The French House

by Nick Alexander

  At some point I must truly fall asleep, because suddenly it’s midday and the van is as bright and warm as a tanning machine.

  ‘Croissants,’ Victor says when I open my eyes. He waves a small bag at me and then drops it onto the counter. ‘Distira must have left them. They were tied to the door handle.’

  I groan. Even if I could eat something this morning, it wouldn’t be croissants. And even if croissants were what I fancied, food from Distira would definitely not be my first choice. ‘So is she OK then?’ I ask.

  Victor shrugs. ‘I guess,’ he says. ‘She’s been into town for these. They’re proper ones, from a bakery.’

  ‘How can she not be ill?’ I ask. ‘We all ate the same thing.’

  ‘Maybe it was something else. Maybe it was . . .’ he says.

  ‘We had baked beans for lunch; it’s hardly going to be that. That horrible eau de vie, more likely.’

  ‘I reckon that kills germs,’ Victor says.

  ‘Yeah. You’re probably right. The frozen prawns, then.’

  ‘Frozen prawns?’

  ‘In the vol-au-vents.’

  ‘Oh God, yeah. They were bad!’

  ‘Did she eat any? She didn’t, did she?’

  ‘No, Carole brought them in,’ Victor says.

  ‘Well, there you go, then. God, I feel rough.’

  ‘Me too,’ Victor says. ‘A lazy day, methinks.’

  ‘I’m dehydrated. Do you think the water’s safe?’

  ‘I could boil it.’

  ‘Ooh, make tea,’ I say. ‘That’s what I need. A gallon of tea.’

  ‘Sure,’ Victor says. ‘And then I need to shower. I feel dirty.’

  ‘Do you think the pipes work yet?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘They thawed almost the second the sun came out this morning.’

  ‘Anyway, why don’t you just leave a tap running?’ I ask.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To stop it freezing.’

  Victor shakes his head in dismay. ‘Now, why didn’t I think of that?’ he says.

  We dedicate day six of our ‘holiday’ to recovery, and by the time the sun sets again, I’m finally starting to feel human.

  There is no sign of movement over at Distira’s place; in fact, once the sun goes down, we can see that there aren’t even any lights on at her house.

  ‘Do you think she’s ill?’ Victor asks when I point this out.

  ‘She wasn’t too ill to head out for croissants.’

  ‘Maybe I should go check though,’ he says.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘You shouldn’t do anything that might result in a dinner invitation.’

  ‘No, I guess not.’

  ‘If she does invite us to dinner again . . .’

  Victor looks up from his sudoku. ‘It’s a “no”,’ he says firmly.

  ‘God, I’m getting hungry. I’m a bit scared to eat anything, though.’

  Victor puts down the magazine and peers into one of the cupboards. ‘Pasta and cheese?’ he says. ‘Should be safe enough.’

  I pull a face. ‘I don’t think I even want to risk cheese.’

  ‘Pesto?’

  ‘From a jar?’

  ‘Of course from a jar.’

  ‘I mean, from a new, unopened, sterilised jar well before its sell-by date?’

  Victor grins – the first smile of the day. ‘Yes,’ he says, pulling it from the cupboard and waving it at me. ‘January 2016,’ he reads from the lid.

  I nod. ‘OK. Let’s try that.’

  It’s not until we have eaten, and waited long enough to be sure that our bodies are coping with food once again, that I start to accept that the ordeal may be over and relax enough to read. Victor grunts and groans as he struggles with a crossword.

  After a while, he strokes my cheek and I look up at him. He raises one eyebrow. ‘That was bad, huh?’ he says.

  ‘The meal or the aftermath?’ I ask.

  He shakes his head. ‘Well, both. But I actually meant the meal.’

  ‘I thought it was going to be hearty French fare,’ I say. ‘Farm food.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Victor says.

  ‘The company wasn’t fabulous either.’ I pull a face as I realise that’s probably the kind of truth that should never be spoken about a family member.

  Victor bites his lip to hide a smile. ‘Don’t,’ he says. ‘She is my aunt.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, performing a Dalmasso wide-eye-sweep of the van. ‘Yeah, she is.’

