The French for Always

by Fiona Valpy

  Sara was just reaching the post-and-rail fencing at the edge of the parking area as the bride’s brother, Robby, a fellow member of the groom’s rugby club, wound up to spin the ball across to Liam. There was a dull thud, a shocked silence for a split second and then a scream from Marie, the head bridesmaid, as Niamh staggered back against the minibus, clutching her face. The ball had hit her full on and for a moment she swayed as if losing consciousness. Keiran was across the parking area in three long strides, his arms around his stunned bride, while the bridesmaids rounded on Robby. ‘You eejit, what in the hell d’ya think you’re doing?’ He hung his head in shame, ducking their scolding.

  ‘Niamh, are you okay? Speak to me!’

  Sara waited on one side while Keiran tried to pull Niamh’s hands from her face, stooping to peer at the damage. As she took her hands from her eyes, there was another scream from Marie at the sight of a trickle of blood. Sara fished a clean tissue out of her pocket and passed it to Keiran who pressed it tenderly against the wound.

  ‘I think it’s just a scratch, not deep.’ But Sara could see that the eye socket was already a deep red where the corner of the rugby ball had caught it a glancing blow. A bride with a black eye was not going to look good in the wedding photos.

  ‘Come on, let’s get you back to the house. I’ve got a first-aid kit in the kitchen and we need to clean that up.’ Sara led the way, Keiran and Robby solicitously helping Niamh. One of the children had already run on ahead with the news and the fearsome sight of Mrs O’Callaghan steaming round the corner of the chapel was enough to make the sturdiest of rugby players tremble in his boots. ‘Now, Mother,’ said Mr O’Callaghan holding up a hand to fend her off, ‘it was an accident is all. She’ll be okay in a moment.’

  ‘Robby O’Callaghan, I’ll skelp you so I will,’ fumed his furious mother.

  ‘It’s all right, Ma,’ said Niamh, the tissue still pressed against the side of her nose. ‘Nothing a bit of make-up can’t hide.’

  Sara ran cold water onto a clean flannel and handed it to the mother of the bride to gently clean her daughter’s wound. It had stopped bleeding now, thank goodness, but Sara was right; the eye socket was beginning to swell and turn an angry red. Mrs O’Callaghan kept up a stream of lament about thoughtless boys who’d no doubt had a pint or two too many at the golf club, and why hadn’t Mr O’Callaghan had the wit to stop them?

  ‘Keep that cold cloth pressed against it for now, it should help stop the swelling,’ Sara advised.

  ‘Don’t worry, sis; if the worst comes to the worst there’s always Photoshop,’ contributed Robby, helpfully.

  Sara turned to shoo away Robby, Liam and the gaggle of concerned bridesmaids who were crowding about the kitchen sink. ‘Why don’t you go outside to the terrace and I’ll bring some tea? I think we all could do with a cup,’ she said, smiling at the bride’s mother in an attempt to prevent further O’Callaghan blood being spilt. Tea and cake were always a useful distraction in tense situations, she’d found, helping to soothe frayed nerves and re-bond fractured relations.

  * * *

  A couple of hours later, Sara and Hélène were finishing up the dinner preparations in the kitchen and Antoine was loading up trays of glasses for setting out on the terrace for the pre-dinner drinks, when Mr O’Callaghan popped his head round the kitchen door. ‘Could I take a glass of ice water up for Niamh?’

  ‘How’s she doing?’ asked Sara solicitously.

  He shook his head. ‘Putting a brave face on it in public. But she’s just been having a wee weep on her mother’s shoulder in the privacy of her own room. It’s a shame for her big day and all, but worse things have happened at sea. She’s got a proper shiner developing though, right enough. She’s upset at facing everyone for the rehearsal dinner tonight, never mind her wedding day tomorrow.’

  ‘Poor girl. But it’d take more than a little thing like a black eye to mar her natural beauty,’ Sara shook her head. ‘Hang on a sec, though,’ she went on. ‘I’ve an idea that might just help. Can you get Liam and a couple of the boys rounded up?’ She checked her watch. ‘We’ve half an hour to go...’

