French Kisses

by Jan Ellis

  “Nope, I’ve got the night off. Dad has promised the kids fish finger sandwiches for tea so I said I might give that a miss and see what you were up to.”

  “Great. Two large Chardonnays and that fine English delicacy, scampi and chips coming up.”

  “Yum, my favourite!”

  A few hours later, when she had tottered tipsily back to the house, Rachel had found everything quiet and assumed that everyone had gone to bed. Instead she discovered the entire household plus a couple of local kids playing darts in the kitchen.

  “It’s good for hand-to-eye coordination,” her father had said when she’d expressed concern as the sharp objects whizzed across the room and pinged off walls.

  “And I insisted that they all wear cycle helmets to protect their heads,” added Connie, who was safely positioned by the door.

  Knowing when she was beaten, Rachel shook her head, laughing. “Well, there’s not much I can say to that. Goodnight all.”

  Now, sitting under a plane tree in Pelette waiting for the bus to arrive from Dreste, Rachel smiled at the recollection. She knew that her children didn’t yet appreciate how lucky they were to have friends and family in two countries. She had enjoyed her time in England more than she had expected to this year. Michael’s relatives had been kind, agreeing with her that it was important for the children not to lose touch with their cousins just because their parents had split up.

  A creak and rattle indicated that the bus was about to crest the steep, narrow street and make its way into the square. It drew to a halt opposite where she sat. Rachel was always fascinated as she watched the youngsters get off – the girls looked so much more glamorous than she and her friends had been at that age. She’d never had the big hair and perfect skin that these girls had. Alice was turning into a young woman and was worryingly gorgeous. Charlie was only two years younger but was still a boy. As she saw him slouch towards her, Rachel was overwhelmed with love for her children.

  The three of them walked home together, the cats joining them when they reached the church and running alongside.

  Back at the house she prepared supper then went into the studio to carry on with some birthday cards she was designing. The rhythm of work always helped her to think. She wasn’t quite sure how things were going to turn out, but she was determined that her little family would be okay. And was she lonely, as Mary had suggested? Of course not. In any case, she was far too busy with her prints and the kids to think about finding a new man.

  She’d had offers, of course. As soon as Michael had left her, she had been surprised when all kinds of unsuitable men – men who had been friends of theirs for years – rushed around to offer help, and sometimes more. The fact that every available male in the local area turned up at her door was just one more reason for her to be angry with Michael.

  Things hadn’t been going too well between them for some time; they didn’t not get on, things had just become a bit boring. Rachel had secretly imagined that she might make her own bid for freedom when the children were older, though she doubted whether she would ever really have done it. She loved her husband and it seemed to her that marriage was bound to be unexciting sometimes, so she was furious when Michael decided to jump ship. Whenever she thought about it, all the frustration came rushing back.

  * * *

  Rachel had been clearing out one of the sheds at the side of the house to use for storage and was dusty, tired and thirsty. The children were out with friends so she was on her own. Michael had gone into the village and came back with only half the things she had asked him for, looking rather sheepish. That’s when he’d broken the news: he hadn’t been to the village, he’d gone into Dreste to see Amelie and – Rachel guessed – to make sure that the girl really did want him.

  That moment was frozen in time and Rachel could remember every detail: the chickens preening in the dust that swirled around the courtyard, the church bell striking 3pm, the sound of children splashing around in a neighbour’s swimming pool.

  She had stood there, open-mouthed, not making sense of the words that washed over her. Then Michael had put on his reasonable voice, the one he used to clinch a property deal. The one that made her cringe.

  “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” Rachel’s brain couldn’t take it in for a minute. “That you’re leaving?”

  Michael nodded, looking sorrowful. “Of course I still love you and the children . . .”

  “But you love that girl more than us.”

  Michael had paced around the terrace, rubbing the top of his bald head as he tended to when he was upset.

  “Rach, this isn’t easy for me either.”

  “Pah!” Rachel almost spat the word at him. “Not easy for you? How dare you say that! You’re walzing out of my life with Miss Tippy-Toes leaving me with two kids and this bloody great house to manage on my own. With no money.”

  Michael raised his hands in a gesture of submission and looked pained.

  “I’m sorry sweetheart . . .”

  “Don’t bloody well ‘sweetheart’ me!”

  “Rachel, you’ll be fine. We’ll sort out the money – I won’t let you starve.” He had stopped pacing and was looking from the sun-baked terrace towards the kitchen, where Rachel had put a pile of new prints that she planned to get framed.

  “With the maintenance and the money from your work, you’ll be fine.” He smiled weakly. “And I’ll pay you rent to use the garage, of course.”

  That had been the final straw.

  “I don’t want you anywhere near the garage. You can keep that geriatric vehicle of yours in Dreste. Or better still, take it to the wrecker’s yard where it belongs.”

  For the first time, Michael looked shocked. He shook his head and looked pained.

  “How can you say that about Di-Di?”

