L'amour Actually (23 page)

  'Come inside. Would you like a drink? A little
tisane
maybe?'

  'I'm sorry. A what?' After my experiences with Philippe d'Aubeville there was no way I was going to say yes to anything I wasn't totally sure about.

  Martine smiled at me. 'Don't worry, it has no alcohol. I won't do what Philippe did.'

  I groaned. 'You heard then.'

  'I think most people have.'

  Martine opened the door and indicated for me to go through. 'The kitchen is at the end of the hallway.'

  She pulled out a chair from beneath an old pine table. 'I shall make you one of my special
tisanes
. It's full of fruit and herbs from my garden and is perfect for all sorts of bruising. Heads… hearts…'

  Inexplicably, I felt tears start to well up in my eyes and I looked away for fear that Martine would notice. 'Is it that obvious?'

  Martine smiled. 'Love is complicated but you must take care. Sometimes, things are not what they seem.'

  I swallowed hard and had the uncomfortable feeling that she was giving me a warning. 'What do you mean?'

  'Oh, don't take any notice of me. I'm just rambling on.'

  Martine pottered around the kitchen, pouring scoops of dried herbs and fruit into an old china teapot.

  'There,' she said finally, 'we will just leave that to draw.' She sat down across the table from me.

  'So Martine, oh, is it OK to call you Martine? I don't actually know your surname.'

  'It's OK, Martine is fine.'

  'So where did you learn to speak English so well? I mean, it's a bit more than managing.'

  'Many years ago I lived in Paris. I shared a
chambre de bonne
with an English girl.'

  'What's a
chambre de bonne
?' I asked.

  'It is the cheapest way to live in Paris. They are the old servants' quarters at the top of their masters' houses. They are usually very small so you get to know each other well,' Martine laughed. 'She taught me English and I taught her to dance. It is a long time since I have spoken it though.'

  'Well you're pretty amazing, if you don't mind me saying. So were you a dancer?'

  Martine suddenly looked coy. 'Yes, I was. Not that you would think so now.'

  She got up from the table to pour the
tisanes
into two glass cups and put one down in front of me. 'Let me know what you think of it.'

  'So what sort of dancer were you? Ballet?' I asked, sipping my hot
tisane
.

  'No, burlesque…'

  I spat out my tea in shock. 'Oh my God, I'm so sorry. It's just I wasn't expecting you to say that.'

  I was worried that I had offended her but the twinkle in Martine's eye told me otherwise. Without commenting, she took a cloth from the sink and mopped up the table.

  'So, burlesque?'

  'Yes, I danced at the Moulin Rouge.'

  'No way! Really?'

  'Just a moment.'

  Martine got up from the table and went to the room next door where I heard her rummaging around. She returned with an old black and white photo in her hand and gave it to me.

  'That's me.' She pointed to a beautiful young girl with thick waves of dark hair cascading down her back and dressed in a sequinned outfit with a huge pink feather fan. She had a figure to absolutely die for. 'And that is your Queen. It was in 1981 when she came to visit the Moulin Rouge.'

  'Oh wow, you were so beautiful.'

  Martine blushed. 'It was a long time ago, a lot has changed since then.'

  'How amazing though. You must have some stories to tell.'

  'Yes, dancing took me to Paris but love kept me there.'

  Martine smiled mysteriously and sipped on her
tisane
, her eyes averted.

  'So how did you end up here?' I asked.

  'Oh, I come from here originally. I was born in the big house next door. It was our family home for many years. You can imagine the
scandale
when I left here to dance half-naked in Paris. My father never spoke to me again. He thought I had been bewitched by the Parisian side of the family.'

  'And what made you come back?'

  'Oh, I don't know. After my husband died I didn't really want to stay in Paris. I wanted a simpler life back here in the country. There was also Laure. She is my niece. She suffered brain damage in a car accident which killed her parents, so there is only me to look after her.'

  'Oh my goodness, that's terrible. Poor thing.'

  It all made sense now; her slightly strange behaviour, her crippling shyness, the way she always seemed to be off somewhere else. I felt a wave of sympathy for them both.

  'Well I'm not really sure that she is very aware of what is going on in her life. That is one small mercy, and she has her little pony, have you seen him? He's in the field on the hill. He was the last present from her parents so he's very precious.'

  'The white one? Yes, we met on my first day here. He's very sweet.'

  Martine got up to put the photograph on the side. There was a certain grace about her that I had never noticed before.

  'It must have been hard, with your Dad, I mean.'

  'Well, yes, but French families are funny things. There is so much animosity between the country people and the city ones so when his sister married a teacher from Paris who was working down here, she was treated like a traitor. I knew what I was letting myself in for but my desire to dance was too strong and I couldn't just stay here and work on the farm. My father used to own all the land around Les Tuileries and it was expected that we would stay here and work with him. He was a difficult man though. In the end, both of my brothers left to go somewhere else and he had to sell off the farm. All that is left is this house.'

  For all her bravado, I could see that the rift with her father had been painful. Time to change the subject, I thought. 'This is lovely, this
tisane
. Is that what it's called? It's so refreshing.'

  'Thank you. I'm glad you like it. You can come round any time and have another. We don't get many guests these days.'

  'So, if you've come from here, you must know the d'Aubevilles well,' I said, just a bit too brightly. I was almost sure I saw Martine's face cloud over briefly.

  'Well yes, I went to school with their father and I've known the twins all their lives.' She picked up her cup and sipped the
tisane
, giving me the feeling that that particular conversation was over.

