The French for Always

by Fiona Valpy

  ‘Beggars can’t be choosers. And anyhow, now is the quiet time for winemakers. They leave the vines alone for the last few weeks leading up to the harvest so the grapes can ripen naturally.’ Karen’s husband had a workshop that maintained agricultural machinery, so she had her finger on the pulse of the local farming community. ‘Ask him,’ she urged again. ‘You’ve got nothing to lose.’

  Thomas came back into the kitchen with the paperwork for the delivery. He was a good-looking guy, the easy-going second son of Château de la Chapelle’s owner, and Sara always enjoyed his cheerful visits when he came to deliver their wine orders.

  ‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’ she asked in as nonchalant a tone as she could manage. ‘We were just about to have one.’

  ‘Volontiers.’ A slow, easy smile, warm as French summer sunshine, spread across Thomas’s face. ‘Is Gavin here? I wanted to explain something about the invoice to him.’

  ‘I’m afraid he’s not. And in fact I want to ask you something...’

  Thomas’s expression changed to one of sympathetic concern when he heard Gavin had gone. Sara tried to keep it light, conscious that news of other people’s misfortunes has a nasty habit of spreading faster than an MRSA outbreak on a hospital ward. Her predicament would be all round the local community faster than you could translate into French the phrase ‘evidently her fiancé is a sexually incontinent asshole who has left her up a creek without a paddle.’ (Sara’s invigorating white-hot anger hadn’t quite dissipated entirely yet, she noted.)

  But, however calmly and minimally she outlined it to Thomas, there was no disguising the fact that the situation in which she now found herself was a serious one, given that half her annual income depended on delivering the next six fairy-tale weddings to a standard that would meet—or preferably exceed—the expectations of her clients.

  Thomas had been leaning forward, elbows spread on the table, his capable hands clasped around his coffee cup as he listened to Sara talk. He was a good listener and she could tell he understood there was more to Gavin’s abrupt departure than she was prepared to divulge.

  When she stopped, he leant back in his chair, running a hand through his jet-black hair and stretching his legs in front of him. That slow smile spread across his face once again, softening the angularity of his aquiline features.

  ‘Eh bien, pourquoi pas? My brother and his family are at the beach for the next few weeks while the vineyard is quiet. And my job is much easier these days anyway, now that we have Gina selling our wines into the English market—she’s the wife of a good friend and a real expert with wine. If I stay in on Saturday evenings, my father will make me play card games with him and drink too much pastis. And, on the other hand, you are asking me to come and be the DJ for wedding parties attended by hundreds of hot English girls. Hmm, it’s a difficult decision, but yes, okay, I’m prepared to sacrifice my precious weekends to help you out. On condition that you also buy huge amounts of wine from Château de la Chapelle. And maybe your wedding guests would like to come and do a tasting with us and buy even more wine to take home with them? This would be good business all round, I think?’

  Sara reached out a hand. ‘Done deal,’ she said, shaking his firmly. ‘You’re a complete star, Thomas, I can’t tell you how grateful I am for this. Antoine, could you show Thomas the barn and all the kit?’

  The two men left to go and play with the sound and lighting system, and a few minutes later party music was blaring out across the courtyard, startling the swallows out of their nests under the eaves of the barn.

  Sara turned to Karen, beaming with relief. ‘As easy as that! It’s nothing short of a miracle.’

  ‘Seek and ye shall find,’ grinned Karen. ‘Oh, and by the way, something you’ll learn about living here in rural France? When a neighbour is in need, people step in and help out. It’s one of the few advantages of everyone knowing your business.’

  ‘It’s so kind of him too. What a lovely guy. I’ve always liked him.’

  The Héls Belles glanced at one another and giggled, and Karen assumed an expression of mock exasperation.

  ‘What?’ asked Sara in all innocence.

  Karen came over to her. ‘I think perhaps the time has come to take off these Engaged Goggles.’ She carefully removed Sara’s reading glasses, folded them deliberately and placed them on the kitchen counter. ‘And then we need to loosen up the Strictly Taken hairdo,’ she continued, easing the elastic band off Sara’s tightly pulled-back ponytail, letting her glossy dark hair tumble over her shoulders.

