by Leah Hope
As they crossed the square on their way home, they were suddenly hit side on by someone clearly in a hurry. Gil was just about to let rip with a couple of choice expletives when their “assailant” looked up from under a shock of strawberry blond hair, revealing the familiar, but now very red, face of Doug Faulkner. Doug and his wife Helen had moved to France more than ten years previously after selling his business which had allowed him to retire at an enviably young age. The couple had readily taken Gil and Bridget under their wings when they first bought Les Cerisiers and their local knowledge, ranging from where to buy the best cheeses to finding a good local plumber, had been invaluable.
“Oh, it’s you two!” said Doug apologetically. “I’m so sorry, mind elsewhere I’m afraid, Helen says I’ll do myself an injury one day, or more likely someone else, knowing me. Good to see you back, I’d heard from Heather that you were due over this week, how’s tricks?”
“We’re fine thanks,” said Gil, who had just about got back the wind that the collision with Doug had almost knocked out of him. “It’s good to be back, especially with this marvellous weather, how’s Helen?”
“On top of the world, Max and his new fiancée Genevieve are coming over for a flying visit this weekend, haven’t seen them for ages and Helen is buzzing with excitement. We’re having a barbecue on Saturday evening, so why don’t you come along. You haven’t met Max have you? Genevieve is such a lovely girl too, Max is a very lucky boy, that’s one of the advantages of having a handsome son, you end up with a beautiful daughter-in-law! Sorry, I can’t stop, I’ve just been sent out to get bread for lunch and afterwards Helen and I have promised Tony and Heather that we would open up their shop for a few hours this afternoon. They can’t afford to close up all the time they’re away. Well, must get going, we’ll have more time to catch up on Saturday, 6.30 ok?”
“We’ll look forward to it, I’ll bring dessert!” Bridget shouted after him, but Doug was already sprinting across the square in the direction of home.
“He seems in good form,” said Gil, “should be a good night on Saturday, our social calendar is filling up nicely.”
“Let’s get a couple of pastries for our afternoon tea, we should just be able to make it before the boulangerie shuts,” said Bridget.
“Bridget Honeyman, I can’t believe the best pastry cook in the known universe is going to buy pastries,” Gil teased.
“But they’re so delicious and besides, I am on holiday!” came the reply.
*
Bridget picked up her millefeuilles with anticipation and soon crumbs of the light-as-air pastry were falling from her mouth.
“This is absolutely gorgeous, I would love to know how on earth they manage to make them as light as this,” she mumbled through another mouthful. “How’s your éclair?”
“Not bad,” replied Gil, “but I think yours are better.”
Having poured them both a cup of tea, Bridget stretched out on the sun lounger, her book at her side.
“We really are very lucky,” she said, looking around her, “most people would give their right arm to own a place like this.”
“Couldn’t agree more,” said Gil, stretching out on his own lounger, “what more could we ask for?”
“Well now you mention it. there is something I would like. I miss my radio, the afternoon play would be starting just about now,” said Bridget, trying not to sound ungrateful. When she had been looking after her mother she liked nothing better than to put her feet up in the warm kitchen after lunch and listen to a play on the radio. She especially enjoyed a good murder mystery and usually managed to complete the cryptic crossword in the local paper at the same time as working out “who dunnit”. This feat of multi-tasking never failed to impress her brother. Being very much a TV man, Gil had offered to get a set for the kitchen but Bridget had insisted that she was perfectly happy with her radio.
“Too much like hard work for me, give me the telly any day,” Gil had said. “I can never make out who’s speaking, all the voices sound the same to me.”
“It just takes a bit of concentration,” said Bridget, “you get used to it after a while.”
“If you really want a radio, I’ll ask Doug on Saturday how we go about getting UK channels, I suppose we ought to think about getting UK TV here as well, we’ve been putting it off ever since we bought the place,” said Gil dreaming of the forthcoming test series.
“Thanks, that would be lovely,” said Bridget, but Gil was already asleep.
