The French for Love (6 page)

And with a jaunty mock salute he climbs back into his cruise ship of a car and sails off, with unhurried insouciance, down the drive.

‘Bloody cheek,’ I mutter, going back inside. Another cheating slime-bag. There seem to be a lot of them about these days.

I sit back down at the desk, but there’s not much I can do with no Internet for another week. I think back to the last time I saw Liz sitting here in the study...

The book-lined room, with its tall, large-paned windows looking out onto the courtyard, was usually a comfortable muddle of papers, magazines and folders full of old photographs, negatives and contact sheets. But on that last visit when Liz was alive, it was even messier than ever, positively awash with heaps of paper in a kaleidoscope of colours and forms—and in the middle of it all sat my aunt, glasses perched on the end of her nose, peering at a folder of photos. I waded through the detritus and bent down to kiss her soft, wrinkled cheek. She looked up with a slight start. ‘Sorry, didn’t see you there. I was back in the sixties with Keith and Ron.’ She held up a black-and-white print of the Rolling Stones grinning into the camera, fresh-faced images of their current-day selves. ‘I’m having a bit of a clear-out,’ she explained with a sweep of her hand. ‘Time I got rid of some of this nonsense. Which reminds me,’ she continued, ‘come upstairs to my room. I’ve got a few things I thought you might quite like.’

The bedroom takes up the entire attic of the long, low farmhouse. Liz had converted it to living space when she moved in, adding low windows beneath the eaves, and skylights to let in the sun. The clear-out she was having obviously extended to her wardrobe as well as her study, as piles of clothes were heaped on the floor and every chair around the room. On the bed, next to a roll of black bin bags, there was a small pile, neatly folded. Liz picked up the top item and shook it out, holding it up against herself. It was a top made of floating layers of creamy silk with long, softly flared sleeves and a plunging neckline.

‘Wow, that’s gorgeous!’ I exclaimed.

Liz handed it to me. ‘Try it on and see if it fits. I thought it would suit you. It’s an early Ossie Clark piece. Have a look through these others as well, see if there’s anything else there you’d like. Here, take them to your room,’ she said, putting the pile of rainbow-coloured fabrics into my arms and draping the cream tunic across the top. ‘You can try them on while I get your breakfast. Oh, and I meant to tell you, we’re invited to Hugh and Celia Everett’s for drinks this evening. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to, but they said you’d be most welcome.’

‘I’d love to come,’ I replied. ‘I’m very fond of them both.’

The Everetts are—were—some of Liz’s oldest friends. Celia was at school with my mother and my aunt and she was Head Girl when Liz was a hippy rebel, according to my mother. Three years younger than the pair of them, Mum worshipped them both from the lowly ranks of the Upper Fourth. Despite their divergent styles, Liz and Celia remained friends and, having holidayed in the region for years, on Hugh’s retirement from the Diplomatic Service, the Everetts bought a house a few miles from Liz and set about establishing themselves as lynchpins of the local social scene.

‘Well, there’s sure to be a crowd there. Celia always invites the world and his wife. Perhaps there’ll be an eligible bachelor whom we can team you up with,’ Liz added with an arch twinkle.

As we arrived at the Everetts’ on that last occasion, Hugh threw open the door of their rather grand home on the outskirts of the picturesque village of Gensac and warmly embraced Liz, then turned to kiss me on both cheeks. ‘Goodness me,’ he said chivalrously, ‘Gina, you just get more and more beautiful.’

That night I was wearing the vintage top Liz gave me. The minute I’d put it on, its clever, flattering cut draped softly and sexily over my figure and my complexion glowed against its soft colour. When I’d looked at my reflexion in the age-spotted wardrobe mirror in my room, I’d felt a sudden boost to my battered self-confidence. I smudged concealer over the dark half-moons under my eyes, the telltale signs of my newly acquired insomniac status, and brushed a little blusher over my cheeks, camouflage to help get me through the evening’s social engagement.

Hugh ushered us ahead of him into a large, high-ceilinged room full of chattering, laughing people, and Celia detached herself from a group near the door, coming over to hug us warmly. ‘Liz, darling, and Gina too, how wonderful. Grab a drink,’ she said, pouring us each a glass of wine from a bottle on the table behind her, ‘and come and mingle. Liz, you know everyone I think. Gina, come with me; I simply must introduce you to Nigel.’ She took me by the hand and led me through the throng of guests to a trio standing beside one of the windows. ‘Gina Peplow, meet Sally and Oliver McKay and Nigel Yates.’