  Rachel felt the teeniest sense of remorse bubbling under the fury as she pictured the old mustard-yellow car, a 2CV Dyane that had been pretty ancient when they had acquired her and the house from their canny neighbour all those years ago. He, Monsieur Seurat, had looked about 90 then but was still going strong, unlike the car. Despite the fact that Di-Di had a tendency to conk out at inopportune moments and that they now had a proper car, they had clung on to her.

  “I’ve got things to do here,” said Rachel, fearful that she was about to cry over a darned metal box.

  Michael nodded, and looked relieved to have an excuse to leave. “I’ll go now, but perhaps we can talk again tomorrow. You know that you can call me anytime.”

  The look he got made him beat a hasty retreat.

  “Okay, I’m off.”

  And with that he turned, got into Di-Di and drove off, the engine stuttering and farting as it went.

  The details of the next few days and weeks were a blur. After some initial tears, the children had been remarkable sanguine about it. All their friends’ parents seemed to be divorced. Amelie had taught Alice ballet, so it was not as if she was a complete stranger to them. Her parents were clearly embarrassed by their daughter turning into a home-breaker and went out of their way to be generous to their newly acquired grandchildren.

  Michael was as good as his word about the money, and Rachel got a regular lump of cash every month to help with the children. But she found herself more and more uneasy at the idea of being a ‘kept woman’. She also discovered that losing a husband – unsatisfactory though he might have been – left a big hole in her life. She seemed to have more time on her hands for some reason. She channelled a lot of energy into her work, occasionally stabbing right through the sheets of lino and imagining Michael’s sensitive parts under the roller as she worked the heavy press.

  Chapter 3: An Unexpected Proposal

  It was the beginning of November and Rachel was busy completing orders for her regular customers. That morning she decided to drop off a box of small framed prints and greetings cards at ‘Jolies cadeaux’. After the usual polite chit chat the shop’s owner, Madame Piquot, caught her firmly by th
e wrist.

  “It is time for lunch. Come with me.”

  Rachel was surprised. She knew Madame Piquot quite well, having supplied the gallery for many years, but they had never socialised. Now Madame indicated to her assistant that she was going out and led Rachel to a quiet restaurant in the next street.

  The owner greeted her warmly and led the women to what was clearly Madame’s usual table in the window, from where they could watch the world go by.

  “Pastis for Madame, and what may I bring the young lady?”

  Rachel didn’t really like the old-fashioned aperitif with its strong anise flavour having got very drunk on it with Michael many years before, but she ordered one to be polite.

  The women sipped their drinks and Rachel ate an olive and looked across the square aimlessly, wondering what Madame wanted to speak to her about. After several minutes of silence, she couldn’t bear it any more.

  “Madame, is there something that you wanted to say to me?” She suddenly felt anxious. “Is there a problem with my work?”

  Monique Piquot put down her glass and looked at her steadily.

  “There is nothing wrong with the work, my dear. But I am worried about you.”

  “Worried? About me?” This was not at all what Rachel had expected to hear.

  “I can see from the prints that you are not happy.”

  Rachel looked puzzled and said nothing, waiting for her to go on.

  “Your work has taken a somewhat, let’s say ‘Gothic’ turn lately. Fortunately people like black and white prints, and your starlings and crows are very striking.”

  Rachel ran through some of the recent work in her mind’s eye and had to concede that she had become rather fond of stormy skies, jagged mountains and black, silhouetted birds. She bit her lip, but before she could speak Madame went on.

  “The work is strong, but it is not . . . ,” she looked up to the ceiling, searching for the word. “The pictures are not joyeux.” She raised her hands as if grabbing something. “Your work used to be joyous!”

  Rachel felt her throat tighten and feared that she was going to cry. Madame Piquot saw this and patted her hand.

  “You have had a difficult time, I know.”

  Rachel never discussed her personal life with any of her customers, but Dreste was a small town and Madame Piquot was at the centre of it. As well as the gallery, she also ran a pension that was always full of regular guests who loved its old-fashioned charm. With all her contacts it was inevitable that she would have heard about Michael and the new baby.

  “I have a proposal for you.” Madame waved over the waiter and ordered a carafe of chilled rosé wine and two omelettes. Rachel had an agonising wait until their meal was brought out and Madame was ready to continue with her speech.

  “I can no longer manage the gallery and the pension. My guests are always delightful – I choose them well – but I am too old to be nice to people all the time.”

  Rachel nibbled on a rocket leaf, intrigued by what was to come.

  Madame took a dainty sip of wine and nodded to a passing gentleman.

  “Your house would be perfect.”

  Rachel was puzzled. “Perfect for what, Madame?”

  Monique raised her eyebrows as if she had made herself quite clear.

  “Perfect as a pension,” she said at last. “The house is a good size, the village is not too far from town and my guests would find it charming.” She smiled at the young waiter who tipped the last of the rosé wine into their glasses and refreshed the bread basket. “And – most importantly of all,” she added, waggling one immaculately polished nail under Rachel’s nose, “It will bring you joy.”

  * * *

  After lunch Rachel wandered around town and attempted to do some shopping, but found it hard to concentrate. Her imagination had been fired up and her head was spinning with questions about the pension. Madame was right: she had got into a rut with her work and what she needed probably was a brand-new project. But, what did she know about running a guest house? “Precisely nothing,” she said to herself.