*
“You must be Bridget,” said Nick Webster, as she and Gil made their way into the smart dining-room at the Mirabeau. “I’m under strict instructions from Pete to treat you two like royalty tonight so we’ve put you at this table in the corner next to the window, or we’ve got a nice table on the terrace if you’d prefer?”
“No, I think we’d better opt for inside tonight,” said Bridget, “the wind’s getting up a bit out there and it could get a bit chilly later on”
After showing Gil and Bridget to their table, Nick handed them each a menu bound in burgundy leather and gave the wine list to Gil.
“Can I get you an aperitif while you make your minds up?”
“Just a beer for me please,” said Gil.
“Nothing for me thanks,” said Bridget, “I’ll wait to have some wine with the meal.”
“Coming right up,” said Nick as he headed for the bar to fetch Gil’s beer.
“He’s very good looking isn’t he?” whispered Bridget behind her menu.
“Yes, I told you he was a bit of a charmer, reminds me a bit of myself when I was his age!” said Gil with a grin.
“Well he does have your thick, dark hair doesn’t he?”
“Yes, except mine’s not so thick or so dark these days,” said Gil running his hands through his thinning locks.
“Nonsense, you’ve still got a fine head of hair,” said Bridget. But just as Gil turned to admire his reflection in the window, his sister delivered the killer punch. “For a man of your age, I mean.” Deflated, he straightened in his seat and turned his attention to the wine list.
Nick was soon back at the table with Gil’s beer.
“I should have mentioned that we’ve got a couple of specials on tonight as well. If you like fish, I can recommend the turbot, it comes with a creamy caper sauce, baby potatoes and green beans. I can also recommend the boudin, it’s in a mustard sauce, it’s a bit of an acquired taste, but it’s very good.”
“What’s a ‘boudin’?” asked Gil, looking over the top of the reading glasses he had just put on.
“It’s a kind of black pudding, but this one’s white,” said Nick, who was not entirely certain but was trying to sound knowledgeable nevertheless. “Do you want a few more minutes or are you ready to order?”
“No, I think we’ve made our minds up. I’m going to follow your recommendation and have the turbot,” said Bridget.
“Make that two, and a bottle of the Saumur to go with it,” said Gil, “oh and some water too please.”
“An excellent choice if you ask my opinion. I can tell you two are a couple of gourmets!” said Nick with a broad grin, before making his way back to the kitchen.
“He’s quite a charmer, isn’t he?” said Bridget. “I bet he’s a bit of a babe magnet too.”
“Babe magnet, where on earthy did you get that expression from?” said Gil, almost choking on his beer.
“I read it in a magazine at the hairdressers the other week, I’m not a complete fuddy-duddy you know! Pity we didn’t have babe magnets in my day, I might have been tempted out of spinsterhood!”
“Bridget Honeyman,” Gil mocked, “I do believe you’re blushing!”
Chapter Seven
“Come on Bridget, we’re going to be late, it’s nearly quarter past,” Gil shouted impatiently up the stairs, looking anxiously at his watch. He was a bit of a stickler where punctuality was concerned and his sister’s tardiness was a constant source of annoyance.
�
�I’ll be down in ten few minutes, could you get the desserts out of the fridge, it’ll save a bit of time,” Bridget shouted back.
Upstairs in her bedroom however she wasn’t at all optimistic that she would be ready in ten minutes or even ten hours as she eyed the entire contents of her wardrobe that were now strewn over the bed and floor. What an earth am I going to wear, she sighed to herself, everything makes me look old, fat and frumpy, and then looking at herself in the mirror said out loud, “Well maybe Bridget Honeyman, it’s because you are old, fat and frumpy!” Clothes had never bothered her too much, she liked to look presentable of course but had never worried about keeping up to date with the latest fashion trend or even if what she was wearing flattered her or not. So why was tonight so different, after all it was only a barbecue in a friend’s garden, hardly a grand affair. Bridget couldn’t quite put her finger on it but for some reason she felt uncharacteristically uneasy at the thought of how elegant Helen would look, as she always did, and Heather too come to that. An image of Max’s fiancée Genevieve, flashed before her eyes, serving to torment her even more. Even her name sounds beautiful, she sighed. Suddenly Bridget felt very old. She flopped onto the bed and stared into space. Then common sense took over, as it usually did and she gave herself a stern talking-to. You can’t possibly compete with a sophisticated twenty something, she told herself, so why are you even thinking of trying? She struggled to her feet and hastily threw on a pair of new coffee coloured trousers and a lacy cream tunic top that she had rejected at least twice before. Eyeing her reflection in the mirror, she gave herself a seal of approval, albeit a luke-warm one. That’ll do, she thought, at least I won’t disgrace myself.