  ‘Hey!’ Sara protested weakly, and Hélène and Héloise giggled harder.

  ‘And finally we need to loosen up the No-Fly Zone modesty shield.’ Karen undid a couple of buttons at the neck of Sara’s blouse.

  ‘There,’ she said, stepping back to admire her handiwork. ‘What d’you reckon girls?’

  ‘Pas mal,’ laughed Hélène.

  ‘Much better,’ declared Héloise.

  ‘You see, in case you hadn’t noticed, thanks to the force field you’d erected around yourself as Gavin’s loyal fiancée, Thomas is a man. And not only that, he’s a French one. And rather a cute one too. And he might not have been quite so ready to take on the role of DJ if you weren’t a very attractive and suddenly single woman of roughly his own age, in an area where people matching that description are somewhat few and far between.’

  ‘Oh Karen, that’s rubbish! I’m sure he’s only interested in the business angle really. It does make sense to sell his wines to our guests.’ Sara blushed. ‘Anyway, shh now! He’s coming back.’

  She smoothed her hair behind her ears as she went out to meet him.

  ‘Fantastic sound system! And the lighting looks really professional; the glitter ball’s a great touch. I’m looking forward to making my debut on the decks this weekend. If it’s okay, I’ll come back for an hour or two on Thursday afternoon before your guests arrive. I want to make sure I’ve got the hang of the systems and set up a playlist or two. And what time do you need me to come over on Saturday?’ Thomas’s natural enthusiasm for life reminded Sara of the bubbles in a glass of champagne.

  ‘About six thirty? We’ll give you a plate of dinner in the kitchen too if you like? Thanks again, Thomas, you’re a lifesaver.’ She deliberately kept her back towards the kitchen door, conscious that Karen and the Héls Belles were watching this exchange intently.

  Thomas leant in to kiss her on both cheeks and she inhaled the faint fresh-baked-bread scent of his warm skin, suddenly acutely conscious of the muscularity of his clean-cut jawline. ‘It will be my pleasure,’ he said gallantly, that slow smile lighting up his face again. ‘I’m looking forward to it, Sara.’

  She waved, watching as he drove off down the drive. Karen came out to stand beside her and, without turning, Sara murmured, ‘He really is quite cute, isn’t he?’

  ‘Attagirl,’ Karen said with an approving nod. ‘You know what they say: you have to kiss a lot of frogs before you meet your prince! It’s good to see you getting straight back out there.’

  Sara shook her head. ‘I was only joking,’ she laughed. ‘But thanks for even thinking it, Karen—you’ve made my day! Anyway, once this season’s over I’m going to turn the château into a nunnery and appoint myself the Mother Superior. No men allowed, ever again. I’ve learned my lesson. Now, let’s get to work. We’ve got bedrooms to clean and loos to scrub. You know what they say, Karen,’—she dug an elbow into her friend’s ribs—‘no rest for the wicked!’

  Niamh & Keiran

  Mr and Mrs Padraic O’Callaghan

  request the pleasure of your company at the marriage of their daughter

  Niamh

  To

  Mr Keiran Best

  at Château Bellevue de Coulliac

  On Saturday 4 August

  At 3.30 o’clock

  RSVP, Greenways, The Oaks, Straffan, County Kildare.

  * * *

  Sara began to chop the vegetables for a ratatouille to accompany to
night’s supper, hot oil sizzling in a pan on the stove beside her. The smell of frying onions and peppers filled the château’s cavernous kitchen.

  She threw in garlic, courgettes and tomatoes and, as she stirred the fragrantly steaming pot, she gazed out of the kitchen window across the courtyard to the barn where Thomas was making sure he knew how the sound and light systems worked and Antoine was un-stacking chairs in preparation for Saturday night’s hooley. The château and its clustered buildings were peaceful in the afternoon light: the calm before the storm. The golden stone gently reflected back the sunshine’s warmth, and the courtyard’s borders of Iceberg roses and lavender softened the edges of the gravel paths, the whole Impressionist effect forming the perfect romantic backdrop for a fairy-tale wedding.

