L'amour Actually (14 page)

  The peace of the countryside
was
lovely but in the last few days I'd realised I was starting to miss the buzz of the city, the cafés and restaurants – it was fair to say that the famed French gourmet food was little in evidence in this part of France, from what I had seen. It was all duck, duck and
canard
and what the French couldn't put in a can wasn't even worth thinking about. I thought back to the series made by a certain celebrity chef about the cuisine of south west France and came to the conclusion that he must have been taking mind-altering drugs, which, bearing in mind his spaced-out appearances in the tabloids recently, wasn't beyond the realms of possibility.

  My view of France came from books, magazines and
A Place in the Sun
; the reality, I was starting to realise, was a bit different. Even the job front was proving a challenge. I had bought all the local papers and scoured the job sections but there was nothing, unless I wanted to work in the local chicken factory – even if they would give me a job with my limited French. No, not even limited, more like non-existent; besides, it wasn't quite what I had in mind.

  I'd never felt quite so alone in my life. Alone was starting to feel like lonely. Lying back on the sun lounger as tears streamed down my face, I stared long and hard at the clear blue sky. It was another lovely sunny day and the promise of more to come. But was it enough? After all, there was more to life than good weather.

'Jesus Christ!' I was glued to the television screen, eyes wide in horror. The breakfast television presenters were doing their round-up of the front pages of the national press and there I was, in all my glory, on the front of the seediest tabloids with Tracey Tarrant sitting on my chest laying into me like a woman possessed. I sank down on the sofa as the two presenters read the story of my fracas with Tracey. It had, it seemed, made all the British papers. One had run a particularly unflattering 'knicker shot' of me sprawled on the ground. Thank goodness I had worn some decent underwear. I quietly fumed.

  'So who is this mystery woman and why was she brawling with Tracey Tarrant in public? Could this be another strand in the complicated web that is the love life of Warren Hartson?' asked the presenter.

  I snorted my coffee. Me and Warren Hartson? As if! I wouldn't touch his sort with a barge pole. Overpaid tosser!

  Pressing the button on the remote control, I turned off the television in disgust. My head was still throbbing, my eye was almost completely closed, and this wasn't making me feel any better.

  I sat out on the terrace in the sun, unsure what to do next. The last of the milk had gone and yesterday's baguette was today's offensive weapon so I knew I had to go up to the village for supplies, but could I bear it? Maybe no one had seen the television report and I knew that newspapers didn't arrive in the village shop until the following day… Oh, for goodness sake, who was I kidding? I knew they all watched British television; the constant dialogue about the latest plot lines from
EastEnders
and Corrie at the café was testament to that; and they were constantly moaning about the British news. They would be up there, crowded round a newspaper, sniggering at my misfortune.

  Nothing for it but to 'man up' as Alex would have said if he was here. No point hiding at home. If people knew, then so be it. There was always that expat
omertà
that the photographer had mentioned. Maybe they'd close ranks around me. Time for 'the hat' again, I thought. Last time it was to hide my mosquito bites, this time it was my black eye. Life so far had been nothing if not eventful. I went into the bedroom and rummaged around for it on the top of my wardrobe. Shaking it out, I placed it artfully on my head, trying different angles to ensure the maximum amount of shadow to hide my bruises. 'Right, time to face the music,' I said to my reflection in the dressing table mirror.

  Picking up my car keys, I held my head high and set off for the village. Halfway down the hill my mobile suddenly sprang to life. It was like the 1812 Overture played in its entirety. I pulled in to check who was texting me and saw a steady stream of texts coming in. It seemed as if everyone had seen the story. A full five minutes later my phone was still binging with incoming texts and Facebook messages. I had a look at the first few.

Daisy: 'Bloody Hell, girl, what have you been up to? Call me xxxxx'

Charlotte: 'It was you, wasn't it? Always knew you'd be famous! Lol J'

Alex: 'OMG! What's been going on. Call, text, anything but soon x'

Alex: 'Give me a buzz soon as x'

Alex: 'CALL ME'

Alex: 'Call me PLEASE!'

Parking up in the square, I headed into the shop, ostensibly to buy my baguette and milk, but really to check that they didn't have any of the day's papers. I surreptitiously flicked through the English language papers on the revolving stand. Everything was dated from the day before. Sighing with relief, I went to the till to pay. Claudine gave me a sympathetic look and diplomatically didn't mention my black eye.

  The terrace of the café was fairly busy with the usual suspects and I could hear the gentle hum of their conversation wafting across the square. They'd probably been there since breakfast waiting for the sun to come over the yardarm, which seemed to happen about ten o'clock in the morning round here, so with any luck they had missed the news. I decided to go and get myself a coffee.

  As I reached the terrace, there was a group of people huddled round a table deep in animated conversation. It could only be one thing. Before I had time to turn round and walk away, the conversation stopped and they all turned to look at me. That's twice I've stopped the conversation since I got here, I thought. Someone giggled.

  There was nothing for it. With head held high, I pulled out a chair and sat down, adjusting my hat downwards to hide my war wounds. The same supercilious law-graduate server, Noélia, who had been there on my very first visit, came to take my order.

  
'Vous désirez un café? Un thé? Un coup de poing?'
She threw me another of her spectacularly sarcastic smiles. I was flustered. 'Um, er, I'm sorry, I didn't understand the last bit?'

  'She asked if you wanted a punch,' said a voice from a table behind me. 'I think it's her idea of humour.'

  Evil thoughts ran through my mind as I ordered myself a coffee, 'with milk and no violence', matching sarcastic smile for sarcastic smile.

