The French House

by Nick Alexander

  ‘Anyway, it’s all lovely. The whole day is wonderful. And thanks for looking after Saddam.’ She touches my arm very gently. ‘He told me what you did for him.’

  I smile. ‘It was nothing. He’s quite a sweetie, isn’t he?’

  ‘He is,’ she says with meaning. ‘An actual angel.’

  ‘Will you still spend the winters in Morocco?’ I ask. ‘Because from what I gather, he would like that.’

  Mum nods, then swipes a fresh glass of champagne from the passing drinks tray. ‘I think so,’ she says. ‘We’ll see how things pan out. But yes, I expect that’s what we’ll do. Where is he, anyway?’

  ‘He went off with Mark, I think.’ I pull a face. ‘And I know about you. You bad girl.’

  ‘What?’ she asks innocently.

  ‘I know why you got the giggles during the ceremony. I know why you’re so relaxed.’

  ‘Oh, that’s Mark,’ she says. ‘He’s terrible. Actually, he’s more of a saviour. If he wasn’t . . . you know . . . I’d marry him.’

  ‘You’re unbelievable,’ I say.

  ‘I try my best.’

  ‘But I’m glad you like Mark,’ I tell her. ‘He’s probably my best friend. My best male friend, anyway.’

  Mum nods. ‘Yes. I understand that. I understand that entirely. He reminds me of . . . never mind.’

  ‘He reminds you of Waiine.’

  She blinks slowly, then swallows with difficulty. ‘Anyway!’ she says.

  I glance over at the DJ, who is in the process of mixing badly as he tries to fade from Foreigner’s ‘I Want to Know What Love Is’ to Rod Stuart’s ‘Have I Told You Lately?’.

  ‘Is he going to play this stuff all night?’ I ask. ‘Because I distinctly remember requesting some dance music.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about that,’ Mum says mysteriously. ‘We have a little surprise lined up for later on.’

  ‘Who does?’

  ‘You’ll see. Now!’ she says, scanning the room. ‘I need to find that husband of mine before Mark gets him too stoned.’

  I chat to the various family friends on a superficial level. They inevitably ask me, ‘what I think about all of this’, and I tell them as definitively as possible how happy I am that my mother has found someone she loves and who loves her. I discover that if you say it with enough conviction, people simply nod and agree.

  I have a wonderful hour-long chat with Giles, Dad’s old colleague. He tells me that my father would have approved of anything that made Mum happy, and goes on to regale me with tales of their college day antics, stories I have never heard before and feel honoured to hear now. Just as Giles is seemingly running out of these, Poppy Meyer comes up saying, ‘I need to have a word with CC,’ before she quite literally drags me away.

  ‘Are you having a nice time, Poppy?’ I ask her. She looks drunk.

  ‘I need a word with you about that chap of yours,’ she slurs.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I fear he may not be all he seems to be,’ she whispers, and from the way she runs the words hesheemshtobe together, I conclude that she definitely is trollied.

  ‘Go on?’ I ask, intrigued and amused.

  She leans into my ear and says, ‘I think he may be a little light on his feet, dear.’

  I frown and laugh out loud. ‘Mark? Light on his feet?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I dishtinctly heard him tell Adam, or Saddam, or whatever, that he has a boyfriend.’

  ‘Mark’s gay,’ I say.

  ‘You know?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Gosh, how modern,’ Poppy says.

  ‘I’ve known for years.’

  ‘Well, believe me,’ Poppy says, wobbling as she momentarily loses her balance. ‘That’s one kind of relationship that you’ll never make work. Trust me. I know!’

  I frown at her. ‘What do you mean, you know?’

  She flashes the whites of her eyes and nods exaggeratedly at me.

  ‘Not Uncle Phil!’ I ask incredulously. ‘Anyway, where is Uncle Phil today?’

  Poppy raises her hands in an ‘I’m saying nothing’ kind of way, but then continues anyway. ‘He’s with his “friend”, dear,’ she says, copying my mother’s gesture and making the speech marks. ‘So let that be a warning to you. Find yourself a man who loves you more than he loves the best man. That’s all I’m saying.’

  She then nods with meaning, peers into her empty glass, and staggers off in search of more.