  Gavin used to say that their job was making dreams come true. The reality, as Sara well knew, was that achieving it demanded a heck of a lot of hard work, an eye for the minutest of details, and most of all the ability to keep calm in the face of demanding wedding planners, difficult guests, plumbing disasters, alcohol poisoning, overexcited children, overexcited groomsmen, hysterical brides, hysterical mothers of brides, family fall-outs and every other drama that weddings entail.

  And those challenges paled into insignificance against the test of abandonment mid-season by one’s business partner, let alone one’s husband-to-be. She supposed she should still have felt bitter at the thought of organising dream weddings when the prospect of her own had just disappeared over the far horizon with its tail between its legs. But—honestly?—she found to her surprise that she felt okay. In fact she was almost relishing the prospect of making a success of the business on her own. She realised she was regaining her self-confidence, finding her voice again. Running the business single-handed was going to require her to get it back fast and she felt a new sense of certainty as she went about her work, as if, having picked herself up from such a painful fall, she was getting back into her stride more surely than before.

  She pushed a strand of hair back from her forehead. In this heat, the pots of verbena and geraniums would need watering this evening—she’d better remind Antoine. She swept the vegetable peelings into the compost bucket and made her way out to the walled kitchen garden, where the weeds were parched in the summer heat. She had planned that this time next year neat rows of produce would be burgeoning in raised beds, with an automatic watering system to ensure the rich clay soil stayed soft and hospitable. She felt a pang of sadness, realising that it wasn’t going to happen now. Next year seemed an impossibly long way off: the château would belong to someone else by then...

  A squadron of swifts screeched overhead in the dizzy blue of the August sky. She took a deep breath, relishing the last few moments of peace. As she bent to pick a generous bunch of pepper-scented basil from the stone trough, there was a low hum from the speakers in the barn and then suddenly The Pogues’ version of The Irish Rover blasted out: Thomas was rehearsing his welcome for the guests. Sara smiled. This was the overture: time to go and raise the curtain—the show was about to begin.

  * * *

  A convoy of hire cars wound its way up the drive, dust billowing in the evening air in its wake. Sara identified the O’Callaghans—the well-upholstered and larger-than-life parents of the bride, with whom she’d been in frequent communication over the previous few months—and went to introduce herself. Amidst the hubbub of laughter and excited chatter, she managed to allocate the guests to their rooms, Antoine and the Héls Belles helping to show them the way. Vast suitcases were dragged from the backs of the cars and manhandled into the house.

  Sara always thought you could tell within the first five minutes what the family dynamic was going to be. This one was good, so she felt her shoulders relax slightly: fewer inter-family tensions meant fewer fires to put out.

  Niamh, the bride, was luminous, a natural Irish beauty with dark blue eyes and delicate, creamy skin. Her happiness radiated from her like the sun, and the rest of the company orbited around her, keen to hug her, carry her bags, laugh with her and bask in the warmth of her joy. And Keiran, the groom, was a handsome rugby-playing banker who clearly doted upon his girl. Of course that was usually (though not always) a given: if the bride and groom weren’t obviously in love with one another at this point in the proceedings, then there really was trouble ahead. More often, it was the dynamic between the two families where potential problems lay and Sara’s radar usually tuned in to the relationships between the two sets of parents. Here, it seemed, there was a genuine fondness already. The two mothers were deep in conversation about a mutual friend, who had scandalised the local community by finding herself a toy boy. And Sara knew, because she’d helped arrange it, that the fathers of both bride and groom were in the group going off to play golf tomorrow morning as part of the pre-wedding activities; it turned out they were members of the same golf club back home in Ireland.

  She led the O’Callaghans to their room, carefully carrying the large cardboard box which contained Niamh’s wedding dress.

  ‘Once you’ve settled in, we’ve put out drinks on the terrace. Let me know if there’s anything else you need. There are hangers here,’ she said, opening a wardrobe, ‘so you can get this hung up as soon as possible.’

  Mrs O’Callaghan sank down onto the bed, gratefully kicking off her shoes. ‘Will you look at my ankles; they’ve swollen to twice the size in this heat.’ She fanned herself with her passport.

