by Leah Hope
Stuart opened the cherry red front door that matched the shutters and stood back to allow his clients to step inside. Bridget went first, her eyes darting back and fore, taking in the scene in front of her. The entire downstairs was open-plan, not what we’re used to, she thought, thinking of the warren of rooms back home in Whytecliffe, but I think it could work. The living area was a decent size but was somewhat dominated by a huge fireplace, complete with wood-burning stove. The kitchen area, big enough to take a good-sized table, ran along the back of the house, separated from the living area by a breakfast bar. Bridget was delighted when she caught a glimpse of a decent sized back garden through the French doors. Upstairs there were two evenly sized bedrooms, and a modern bathroom. As Stuart showed them round, Gil had to admit that the house had been nicely done up.
“This would have been a third bedroom when the house was originally built,” said Stuart opening the door of the well-appointed bathroom, “so it’s quite a good size.” They made their way downstairs again. “Most of the furniture is for sale as well, apart from…” he hesitated while he checked the particulars, “yes, apart from the dresser in the rear bedroom, the pictures and the clock on the mantelpiece in the kitchen. I should have pointed out when we were upstairs that the shower is new, as is the range cooker and the whole place has been redecorated in neutral shades to appeal to British buyers in particular. We get a lot of Dutch and Germans in these parts too of course. It can be quite like a mini United Nations sometimes in the Mirabeau,” he added with a chuckle. “I don’t know about you two but I love that cosmopolitan vibe.”
“Oh me too,” Bridget gushed, not entirely sure she knew what Stuart meant.
“So you could move right in straight away, if you decide to buy the furniture as well,” said Stuart, noticing Bridget casting an approving eye over two cream sofas with their coffee coloured throws. He had no doubt that Bridget loved everything she saw. Her brother was proving to be a tougher nut to crack though. But Stuart was a man who loved a challenge, and this was one he was more than confident he could rise to.
Outside to the rear, a pretty little terrace led from the kitchen area. There was a small lawn beyond, some rather jaded looking shrubs, a herb bed and further away, three rather splendid cherry trees.
“They’re what give the house its name, Les Cerisers,” said Stuart, “cerisier is French for cherry tree,” his face now taking on the confident look of a salesman who knows he’s closing in on a deal.
“We could do so much with this garden Gil,” said Bridget, clearly excited at the prospect. “There’s plenty of room for a vegetable plot, maybe even a little summerhouse, what do you think?”
All Gil could see though was how much work it would entail, for him. “Well since you’re asking, I’d get it all paved over, much less bother.”
“Oh, Gil how can you say that? It’s such a pretty little garden.”
“But if we’re only here for a few weeks each year, we won’t be able to maintain it and it’ll be yours truly who’ll end up spending hours cutting the blasted grass and weeding borders. Not my idea of a holiday.”
“But I could get one of those little electric mowers, like I use at home, and I could do the weeding, I don’t mind at all,” said Bridget, suddenly aware that she sounded faintly like a child making a case for getting a kitten or a rabbit.
“I don’t know Bridget, there’s a lot to think about, it’s not just the garden.”
Stuart McKenzie stepped in at this point. The sale, which he had thought in the bag just a few minutes before, now looked in severe jeopardy. Anxious that the issue of the garden should not turn into a deal-breaker, he desperately racked his brains for a compromise that would suit both brother and sister. Before he moved to France he had been a city boy so the practicalities of gardening did not come readily to him.
“What about putting in a swimming-pool, that would cut down on the amount of lawn you would have?” he suggested, helpfully.
“A swimming-pool, you’ve got to be joking, how much would that cost?” said an almost apoplectic Gil.
“Probably less than you think, I could get some quotes for you, if that would help,” said Stuart brightly.
Gil shook his head, the sale was still in the balance. Stuart needed something else.
“You could always get someone in to keep an eye on the garden for you, there’s plenty of old chaps in the village who might welcome a bit of cash in return for mowing the grass every few weeks,” Stuart suggested, a hint of desperation now creeping into his voice.