“What on earth are you doing up there, I’ve been ready for over half an hour,” said Gil looking at his watch for the hundredth time that evening.
“It’s so easy for men to get ready, you just throw on a pair of trousers or shorts, a matching shirt and that’s it, done, anyway, I’m ready now so stop fussing, I’m sure it won’t matter if we’re a few minutes late, no-one’s going to mind,” said Bridget, with more than a hint of annoyance in her voice.
“But you never usually worry about how you look,” said Gil, not realising the tactlessness of his remark.
“Well thank you very much!” Bridget retorted, her face flushing.
“You know I didn’t mean it like that, what I meant was that you always look lovely, whatever you put on and you look lovely now.”
“Ok, I’ll let you off,” replied Bridge grudgingly as she picked up a white cardigan.
“We’ll take the car,” said Gil, “I know it’s only a ten minute walk but we’ve got those desserts to carry. I’ll leave the car at Doug’s if I’m over the limit.”
*
Bridget had been in her element the previous day baking a strawberry pavlova, a lemon tart, tiramisu and a white chocolate cheesecake.
“Why have you made so much?” asked Gil. “I’m sure Doug and Helen wouldn’t have expected you to go to all this bother.”
“I’m sure they wouldn’t,” Bridget replied, “but I’ve enjoyed doing it and besides, I don’t really know everyone’s preferences are so I’ve catered for all tastes, hopefully.”
She didn’t let on to Gil that there would have been individual crème caramels as well if she hadn’t run out of eggs. She had also found time to make a chocolate cake for Tony and Heather, as a thank-you for keeping an eye on the house and cutting the grass.
“I’m just going to pop next door with this cake,” Bridget had shouted on the Friday evening to Gil, who was dozing on the sun-lounger. “The car’s outside so they must be back, are you sure you don’t want to come?”
“No, you go, but tell them I’m looking forward to seeing them tomorrow at Doug’s,” he replied sleepily.
“Ok, I won’t be too long, you could make a start on supper if you like,” said Bridget, somewhat optimistically, as she put the cake into a tin. But the gentle snoring coming from the direction of the lounger suggested that her request had fallen literally on deaf ears. “He could sleep for England that man,” Bridget muttered to herself, as she closed the door and headed for “Les Volets Bleus”.
Tony and Heather Lloyd-Jones’ house next door was on the corner of the main road, but set back from it, and the track that led to Les Cerisiers and the farms beyond. It was larger than its neighbour, having three bedrooms and a separate salon, as well as a large open-plan kitchen and living area. Tony and Heather used the extra downstairs room as an office, keeping the two spare bedrooms for visiting family and friends. Like Bridget, the Lloyd-Jones enjoyed gardening and had visions of growing enough organic vegetables to supply the little shop they owned in Saint-Rémy. They soon realised however that if they were to make any sort of a living from the shop, they would need to put in long hours and that didn’t leave any time for much else. The result was that the garden was now in quite a sorry state, with dried up patches of earth where Tony had tried to make a vegetable plot, and an assortment of sad looking shrubs which badly needed pruning.
Just over half an hour later, Bridget arrived back. To her surprise, Gil was in the kitchen stripping the carcass of yesterday’s chicken, new potatoes were bubbling away on the stove and there was salad in a bowl.
“Good timing,” he said looking up, “the potatoes are nearly ready so sit yourself down.”
Handing her a large glass of white wine, he directed her to the terrace where the table was already laid.
