Old Friends Reunited, page 19
I found a mop and a smart red bucket and filled it up at the massive stone sink. Then I knocked all the cleaning products in the cupboard over, searching for something that would at least mask the smell.
‘Calm down,’ I muttered, picking them up again and trying to straighten them, ‘you’re panicking. It was a simple accident. It could happen to anyone. You’ll have this cleaned up in no time. Deep breaths.’
Ignoring my own advice, which was really good under the circumstances, I sloshed around the kitchen with the mop, whimpering quietly, surrounded by the new fragrance of the grapefruit-scented cleaner. Okay, it was looking better all the time. No one would ever know.
I tidied everything away again. Crisis averted. Perhaps I would look for the tea bags again… I opened a few of the wall cupboards. How could this be so difficult?
I didn’t know how it happened. Perhaps I hadn’t realised those ceramic tiles would be so slippery, perhaps I had been hurrying. Anyway, the next thing I knew was one foot had skidded out from under me, and of course I put out a hand to save myself from an undignified and potentially damaging fall.
The possibilities flashed before me: a broken hip, hours crawling around the floor trying to locate my mobile phone, the ambulance trying to get into the gates and Jacques growling down the intercom at them. When you are young you fall over. At my age I would be more likely to ‘have a fall’. There’s a big difference.
Mental images of myself in a French hospital, tightly tucked into a bed, and surrounded by fierce looking nursing nuns with huge wimples, flashed across my brain.
My hand landed on the edge of the gateau I had bought, and it flipped up like a fat tiddlywink and splattered onto my legs and the newly washed floor. I was still standing, at least. But the cake had deposited about three hundred calories worth of cream in my hair. Why was French food so challenging? In England all I’d ever had to consider was the prospect of ‘butter-side down’; here the food seemed to have an unnatural ability to self-destruct.
I wearily took off my cream-smeared shoes, which would never be the same again, and went to find the bucket and mop.
And then I realised I had used up all the kitchen roll; who knew where that was kept? Probably in a special room, hidden behind an antique mirror. With a security code.
I untied the bin liner and scooped the gateau into it with my hands, dumping it on top of the broken wine bottle. I would find the dustbin, surely French people had dustbins?
Two steps was all it took before the broken glass cut through the side of the flimsy plastic and the whole lot slithered out onto the floor.
Cursing, I found another bin liner, scraped everything up into it and washed the floor again, treading carefully, looking out for any shards of broken glass I might have missed. Which meant when I heard the front door open, I jerked up guiltily and whacked my head on the door of one of the wall units I hadn’t closed when I was searching for the tea.
Bloody hell, I realised, it’s true, you really do see stars when that happens. I reeled around, spreading the cream on my socks everywhere and then collapsed in a heap, knocking the bucket of dirty water over myself.
And so the first view of me that Laurent had, on my triumphant return to his house, was me sitting dazed and confused in a puddle of scummy water, cream all over my hair and a bin liner slowly disgorging its contents onto the floor. Plus the stench of wine and grapefruit adding that Gallic touch to the occasion.
He looked down at me from what seemed like a great height. He was obviously making valiant attempts not to laugh.
‘What on earth are you doing?’
I patted my head carefully, to see if I was bleeding. Apparently not, but there was a nice egg-shaped lump developing.
‘I was just making a cup of tea,’ I said, with as much dignity as I could. Which wasn’t much.
‘I thought the British had tea making pretty much under control,’ he said, laughing.
He reached out a hand and helped me to my feet.
‘Not today,’ I said, dripping. ‘I encountered a few difficulties.’
‘Are you okay? Have you hurt yourself?’
‘Nothing serious,’ I said, looking around me at the mess.
I wished I could just disappear into a hole somewhere or wake up and find this had all been a vivid nightmare.
I’d been in the house for perhaps half an hour. This level of devastation was unusual even for me. And over the years I had fallen into Christmas trees, splattered myself with printer ink and superglued my hand to a chair. (Don’t ask.)
‘It’s lovely to see you again,’ he said. ‘You look well.’
Neither of those statements could possibly be true.
But he, on the other hand, looked fabulous. My spirits rose again.
At that moment, a dark-haired young woman appeared in the doorway, carrying two cute wicker baskets filled with groceries. She was tall, slender and even in a raincoat managed to look chic and attractive. She looked around, her mouth open.
‘Que s’est-il passé? What has happened? Have we been burgled?’
‘Hello, you must be Pascale. I was making tea,’ I said, trying to sound nonchalant, ‘would you like some?’
19
Things did get a bit better after that. I was politely encouraged to remove my socks, so I didn’t spread cream through the house, and shown to my room. It was on the first floor, with every luxury and a magnificent view of the sea. There was even a little trolley in one corner with a kettle, teabags, coffee and a cafetière for one.
I didn’t deserve this; they should have put me into a basement room with a single light bulb, somewhere where I couldn’t do any damage.
Jacques appeared a few minutes later with my suitcase. He deposited it in the doorway to my room and favoured me with a curl of his lip. I wondered if he had been told about my abilities as a one-woman demolition squad.
‘Votre valise, madame.’
‘Thank you, I mean merci,’ I said.
