L'amour Actually (37 page)

  'No, that's it actually.'

  'What, this hole in the ground?'

  'Yep.'

  'You cannot be serious. Come on, where's the real toilet?'

  I winced. 'That really is it.'

  Charlotte's shocked face appeared round the door. 'Seriously?'

  'Seriously. On the plus side, I have thighs like steel.' I slapped them loudly by way of proof. To be honest, that was probably the only good thing about it.

  'You can get thighs of steel at the gym. You don't need to squat to pee to do it. I mean, how do you… no, never mind.' Charlotte shook her head. 'Once more unto the breach, dear friends,' she sighed.

  With her bags unpacked and a restorative cup of tea in front of her, Charlotte produced a small pile of celebrity magazines.

  'Thought you might like these,' she said, 'so you know what's going on in the modern world.'

  'Lottie, this is France, not Outer Mongolia.'

  Since my arrival in France, not so much as a Kardashian had crossed my consciousness and I'd barely even turned on my laptop. The broadband around here was so slow that I was sure it must run on a rubber band and an old piece of chewing gum anyway. I started to leaf through them.

  'Ooh, wait a minute,' I said, my attention suddenly caught by a headline. 'Stepney Songstress Storms States,' I read aloud.

  'Isn't that your friend Tracey? The one who decked you in front of the paps?' Charlotte asked.

  'Ex-friend. And thanks for the reminder. She dumped me and ran off to the States without so much as a goodbye.'

  'That sucks. Did you fall out or what?'

  'Well, I don't know really,' I sighed. 'It was all something and nothing, a silly argument over an over-enthusiastic cockerel, but I honestly thought she'd get over it and get back in touch.'

  'Have you contacted her?'

  'Yeah, I sent a few texts just after she left but no reply.' I skimmed the article. 'Wow, she's doing really well. I'm so pleased for her.'

  'She's been all over the gossip columns at home. I've lost track of the number of gorgeous men she's been linked with, the lucky cow.'

  'Really? Tell me all.'

  'Well, she brought out a single which went straight to Number Two in the charts and there's a new album coming out in a few months apparently. She's really living it up in LA. If there's a premiere or party going on, she'll be there with some gorgeous hunk on her arm. Her current main squeeze is apparently Rowan Finch.'

  I looked blankly at her.

  'Rowan Finch. Oh come on, you must have heard of him, even in this backwater.'

  'Unless he's the best mate of Johnny Hallyday or in the latest series of
L'Ecole des Stars
they probably won't have heard of him over here.'

  It was her turn to look blank. 'Johnny who?'

  I wagged a finger at her. 'Don't ever admit to not knowing Johnny Hallyday around these parts. He's a national treasure, even if he did try to become Belgian to avoid paying tax. He's France's Cliff Richard except without the religion and with increasingly young wives.'

  Charlotte screwed up her face.

  'So, Rowan Finch?' I asked.

  'He's like the big noise in Hollywood at the moment. Drop-dead gorgeous, unmarried, straight and tipped for an Oscar for his last film.'

  I smiled. 'Good one, Trace.'

  'So,' asked Charlotte, 'what's she like? Give me all the dirt.'

  'Nothing to give you really. She's just a very sweet, down-to-earth Essex girl with the same anxieties as the rest of us.'

  'Yeah, with one of Hollywood's most eligible bachelors on her arm. Come on, there's got to be something. I can't go back to the girls at home with no scandal about her.'

  'Honest, there's nothing. She was just Tracey from next door who'd had a brief brush with fame but who thought her singing career might well be over. I'm so glad it's gone well for her.'

  'So will you get in touch again?' she asked.

  'No, I don't think so. It was her who put the barriers up, so it's her who needs to take them down.'

  'Well there's nothing lost in sending her a message to wish her well. It might break the ice.'

  'Yeah, maybe,' I said wistfully. 'Come on, my neighbour Martine has invited us round for coffee. You can see inside a real French house.'

  'With a real French toilet?'

  'That,' I said pointing towards the bathroom, 'is a real French toilet. And you might want to change your shoes. I discovered fairly quickly that killer heels have no place in the country.'

  'Get them away from me!' Charlotte squealed, hopping from one foot to another as we ran the gauntlet of Martine's chickens. My own chickens had treated her with studied indifference. 'Oh, for heaven's sake, Lottie, they won't hurt you.'

  She squealed as one pecked her shoe, dropping her bag in shock. It landed squarely in a fresh pile of chicken poo.

  'Oh my God, that's a Mulberry bag.' She picked it up carefully. 'Look at the state of it!'

  I tried hard to stifle a giggle while Charlotte glared at me, wiping at her bag with a tissue.

  The door opened and Martine's smiling face appeared round it.

  'Come in, come in. Make yourself at home.'

  She led us into the lounge where Laure stood shyly by the window, twiddling her hair between her fingers.

  '
Salut
, Laure,' I said. '
Je te présente mon amie, Charlotte.'
I kissed Laure on both cheeks.

  'Hi,' said Charlotte, waving at her. Laure stepped forward to kiss her but, to my embarrassment, Charlotte backed away leaving Laure looking confused.

  'Lottie!' I hissed. Hurriedly, Charlotte stuck out her hand, which Laure took and shook politely. She muttered something that I couldn't quite make out then left the room.

  'I'll just go and make some coffee,' said Martine quickly, following Laure out. 'Jesus, Lottie, that was really rude.'

  'Look, no one goes in my personal space without my say so. And anyway she doesn't look that clean.'

  I was horrified. 'What are you talking about? She's got some learning difficulties but she's certainly not dirty. I can't believe you just said that.'

  Charlotte shrugged her shoulders and looked away. 'Sorry, but she's your friend, not mine. You might be used to all this, but I'm not.'