  I giggle to myself at Poppy’s assumption that Mark is my boyfriend and then, desperate to see his reaction to the news, I head off to find him.

  He’s outside sharing a joint with Saddam, and when I push past the flap of the gazebo, Saddam hands the joint back and jumps up to meet me.

  ‘Mon ami!’ he says. My friend!

  I smile at them both and shake my head in a vaguely disapproving way.

  ‘Am sorry,’ Saddam says, more seriously. ‘For before. In the rain.’

  ‘You have nothing to be sorry about,’ I tell him. ‘I’m sorry.’

  He beams at me and then, as if the gesture surprises even him, lurches at me and hugs me awkwardly.

  ‘The rain has almost stopped,’ I say, breaking free. ‘But too late to use the garden.’

  ‘Inside is fine; it’s cosy,’ Mark says. ‘So Saddam here was just asking me if you and Victor will be tying the knot now?’

  ‘Do you know that Poppy Meyer thinks that you and I are together?’ I say, avoiding the question rather deftly.

  ‘I thought she might,’ Mark says.

  ‘She just came over to warn me that she thinks you’re a little light on your feet,’ I explain.

  ‘Light on my feet?’ Mark laughs, coughing out a lungful of smoke and performing a little light-footed chair-dance from his seat. ‘Gosh, I haven’t heard that one for a while.’

  ‘I go find Angela,’ Saddam says, giving my arm a squeeze and ducking out of the gazebo. ‘But thank you.’

  ‘Are you having a nice time, sweetie?’ Mark asks, rolling his next joint.

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Saddam’s really nice, isn’t he?’ Mark says. ‘I thought he might be a bit dodgy about the gay thing, what with being Muslim and stuff. But he’s cool with it.’

  ‘Well, as long as he’s not too cool with it,’ I comment. ‘Poppy was just telling me that the secret to a good marriage is to find someone who fancies you more than he fancies the best man.’

  ‘Wise words,’ Mark says. ‘But he’s totally straight, if that’s what you’re asking.’

  ‘Good to know.’

  I hear wheels crunching on the gravel of the drive. ‘More people,’ I say. ‘I keep hoping Victor will turn up. I haven’t heard a peep from him since eleven this morning, so I keep hoping he’s on his way.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll get here if he can,’ Mark says.

  ‘I better go out and greet them. Back in a minute.’

  I squelch across the lawn and then crunch across the gravel until I reach the corner of the house, where my heart sinks. Because the car, a turquoise Matiz, isn’t anything that Victor is likely to deign to drive.

  But when the door opens, and a familiar hand reaches out onto the roof, and an even more familiar body squeezes itself from the driver’s seat, my heart performs a little somersault.

  ‘Ah!’ I shriek, running over to meet him. ‘You made it!’

  Victor stretches and then wraps me in his arms, momentarily lifting me from the ground and twirling me round.

  ‘So sorry I missed the service,’ he says. ‘I tried everything.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘I just can’t believe you made it at all. And what’s with the bumper car?’

  ‘The only thing they had free at Stansted,’ Victor says.

  ‘I thought it was Gatwick you were flying to?’

  ‘It’s a long story . . . You really don’t want to know.’

  ‘God, I’ve missed you,’ I say.

  Victor kisses me on the lips again and says,
‘Me too.’

  At that instant, it starts to rain again. ‘Here,’ I say. ‘Come inside and say hi to everyone.’

  ‘Wait,’ Victor says, grabbing my hand and pulling me back. ‘Is there somewhere we can go? Somewhere private?’

  ‘Private?’ I say. ‘Yes, I suppose . . . Why?’

  Victor laughs. ‘I could just do with five minutes to decompress alone with you before all that . . .’ He nods towards the house.

  ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Um . . . wait there.’

  I dash into the house and return with a half bottle of champagne and two glasses. ‘Come,’ I say, leading him to the side of the house. ‘We can kick Mark out of the gazebo.’

  As the rain intensifies, we start to jog, but when we reach the gazebo, I see through the little plastic window that it no longer contains Mark but my mother and Saddam. They are sitting face to face holding both hands and talking intently.