Jacques jerked his chin at me. I wondered if I was supposed to give him a tip.
‘Don’t run with scissors,’ I muttered, which was the tip my mother always quoted.
Perhaps I was concussed?
He gave me another pitying look and left. He would have got on well with Faustin, I thought.
I sank down onto a delightful toile de jouy chair, head in my hands, and then I stood up again pretty sharpish. I needed a shower and a change of clothes before I messed up anything else.
How did people live like this, I wondered? Surrounded by antiques and objet’s d’art. And why didn’t my house look like this? Everything here was smart and elegant and immaculate. Didn’t rich, French people actually make any mess or muddle? Perhaps they did and they had other people to clear up in their wake… Perhaps that was Pascale’s job.
I thought of my bedroom back home, with the armchair piled with clothes I hadn’t bothered to put away, and my sitting room with its cardboard boxes of books I was supposed to be reviewing. I thought of all the days I never seemed to get around to organising things. I thought of the garden which needed full-time care I couldn’t give and more skill and knowledge than I possessed. I could do with an aged retainer too. The most I had ever managed was a cleaning lady once a week who refused to do any ironing or clean out the fridge.
‘I don’t touch other people’s food, Mrs Fellowes, or their smalls.’
The en-suite bathroom was the size of my garage and was equipped with all sorts of fancy potions and lotions. After a long time in the shower I emerged, wrapped in a bathrobe, literally smelling of roses. Right, perhaps I should start again, dress smartly for what was left of the day and behave in a sophisticated manner. And not crash around like a hippopotamus on steroids.
I freshened up my lipstick and sorted out my hair. I was looking okay actually, bright-eyed and excited. Perhaps I wouldn’t mention the bell pull or the mess I had made in the kitchen.
Four outfits later – I couldn’t decide if I wanted to look casual, formal or eclectic – I went to the loo, because I couldn’t guarantee I’d find the secret one again, and then walked carefully downstairs. I could hear Pascale talking, her voice low but insistent.
‘Je comprends toujours pas ce qu’elle faisait.’
I thought that meant: what the hell was she doing.
And then Laurent’s voice.
‘Un accident je pense. Pas de mal.’
Well, no harm done except to my dignity.
I went into the kitchen, Laurent was sitting at the table, drinking coffee. Pascale was chopping up onions with a terrifying knife.
‘I’m terribly sorry,’ I said. ‘I made such a mess.’
Laurent looked up and smiled in a way that hid the probability that he wanted to laugh again.
‘Would you like your tea now?’
Actually, a very large gin and tonic. With a straw. And a lot of ice.
‘Yes, that would be lovely,’ I said.
I went to sit opposite him, and he brought me some tea in a blue mug. As I’d expected, it was a bit disappointing on the tea scale if I was honest.
‘I am making coq au vin,’ Pascale said, ‘I hope that’s okay?’
‘Terrific,’ I said enthusiastically.
‘It’s Laurent’s favourite,’ she said, tapping the knife on the chopping block and throwing him an affectionate look.
Aha, so perhaps there was something going on there. I would stay out of her reach for the time being. I remembered Gin’s comments about the knives.
‘And Seraphina? She’s not here?’ I asked.
‘She’s gone to visit some friends in Paris. She will be away for a few days. Is your room okay? Will you be comfortable there?’ Pascale asked.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I said, ‘absolutely lovely.’
‘You can work there, or anywhere that you like really. The weather should clear up soon.’
We both looked to the windows where the rain was still hammering down in a depressing way.
Laurent finished his tea and leaned back in his chair.
‘I will be away next week; I have meetings in Nice. Pascale will look after you.’
Pascale gave me a rather tight smile. ‘You won’t need to do anything.’
In other words: Please keep out of my way; I have only just cleared up the last mess you made.
‘Lovely,’ I said.
‘Do bring your laundry downstairs, and I will sort it out for you,’ Pascale said kindly.
The final humiliation. I could just imagine myself lugging a bundle of wine-soaked clothing down to the immaculate utility room. Perhaps I should creep down in the dead of night, so no one saw me? No, I’d probably fall down the stairs…
Why did things never work out as I had wanted them to? That’s what I would have liked to know. All these little scenarios I had imagined, my brain working overtime. I must be crazy. Nothing was as I had anticipated. I was still hungry, and I could still smell the wine in the air.
Dinner was going to be at eight o’clock. Was that okay?
Well, no, actually. I didn’t think I had been this far away from a meal in decades.
‘Marvellous, I think I will get down to some work when I’ve finished my tea,’ I said.
I wondered if I had any KitKats left in the bottom of my bag.
Knowing me, it seemed unlikely.
I dithered about for a bit, wondering where to go. Should I plant myself in the sitting room on one of the stripey sofas, feet up on a footstool? Or go for the dining room? No, I probably couldn’t be trusted near a glass-topped table. If the weather had been good, I could have gone outside.
Back in my bedroom, after a brief and failed search for chocolate, I made a cup of coffee, opened my laptop and realised I didn’t have any internet connection. Blast, I should have asked for the code when I was downstairs. I went to the doorway and listened. I could hear the low rumbling of Laurent’s voice. Leaning over the bannisters to locate it, I guessed he was on the phone in his study. Perhaps I should ask Pascale.