  And so when Niamh O’Callaghan, soon-to-be-Best, arrived at the terrace door to make her entrance to her rehearsal dinner, her black eye concealed as much as possible by makeup and her head held high, her handsome groom handed her a pair of sunglasses. ‘You’d better put these on,’ he said.

  She shook her head. ‘It’s okay, Keiran, I’m grand.’

  ‘Well, fine then, if you want to be the only one left out, that’s all right by me.’ She shot him a quizzical—and slightly lopsided—look as he put on his own pair of sunglasses and offered her his arm. And then she stepped onto the terrace, where every single member of the assembled company, including the youngest baby, the oldest great-aunt and each member of the waiting staff, was sporting their own pair of dark glasses in solidarity with the beautiful bride.

  Niamh’s lovely, bruised face broke into its habitually radiant smile as the penny dropped and then, laughing and crying simultaneously—which played complete havoc with her make-up—she put on her sunglasses and plunged into the loving uproar as the entire room broke into spontaneous applause.

  Sara breathed a sigh of relief. Another crisis averted. All in a day’s work in the wedding business.

  * * *

  ‘...and so it only remains for me to ask you all to join me in raising your glasses in a toast to the beautiful bridesmaids!’ Liam’s speech had gone down well. Sara was relieved to note that the worst of the jokes had obviously been reserved for the stag night and rugby club, and so there was nothing too inappropriate in it for an audience which ranged in age from two to eighty-two. It always amazed her how sometimes people managed to get it so wrong, leaving elderly aunts frowning in disapproval and parents squirming in discomfort as their young children demanded an explanation of the unspeakable sexual acts that were being described with misplaced hilarity.

  The bride’s black eye, which had turned a dramatic shade of purple overnight, had been thoroughly dabbed with concealer and powdered into near oblivion, and luckily the worst of the swelling had subsided. The professional photographer, Henri Dupont, had done his best to take photos that made the most of Niamh’s unspoilt profile. Sara kept a beady eye on him. He was good at his job but seemed to feel that one of the perks that came with it was the opportunity to do a little extracurricular close-up work with whichever bridesmaid or luscious wedding guest seemed either the most drunk or the most obviously available. Whenever he looked as if he was about to carve one of the girls off from the throng and inveigle her into the shrubbery with the promise of some free head-shots (a most unfortunate term, under the circumstances) Sara would attempt to intercept him with a request for more photographs of the top table. She now realised how ironic it was that she’d been so distracted trying to keep tabs on Henri’s behaviour that she hadn’t noticed that Gavin was engaged in similar pursuits, right under her nose.

  It had been a lovely ceremony. Like most of the weddings that took place at Château Bellevue de Coulliac, it was a service of blessing that had taken place in the old deconsecrated chapel off the west wing. To keep things simple, most couples usually had a small civil ceremony at home beforehand, so that they’d be legally married in their own country of residence, and then in France a blessing of some sort and an excellent party afterwards. With the desserts now over, the best man was asking everyone to make their way to the barn for the cutting of the cake and the bride and groom’s first dance. Sara was always interested to see what each couple would choose for ‘their song’, which Thomas would have prepared as the opener on the playlist for this evening. He was taking his new role seriously and had spent hours on Thursday afternoon compiling the list, trying to include as many requests as possible, keen to get the music right for his first wedding.

  As the lights were dimmed and the glitter ball started to revolve, The Way You Look Tonight began to play and Niamh smiled up into the loving gaze of
her besotted husband, the two of them completely oblivious—for a few moments—to the loving throng of friends and family who beamed at them from the edges of the room. Classy couple, thought Sara with satisfaction, I’d have expected nothing less. Then Liam and Marie, Mr O’Callaghan and Mrs Best Senior, and Mrs O’Callaghan and Keiran’s father took to the floor to keep them company.