With bright smiles of something that looked suspiciously like relief, Sally and Oliver turned towards me. They’d clearly been pinned down for some time by Nigel, whose pink shiny shirt matched his equally pink shiny face, which was topped off with what seemed to be the beginnings of a comb-over. My heart sank as Sally and Oliver, seizing the opportunity to make a break for it, muttered something about getting another drink and edged away towards the table, brutally leaving me stuck in their place. I looked round for Celia, but she’d already sailed off to oil the social wheels of her party elsewhere, and I caught a glimpse of Liz across the room. She was grinning at me wickedly and raised her glass with a flourish that confirmed what I already suspected: it was a set-up.

Sighing inwardly, I turned politely to Nigel, who was enthusiastically explaining that he was new in town and asking if I lived nearby. He’d recently bought a wreck of a house here and was in the throes of major renovations, which he described with gusto—and many complaints about the shortcomings of French workmen and the difficulties in finding decent plumbing fixtures—for the next half hour.

As he embarked on a detailed description of the installation of his new septic tank (with far too much information about solids, liquids and something called a leaching field), I allowed my gaze to wander. Liz was deep in conversation with Hugh, who leant in close to listen to something she was saying, then threw his head back to roar with laughter. I wondered idly whether perhaps he was the mystery man that she’d loved—they share the same wicked sense of humour and he’d clearly always been very fond of her. Watching them together, though, I realised they were ‘just good friends’, in the non-euphemistic sense of the phrase. It was far more likely that Liz’s unattainable lover was a rock star (Mick or Ron?) or perhaps even royalty...

Suddenly I realised that Nigel’s fascinating description of selected plumbing highlights had paused and he was looking at me as if expecting an answer to something he had just asked. Blushing, I said, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch what you said there—terribly difficult to hear with all this din.’ I gestured with my glass in a vague sweep that took in the assembled throng.

‘I just wondered whether you’d like to pop round and see the house sometime? I could show you what I’ve done so far.’

Tempting though the thought of a guided tour of Nigel’s septic tank may have been, I was relieved to have the cast-iron excuse of my departure for home in thirty-six hours’ time. Nigel looked momentarily crestfallen, but then brightened, saying, ‘Never mind, we’ll organise something next time you’re over. There’ll be even more to show you by then I expect.’

Thankfully, Liz materialised at his shoulder, introducing herself and then saying with a smile, ‘I’m sorry to have to tear Gina away, but there’s someone I must introduce her to. So nice to have met you.’ And she firmly took my arm, leaving Nigel turning to a group to one side of us who looked as if they needed enlightening on the ins and outs (as it were) of modern sanitation systems in old French houses.

‘You looked as if you needed saving,’ Liz said to me with a grin once we were safely out of earshot. ‘What on earth was Celia thinking? She said she had a nice eligible man lined up for you.’

‘Yes, I rather guessed the two of you had hatched that particular plot,’ I replied, laughing, ‘but next time, please don’t go to any trouble on my behalf.’

‘Oh, dear, this isn’t exactly the richest of hunting grounds, I’m afraid. Now, do you want another glass of wine or shall we bow out graciously and get home for supper?’

‘Well, unless you and Celia have another hot date lined up for me, I think a cheese omelette and a good book sound like bliss...’

The next day had been my last full day in France before I drove north to catch the overnight ferry home. Saturday is market day in Sainte Foy La Grande and we spent a happy couple of hours browsing amongst the stalls of cheeses, oysters, spices and pyramids of fresh, colourful fruit and vegetables. We managed to find a free table at the cafe in the corner of the square and sank thankfully into two chairs, Liz’s large wicker basket, overflowing with fresh produce and neat greaseproof-paper-wrapped parcels, at our feet. As I blew onto the frothy surface of my
grand crème
, a familiar pink face appeared through the crowd, waving enthusiastically.

‘Aha, I’ve tracked you down,’ crowed Nigel. ‘I thought you two lovely ladies might be here this morning.’ He looked around for a chair to pull up to our table but, luckily for us, there were none free on the crowded pavement in front of the cafe. Unabashed, with a flourish he pulled a small card out of his shirt pocket. ‘Thought I’d let you have my contact details. Let me know next time you’re coming over and we’ll get something in the diary. I can show you over the house, give you some lunch or whatever.’ Politely, and concentrating hard on avoiding catching Liz’s eye, I took the card.