“Maybe,” said Gil, scratching his chin, still far from convinced, “but I’m not going to be rushed into this, like I said, there’s a lot to consider. The house will still be here in the morning so I’d like to sleep on it if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all Mr Honeyman, I quite understand, please take your time,” the estate-agent replied.
“I intend to do so, don’t you worry,” Gil said firmly before turning to his sister, who had been unusually quiet during the exchanges between Gil and Stuart.
“Come on love, we’ve seen enough,” he said as he started to make his way back through the house.
Bridget and Stuart followed meekly behind. Bridget knew that now wasn’t the time to challenge her brother, not when he was in this sort of mood. She wasn’t giving up though, just biding her time. She deliberately held back so that she could speak to Stuart alone.
“Leave it to me, I’ll work on him tonight, after he’s had a few glasses of wine he’ll be putty in my hands!” Bridget whispered as they walked through the French doors, her eyes sparkling with excitement.
Stuart’s confidence swelled; he had learned a lot during his five years in the real estate business, but most importantly, he had learned that it was women who bought houses. The deal was on again. He could smell it.
*
Gil and Bridget had tried to book themselves into the hotel in the square in Saint-Rémy, but it had been full. They now found themselves in a smaller, but no less comfortable, establishment twenty minutes away. At dinner that night all Bridget could think and talk about was Les Cerisiers. She had already secretly planned how she would arrange everything in the kitchen and had even chosen which vegetables she would grow in the garden. She took a huge gulp of wine and embarked on a speech which, when Gil looked back on it, realised had been carefully rehearsed.
“I know it sounds stupid and illogical, but I want that little house more than I’ve ever wanted anything. I’m not getting any younger and I’ve never done anything vaguely mad or spontaneous in my life. I’ve always played it safe, I’ve been careful with money, even when there was no need, and I want a change. Half of the money Mum and Dad left us is mine so if you don’t want the house, I’ve decided I’m going ahead on my own.”
“Steady on, I never said I didn’t want it but this is all a bit sudden, isn’t it?” Gil replied, taking an equally big swig of wine. “France wasn’t even on the agenda when we set off; it was just a very pleasant way to get to Spain and Italy. Why don’t we see what they’ve got to offer before we go throwing our money away on a whim?”
“Because life’s just too short Gil, look at Mum and Dad, they thought they would have many more years together, it could be gone by the time we come back this way and don’t tell me there’ll be other houses because I want this one.”
Noticing the tears that were welling up in Bridget’s eyes, Gil knew she was serious; she had never been one to turn on the tears like a tap, unlike some of the women he had known. He had to admit she had a point, life had dealt them a couple of cruel blows when they least expected it. Neither of them knew what the future had in store. They could easily afford the house and why shouldn’t they live a little, after all they had both worked very hard for almost forty years. Maybe it was the wine, or the balmy evening or maybe it was the sudden realisation that this was a way he could finally repay his sister for all the years she had spent looking after Sylvia, and himself too come to that.
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br /> Bridget could hardly bear the silence, but she knew she had pushed things as far as she dared.
“Ok,” Gil said at last, looking up, “let’s do it, we’ll put an offer in first thing in the morning!”
*
The next morning saw brother and sister waiting anxiously outside the estate agency. Stuart McKenzie opened up on the dot of 10.00am and welcomed them inside.
“So you want to make an offer, that’s great news,” he said, trying to ignore the wink Bridget had just given him. “I think that property will be just perfect for you.”
“Only if we can get it at the right price though,” said Gil determinedly, conscious that they hadn’t discussed money yet. “What’s the bottom line here, is there a deal to be done?”
Bridget looked on anxiously as she hoped Gil wasn’t going to start to play games. She was going to have that house, whatever the cost.
