L'amour Actually (18 page)

  I grabbed a long branch from the bank and tried to reach him but with insufficient length, all it did was tickle Snoopy and send him careering round in tight little circles.

  'Well, I've seen a few things in me life…'

  I screamed in surprise. A figure was standing in the shadows watching me.

  I peered into the gloom. 'Oh my God, Tracey, where did you spring up from? I thought you'd gone.'

  'Nah, that was all Warren's stuff being carted off.'

  'Give me a hand would you?'

  'To do what, exactly?'

  'Sink the cat.'

  'Do what?'

  'Look, it's a long story. I'll tell you later. Just grab a branch, anything that's long enough, and help me will you?'

  'Blimey, you really are completely certifiable, aren't you?'

  'Look, it's not what it seems…'

  'What? You mean you aren't trying to sink a dead cat in a pond?'

  'Well, yes, but there's a good reason for it.'

  'I can't wait to hear this one.'

  'Look, please, just give me a hand will you?' I pleaded.

  Tracey scoured the edge of the woods for a branch and finding one that was suitable set about helping me, while I in turn, explained the events of the afternoon.

  Between the two of us, we pushed and prodded at the inert form with little effect. 'Oh for God's sake! What does it take to sink a dead cat?'

  Tracey snorted. I looked at her and started to giggle at the ridiculousness of the situation. Soon the two of us were laughing raucously.

  'Come on girl, give it some welly,' Tracey said. 'It's no good pushing it around, we've got to get it under the water or it won't sink.'

  Between us, we managed to get the cat positioned under the branches so we could push it down.

  'One… two… three… push,' I shouted. 'Keep the pressure on, I think we're there.'

  With much bubbling, the poor unfortunate cat finally disappeared under the surface.

  'Right, now don't let go of your branch. We need to get it waterlogged,' said Tracey.

  'You seem to know an awful lot about dead bodies in water,' I laughed.

  'Yeah, well, you don't come from where I do and not know one or two things about getting rid of the evidence. And next time, weight the bloody thing! Oops, look out, we got company.'

  I looked up to see Madame Brunel and her husband watching us in horror.

  'Bloody hell, how long have they been there?'

  'Dunno, I only just noticed them.'

  'Do you think they saw?'

  'From the looks on their faces I'd say there's a fair chance.'

  'It was already dead
, déjà mort, le chat, mort
.' I called out. I moved towards them but they backed away. Madame Brunel nestled into her husband's chest as if I was a mad axe-murderer. As I got closer, she visibly shrank back then turned and high-tailed it past me back to the road, calling to Monsieur Brunel as she went.

  I sank down on the bank and watched the last few ripples spread across the pond.

  'Poor Snoopy.' Without warning, I started to cry. Gentle sniffs at first, then it rapidly descended into full-on sobbing. Tracey came and sat beside me.

  'I'm not going to ask you what's the matter,' said Tracey. 'I beat you up, you ended up on national telly with your arse hanging out, your Frenchie's done a bunk, and you killed a cat you were supposed to be writing a story about. I know it wasn't you who tipped off the paps by the way. I'm sorry.'

  'I'd never have done that, Tracey. Don't think it didn't cross my mind, but in the end, I couldn't do it.'

  'Yeah well, you did me a favour in the end. Warren's gone.'

  'I heard. I'm sorry.'

  'Me too, I really loved him. Thought he loved me too but he could never get that wife of his out of his mind.' She sniffed loudly, her eyes starting to glisten.

  'The clue's in the name, Tracey, "wife". I read on the Internet they're having a big reunion in LA.'

  'Thanks for reminding me.'

  'Sorry.' I put my arm round her shoulder and we sat, snivelling, by the pond. Snoopy had finally gone to his watery grave and the water was still again.

  'How about we start again? Hi, I'm Mel, walking disaster, killer of celebrity cats and disposer of the evidence. I think we're neighbours.'

  'Hello, I'm Tracey, talent show runner-up, marriage-wrecker, most likely a one-hit wonder.'

  'Come on, don't be too hard on yourself. Like I've always said, if you can't be a good example, be a terrible warning and thanks to you, I'm
never
going to go out with a married premiership footballer. Job done.' I nudged Tracey with my shoulder.

  'Come on, let's get back to mine and drown our sorrows. The sun's bound to be over the yardarm somewhere in the world.'

  'Deal. Do you fancy roughing it in my old jalopy?'

  'Well, I'm not bloody well walking back up, am I? Let's go.'

  We drove back up to Les Tuileries in silence.

  'I've got a box of
rosé
. Shall I bring it?' I asked.

  'Stuff your cheap plonk, I've got a fridge full of Cristal that Ryan left and a wicked thirst. Give me ten minutes then come on over.'

  I went in to the cottage to freshen up and change into something more comfortable. The light on my answer phone was flashing so I pressed the button on the machine to listen to the message.

  'Hello, it's Sam here. Look, we've just had a strange call from Mrs Merriman. Can you ring me, soon as?'

  Well, that's going to be the shortest journalistic career in the modern world, I thought, picking up the phone to dial her number.

'So, how much longer are you going to wait until you go round and see Julien?'

  I was lazing on a lilo in the middle of Tracey's beautiful free-form swimming pool. Every now and again, when the heat got too much, I'd paddle under the waterfall that flowed down some faux-rocks at the end of the pool.

