L'amour Actually (32 page)

  'It is just for the winter,' he had told me, 'to keep us warm.'

  There was certainly no hint of Christmas in shorts today. The village was almost deserted with many of the houses shuttered up for the winter, their summer owners and the last of the holidaymakers long since departed. The glorious displays of blood-red geraniums were gone, replaced by empty pots on empty windowsills. Even the shop was only open three days a week now. The vibrant colours of summer were gone and in their place were fields of brown earth and the half-naked skeletons of trees with their branches thrusting upwards into the leaden grey skies. There was an air of melancholy that did nothing to lift my mood.

  Tracey was leaving for her new life in LA today. I hadn't spoken to her for two weeks, since the ridiculous argument at the henhouse. Every time I called round she was either out or wouldn't come to the door. In the end I gave up trying.

  'Why do you look so sad?' Stéphane pulled up a chair and sat down with me. My French, thanks to Martine's lessons, was now good enough to hold a basic conversation and it was bringing me closer to my French neighbours who now only regarded me with mild suspicion. I was practically a local.

  'I don't know, maybe it's because Tracey is leaving today.'

  
'Bof,'
said Stéphane, in that particular French way that can mean anything from 'whatever' to 'that's a tragedy'.

  'Oh, I know she wasn't everybody's
tasse de thé,
but underneath it all she's a really nice person, you know, quite…' I searched around for the French word for vulnerable.

  
'Vulnérable?'
Stéphane suggested.

  I smiled. When in doubt just say an English word with a French accent and you had fair chance of getting it right. 'Yes,
vulnérable
. She has the air of someone who is tough but in reality she's not.'

  'So why did you fight?'

  'Oh, it was nothing really, but she didn't tell me she was leaving to go to LA. I thought we were friends.'

  'Well, sometimes it is not easy to tell people who are important to you that you are leaving.' Stéphane looked wistful, like a man who had something on his mind.

  'Not you too?' I said as the realisation hit me.

  'Yes, us too. Our family are too far away and we want to be closer to them. Also, it is warmer down on the Cote d'Azur. Claire and I find the winters here too hard.'

  'So when do you go?'

  'Soon. We have had the café up for sale for nearly a year now but no one wants to buy it. Times are tough.'

  We sat in silence, both contemplating the future without the café. My mood, already gloomy, was now positively miserable. I had been relying on the café to be my lifeline when Tracey left. Although I didn't always feel I had that much in common with many of my compatriots, there was generally someone to have a chat and a laugh with. As Claudine had told me on my first day in France, you should never underestimate the importance of having someone who shares your sense of humour.

  'What about Jack? Can't he buy it? He must know the business inside out.'

  'He would love to. He has tried but he can't get a loan for the money. He is as sad as we are. He and Aurélie moved back here to be close to her family and if he can't find work anywhere else they will have to move away too.'

  'I wish I had the money to buy it, Stéphane. I'd love to have a café in France.' As I said it, I realised it was true, I
would
love it. Ideas started flowing into my head, for jewellery sales and theme nights, not the sort with fancy dress but with food from different regions. What better way to satisfy my growing urge for a proper curry? And I had heard that there was a good curry chef in a village called Villette, about half an hour away. Chummy had mentioned him. Suddenly I felt energised by the whole idea.

  'Stéphane, how much is it on the market for?'

  'Three hundred and fifty thousand euros including all the equipment, stock, everything that you need.'

  As quickly as my excitement had grown, reality drove it away. 'Three hundred and fifty? Oh dear, I don't think I could afford that.'

  'Well, I'm sure we could come to some arrangement if you could get near to the asking price,' said Stéphane, throwing me a lifeline.

  'Let me see what I can do.'

  With a spring in my step, I went back to the car full of enthusiasm for my new idea. As I drove into Les Tuileries my heart sank. The removal van was gone and there was no sign of the Merc. Tracey must have left already. I'd hung on to the slim possibility that she might at least hang around to say goodbye. I stood at the tall, iron gates and looked pensively through them at the house where we had shared so many good times. So this is what people meant when they talked about having a heavy heart. Mine felt like a cannonball lodged in my chest. It was worse than a break-up.

  I hurried back round to the cottage to see if Tracey had left a note. It had been such a stupid argument that surely she wouldn't have left without extending some sort of olive branch but there was nothing. Kicking off my boots, I sat on the sofa and stared into space, a huge feeling of loss overtaking me. After a few minutes I tried to call Julien but his phone went straight to voicemail. At least I still have him, I thought.

  Powering up my laptop, I fired off a quick email to Julie, the negotiator at my local estate agents back in Wandsworth. She had sold me my house and we had stayed in touch ever since. I had no idea how much it was actually worth now but I knew she would be honest with me.

  I didn't have long to wait for an answer. Julie must have been sitting in her office twiddling her thumbs when the email came through. The reply wasn't good news. Despite all the money I had spent on a new kitchen and bathroom, the flat was worth pretty much what I had paid for it. To a lot of people that would have been positive news but with a café in south west France to buy, it was nothing of the sort. My equity, after fees, would be around 150,000 euros if the exchange rate stayed the same. A nice amount but not enough to secure a deal with Stéphane, of that I was pretty sure, and I had no idea where I would find the other 200,000 euros he wanted. It clearly wasn't a goer. I rested my chin in my hands and thought, but nothing came to me. I knew my parents didn't have that sort of money and the chances of me getting a mortgage with no job were non-existent, so barring a lottery win in the near future, I was destined never to be the owner of the Café du Midi.