Stuart leaned forward, and folded his arms on the desk, his eyes narrowed. “There’s always a deal to be done Mr Honeyman. If I’m honest, I think the owners are asking a little bit too much, which is understandable as they have just bought a very chi-chi little apartment in one of the smartest arrondissements in Paris so they need every cent they can get. But, having said that, it’s not been on the market for very long, by French standards anyway, but they do need to sell.” Stuart sat back in his chair and pressed the fingertips of both hands together. “Between you and me however, if you offer around the full asking price and ask them to throw in the furniture in as well, I think they’ll bite your hand off.”
“That sounds fair Gil, doesn’t it?” Bridget said.
Gil couldn’t ignore the pleading look in her eyes and while he might have been tempted to haggle himself, he didn’t want to disappoint his sister by losing the house, just for the sake of a few thousand euros. “Yes, I agree, let’s give it a go.”
“Brilliant,” Stuart replied, hardly able to conceal his delight, “but before I contact the vendors I need to take you through the buying process in France, it’s quite different from the UK.”
Half an hour later, satisfied that his clients fully understood the implications if their offer was accepted, Stuart rang the vendors. Since they spoke only basic French, Gil and Bridget tried desperately to gauge from his facial expressions and tone of voice how the conversation was going, but he was giving nothing away. After what seemed an eternity, Stuart eventually put the phone down. “It’s yours!” he said with a broad grin.
Neither Gil nor Bridget saw Stuart punch the air as they made their way out of his office.
Chapter Six
“So there wasn’t much news then?” Bridget mumbled through a mouthful of flaky croissant.
She had been too tired when Gil got back from the village the previous night to indulge in much conversation and went to bed with a book shortly after supper.
“No, it was very quiet, only the Mirabeau was open so I just had a couple of beers in the bar,” Gil replied. “Pete wasn’t there so I got talking to Nick Webster, the new barman, well barman-cum-waiter I think. Seems he worked for Pete for a while in Australia and couldn’t believe his eyes when he walked into the Mirabeau and saw his old boss behind the bar. He said it was one of those “of all the bars in all the world” type moments. He wasn’t actually looking for a job but Pete took him on there and then.”
“He wasn’t here when we were over at Christmas, I can’t remember seeing him then,” said Bridget as she got to her feet to start sweeping up their breakfast crumbs.
“No, he arrived at the end of January. He’d been grape picking down in the Languedoc and was working his way back home to the UK when he stopped off in the village. He’s a quick worker too as he’s already shacked up with the daughter of Pete’s business partner, Philippe, I think Pete introduced us briefly to him last summer, nice chap.”
“Yes, I remember, very dashing he was too! So, Nick’s a permanent feature then?”
“For a while I think, says he’s told his parents he’s staying on to learn the language, seems as if his mother’s constantly nagging him to go back home and get a ‘proper’ job. Mind you, I can understand what he means about needing to learn the language, he was serving a couple of the locals and his French was appalling, I could have done better, I think he relies on his looks and charm to see him through but I think that could soon wear a bit thin, especially with some of the locals. The ladies will love him though!”
“He sounds quite a character, I can’t wait to meet him!”
“Well if you get a move on and we get into the village before everything shuts for lunch, you’ll probably get your chance!”
After a brief stop at the greengrocers for some salad ingredients, Gil and Bridget made their way to the Mirabeau. The Mirabeau had been a hotel for as long as anyone could remember but had started life as a rather grand house. The locals speculated that it had probably been built for a wealthy merchant or civic dignitary. Solidly built out of stone, with white painted shutters, the building stretched almost the entire length of one of the shorter sides of the “square”. An old extension on the right-hand side was now a part-time tourist information office. Glass entrance doors opened from the street onto a small reception area and hallway, where a curved, oak staircase spiralled its way up to the eight guest bedrooms and staff quarters that were spread over the upper two floors. The bar led off the hallway to the left and, thanks to changes Pete had made, was now a light and airy room with big windows looking out over the square to the front and onto a narrow little street to the side. The large dining room, with the kitchens behind, was to the right of the hallway. Pete had maintained its fin de siècle appeal but, by cleverly adding modern tables and chairs, had managed to give the room an air of faded, but rather stylish, splendour. Outside, on the terrace in front of the dining room windows, Pete had crammed in as many tables as regulations would allow. He had asked the Mayor for permission to replace some of the windows with French doors, but, much to his annoyance, was refused on the basis that it would, “compromise the building’s architectural integrity.” Pete’s response, it was said, had turned the air at the Mirabeau temporarily bleu.