  Since I had made my peace with Tracey, the two of us had been almost inseparable. Well, it was really the three of us if you counted the constant supply of Cristal champagne that soaked our days. Tracey turned out to have a heart of gold, a far cry from the foul-mouthed, promiscuous tart that the media portrayed. She'd had a rough life, dragged up by an abusive father who'd spent more time drunk than sober, and a stepmother who couldn't give a damn about her. Singing with a hairbrush in the sanctuary of her bedroom had been the only thing that kept her sane.

  In her teens, Tracey had put together a girl band, which she had unwisely called 'Premenstrual Tension' and, needless to say, they got exactly nowhere; but her aunt entered her for a national television talent show and the rest, as they say, is history. She hadn't won, but historically the runners-up had done better than the winners, although Tracey looked set to reverse that trend. The trouble was, the public just hadn't engaged with her, according to her former manager, and the affair with Warren was not a Good Thing. I thought about her question.

  'Oh, I don't know. Is it even worth the bother? He was pretty quick to jump to conclusions and flounce off in a temper.' 'That's 'cause he likes you, innit?'

  'Yes well, he's got a funny way of showing it. I don't know, Trace, he blows hot and cold all the time. One minute he's coming on to me, the next he's pulling away.'

  'Well, you're not his cousin are you? This is probably uncharted territory for him.'

  'Stop it will you, bad girl. They don't all marry their cousins.'

  'Nah, for the rest of them, there's always line dancing.'

  'So that's our choice is it? Cousin marriage or line dancing? Better get our cowboys hats on,' I said. 'There's a class starting in Bussières next week.'

  'Watch my lips. N.O. No, not now, not ever.'

  'Oh come on, it will be a laugh,' I giggled.

  'No, people only line dance because they have a defective gene.'

  'Oooh, hark at you, I didn't know they had such long words in Essex.'

  'Yeah, well that's the only one I know. Apart from that, nothing in my vocabulary's got more than four letters.'

  'Apart from vocabulary, of course.' I ducked as a flip-flop winged past my ear, narrowly avoiding spilling my champagne. 'Seriously though, you need to go and have it out with him. You can't hang around here forever swilling Cristal and comfort-eating croissants. You've got an arse the size of the Mississippi Delta already.'

  'Which is only slightly smaller than your mouth,' I quipped. 'Where's that bloody flip-flop? And while you're at it, more champagne.'

  Tracey dropped the bottle of Cristal into a floating cooler and sent it across the pool to me.

  'God, this is the life isn't it? Just a pity it isn't sustainable without a job. I've got to find something Trace, seeing as my budding journalistic career has gone pear-shaped after the cat affair.'

  'No luck with the estate agents?'

  The previous week I had dropped in to talk to the Belgian man who ran a property company in the square in Bussières. His website was very basic and I'd offered to redo it for him.

  'It's all about your brand these days, and you need to build yours. You need an Internet presence, a social media profile…'

  He'd looked at me as if I was speaking a foreign language, which I was, of course, although it was one he'd understood perfectly.

  'In a declining market you need to be more proactive.'

  He'd eyed me suspiciously but agreed for me to come up with a proposal for his consideration.

  'Oh my God, Trace, didn't you hear?'

  'Hear what? I don't leave here unless I need to eat these days.'

  'He was arrested the next day. Apparently he was selling properties that he didn't have any right to. Some poor English people were working on the roof of the barn they'd bought from him when a farmer came past and asked what they were doing. When they told him they had bought it and were planning to turn it into a house, he pointed out that the barn was his and no one was turning it into anything. It turns out that he'd never sold it. There was a hell of a row and the
gendarmes
were called. Apparently it's not the first time the Belgian's done it but they still let him trade.'

  'Bloody hell. Poor sods.'

  'They lost their life savings apparently.'

  'You've got to see the funny side though,' said Tracey, snorting champagne.

  'Oh, you would.'

  'Seriously though, do yourself a favour and go round and see Julien. Much as I enjoy your company, at the moment you make Posh Spice look like the Laughing Policeman.'

  'D'you think?'

  'Oh for God's sake, stop pre… prevar…'

  'Prevaricating?'

  'Smart arse.'

  'Fat arse. Oh no, that's me isn't it? OK. You win. I'll go this afternoon.'

  I looked at my reflection in the mirror, turning to left and right to check it from all angles.

  I'd chosen a strappy sundress and a floppy straw hat that I hoped made me look a bit ethereal. My black eye was now just a faint smudge that was barely noticeable and I'd smothered my sun-kissed skin in a scented moisturiser.

  Letting my imagination run away with me, I saw myself walking through the fields of sunflowers to his farm where he'd be fixing a tractor or something, preferably bare-chested. He'd see me, drop everything and run through the fields to sweep me up in his arms. What happened next I was going to keep to myself.

  Half an hour later, I was discovering that my dream was slightly less romantic in practice. Pollen from the sunflowers was lightly coating my skin, stuck to the scented moisturiser that had seemed such a good idea at the time, and the local bee population seemed to have trouble discerning me from a flower head. The ground underfoot was baked hard and rutted, so rather than floating delicately through the field, I was stumbling and tripping like a drunk whilst batting away angry bees. The farm hadn't seemed far away from the cottage, but now I was walking, it just didn't seem to get any closer. And it was bloody hot.

  Eventually I reached the farmyard and stopped to lean on the gate, catching my breath and straightening myself up a bit. The farm looked quite run down, not what I had imagined at all. It was littered with rusting farm equipment and here and there, mangy-looking dogs were snoozing in the sunshine, tethered to long chains. The yard was dominated by a large barn, which seemed to be in an advanced stage of decrepitude, tilting drunkenly to one side. From the barn I could hear the assorted lowing and snorting of cattle and pigs.