  I raise a finger to my lips and lead Victor silently on past the gazebo to the far end of the garden. I hand Victor the bottle and glasses so that I can fiddle with the combination lock on Dad’s old shed.

  ‘Ooh, comfy,’ Victor says, as the door creaks open.

  ‘I know,’ I say, pulling him inside. ‘It’s dusty, but . . . Dad used to come here for a bit of peace and quiet. Mum hasn’t touched it since.’

  I pull the door closed behind us and turn to find Victor standing right behind me, waiting for a kiss. As the rain starts to drum more heavily on the roof, he kisses me on the lips and then pulls me tight and buries his nose in my hair.

  ‘You forget how good that feels,’ I murmur.

  ‘I didn’t forget,’ Victor says. ‘I’ve been thinking about this for two weeks.’

  ‘Here,’ I say, leading him over to the disintegrating club armchair, and brushing the dust away with a rag from the floor.

  Victor sits on the chair and I lay myself across his lap, with my legs hanging over one side, and kick my shoes off.

  ‘So how was the wedding?’ Victor asks. ‘Did it all go to plan?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes, it was short and sweet, but fine.’

  ‘No drama then?’

  ‘A bit. Saddam ran off at one point, but I talked him round.’

  ‘That’s my girl.’

  ‘I like him,’ I say. ‘He really does love her, I think.’

  ‘Well, that’s good. I’m so sorry I missed the service. I brought a suit and everything. You look fab in this, by the way,’ he says, fingering the velvet of my dress.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Actually, I can still change if you want.’

  ‘I don’t think anyone cares any more,’ I say. ‘They’re all sloshed already.’

  ‘They look sweet together, Saddam and your mum.’

  ‘I know. It’s amazing.’

  ‘He is very young. But I guess love conquers all.’

  ‘Apparently so,’ I say.

  ‘I was thinking about us,’ Victor says. ‘The three of us.’

  I smile.

  ‘I was thinking about what Harrison’s wife said again.’

  ‘That the way to make a marriage last . . .’

  ‘. . . is not to get divorced. Yes.’

  ‘You like that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ Victor says, seriously. ‘There’s something powerful about it, about getting married and meaning it. Saying that you’ll stay together no matter what happens. Making the marriage last by refusing to get divorced, no matter what.’

  My stomach knots at what may be about to come. Because the truth is that though the idea of marrying Victor has crossed my mind at almost every stage of these wedding preparations, I simply haven’t managed to come to any conclusion.

  ‘So even if you don’t want to get married, because you’ve done it all before,’ Victor says, ‘maybe we could still make that vow, sort of privately, to each other.’

  I kiss Victor on the cheek and my vision blurs slightly. ‘That’s really sweet,’ I say.

  ‘So shall we?’ he asks.

  ‘What? Vow to stay together?’

  ‘Yes. Forever.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to be on one knee or something?’ I say, using humour to disguise the tension I am feeling.

  Victor starts to move, so I say, ‘No, I was only joking, stop!’, but he lifts me up, sets me back down on the chair, and then kneels before me.

  He takes my hand and gazes at me. ‘I want us to stay together,’ Victor says, ‘and any problems, we just get through them and come out the other side, OK?’

  ‘OK,’ I say. ‘Me too.’

  ‘Me too?’ Victor says. ‘Me too?!’ and then he starts to tickle me and we both collapse in a fit of laughter.

  Once recovered, I stand and fill two glasses with champagne.

  ‘Should you be drinking?’ Victor asks.

  ‘Oh, it’s only my second glass. And it’s just today.’

  Victor shrugs. ‘Your call,’ he says.

  As we raise our glasses, aware that I have slightly belittled Victor’s attempt at solemnity, I say, ‘To us. Forever,’ and Victor repeats the words.

  For a few seconds, we stare into each other’s eyes, and I see through the haze that his eyes are wet with emotion too, and just for a moment, I feel so happy that it actually makes my heart hurt.

  ‘Should we go inside?’ Victor asks, breaking the silence.

  ‘Not yet,’ I say. ‘I’ve been run off my feet all week. And you must be knackered.’

  ‘A bit,’ Victor concedes.

  ‘So we deserve this,’ I say.