“What have I done to deserve this?” Bridget asked in astonishment, taking a sip of wine.
“Well, you’ve spent all day baking for our friends for one thing, it’s the least I can do.”
Gil wasn’t a domesticated man by any stretch of the imagination and Bridget knew that was probably down to her “spoiling” him. She always had a meal ready on the table each evening when he got home from work, and at weekends too. He would sometimes cook for Bridget, but his limited repertoire had never been extended beyond the food so beloved of the British male; spaghetti Bolognese, a blisteringly hot curry and a “good fry up”. Nevertheless, Bridget was grateful whenever Gil ventured into the kitchen and always praised his efforts.
Half an hour later, the meal over, Gil and Bridget sat in the warm evening sunshine finishing off what was left of the bottle of Muscadet.
“So how’s Heather’s Mum then?” asked Gil.
“Not too good if Heather’s anything to go by, she looked awful, very tired and strained, I didn’t like to ask too many questions as I didn’t want to upset her. Tony was quite chatty as usual but Heather was very quiet. I thought it was only a bad bout of flu but I think her Mum could be quite poorly you know, I can’t think of any other explanation for her looking as she did. Let’s hope she picks up a bit for the barbecue tomorrow.”
*
“Come in, lovely to see you both again!” Helen Faulkner said warmly to her two guests, waving them into the hallway.
The Faulkner’s house was a very smart three storey maison de maître roughly mid-way along one of the little streets just behind the Mirabeau. The house, Bridget thought, was a perfect reflection of Helen’s exquisite taste and style and her influences could be seen everywhere. The polished chestnut floors were a perfect contrast for the delicate shade of alabaster Helen had chosen for the walls. Furniture was a skilful blend of antiques, many sourced at local brocantes, and modern, classic pieces. At the windows, drapes of ivory muslin, which now billowed gently in the balmy, summer breeze, would be replaced with fine Irish linen for the winter months. Elegant vases of fresh flowers were everywhere, their heady fragrance flooding through the entire house. Bridget breathed in deeply, savouring the scent of old roses and beeswax polish but most of all, Helen’s, undoubtedly expensive, perfume.
“Wow, Doug said you would be bringing dessert but I didn’t expect an entire dessert trolley, these look amazing!” Helen said, looking at the two boxes Gil and Bridget each carried. “I think I’d better hide these in the fri
dge until later as there’ll be nothing left if Doug and Max get their hands on them. Don’t let anyone convince you that it’s women who have the sweeter tooth, not if those two are anything to go by. Come on through to the garden, everyone’s outside.”
“Everyone” turned out to be just Doug and Tony and Heather.
“Max and Genevieve are running a bit late I’m afraid. They had to go out this afternoon and have just arrived back but they’ll join us as soon as they’ve freshened up,” said Helen as she led Gil and Bridget through the French doors in the kitchen and out onto the terrace.
On the terrace, Doug was resplendent in a “comic” plastic apron and was busy prodding at pieces of chicken that were already sizzling away on the barbecue.
“Can’t be too careful with chicken, so I’ve started it a bit early,” he said looking very serious. Clearly he was a man determined not to give his guests salmonella as to Bridget’s trained eye, the chicken already looked very over-done.
Careful not to criticise her host’s food, Bridget nodded politely in agreement. “It looks perfect Doug,” she said.
“Come on,” said Helen, “let’s go and meet the others and then you can tell us all your news.”
From the terrace, Helen led Gil and Bridget past the swimming pool to the far end of the immaculate, walled garden where Tony and Heather were sitting under a hexagonal gazebo on some very expensive looking garden chairs. Several bottles of pink champagne, two of them already empty, stood on a low, glass-topped table next to trayfuls of delicious looking canapés. The guests exchanged greetings although Gil was dismayed when Heather offered her cheek for a kiss, French-style, he would much rather have made do with a firm handshake. Seeing his discomfort, Bridget whispered, “When in Rome!” in his ear. Gil took his cue and kissed Heather once on each cheek but quickly offered his hand to Tony, who seemed equally relieved to accept it.