  Victor snorts and struggles not to spit out a mouthful of tea, and I realise that this too we have survived: dreadful relatives, awful food, frozen pipes, and a night of illness . . . If we can get through all of that and still be in good humour, well, compatibility-wise, we’re pretty much there, aren’t we?

  TOURIST HEAVEN

  The next morning, I wake up early. I gently reach for my phone so as not to wake Victor and see that it is just after 7 a.m. I lie there listening to the birdsong and Victor’s gentle snoring, and take in the fact that I no longer feel ill. When you have been ill, that first morning when you realise that you’re back to normal feels wonderfully optimistic.

  I lie quietly for half an hour, but then I can resist it no more – I shuffle across the bed and lay one hand upon Victor’s chest.

  He groans, blinkingly opens one eye and yawns. ‘Mmm . . .’ he mumbles.

  ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Mmm. What time . . .?’

  ‘Nearly eight. How do you feel?’

  He rubs his eyes, and then focuses on my face. ‘OK, I guess.’

  ‘Good.’

  He frowns at me. ‘What?’ he asks, laughter in his voice.

  I slide one hand down his stomach.

  ‘Someone’s full of beans.’ He winks at me and then closes his eyes again.

  I give him a squeeze. ‘We didn’t do it yesterday,’ I point out.

  ‘Oh, you think we have some catching up to do, do you?’

  ‘I do.’

  And so catch up is exactly what we do.

  ‘So what now?’ Victor asks later. ‘Down to the coast?’

  ‘I think we deserve a treat,’ I say, ‘after yesterday’s ordeal. But if you want to get on with the chimney or something, that’s fine too.’

  ‘I thought maybe I’d buy some chimney brushes, to try to unblock it from the inside. So how about we go have lunch in Nice, wander around, do some tourist stuff, and then pick them up on the way back?’

  ‘That’s a plan,’ I say. ‘Can we have pizza?’

  ‘Pizza? Again?’ Victor laughs.

  ‘I had the best pizza ever the last time I went to Nice. If I can just find the same place . . .’

  ‘I could do with some meat,’ Victor says. ‘A steak or something.’

  I shrug. ‘I really have this craving for pizza. They did other stuff too anyway.’

  ‘Well, we can have a look. Do you remember where it was?’

  ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘In the old town.’

  ‘Do you remember who you were with?’ he asks.

  ‘Of course,’ I say. ‘I was with Ch—’ I interrupt myself and shake my head. ‘You! No! I’m not telling.’

  Victor smiles and stands, pulling change for the coffees from the pocket of his jeans.

  As we drive down to Nice, we pass a seemingly constant stream of cars going the other way, many of which have skis and snowboards on their roofs. ‘Can you ski up here?’ I ask. ‘I didn’t realise.’

  ‘I can’t ski anywhere,’ Victor says.

  ‘You know what I mean. Can one ski nearby?’

  ‘In Gréolières,’ Victor says. ‘It’s just over the other side of that mountain.’

  ‘I love skiing,’ I say.

  He turns to look at me and grins. ‘Are you hinting?’

  ‘Only if there’s time,’ I say coyly. ‘I’m quite happy to spend all my holidays ripping up rotten lino and freezing my tits off in an ice-box-cum-bathroom if that’s what’s required.’

  ‘But if there was time fo
r a day’s skiing, you wouldn’t say n—’ He is interrupted by a blaring horn, and we both look back at the road. My heart leaps into my mouth. We have drifted to completely the wrong side of the road, and are facing a huge 4x4, headlights blazing, horn blaring, and now less than twenty yards away. With the van being right-hand drive, the SUV is coming straight at me.

  Victor yanks the wheel, violently correcting our trajectory, and then, disaster averted, says, ‘Fuck! Sorry about that.’

  ‘Um, I think it’s best if you keep your eyes on the road now,’ I say, my voice trembling.

  After a few minutes my heart stills. When we pass another ten cars with skis, I comment, ‘So why today? Why are they all going skiing today?’

  Victor shrugs. ‘Maybe it snowed when we had all that rain. Shit! It’s Sunday. That’s why! Damn!’

  ‘Damn, because . . .?’

  ‘Well, the shops are closed, aren’t they?’

  ‘The DIY place?’