  On the other hand, how hard could it be? She had plenty of experience skivvying for her own household, after all. ‘Paying guests’ would bring fresh, exciting people into her life – and keep the coffers topped up. She couldn’t depend on Michael forever, especially now that he had a new family to support, she thought ruefully.

  What she needed was a second opinion. As the town hall clock chimed the quarter, she realised that she had time to drop in on a friend before collecting the children.

  A former catwalk model, Philippe had retired when he hit 30 and work started to dry up and retrained as a florist. He now ran a shop that made beautiful floral arrangements and, at certain times of the year when business was slow, he also did some light gardening for a select bunch of clients. Rachel was lucky enough to be one of the chosen ones and they had gradually got to know each other as they worked side-by-side to create an approximation of an English garden in a corner of her otherwise ungovernable plot of land.

  The shop was empty as she went in, the old-fashioned doorbell tinkling behind her. Philippe put down the bouquet he was making and wiped his hands on his apron before greeting her with three kisses.

  “So, what’s up?” He looked her up and down. “You look different.”

  Rachel dropped her bags on the floor and slumped into a chair by the counter.

  “I’ve just had the most wonderful lunch,” she said, kicking off her shoes.

  Philippe raised a quizzical eyebrow. “With a man?”

  “Good heavens, no,” she said laughing. “With Madame Piquot and she has given me a great idea. Actually, it was all her idea, but I think it could be great for me, for us and . . .”

  “Wooah! Hold on. Let me make some coffee, then you can tell me all about it.”

  “Okay, but hurry up!”

  Rachel played with a ball of raffia and thumbed a magazine, impatient for Philippe to return so she could tell him the news.

  It seemed an age before he reappeared with two tiny cups of strong coffee and a plate of petit fours. “I’m ready – tell all.”

  It didn’t take Rachel long to outline Monique Piquot’s startling suggestion.

  “So? What do you think?”

  Philippe said nothing for a moment, just looked thoughtfully at her as he sipped his drink.

  “I think it could be just what you need, though we’ll have to do something about the lower garden, and the pots on the terrace will need refreshing.”

  “You’re teasing me now!”

  “Not at all. I think it’s a great idea.”

  “Really? Could I really do it, do you think?” Rachel had got to her feet and was anxiously picking the petals off a gerbera.

  “Oh!”

  “Sorry!” She put the flower back with the others on the counter and sat down guiltily, chewing on her nails instead.

  “Of course you could do it – your home is like a guest house anyway, with the children, their friends and your visitors from England.”

  “That’s true, but I couldn’t expect paying guests to put up with Pokémon bed linen, creaky beds and cupboard drawers that come apart in your hands,” she said, nibbling on a biscuit. “Do you think anyone would come? We are in the middle of nowhere.”

  Philippe smiled. “I think in a brochure they would call that rustic charm in a tranquil location.” Rachel looked at him doubtfully. “Which is not to say that you won’t have to make a few tiny improvements here and there.”

  Rachel got to her feet and stared out of the window at the shoppers going by. There were definitely a few tourists among them, come to visit the mediaeval church and walk the city walls. Some also hired cars to visit the local villages, including Pelette.

  “I suppose I have nothing to lose. And I can bribe the kids to help get everything ready.” She looked at her watch. “Anyway, I’d better go. It’s nearly chucking-out time at school.”

  Philippe embraced her again and open
ed the door onto the street.

  “Thanks so much,” she said, manoeuvring past him with her shopping bags. “I think that I’m probably definitely going to do it.”

  He laughed. “Let me know what you decide, and I’ll come over to the house and attack that wilderness of yours.”

  She smiled and attempted a wave as she ran backwards along the road.

  “How are you with a paintbrush?” she asked.

  Philippe raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow in a way that conveyed deep disdain. “Terrible. I leave all the DIY to Albert, but there’s no one better with a trowel and a pot of pelargoniums.”

  “In that case, it’s a definite maybe.”

  Leaving the shop, she collected the car and drove around to the school where Alice and Charlie were lolling around with their friends on opposite sides of the road. They tolerated each other – much like the cats – but were not exactly the best of friends. Rachel hoped that they would become closer when they were older, just as she and her brother Henry had done. He had moved to the States some years before, which improved their relationship no end.

  Rachel waited until they had got through the school traffic and were heading towards Pelette before mentioning the guest house to the kids.

  “So what do you reckon?”

  “Cool.”

  “That’s it? ‘Cool’?”

  Charlie shrugged without lifting his eyes from the game on his phone.

  “And what do you think?” she asked her daughter, who was curled up in the front seat next to her. “Is it cool with you?”

  Alice had her eyes fixed on the dusty road that headed out of town and up the hill. Eventually, a similarly Gallic shrug came from the girl, who was pulling dark blonde curls between her fingers and watching them bounce back in place.

  “What does Dad say?”

  Rachel sighed and fixed her eyes on the road. “I haven’t spoken to Dad yet.” And he was far too obsessed with the baby business, though she didn’t want to say that. “Anyway, I wanted to see what you two thought of the idea first.”