I went back downstairs and sought her out. She was still in the kitchen, beating something in a bowl. The aroma of food was gorgeous. I’d always thought other people’s meals smelled somehow more exciting than one’s own attempts.
‘Sorry to bother you, could I have the Wi-Fi code?’
‘Ah, of course.’
She brought me a little laminated card.
‘Sorry, I should have left this in your room, please take it. I don’t need it back.’
I glanced at the clock on the wall. Four thirty. Three and a half hours until I got something to eat. I would be fainting with hunger by then.
‘Laurent likes to have a cocktail before dinner, I’m sure he would like you to join him,’ she said.
A cocktail on an empty stomach… that wasn’t such a good idea. If I wasn’t careful, I would be drunk in no time. And then who knew what I was capable of.
‘I should have asked you, would you like some fruit in your room?’
‘That would be lovely,’ I said.
And if you have a couple of toasted tea cakes as well, that would be even better.
‘I’ll bring some up in a few minutes, I just need to get this done.’
Pascale decanted a load of yellow batter into a tin and slid it into the oven.
Mmm, cake.
Unable to think of anything else that might distract her long enough so that I could rummage through the bread bin, I went back upstairs to my room and logged on to the Wi-Fi.
I spent some time on my social media sites and answering a few emails from my daughters, who seemed to have forgotten that I was out of the country because Lizzie asked if she could borrow the pressure washer. Then I spent half an hour on Cookie Jam and catching up on the news. Nothing seemed to have changed in my absence.
There were still political scandals, people complaining and people shooting each other. There also seemed to be a lot of WAGs flashing bits of their anatomy and dissing other WAGs. I obviously wasn’t missing much. Still, there was the first mention of Christmas which brought me up with a bit of a shock. What was the date today anyway? Good grief, it was November. How did that happen and what had I been doing? (I think the term which covered it was ‘messing about’.)
And I was supposed to be back by the end of the year with something to show for my weeks away. There was no doubt about it, I was hopeless, ill-disciplined and some might say lazy.
This came as no real surprise to me; I have always admitted to being lazy to myself but tried to hide it. Perhaps ‘easily distracted’ was nearer the truth.
Only recently I had bought a robot vacuum cleaner and then, with an affectionate gaze, spent half an hour watching it trundling around my sitting room, getting tangled up in the television cables. Even so, the fact that it was November now meant that once again, I was a year behind schedule.
My preferred past time of choice would be sitting in a comfy chair reading someone else’s work. Failing that, just the sitting bit. I’d realised there was a great deal to be said for doing nothing sometimes but life, being what it was, there wasn’t always the opportunity. And other people tended to get edgy when they saw me doing it, suggesting brisk walks and new hobbies. Failing that, they’d have me sorting out their marital disagreements, planning holidays or talking loudly about the government. Perhaps this was the ideal opportunity to actually do nothing?
I did nothing for the next half hour, wondering what time Laurent would be making cocktails. Perhaps there would be a few cunning little canapés too? My stomach growled in anticipation.
20
I spent the next hour putting my things away and eating some of the artfully presented fruit Pascale had brought me. Fruit was all very well, but it wasn’t cake. And she was right, I did need to do some washing; the stench of my wine-soaked trousers in the laundry bin was pervading everything. That and the stale smell of the dirty water I had tipped over myself.
Occasionally I opened my bedroom door to see if anyone was about. I could hear the faint noise of a radio somewhere and doors opening and closing. If I had been in a hotel I would have gone down to the bar and ordered a drink and a bowl of triple-cooked chips. Here there was no such possibility. Why didn’t I just go downstairs and find something? I was a grown up after all.
I lugged my damp laundry bag down the stairs towards the kitchen, with the delicious smells of that evening’s dinner wafting up to meet me.
‘Ah, there you are, have you settled in? I expect you needed a rest after all that excitement.’
It was Laurent, in his study, swivelling round in his chair as I passed the open door.
‘Yes, it’s lovely thank you,’ I said, ‘I just needed…’
I indicated the laundry bag and he stood up.
‘Let me help you,’ he said.
‘Oh, there’s no need, Pascale can show me. I know where the utility room is.’
And the broom cupboard and the downstairs loo.
He looked at his watch. ‘Well let’s go and see, and perhaps you would like a cocktail? I know it’s a bit early, but this is a special occasion.’
‘Yes! Yes, I would!’ I said rather enthusiastically.
He grinned. ‘I thought so. What would you like?’
Of course, all I could remember then were cocktails with embarrassing names. A Harvey Wallbanger, Sex on the Beach, A Slow Screw Against the Wall.
Think of something, think of something.
‘A Martini,’ I gasped.
‘Of course. Gin or vodka?’
‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘both, either. I don’t mind.’
He came towards me and put one hand on my shoulder.
‘If I didn’t know better, I would think I was making you nervous,’ he said.
I gave a slightly strange laugh and dropped my wet laundry bag on my feet. A waft of wine escaped. I could feel the dampness from it seeping into my shoes.