  We manoeuvre our way back to our previous position on the armchair.

  ‘This is nice, huh?’ Victor says. ‘Just you and me.’

  ‘It is,’ I agree.

  ‘So, the house is pretty much done.’

  ‘Does it look good?’

  ‘Yeah, it does. Oh, and before you get all nervous, no, I’m not going to ask you to move back there.’

  ‘You’re not?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘You sound disappointed,’ Victor laughs.

  ‘No, I’m just surprised.’

  ‘Let’s just say I went off the neighbourhood a bit as well.’

  ‘Really? How come?’

  ‘Well . . .’ Victor sighs. ‘Turns out Distira isn’t such a nice auntie to have, after all.’

  ‘I thought it was all Carole’s fault.’

  ‘A lot of it was, I think. But they were in it together, for the most part. And it was Distira who smashed the hole in the roof.’

  ‘She didn’t!’

  Victor nods.

  ‘But that was before we even got there!’

  ‘I know. It turns out that Clappier’s mate knows the lads who did it.’

  I frown. ‘I don’t understand. You said it was Distira.’

  ‘She got them to do it. Maybe even paid them to do it. They took some of the stones from that wall behind the house, too.’

  ‘You’re not saying . . . that’s not why the wall collapsed, is it?’

  ‘Not the house wall, but the retaining wall, yeah. That’s why we had that mud slide.’

  ‘But why? Why would she do that?’

  Victor shrugs. ‘I think she’s a bit mad. I challenged her about it and she went off on one, saying that Mum had promised her the farm. So her nose was put out of joint when she found out that it was mine, I suppose. I reckon that’s where most of the angst came from.’

  ‘Is that likely, that your mum promised her the house?’

  ‘Well, no,’ Victor says. ‘You can’t disinherit your children in France, anyway. But anything’s possible. Mum could have said anything when she was drunk. And as I say, I think Distira’s probably a bit senile, if not actually barking.’

  I shake my head. ‘That’s awful. And to do that to your own nephew. What a pair! They won’t smash the place up while you’re away, will they?’

 
; Victor shakes his head. ‘No. We had a big row. I kind of lost it with them. I listed everything that had happened, from the doctor who never—’

  ‘So I was right? He didn’t come?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. I should have believed you. I thought it was because you were feverish. But no, I asked her for the phone number of the other doc when I got back. I told her that I wasn’t feeling well. She couldn’t find it, of course. Or remember his name. I was pretty angry about that one. It could have been dangerous.’

  I shake my head. ‘I think she wanted me dead. She kept opening the window in that bloody room. She wanted to freeze me to death.’

  Victor shakes his head. ‘I doubt she wanted to actually kill you. But I don’t think you could say she exactly wanted you well either. I had a go at them about the tarot card nonsense too. And the keys she “lost”, and the cats in the water tank . . . I told her I’d call the police if anything else happens. But she’d clearly rather not have us living next door. And I think I’d rather sell the place and let someone else deal with her, to be honest.’

  I exhale deeply.

  ‘Relieved then?’ Victor asks.

  I laugh. ‘A bit, yes. You know, I bet they took the second page of that letter I left, too.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘I can’t see how else, when the pages were folded up together.’

  ‘Well, that would definitely have been Carole. Distira couldn’t even have read it.’

  ‘God, what a creepy pair.’

  ‘So all we have to do now is decide where we do want to live. I suppose you want to stay in London?’

  I shake my head. ‘No, I don’t think so. Maybe a cottage or something, but close enough to friends and—’

  The throbbing baseline of ‘Disco Inferno’ suddenly bursts from the house. ‘What the hell is that?’ I ask.

  ‘Sounds like the party is hotting up. Do you want to go back?’

  ‘Give me a kiss, first,’ I say. ‘A proper one.’

  I stand and Victor rises to meet me. He kisses me deeply, and when I become aware that he has a gun in his pocket, I realise that I want much more. It has, after all, been two weeks.

  I turn to slide the bolt on the shed door, and then hang the rag over the little window. Victor watches all of this with a smug grin, and then puts his glass down. ‘Now there’s a good idea,’ he says, making a grab for my belt and yanking me towards him.