  Thomas was doing a brilliant job. He’d taken to his DJ-ing duties like a duck to water. Sara leant against the barn door, watching him from the shadows. She’d always simply thought of him as a business colleague, one of the many suppliers they dealt with, but now she saw that Karen was right: he really was a good-looking guy, with his dark eyes and generous grin flashing in the disco lights. As if sensing her eyes on him, he glanced in her direction and, catching sight of her, his face lit up with that slow smile again and he raised a beer bottle in salute. He seemed to be in his element. Blushing in the darkness, and thankful that he couldn’t read her thoughts, Sara smiled back and gave him a thumbs up.

  The music segued into a lively Thin Lizzy number and there was a surge onto the dance-floor. Antoine was already mobbed over at the bar, pouring whiskies with both hands. On her way to help the caterers fold the last few tablecloths, Sara stopped in at the kitchen to put a few more bottles of water in the drinks fridge: they’d probably be needing them tomorrow.

  * * *

  ‘Goodbye! Good luck! Have a wonderful time...’ The assembled company had gathered to give the bride and groom a send-off as they were about to climb into the convertible they’d hired and head for the airport and their honeymoon flight.

  Niamh and Keiran came to find Sara, who was dispensing ice lollies to the children. ‘Thank you for everything. You made our wedding so perfect,’ said Niamh, as she and Sara embraced.

  ‘Well, speaking of perfection, Henri has said he can touch up the photos if you want him to. He’ll send you preview copies and you can let him know if you want any air-brushing done on your poor eye.’

  The new Mrs Best smiled up at her husband. ‘You know, I think we’ll leave them just as they are. It’ll remind us of this wonderful party, and that you have to take the rough with the smooth in life. What really matters is family—no matter how annoying some of them may be sometimes—and friends. And us being together.’

  ‘Yeah, and I quite like the front-row-of-the-scrum look on you. You wear it a lot better than most props I know,’ Keiran hugged her to him.

  Sara joined the other guests to wave the pair off from the front steps of the château, then turned to go back in and brew some more coffee to take round as the party wound down.

  ‘I’ve got a really good feeling about that pair, you know,’ said Karen with an approving nod, carrying a tray of crockery in from the terrace.

  ‘Yup. That’s going to be a happy-ever-after one, I think.’ Sara began to wash up a few extra coffee cups.

  Niamh’s parting words echoed in her ears. ‘You have to take the rough with the smooth in life.’ And Sara realised Niamh was right; there was no point trying to airbrush reality. She’d been able to get through this wedding mostly by avoiding thinking about Gavin’s departure, which had resurrected so many painful memories of abandonment from her childhood. Now she felt able to face the fact that what they had was over; but at the same time, she wouldn’t be here were it not for him. It came as something of a revelation. She felt a wave of acceptance break over her, washing away the terror she had had of facing the rest of the summer alone.

  ‘Here,’ said Karen, nudging her away from the sink with her hip. ‘I’ll wash, you dry. Well, that’s the first one flying solo safely over.’

  Sara nodded. ‘Thanks to all of you. One down, five more to go this season. You know what? I think we might just be able to do this.’

  Something New

  It was her favourite moment in the week: those perfectly peaceful few seconds just after the last wedding guest had departed, when she had the château to herself. Even when Gavin had been around, Sara would purposefully take herself off into the garden every Monday at midday, to savour the calm beauty and the rare luxury of being alone for once. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, a long sigh of relief at having another event successfully crossed off the list, another sizeable cheque banked, the money to cover the next round of salaries and bills safely stashed away.

  She’d expected to feel lonely with Gavin gone, but had discovered to her surprise that she really quite liked her own company. In fact, paradoxically, there had been times when she’d felt more lonely with him around. As her confidence had ebbed, she’d found herself deferring to him in most matters to do with the business—after all, he was the one with event management experience, and he was also the majority shareholder, having had the inheritance from his father to invest. But now, instead of seeing herself as one half of an engaged couple, she was suddenly a complete entity in her own right again. It was as though she’d been holding her breath since their engagement, and suddenly found she could breathe freely once more.

  She stood gazing out at the view and drank deep the warm air, faintly perfumed with dust and the scent of lavender. A pair of pale-blue butterflies danced about her head, dizzy with the joyful abundance of summer, intoxicated by the garden she’d planted for them on this magical hilltop.