  ‘Well, you’re here now, so you can relax this evening and recover. Make yourselves at home. I’ll see you downstairs shortly.’ Sara left them to unpack and went down to the kitchen to start the pork roasting for dinner.

  The château slept twenty-four people, plus extra children if necessary, so tonight there’d be two tables of twelve. The kids could eat at the kitchen table and then go and play outside, until their slightly tipsy mothers tore themselves away from the dinner tables to get them into bed. It was a system that worked well, meaning everyone could relax and enjoy themselves. Especially if Antoine, who was lending a hand tonight, could be persuaded to take the children off for a game of flashlight tag, to distract them from pestering their parents to allow them back into the swimming pool for a late-night swim.

  ‘Who’s a lad got to shag to get a drink around here?’ Liam, the best man, came into the kitchen and put a beefy arm round Sara’s shoulders.

  Sara grinned. ‘Well, your best bet would be Antoine. But otherwise there’s wine and beer out on the terrace. Help yourself. And take these with you as blotting paper.’ She handed him a plate of cheese straws and a bowl of nuts.

  ‘By God, you know the way to a man’s heart, Sara. Sure, it’s a crying shame you’re already claimed or I’d do it myself.’

  She shooed him out of the kitchen, knowing full well that one of the best man’s duties was to flirt with every woman there, from the youngest flower girl to the mother of the bride and every other female in between. She let him believe she still had a man—the picture of her and Gavin was still up on their website—it was easier and more professional that way. But the line of paler skin on the fourth finger of her left hand was less distinct now, as time and the sun’s golden rays erased the last vestige of their engagement.

  The sound of laughter wafted in from the terrace. The easy friendliness of this crowd was going to make this wedding an enjoyable one; it sounded as if they’d already made themselves at home.

  * * *

  Friday morning dawned with a clear blue sky, promising that the weather was one thing Sara could cross off the list of potential glitches for the weekend. Karen had offered to do the croissant run—usually Gavin’s responsibility—on her way to work, coming in a little earlier than usual. Breakfast was easy and relaxed. Thankfully here in France no one expected a full British fry-up. Sara switched on the coffee machine, set the oven warming and quietly washed and dried the glasses from the night before. She set out packets of cereal and a large bowl of summer fruit salad. The children would be down early, no
doubt, and need fuelling up, ready for a busy day in the pool.

  Sara perched on a stool beside the kitchen counter, sipping a cup of strong coffee topped up with steamed milk and scanning the weekend’s programme, checking and rechecking the details against the contents of a plump folder marked: O’Callaghan-Best. She’d learnt to keep a record of every email, telephone conversation, quote and invoice so that there could be no possible room for confusion or misinterpretation. Today’s schedule involved golf for some of the party, wine tasting for another group and the option of a canoe trip for the older children and those who wanted the exercise. Some would stay relaxing by the pool or reading in the shade of course. And tonight there were extras for dinner as members of the extended family on both sides, who were staying in guest houses and hotels in the local area, were invited for the rehearsal dinner. It was to be a buffet of charcuterie, cold meats and quiches with salads, which Karen and Hélène would help her prepare this afternoon. Straightforward enough.

  She slid the typed programme back into the file and stood up as the sound of children’s voices wafted down the corridor. ‘In here for breakfast,’ she beckoned them, to allow the heavier-headed of the late-night revellers to sleep it off a while longer...

  * * *

  Later that day, Sara lingered for a few more moments, her feet propped on the edge of a stone planter to ease her aching calf muscles, before hauling herself upright from the deckchair where she’d been grabbing a few minutes’ rest after a quick sandwich lunch in the cottage.

  Car engines could be heard pulling into the car park, then doors slamming and the chatter of golfing stories being exchanged. Sara noticed that a few of the blokes had taken out a rugby ball and were throwing it back and forth. She thought she’d better try and manoeuvre them tactfully away from the cars and into the big field where there would be less scope for dented bonnets and splintered windscreens. As she made her way across to them, the wine-tasting party pulled in and the volume of noise grew as the flock of flushed girls emerged from their minibus. Clearly a good time had been had by all.