  I shook my head, disappointed at her attitude but before we could talk further, Martine returned with a tray of steaming cups of coffee to find an uneasy truce between us.

  As she set the tray down, she looked from Charlotte to me, not sure what had happened, but aware that something had.

  She gave us each a cup of hot, black coffee. 'Sugar? Milk?'

  'Yes please,' said Charlotte, taking the sugar bowl from Martine.

  'So, Charlotte, you are here for a long weekend, I hear.'

  'Yes, just a few days. I can't take too much time off work unfortunately. I work in the film industry, as assistant to a producer.'

  'Really? That must be a lot of fun.'

  'Yes, it is. I forgot to say,' she turned to me, 'that last job I did has been nominated for a BAFTA. How brilliant is that? I'll be off to the awards next February.'

  'Wow, that's great. Well done.'

  'Yes,
félicitations,
as we say in France.'

  'Thanks,' Charlotte stared down at her cup, still sulking from our earlier
contretemps
. I could have kicked her!

  'So,' I quickly interjected, trying to retrieve the situation, 'Martine used to dance at the Moulin Rouge, didn't you Martine?'

  'Really,' said Charlotte half-heartedly, 'how exciting.'

  'Yes, it was,' the older woman answered. 'Would you like to…'

  'Oh, I've got a mobile signal, will you excuse me a minute, I have to go and check on my emails,' Charlotte interrupted, jumping up like a scalded cat.

  She rushed out of the room into the garden, where Martine and I could see her talking animatedly on her phone.

  I sat awkwardly, sipping my coffee. Every now and again, gales of laughter could be heard coming from the garden as Charlotte glanced over at the house. I had the uncomfortable feeling that she was laughing at us. I seethed inside, not wanting to let Martine see. How could she be so rude? Had I been like that before? So totally self-obsessed?

  'She's not like you, is she?' Martine said.

  'No, she's not. Not anymore at least,' I replied, leaving the comment hanging in the air.

  'Don't worry. From what I've seen of her, I don't think she's the sort of girl who would understand the way we live in the country.'

  'I know. I mean, who would turn up in the French countryside in a pair of heels?' I smiled.

'Come on, lazybones, get up!' I jumped onto the bed next to Charlotte, shaking her shoulders gently.

  'Whaaa? Wassamatter?'

  'It's time to get up. Come on, or we'll miss the market.'

  Charlotte sat up, rubbing at her eyes and running her hands through her thick, chestnut hair. 'What time is it?' 'It's seven-thirty. Time to shake a leg.'

  'Seven-thirty? I'll bloody shake you. What are you doing waking me up so early when I'm on holiday?'

  'Well if we don't get to the market by half-past eight all the croissants will be gone. You're in France now. You're having some delicious full-fat croissants for breakfast. None of your boiled grapefruit nonsense.'

  'I happen to like grapefruit and, for your information I have never boiled it. Hmm, looks like you've been enjoying one too many croissants yourself.'

  I sucked my stomach in. 'It's my French Winter Survival Suit. Just in case I get snowed in. I could survive on my own fat supplies for at least a week. You, on the other hand, would be dead within a day.' I pinched Charlotte's skinny arm. 'Anyway, come on, get moving.'

  Forty minutes later, I was at the market with Charlotte trailing behind, still complaining about the fact that she hadn't had time to straighten her hair.

  'Oh, for goodness sake, would you stop moaning for five minutes,' I told her firmly as I led her to my favourite fruit and vegetable stall. 'Look at it all, delicious and local.'

  'Well, if you call Morocco local,' said Charlotte sniffily, pointing to the board hanging above the oranges, which clearly stated that they came from North Africa.

  I rolled my eyes at her and went back to choosing some carrots.

  'And it's all muddy. You'd never find it like that in Waitrose.'

  'You'd never find it so fresh in Waitrose either. Look at these,' I said pointing to a pile of fresh, dewy lettuce. 'I actually know the lady who grows these. She lives a few miles away. They'll have been picked this morning.'

  Charlotte looked unimpressed. I sighed, realising I was flogging a dead
cheval
and carried on with my shopping, ignoring her griping. God, did I use to be like this I wondered?

  After an hour of dragging my increasingly irritated and irritating friend around, I gave in. 'Come on, let's go and get a coffee, then we can go home and demolish these croissants.'

  'That's the best idea you've had in ages. I don't suppose there is a Starbucks near here?'

  'I think its six hundred miles to the nearest one,' I said drily. 'Come on, I'll take you up to the café in the village.' At the Café du Midi, Claire was busy working behind the bar.

  'Oh, hello. I wasn't expecting to see you here today,' she said, looking from me to Charlotte.

  'Hi Claire, no Noélia today?' I had quite fancied seeing her try to get the better of Charlotte. 'This is my friend, Charlotte. She's staying for a few days.'

  'No, she's er, busy today. Hello, Charlotte, nice to meet you. What can I get you? Why don't you take that table at the back?'

  'Actually I think we'll sit by the window so we can watch the world go by.'

  Claire looked a bit uncomfortable, not her usual bubbly self, and she kept glancing anxiously towards the window.

  'Are you waiting for someone? I asked her.

  'No, no, it's fine really.'

  I ordered a
grand crème
for Charlotte and a
petit café
for myself. The dreadful Muffy was there sitting at a table with a man I didn't recognise, but whose florid face marked him out as a drinker. They were swilling down the first of what were probably many glasses of red wine and barely bothered to acknowledge me, offering limp handshakes to Charlotte and a half-hearted
bisou
to me as we passed.

  'He's cute,' Charlotte whispered to me as she caught sight of Jack through the door to the kitchen.