  As she watched, a white van making its way along the road in the valley below the château turned in at the gate, bumping up the drive. It couldn’t be the laundry van, which called on Tuesdays to pick up the weekend’s sheets and towels and to drop off fresh ones for the changeover. Nor was it Claude, the gardener. Perhaps it was someone from the catering company who’d left something behind. Taking her time, reluctant to break the spell of those few perfect moments, Sara came across the courtyard to find Thomas Cortini waiting for her.

  ‘Thomas! What a fantastic job you did on Saturday night. The guests loved the party; lots of them said how great the music was. You’re a natural!’

  ‘Ah bon, I’m pleased that you’re pleased, Boss. You’ve got a great set-up here. I hadn’t realised before how much work you and Gavin have done on the old château. It’s good to see it restored to its former glory.’

  ‘Thank you. That means a lot, coming from someone who’s lived here all his life.’

  ‘Anyway, Karen tells me that Monday is a day off here. And as I was passing your door on the way back from dropping my father at the airport, I thought I’d call in and see if you’d like to come for lunch. I’ve brought a picnic.’

  ‘Oh, that’s kind of you, Thomas, but I really should be getting on with a few phone calls about arrangements for the next wedding.’ Sara’s default response was a protective one. (And then it occurred to her to wonder why he and Karen had been discussing when her day off was... Sara suspected a certain Australian matchmaker just might be at work here.).

  Thomas, not about to take ‘no’ for an answer, tapped his watch. ‘But, Sara, c’est midi. Everywhere will be closed—if they were even open in the first place on a Monday in August! And if I might remind you,’ he continued, mock officious, ‘under the regulations governing the thirty-five-hour working week here in France, employees are obliged to down tools for two hours and go and sit by the river and eat bread and pâté. It’s also compulsory to drink a glass of chilled wine, in order to support your local vigneron. Your phoning can wait until later, when people will have returned to their desks in a very good humour thanks to their long and reviving lunch break.’

  She laughed and shook her head. ‘Well, if you put it like that...’

  ‘And if you do not comply, I may have to report you to the union for being in contravention of the rules.’ Thomas clinched the deal.

  ‘What did you say your day job was again? Something about sales and marketing? You’re very good! Give me two seconds to go and grab my sunglasses.’

  In the cottage, Sara ran a comb through her fine, dark hair and swept a little colourless lip gloss over her lips. Purely to stop them getting too dry in the heat,
of course, certainly not with any other possible ulterior motive.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked as she climbed into the van.

  ‘Not far at all,’ replied Thomas.

  True to his word, he pulled in at the gates of an old mill, which sat on the riverbank less than a kilometre from the château. ‘This is my sister-in-law’s parents’ house,’ he explained. ‘I’m keeping an eye on it while they’re away at the Bassin d’Arcachon for a few weeks with the rest of the family.’

  He hauled a picnic basket out of the back of the van. ‘You can carry this,’ he handed her a freshly baked baguette, still warm from the baker’s oven and wrapped in a twist of brown paper, ‘and I’ll bring this.’ He picked up a wine cooler. ‘Allez, viens!’

  He led the way past the front of the ancient stone mill house and along a narrow path which led to the river, one of the smaller tributaries of the Dordogne. A weir had been built across the river and, on the nearside, a narrow channel of water had been diverted so that it plunged and foamed under the old mill wheel, at rest now after its centuries of work, the sluice gates beside it standing open to allow the water to flow through freely. They settled themselves in the shade of a generous-limbed willow tree that trailed its leaves languidly in the slow-flowing water below the weir.

  Sara gave a small sigh of contentment. ‘Amazing. These are practically my neighbours and I didn’t even know this place was here. What a lovely spot.’

  Thomas busied himself setting out plates and unwrapping little greaseproof parcels of pâté and cheeses. He drew the cork from a dew-misted bottle of white Bordeaux from Château de la Chapelle and poured a little into two glasses.