  ‘Everything.’

  ‘God, I forgot about that. Is France still like that?’

  ‘Yep. Some food shops are open on Sunday morning, but that’s about it.’

  I shrug. ‘So no DIY.’

  ‘Nope. And God sayeth unto them, thou shalt not fixeth anything on the Sabbath.’

  ‘He dideth. So a whole tourist day then.’

  Victor glances over at me and smiles, but snaps back when I shout, ‘Road!’

  ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘And yes. Day off. Looks like it.’

  Because I’m a little nervous of distracting him while he drives along the edges of the ravines, I remain silent for a while. But then I forget myself and ask, ‘Was Distira ever married?’

  ‘Yes. To a guy called Paul. He died, though.’

  ‘Kids?’

  ‘None. He died pretty young.’

  ‘Of?’

  ‘I’m not sure, to be honest. A heart attack, maybe. The funeral was the last time I saw her.’

  ‘Your mum didn’t keep in touch with her, then?’

  ‘Not really. Distira came down a few times when she had to, but they never got on that well. I think they had a falling out. About inheritance from their mother.’

  ‘Was there much to fight about? I mean, not being funny, but they don’t seem to be exactly loaded.’

  ‘No. But Gran ended up with three properties all the same. None of them were exactly palaces, but there’s the house in Perpignan, and the farmhouse here.’

  ‘Your place?’

  ‘Our place.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And Distira’s house, of course.’

  ‘I suppose that is quite a lot of property.’

  ‘Well, Gran was an only child. Which was pretty unusual then. So she inherited places from both her parents. They were only peasant farmers, I think, but they had houses.’

  ‘And Distira wasn’t happy with her end of the deal?’

  ‘Well, Mum got two places, and Distira got one. Even if on paper Distira’s place was worth more than the other two put together . . .’

  ‘So what’s the place in Perpignan like? You still own that, right?’

  ‘Sure. It’s much smaller. Pretty but small. I’ll sell it at some point, I suppose. When the French tax man catches up with me, probably.’

  ‘You never lived there, though?’

  ‘To start with, yes. Afterwards I went back for holidays sometimes. It’s really tiny. And no land because it’s in town. But Mum loved that place, so . . .’

  ‘There were fights in our family too. About some rings.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yes, when my gran died – on Dad’s side – apparently his brother was in the house taking all the jewellery virtually before she was declared dead.’

  ‘Yuck,’ Victor says.

  ‘Well, that’s how the story went, anyway. You never know with families. But they never got over it.’

  ‘You never saw your uncle?’

  ‘Never. Not after that.’

  ‘Well, there you go. Same sort of story.’

  ‘Maybe that’s . . .’ I begin. But then I think better of it. I had been about to suggest that that was maybe why Distira doesn’t seem to like him much.

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Look! Hang-gliders!’ I say, pointing at the sky, grateful for an excuse to change the subject.

  ‘Para-gliders,’ Victor says. ‘Hang-gliders have a rigid frame, like kites. Those are like big parachutes, hence para-gliders.’

  ‘Have you ever done it?’

  ‘No. But I wouldn’t mind having a go.’

  ‘You wouldn’t get me up there,’ I say.

  ‘Spoilsport.’

  ‘So Distira has been single for what, twenty years?’

  ‘Yeah. I think so.’

  ‘That’s tough. Especially living where she does.’

  ‘Yes. It is,’ Victor says. ‘I bet she’s really glad that she’s going to have neighbours.’

  ‘Mmm,’ I say, thinking that she didn’t strike me as that glad. ‘Still, she has friends. Or at least one.’

  ‘Carole.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘D’you think . . .’ Victor starts.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘No, go on.’

  ‘I think we’ll try this route today. It’s a bit longer but . . .’

  ‘What were you saying?’

  ‘Sorry, I forgot,’ he says.

  ‘Something about Distira and Carole.’

  Victor shrugs. ‘Nope . . . It’ll come to me.’

  I wonder if what he was about to say was what I was wondering myself – whether Distira and Carole are more than just friends.

  ‘They seem very close,’ I say.

  ‘Yes,’ Victor says. ‘They do.’

