‘When you’re ready.’
Fizz shyly stepped out of her shorts and peeled off her vest.
‘God, this is embarrassing,’ she said. ‘Can you all please look away?’
Everyone obediently averted their gaze as she slipped off her underwear and sat down beside the overspilling basket.
‘That’s better,’ she said, ‘now I feel like a professional. Actors are massive tarts, though, aren’t they? It’s bad enough just sitting in the nude in front of people, let alone having to pretend to have sex with them!’
‘Look straight at me, Fizz,’ said Beth, from behind her camera. She clicked away, pleased at the tableau she had created, enjoying the buzz of enacting a project.
‘OK, it’s a wrap!’
Fizz quickly stood up and put her clothes back on. Dominic threw his hat at Nicola and peeled off his beard and jacket in relief.
‘Thank goodness that’s over. Did you get what you need, Beth?’
Fizz joined Beth to look at the pictures.
‘Well done, Beth,’ she said, ‘these are fantastic. I’m going to use that one, don’t you think? I love how you’ve managed the lighting, so my body is pale against the dark of the landscape and the men’s suits – well done!’
‘Should I keep my jacket on for the sapeurs-pompiers, what do you think?’ asked Leo, getting to his feet. ‘I’ll just freshen up, then it’ll be time to go. Fireworks and dancing – what a giddy life we’re leading!’
*
On the place de la mairie, Bastille Day fever was in full swing, with enthusiastic dancers of all ages jiving to the music of a live band, while the sounds of a rival party at the fire station could be heard down the street.
‘Come on, Leo,’ said Fizz, pulling him up from his seat, ‘let’s go and check out the sapeurs-pompiers’ ball. See what’s going on down there.’
They wandered off, leaving the others at a table on the terrace of the bar where they’d been enjoying a convivial evening, drinking and soaking up the atmosphere of the town. Dougie and Mary had stayed home at the château, as they were leaving in the morning on a visit to Mary’s mother and wanted to have an early night.
Will signalled to the waiter to bring another bottle of rosé, now Fizz wasn’t there to keep an eye on him. Even at this hour the cobblestones were still warm from the sun beneath Nicola’s feet as she slipped off her flip-flops.
‘Do you know what the French is for flip-flops?’ she shouted in Dom’s ear, struggling to be heard above the noise of the band.
He shrugged. ‘Les flip-flops?’
‘Wrong. It’s les tongs.’
‘That sounds like it should mean thongs. Those tiny knickers you don’t like wearing anymore.’
‘No, those are called les strings.’
Simon leaned across to butt in.
‘Enough of your dirty underwear talk – do either of you want to dance?’
Dom shook his head.
‘I like many things about the French but one thing I don’t understand is their fondness for dancing le rock,’ he said. ‘There’s another Englishism! But we don’t talk about dancing the rock, do we? We say rock and roll.’
‘I lov
e dancing le rock,’ said Nicola. ‘Simon and I joined the Dancing Le Rock society in our first term, didn’t we, Simon?’
‘And the rest is history,’ said Simon. ‘Come on then, let’s show them how it’s done.’
Nicola took his hand and followed him on to the dance floor, twisting and twirling with practised ease.
‘It’s like riding a bike,’ Simon shouted, ‘you never forget.’
He rested his hand on her hip as they moved together, then raised her hand in his to set her free on a dizzying spin. The crowd of dancers around them withdrew a little to give them space, impressed by these newcomers to the floor.
‘Let’s get more ambitious, shall we?’ said Simon, fired up by all the attention. He was twenty-two again, showing off to the crowd as he partnered the liveliest girl at the party.
He took both her hands and she swooped between his legs, then he pulled her back up and threw her into the air.
Dom watched in admiration as Nicola ducked and swerved, light as a feather against Simon’s solid frame – though he knew his stuff, too, no doubt about it.
Beth slipped into the seat beside him. ‘Quite the couple,’ she said, raising an eyebrow.
‘Aren’t they just,’ said Dom. ‘I’m more than happy to be the wallflower, aren’t you?’