  'I don't suppose…' I started, 'no, never mind.'

  'What?'

  'Well, the thing is, I need to learn French. You couldn't teach me could you? I went down to the Club in Bussières but, well, it wasn't for me really.'

  'Oh dear, the Club. I don't think many of them really speak French although they like to think they do. I think it's just an excuse to suck you into their expatriate world.'

  'That's the feeling I had too. So would you?'

  'Well, why not? How about if I teach you French and you let me practice my English with you?' 'Perfect,' I said, smiling brightly at her. She smiled back and I knew straight away that we would be friends.

'Come on, Trace. At this rate it will be over before we even get there.'

  It was seven o'clock and I was leaning on the door frame outside Tracey's bedroom waiting for her to finish getting ready for the Bastille Day party in the village. I'd been there for a good twenty minutes and was itching to go.

  My first French lesson with Martine had gone really well that morning and I'd casually asked who was going to be there from the hamlet. Martine was a wise old bird and had realised straightaway what I really wanted to know. She had put her head to one side, regarding me with a look that I couldn't quite make out.

  'Love is a funny thing,' she had said. 'It makes us forget the rules we normally live by, throw caution to the wind. Be careful. Don't get your heart broken.'

  I had laughed. 'Oh don't worry about me. My heart is made of reinforced steel. It takes an awful lot to break it.'

  Secretly though, I had been unsettled by Martine's comment. Were they just the wise words of someone who had been there before, or was there something else I should know? I had pushed it to the back of my mind, determined that tonight it was make or break with Julien d'Aubeville. Maybe I would be a little bit more subtle this time. Never mind my heart, I didn't want to break any bones. 'Oh, shaddup moaning. I'll be out in a minute.'

  When the door finally opened, Tracey came out wearing possibly the shortest skirt in the Northern Hemisphere with a tight-laced gold basque which created a
décolletage
that you could balance a tray of drinks on. She'd teamed it up with a pair of towering gold platforms. The shoes had probably cost more than the monthly wage of many of the people in the village. 'What do you think?' she asked, giving me a twirl.

  'Er, well, um, it's, well it's… not really suitable for this sort of thing if you want me to be totally honest.'

  'Perfect. That's just the reaction I wanted.'

  As we drove down the hill in darkness, the glow from the festivities was visible on the other side of the valley and the gentle hum of music could just be heard. It was a beautiful, star-filled, balmy night and for once, I couldn't even be bothered to pull Tracey up on her driving as we careered down the winding hill.

  The village was decorated in red, white and blue bunting with open-sided marquees dotting the grassy area by the
salle des
fêtes
. A stage had been set up at one side with a dance floor in front and fairy lights woven through all the trees; it looked quite magical. I had run into Chummy during the week who told me good things about the celebrations. Apparently no less than twenty-one
maires
or mayors from neighbouring villages were attending. The number who attended, Chummy told me, was a barometer for how successful your Bastille Day celebrations were. I guessed that the high
maire
count meant that Rocamour's was a triumph.

  We parked in the village square, which was uncharacteristically busy with cars vying for the remaining parking spaces, amid hooting horns and light-hearted banter from the drivers.

  'Got the tickets?' Tracey asked.

  'Yes,' I replied, patting my handbag as we walked through the village to the festivities. 'Wow, doesn't it look great?'

  Outside the
salle des fêtes
, a pyramid-shaped metal contraption with hooks round it sat atop a blazing wood fire. From each hook hung a huge joint of meat.

  'How good does that smell?' I commented to Tracey.

  A wine stall and bar were already doing a roaring trade, people weaving between the tables weighed down with bottles of red and
rosé
, and in the far corner, a band was playing. I spotted Martine sitting at a small reception table with Madame Brunel, swapping tickets for plates and cutlery. She smiled warmly when I saw her, offsetting the scowl that Madame Brunel threw at me.

  'Hey, Martine, how are you?'

  
'Rebonjour,'
she said, taking my ticket. 'There is a table plan over there so you can see where you are sitting. We have put all the British together so you can be with your compatriots. Have a nice evening.'

  'I think I'd rather be sitting with my French neighbours than a bunch of expats,' I whispered to Tracey. 'Still I expect they think they are doing what we want.'

  I ran my finger down the list, looking for our names. 'Ah, here we are. Oh joy, we're on the same table as the Blythe-Cholmondeley-Walkers and their lot.'

  'Oh shit, just what I need. The snotty triple-barrelled BCWs.'

  'Now don't you start anything. Come on, let's go and get it over with.'

  Ours was a long table, seating about twenty people, some of whom I recognised from the village café. Holding court in the middle was Chummy, bedecked in a giant tent-like floral affair, while everyone hung on her every word. She certainly knew how to command an audience. Sitting next to her was Roddy, then a scowling CeeCee, who clearly wanted to be anywhere but there.

  'Ah, hello my dear. And, er…' Chummy's voice died away as she saw Tracey, or rather what Tracey was wearing. Roddy, on the other hand, brightened considerably.

  'Awright, missus,' Tracey said, working the Essex accent for all it was worth. 'I'm Tracey. You might recognise me off the telly. I was in that talent show fing. Bet you watched it, didn't yer? Yer look like the sort of girl that likes a good bit of reality telly.'

  'Er, yes, I, er… Well, let's see, I'm not quite sure…' she blustered. 'Who don't you know?' she said, quickly changing the subject. 'This is Steve and Ginny,' pointing out a middle-aged couple, 'and their children, Fanny…'