‘Thanks,’ I said lamely. ‘That’s a really kind thought.’

‘Well, must be going,’ said Nigel. ‘My bathroom tiles aren’t going to grout themselves.’ I agreed that this did indeed sound unlikely, and we shook hands. ‘
Au revoir
and
à bientôt
then, as we say here,’ he beamed and disappeared off through the crowd.

‘Well,’ said Liz, ‘You certainly seem to have made an impression there!’

‘Hmm, yes. The fact that there isn’t another available Anglo-Saxon female under the age of sixty for about five hundred miles has nothing to do with it of course.’

‘Nonsense. Don’t put yourself down. Although come to think of it, it was probably that vintage top of mine that did it,’ grinned Liz. ‘Now, come on, let’s go home and get this food put away.’

After lunch that day I’d dragged a pair of battered sunloungers out of the woodshed and set them up on the terrace, dusting off their winter wrapping of sticky strands of spiders’ web. We sat side by side, lifting our faces to the sun, Liz with the local newspaper,
Sud-Ouest
, and me with my book. After a while I rested the book on my stomach, closing my eyes for just a minute...

I’d woken with a start some time later and swivelled the watch on my wrist to squint at the time, noticing with pleasure that the strap had made a faint white stripe against the pale gold of my skin after a day or two of French sun. It was nearly four o’clock and the sunlounger next to me was deserted. I eased myself up stiffly, straightening my creased T-shirt, my mouth sticky with the staleness of the deep sleep of afternoon. Going into the house, I found Liz back in her study, sifting through papers on her lap.

‘Cup of tea?’ I asked.

‘Lovely,’ she replied vaguely, deep in some old letters. She perched her glasses on top of her head and looked up with a smile. ‘You were out for the count.’

‘I know. Fresh air and good food are so exhausting. I seem to be making up for all the sleep I’ve lost of late. It’s bliss!’

I put the tea things on a tin tray and carried them through to the study, where Liz reached to clear a space on a small table, piling folders onto the floor.

‘You’re inspiring me to have a good spring clean when I get home,’ I said. ‘I still haven’t quite got round to carrying out my New Year’s resolution of decluttering both my wardrobe and the flat. Minimalist chic will be my new watchword.’ I handed Liz a pretty bone china cup and saucer. ‘Earl Grey, no milk—that right?’

‘Perfect,’ she smiled. ‘Minimalist chic, eh? Not sure that’s really your style. Chic yes, minimalist no. And anyway, that’s two watchwords.’

I turned to pour my own cup of tea, settling myself in a sagging armchair, and was distracted by a pile of
Vogue
magazines from the late sixties. Reaching for one I said, ‘Maybe I can find some inspiration here. That top you gave me could be the start of a whole new image. What do you think?’ I was leafing through the magazine, but there was no reply from Liz.

Glancing up, I noticed that my aunt was sitting with her gaze fixed on the air in front of her. ‘Liz?’ I said. And then again more sharply, ‘Liz!’ I jumped to my feet as, still with a fixed gaze, she’d tilted slightly to one side and the teacup and saucer fell clattering to the floor at her feet, splattering papers and photographs with hot tea. I grabbed her arm and knelt down in front of her, shaking her shoulder and looking up into the fixed, faraway mask of her face. Slowly her eyes focused on mine and expression returned, a flicker of fear mirroring the terror that must be written on my face, before she gave a little start and tried to draw herself up to sit straight again in her chair.

‘Oh, dear,’ she said faintly. ‘Don’t know what came over me there. Such a silly thing to do. Look what a mess I’ve made.’

‘Never mind that, I’ll clean it up. But are you okay? What happened? Did you feel faint?’

‘I just blacked out for a second I think. Must have got a bit too much sun earlier.’

She tried to stand and swayed dizzily. I helped her to her feet, an arm round her shoulders, which felt especially fragile and bony through the thin cotton of her blouse.

‘Come on, let’s get you upstairs. You’d better have a bit of a lie-down.’

In her room I settled her on her bed, slipping off her shoes and easing her feet, lumpy with bunions, onto the coverlet. I sat on the bed beside her, holding her hand.