‘Totally. I’ve never enjoyed dancing. Would much rather drink and watch. Cheers!’
She clinked glasses with him.
‘Those photos you took earlier are terrific,’ said Dom. ‘It looks like a real pastiche – like when Picasso did his own versions of Velazquez’s Las meninas.’
‘Praise indeed! I didn’t know you were a Picasso scholar. Anyway, it was Fizz’s idea, I was merely the facilitator. But I enjoyed it; took me back to my working days.’
‘Do you miss it? Working, I mean.’
‘Sometimes. But the culture’s changed, hasn’t it? You have to be so careful what you say.’
Will leaned over and tapped Beth on the arm.
‘Look, there’s our friendly farmer, strutting his stuff. He’s got all the moves!’
‘Oh yes!’ said Beth. ‘His partner’s good as well, isn’t she? Look, they’re going over to say hello.’
She watched as Jean-Louis and his partner, an auburn-haired woman in a fitted Fifties-style dress, crossed the dance floor to shake hands with Simon and Nicola. Simon didn’t look overjoyed at the interruption, Beth noticed.
‘Hilarious, isn’t it, how they always shake hands?’ said Dom. ‘I thought we Brits were supposed to be the formal ones.’
‘Pace too much for you?’ asked Will, as Simon and Nicola returned to the table.
‘Jean-Louis’s a dark horse,’ said Simon, wiping the sweat from his face. He sank into his chair and filled his glass to the brim. ‘All that chat about how hard it is to meet women when you’re toiling in the fields, and he turns up with a corker like that! Hats off to him, I say.’
He raised his glass in tribute, then emptied it in one go.
‘A corker?’ said Beth irritably. ‘Who are you, Bertie Wooster?’
‘I’m happy for him,’ said Simon, ‘and happy for us, too, if I’m honest. I’m not too keen on the way he hangs around you women. He could be seen as something of a threat with his Viking good looks and intense interest in our life at the château.’
‘Actually, the woman he’s with is his sister,’ said Nicola. ‘She lives in Toulouse but has come to visit for the fêtes. She’s really nice. I’ve invited her in for a coffee tomorrow. Here they come now.’
She watched Jean-Louis introducing his sister Annick to the others and thought how charming he was, so attentive to his sister. He was dressed in a Hawaiian shirt he told her he’d bought for the only holiday he’d ever taken outside France, on a visit to Sicily with his ex-girlfriend. It was interesting to see, he said, but he preferred it here in Normandy.
‘Now it is time for the feux d’artifice,’ Jean-Louis said. ‘It is a double celebration this year. The storming of the Bastille and your first year as our neighbours.’
*
It was well into the small hours when they finally stumbled home. Fizz drove Will back in the sports car but the others were well over the limit, so they all piled into Jean-Louis’s Renault, with Nicola and Beth sitting on their husbands’ laps. Jean-Louis assured them it was perfectly all right – he would be taking the back roads through the forest where there was no risk of the gendarmes arresting him for overloading his car.
‘How many vehicles do you actually own?’ Simon asked, as Jean-Louis drew up outside the château gates and they all spilled out in a giggling heap. ‘I’ve seen you driving at least five or six, including the tractor. Do you know that song, “I’ve Never Seen a Farmer on a Bike?” It makes the point that even if you lot complain about never making any money, you always seem to have a fleet of expensive cars and trucks at your disposal!’
‘But I also have a bike,’ Jean-Louis replied, with impeccable logic. ‘Bonne nuit, tout le monde. I’m glad your first Bastille Day with us was such a success.’
*
Leo climbed unsteadily up his spiral staircase, thinking back over the day’s events. A high summer picnic beside their very own lake, dressing up in Edwardian costumes, a competitive game of croquet where he narrowly beat Dougie, and then the fun of dancing with the wonderful Fizz at the sapeurs-pompiers’ party. It was, he thought, the perfect day, and if he had slightly over-indulged on the Bandol, he knew from experience it was not sufficient to bring on a hangover.