  I wait for a few moments to see if he is going to explore the subject any further, but he doesn’t say a word.

  When we hit the Promenade des Anglais, I’m stunned once again by the turquoise brilliance of the sea. A gentle breeze is moving the flags that mark each of the beach concessions.

  ‘This really is an amazing place. I mean, when you think about it, there can’t be that many places in the world where you can ski, paraglide and sit on a beach on the same day.’

  I turn to look at the joggers on the promenade, at the rows of blue bicycles to rent, at the flapping flags and white-capped waves. Everything looks fluorescent due to the clarity of the light.

  ‘Yeah,’ I murmur.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Oh, I was just wondering if I could really live here . . . I reckon I could bear it.’

  Victor glances at me and smiles. As we pass the Negresco hotel, he follows my gaze. ‘I wonder how much it costs to spend a night there,’ he says.

  ‘The rooms aren’t that impressive, really,’ I say, only realising once I have said it where that conversation is going to lead.

  ‘You’ve been there?’

  ‘Yes. The communal bits, the lounges and the halls are pretty amazing. They have this stunning lounge with blood red walls and frescos all over the ceilings. We can go look, if you want. As long as you walk in with enough panache, no one even questions you.’

  ‘You stayed in the Negresco?’ Victor asks. ‘Or is that part of the secret story that shall never be told?’

  I sigh. ‘I’ll tell you if you want,’ I say, aware that not talking about it is becoming worse than caving in. ‘But don’t judge me, that’s all.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘So . . . I stayed there two nights. I met this guy on a plane.’

  ‘On a plane?’

  ‘You see,’ I say. ‘There you go.’

  ‘I’m not judging,’ Victor says. ‘I’m just surprised. Go on.’

  ‘I met a very nice guy on a trip back from New York. He invited me to Nice for the weekend.’

  ‘OK.’ Victor sounds dubious. ‘Jeez these lanes are narrow,’ he says.

  ‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘They are. You only have a coupl
e of inches on this side.’

  ‘So you met a guy on a plane.’

  ‘It was pissing down in London. I was depressed about going home all alone. I had been single forever. And all my friends encouraged me to let my hair down and just go. I had my own room, so it was nothing sleazy. It wasn’t that impressive, really. Though it did have clouds painted on the ceiling.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And that’s about it.’

  ‘Only that isn’t “it”, is it?’ Victor says. ‘Otherwise you wouldn’t have been so mysterious about it.’

  ‘Well, the guy turned out to be a bit weird,’ I say. ‘A bit pervy. So it didn’t really go anywhere.’

  ‘Pervy?’

  ‘Yes. You’d never believe me, even if I told you.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘He had a balloon fetish. His thing was making love in a room full of balloons.’

  ‘God,’ Victor says. ‘Now that’s specialised.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘And you said no.’

  As soon as he has made this assumption, the only thing I can do is go along with it. Figuring that he’s unlikely to ever find out the truth, I say, ‘Of course I did. But other than that, it was a really nice weekend. I had my own room, and we went out to a lovely posh restaurant . . .’

  ‘You said it was a pizzeria.’

  ‘God, it’s like the Spanish inquisition,’ I say.

  ‘Nobody expects the Spanish inquisition,’ Victor says in a silly Monty Python voice.

  ‘So yes, we had a pizza on the first day, and we went to an expensive fish restaurant in Villefranche on the second night. With a horrible snobby waiter who kept cleaning crumbs off the table every ten seconds. And that’s it. Anything else you want to know?’

  Victor pulls up at a set of lights, puts the van into neutral and lays one hand upon my knee. ‘I don’t think so,’ he says, ‘except, maybe, did you stay in touch with this charming chap?’

  ‘Of course I didn’t.’

  ‘So I don’t need to feel jealous?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘OK,’ Victor says. ‘I won’t then.’ And then he squeezes my knee and puts the engine back into gear.

  Even in January, it’s impossible to park the van anywhere near the town centre, so we end up driving beyond the port and walking all the way back. But it’s a lovely breezy day for a walk and, after the confinement of the van, the exercise feels good.

  ‘There’s definitely something special about the light here,’ I say, looking at the luminous fishing boats bobbing up and down. ‘It makes everything glow.’