“G’day mate!” came Pete’s booming greeting as Gil pushed open the bar door.
“You’d never guess where he came from would you? I think he puts it on for effect,” muttered Bridget to her brother under her breath.
Pete McNally not only sounded like an archetypal Aussie, he looked like one too. His almost shoulder length hair (much too long for someone his age, Bridget had whispered to Gil when she first met Pete) was bleached beach blonde, and even though it was now speckled with grey, still made him look like an old surfer. He had kept himself fit all his life and although now in his fifties, could have passed for a much younger man. Apart from his face that is. Years in the scorching southern sun had taken its toll and, to quote the man himself, now resembled, “a rhino’s backside,” he’d laughed adding, “and that’s the polite version!”
“What can I get my two favourite Poms?”
“I think we’ll just have coffee,” said Gil, “it’s a bit too early for anything stronger.”
“How long are you here for this time?” asked Pete, turning to the coffee machine.
“Six weeks,” said Bridget, “we’d like to stay longer but Gil’s got to get back to the garage.”
“Bit of a workaholic eh!” said Pete, pouring cream into a small white jug.
“It’s not that,” said Gil, “I’ve left my senior mechanic in charge and he wants to get away with his family for a couple of weeks before the end of the school holidays.”
“Well, at least you’ll be here for Bastille Day in a couple of weeks so can I interest you both in the gourmet evening we’ve got planned? Excellent value even if I do say so myself. Complimentary glass of champagne on arrival, six courses of the finest food in Saint-Rémy and half a bottle of plonk, sorry, house wine, and all for 30 euros a head, and you’re guaranteed a ringside seat for the entertainm
ent.”
“Ooh, what sort of entertainment?” asked Bridget inquisitively, blowing on her coffee.
“Well, there’s a stage for live music, a talent show, dancing, a couple of little fairground rides for the kiddies, a night market and the whole thing finishes off with fireworks at ten,” replied Pete.
“Ok,” said Bridget, “put us down, it sounds a lot of fun.”
“Ace!” said Pete. “We’ve got a good crowd booked in already so it promises to be a great night, but you’ll need to be here by 7.30 if you want to get served before the fireworks start!”
“We’ll be there” said Gil, then, turning to his sister said, “ do you fancy eating here tonight Bridget?”
“Yes, I’d love to, let’s hope there’s a table free.”
“Let’s just see,” said Pete checking the night’s bookings, “7.30 do you?”
“Perfect,” said Bridget, “I was hoping to meet your new barman, Gil was telling me all about him, is he around today?”
“Oh, Nick you mean, it’s his morning off, but he’ll be on later,” said Pete turning round to glance at the staff rota pinned up near the coffee machine. “I’ll make sure he looks after you and gives you a good table.”
“Thanks, we’ll look forward it, see you tonight,” said Gil as he steered Bridget towards the door and out into the square.
“He’s a lovely man” said Bridget to Gil, “but I do find him a bit wearing.”
“He’s just a bit over-enthusiastic that’s all, his heart’s in the right place though, but I’m glad he won’t be serving us tonight all the same!” replied Gil laughing.
Bridget secretly thought to herself that Pete was such a stereotypical antipodean that he might not be from “down under” at all. She wondered if he might be one of those Brits who had picked up “authentic” expressions from one of those Aussie slang books she’d once seen at a car boot sale. I wonder if he’s got something to hide, she asked herself, before telling herself not to be so silly, he was too nice a man to have a murky past.