He slipped into bed and thought how reassuring it was that even if there was a violent storm tonight, his part of the roof at least was completely sealed, and it wouldn’t be long until the entire château was as watertight as it was when it was constructed hundreds of years ago, by men who presumably used wooden scaffolding – or did they have very long ladders . . . ?
He was just dropping off, musing happily about early forms of architectural construction, when his phone beeped. He reached sleepily across to see who it was. Then sat bolt upright.
Guess who? I’m not sure I even have the right to send this message.
It was David. After all these months.
Leo put his phone down; he wasn’t ready for this.
Then picked it up to read what followed:
I know you’ll find my behaviour inexcusable, and I don’t blame you. I needed space and time to think about what I really wanted, and I realise now that I made a huge mistake when I walked out on you. On us. On everything we had. I came by our house to tell you this in person and your tenant told me you’d moved to France? Sounds a bit extreme! Looks like you, too, are having a time of reflection and regrouping. But I’m sure you’ll agree that we belong together. Come back, Leo, and let’s just carry on where we left off. It’s what I want and I’m sure it’s what you do, too. Give your tenant notice, and we can be back in our home and forget this hiatus ever happened. Please. I love you. David
Leo calmly scrolled up and read through the message again. And, in a moment of pure and undiluted happiness, he realised he no longer cared. For months he had been waiting for this – would have given anything to hear from David, for the slightest hope that there might be a chance to go back to how they were. He read the message one last time, then pressed delete. And fell into a long and blissful sleep.
*
‘You’d have loved the firemen’s ball, Will,’ said Fizz, snuggling into his back in their large, carved bed. ‘It was properly flirty, all the women with the firemen, but not in a creepy way, just good old-fashioned fun. Leo adored it, as I knew he would. I was going to post it, but I’ll leave it until the morning – don’t want to spoil my followers, they’ve already had our Le Déjeuner sur l’herbe today.’
‘Put the light out,’ said Will sleepily. ‘I missed your restraining influence and wish I’d shown more self-control.’
Fizz reached across to turn off the light, and to check her phone before switching it into aeroplane mode – she was very dis
ciplined about her uninterrupted sleep.
‘Oh my God, Will!’ She thumped him on the shoulder. ‘It’s gone completely mental, look!’
She passed her phone to him, and he stared blurrily at the screen.
‘Very fetching, that photo of you with no clothes on, though I’m not sure about Dom in that fake beard. Pretty colours, too, with all the greenery and the dress and the fruit. What does it mean, all those numbers?’
Fizz was bouncing on the bed in her excitement.
‘Come on, Will, don’t talk like an old person. I thought you’d learned all about this during your life coach stuff! What it means is: I’ve gone viral!’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
‘Remind me which feast day it is today?’
Dominic was lying in bed on a hot August morning; even at this early hour the air felt sticky, the covers thrown aside. Nicola had pulled open the shutters and he held his hand over his eyes against the blinding rays of the sun.
‘Assumption,’ said Nicola. ‘When the Virgin Mary ended her earthly life and was assumed into heaven. And we have a party to prepare!’
They had chosen the public holiday to hold their housewarming garden lunch and mark the completion of the new roof. It made no difference to them in their life of leisure but they wanted those who were working to be able to attend. In the three months since they’d arrived, they’d made more new friends than they had in years – there was nothing like being dropped into a new environment for forcing you to make an effort – and wanted to invite them to what they billed as a typical English fete, with fun and games. ‘And meat with jam?’ one guest had asked, still scarred by the memory of lamb served with redcurrant jelly on his first and last visit to Britain.
‘I’m so glad the weather has held,’ said Nicola. ‘I know we have the space to hold it indoors, but it’s much more joyful outside. Get up, we’ve got work to do – you can’t just lie there looking sexy in your boxers, even if you do.’
She went downstairs to find Dougie and Mary had already set the tables in a long line on the terrace, covered with chequered tablecloths on which Leo was arranging jam jars of freshly picked flowers at regular intervals.