  'I don't suppose you've heard the last of it,' said the woman again.

  I turned to her.

  'God, is there anyone who doesn't know about it?'

  'Probably not. It's the most exciting thing that's happened since the
maire
of Laborie bought a Harley-Davidson and roared off into the sunset with the woman from the cleaners in Bussières. I'm Sam, by the way.'

  'Hi. I'm guessing that you already know who I am.'

  'Well, I won't pretend I don't. Do you mind if I join you?'

  'No, be my guest,' I said wearily.

  'Listen,' said Sam. 'I work for
The Expat Times
, "The Premier Newspaper for the Expat Community".' She said the slogan in a deadpan voice.

  'They've asked me to come here to find out the "story" behind the story. To be honest, my credentials as an investigative journalist are a bit flimsy. I've no idea how to hack your phone and I don't know any private detectives. I'm more used to writing about recipes for chutney and reviewing amateur dramatics, so if you'd rather not talk to me I'll just pretend I couldn't find you.' 'What? A journo with a conscience? That's got to be a first,' I said teasingly.

  'Yeah, well,
The Expat Times
isn't exactly
The Times
is it, whatever the editor might like to think.'

  'So how did you find me?'

  'We got an anonymous tip-off at the office.'

  'So much for the expat
omertà,
' I sighed, 'clearly I don't qualify. Look, to be fair, I think I've kind of had my fill of newspapers for the moment if you don't mind. I spent enough time dealing with the press when I lived in London so I was hoping to leave all that behind.'

  'Really, what did you do in London? Off the record, of course.'

  'Is there such a thing with journalists?' I gave her a wry smile. 'OK, well, I worked for a PR agency. Celebrities and films. Press liaison, media relations, that sort of thing.'

  'Really? We've got a few celebrities round here too.'

  'I know, Johnny Hallyday.'

  'And that guy who was in a 1970s sitcom, what's his name?'

  'Sorry, probably a bit before my time.'

  'Yeah, well, if he didn't live here I probably wouldn't know his name either. And now you are a lady of leisure?'

  'Lady of
enforced
leisure. I'm looking for a job but not really taken with chicken plucking, which seems to be about all that's on offer.'

  'I know. It's not easy is it?' Sam thought for a moment. 'You know, I've had an idea. How are your writing skills?' 'Good, very good in fact. Why do you ask?'

  'We need a new feature writer on the paper. I know it's not exactly your area but there's not much call for celebrity PR in these parts. How about we cut a deal? You tell me what happened at Tracey's house and I'll have a word with the editor.

  What do you think?'

  'I think you need to speak to your editor first before I say a word.'

  'Give me five minutes, OK?'

  Sam grabbed her phone from her bag and walked over to the other side of the square.

  I watched as she talked and gesticulated, feeling ridiculously nervous. I'd done board interviews at one of the top PR agencies in the country and here I was with my stomach in knots over some little local newspaper I'd never heard of. But this could be a turning point in my new life. I couldn't deny that the money situation was making me nervous and this could be my way out.

  After what seemed an age, Sam turned and headed back to the café. I tried to read her expression. Sitting back down at the table, she smiled.

  'He's got a feature for you to write and if it works out, he'll take you on. Here's his number so give him a buzz and he'll brief you.' She took a shorthand notebook out of her bag and scribbled down a number and handed it to me.

  'I think this calls for a celebration. How about lunch? My treat in return for the inside story on the "Tarrant Tussle". Might even stretch to a glass of the fizzy stuff.'

  'Lovely,' I said, feeling quietly thrilled. 'Here's hoping that I didn't get this black eye for nothing.' I took my sunglasses off to show Sam the damage.

  'Ouch! Looks nasty. I heard that there are a few photographers who've been on the wrong end of Tracey's right hook in the past.'

  'Well, I wish I'd known that before,' I laughed. 'Right, what's on the menu then?'

  Sam called the waitress for some menus and ordered a couple of glasses of champagne just for good measure. The waitress

  reserved one of her most imperious smiles for this request. Champagne by the glass was clearly sacrilege in her world. 'Gosh, what's her problem?' Sam asked, clearly irritated.

  'An "I've got a degree in law from Bordeaux University and I'm working as a waitress" sort of problem.'

  'Ah well, I can understand that. I've lived in France since I was small, I've never even been to school in the UK, but they still think of me as being
anglaise,
which is shorthand for bottom of the pile when it comes to handing out jobs. It's not easy being a foreigner in France, even one who's lived here for years. Before I got this, I struggled for years even to find work as a cleaner. You might say "we're all Europeans" in England, but here it's "we're all French and you are Europeans". And you don't even need to be a foreigner. People from other parts of France are just as much outsiders. I met a woman in Bussières a while back who told me she understood how difficult it was being a foreigner because she was from the Charente, which is only a few hours away from here!'

  'God,' I laughed, 'it's a different world, isn't it? I wonder how many of the people in the village have ever been to London or even Paris for that matter.'

  'I doubt whether half of them have even been to Toulouse. Right, what are you ordering?'

  'Hmm, I fancy a salad I think. I've got a bit of a croissant baby going on here.' I patted my stomach. 'If I don't cut down a bit, I'll be spending the summer dressed in tents. What's that one?
Salade de gésier
?'

  'Ah yes, deliciously French if you like a spot of duck gizzard.'

  'Duck what?'

  'Gizzard. It's like a secondary stomach that a duck has which is full of grit…'

  'Stop right there. Euuww, it sounds disgusting,' I said as I wrinkled my nose.