  A knock on the door roused me from my thoughts and I perked up, thinking it might be Julien. However, my smile quickly faded as I opened the door to find Madame Mollet standing there.
'Bonjour madame, entrez,'
I said, surprised, and opening the door wide for her to come in.

  '
Merci
, but it is just a quick visit. I'm afraid I have to tell you that Monsieur Marin, your landlord, has decided to sell Les Tuileries.'

  My chin dropped to around knee level. Although I knew I was just a tenant, somehow I thought of Les Tuileries as mine. 'But... when?' I stuttered

  'Well, it is now on the market but you know it is very different here in France than in England. It might sell tomorrow or it might not sell for years. I just wanted to warn you and let you know that the terms of your lease permit me to show prospective buyers the cottage during office hours with prior notice.'

  'Well, yes of course. That's no problem.'

  'Thank you. I shall always ring to give you advance warning.'

  'Um, how much is Monsieur Marin asking for the cottage?'

  'Two hundred thousand euros.'

  I wondered if I'd understood correctly. 'Sorry,
how much
?' It seemed a little steep for something without a proper toilet.

  Madame Mollet sighed, 'I agree it's quite high, but in France it is the buyer who sets the price. Monsieur Marin is just an elderly farmer who has heard lots of silly tales about the English paying half a million euros for a pile of stones. He thinks that some rich English person will come along and pay what he wants. Well, I must go. I have some viewings booked in for this Friday. One at one o'clock and one at three o'clock, but I will confirm them later. Is that all right with you?'

  'Yes, fine. If you want me to show them around, please let me know. I would be happy to.'

  I watched Madame Mollet go. Daft old fool, I thought rather uncharitably of my landlord. Still, at least it meant that the cottage wouldn't be snapped up by the first buyer. If I had a proper job I might even consider buying it myself, but not at that price. The chances were I would still be there the following year and quite likely the one after that as well but it left me with a sense of unease, as if the rug had been not exactly pulled from underneath me, but certainly given a hefty tug.

I'm just going to look, I'm just going to look, I chanted to myself like a mantra.

  For want of something better to do, I'd agreed to go to the Open Day at the Feline Friends in France rescue centre with Lucinda, if they'd let me in. To be honest, half the reason I was going to go was to see if there was a chance of work in the spring. Despite my best efforts to find a job, the only thing I'd been offered in recent weeks was cleaning an office in Bussières. Having seen all the deductions which came off a French payslip, which included just about everything except a slush fund for the president, and by the time I had bought petrol to get there, I would be paying them for the privilege of cleaning their toilets.

  Lucinda was an ardent kitty-stalker and had a whole ménagerie of waifs and strays that she'd picked up over the years. When she wasn't working she seemed to be on a constant mercy mission to rescue this cat from the rubbish tip, or that cat from an impoverished expat who was returning to the UK, but couldn't afford the apparently vast sums of money to get a pet passport. The idea of spending hundreds of euros to take Tibbles back to the UK where he would probably get run over by the first passing white van was faintly ridiculous. I shuddered as an unwelcome vision of poor, deceased Snoopy flitted across my mind.

  I had asked Julien to come along but he seemed to have rather a poor view of the whole 'Save
Les Chats'
movement. To him, cats were either put to good use keeping barns and grain stores free of mice or else they served absolutely no purpose whatsoever. Difficult though it was to accept a viewpoint that went so far against the grain of my inherent English fluffiness about animals, I suppose he had a point.

  We pulled up at the rescue centre and went into the house where wine (of course) and nibbles were being served. The usual crowd had arrived, a good few of whom I suspected were just there for the free drink. In one corner, a group talked loudly, their laughter revealing teeth stained slightly aubergine by the cheap wine while the host, a charming Dutch lady called Merel, flitted around chatting and pointing people in the direction of a display board with all the cats that needed a new home. On every surface cats in various shapes and sizes were dozing or enjoying impromptu petting sessions with the guests.

  I was transfixed by two kittens that were running around happily. One of them looked as if he was drunk.

  'Isn't he gorgeous?' said Merel, who had appeared at my shoulder with a tray of canapés.

  'He is so sweet, but is there something wrong with him?' We watched as the kitten tried to take a drink from a bowl of water and succeeded only in dunking his head right in it, coming up spluttering and shaking the drips from his ears.

  'Yes, unfortunately. He's been vaccine damaged. His mother was a feral cat who was brought in to us and we vaccinated her without realising she was pregnant. It's a very rare complication but sadly he has some brain damage. He finds it difficult to judge distances.'

  Right on cue, the kitten shot off after its sibling who had run into another room but it totally misjudged the doorway and crashed into the wall just to one side. None the worse for its experience, it jumped up, and made the door on the second attempt. I grinned then quickly wiped the smile off my face.

  'Oh don't worry,' said Merel, 'I spend a lot of time laughing at his antics but the main thing is that he is happy and he will stay with me for the rest of his life. So are you looking for a cat?'

  'Well, um…' I looked around wildly for someone that I just
had
to speak to but there was no one. I knew what was coming next. The hard sell.

  'Come and see who we have,' she said, taking my arm and guiding me to the display, which seemed to be one big gallery of unspeakably adorable kittens and cats. Merel talked me through each one while I listened politely. I wasn't leaving here with a cat. No way.

  A few hours later, she was smiling gratefully at me as I signed a cheque for one hundred and twenty euros that I could ill afford. At my feet, a plaintive mewling came from a pet carrier as I wondered how it had all happened.