L'amour Actually (4 page)

  Julien laughed. 'Oh, you have to go about twenty kilometres to Villeneuve de Beaumont for that, well, unless you enjoy a
thé dansant
. They are very popular round here.'

  'Dancing tea? Oh, tea dances. Not quite my thing. So what do people do for entertainment round here then?' I asked, slightly nervous about his reply.

  'Well, we have the
loto
every month, I think you call it bingo…'

  Oh God, it was getting better by the minute!

  '… we have the
quatorze juillet fête
for Bastille Day...'

  So that's thirteen days sorted. What about the rest of the year?

  '… we have the
marché gourmand
, the gourmet food market in July and August…'

  More promising, I thought, but it certainly didn't sound like this place was the entertainment capital of rural France.

  
'Voilà!'
announced Julien as we turned into a long driveway. At the end of it was a gorgeous, pale-stone cottage, almost the colour of buttermilk. As we got closer, I saw a blowsy honeysuckle weaving its way up the stones and around the front door in a still life which was straight out of a
Country Living (France Special)
magazine.

  On the old stone wall opposite, a pale ivory climbing rose threatened to overcome me with blooms in a few weeks. There were hundreds of tiny rosebuds twisted up like sweets in wrappers. Faded blue shutters were fastened back to reveal windows hanging with hand-sewn linen café curtains and on every windowsill a riot of red, scarlet and white geraniums tumbled over the edges of faded terracotta pots. I was transfixed. More than that, the first stirrings of love for this little cottage fluttered in my heart like a butterfly. I silently thanked those French property websites which had been my guilty pleasure for the past few months and which had led me to Les Tuileries. I could hardly believe that I was renting this place for half the price of a one bed flat in London.
And
it had a swimming pool. In fact, I could sell my flat in Wandsworth, buy a farmhouse and a few acres in France and still have change to tide me over until I found a job.

  'You can let go now,' smiled Julien.

  'What? Oh, sorry.' For a few moments I had lost myself in the beauty of my new home and hadn't realised I was still hanging on to him.

  
'Allez hop,'
he said, jumping nimbly to the ground in one swift movement.

  I passed down my suitcase before hitching up my skirt to tackle the steep tractor steps. Thank goodness I'd ditched the Louboutins. I started to climb down, keen to show Julien that the city girl could handle a tractor like a pro, but unaware as I did so that my skirt had snagged on a sharp piece of metal. Jumping to the ground, there was a loud rip; it had torn from hem to waistband, a half-pace away from the lovely Julien, leaving me with my knickers on show for all the world to see. In horror, my face scarlet with embarrassment, I grabbed the remnants of my torn skirt and pulled the back together trying unsuccessfully to cover my modesty.

  
'Oh là là,'
Julien laughed. 'You English girls are very, how you say, advanced?'

  'I think you mean forward,' I muttered, turning to find that we were not alone. An elderly French couple were huddled together, a look of total bewilderment on their faces.

  
'Ah, Monsieur Brunel, Madame Brunel, je vous présente votre nouvelle voisine, Mademoiselle Jones.'
Then to me, he whispered, 'Meet your
voisins
, your neighbours.'

  'This hardly seems the right moment,' I hissed back.

  Momentarily wrong-footed, I fixed my warmest smile on my face and advanced towards the couple, hand outstretched in greeting, The old woman looked me up and down disapprovingly and I could feel the beginnings of a deep blush creeping up my neck. Behind me Julien snorted. Here I was, on my first day in my new home, standing in front of my new neighbours with my underwear hanging out and no shoes on. Monsieur Brunel seemed less bothered by my appearance and stepped forward to shake my hand, a salacious glint in his eyes as they flicked down to my cleavage. Madame Brunel quickly whipped off her housecoat – boy, was the nylon thread count high in these parts – and shoved it roughly at me with a look of mild disgust. Then turning on her heel, she grabbed her husband's sleeve, pushing him in front of her up the driveway, all the while berating him in rapid-fire French. I thought I detected just the hint of a smile on her hen-pecked husband's weather-beaten face. Madame proceeded to deliver a fierce slap across the back of his head and shouted something unintelligible. I could take a rough guess at what it was. Probably the most fun he's had in years, I thought, as without realising what I was doing, I slipped the housecoat on to cover myself up.

  Turning to Julien, I picked up my suitcase and headed for the front door. The key should be in the post box according to Madame Mollet's text. But where was the post box? I looked around the front door but there was no sign.

  Julien watched me curiously. 'What are you searching?' he asked eventually.

  'Looking for,' I corrected. 'The letterbox.'

  'The
boîte à lettres
is at the end of the drive.'

  'Could you? I'm not really dressed for it.'

  Smiling, Julien set off up the driveway, following in the footsteps of the departing Monsieur and Madame Brunel, and returned a few minutes later clutching a large brown envelope. I took it from him and as I ripped it open, a large bunch of keys fell out into my hand. There must have been at least ten of them and some were exactly like the sort of keys you'd see hanging from the belt of a jailer in a costume drama. I decided to look at all the paperwork in the envelope later.

  Trying each one in turn, I finally found the one that unlocked the door. Pushing the handle down, it swung open, releasing a blast of warm and slightly musty air. I stepped inside. I found myself standing in a small hallway with exposed stone walls; the shutters were closed and the change in light momentarily disorientated me. Ahead of me was another door which I pushed open and walked into what looked like the lounge. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I could make out the interior of a large country kitchen through a door at the end. I peeped in and saw an old-fashioned range stove set in the recess of a chimney, not quite an Aga but good enough, and what appeared to be a huge stone sink and a small fridge. Apart from that, the cottage looked suspiciously bereft of furnishings.

  Another door at the other end of the lounge led me into an empty room. The cottage was, it seemed, completely bare. Not a stick of furniture anywhere.

  
'Bon,'
said Julien, 'I must go to help with Gérard's car.'

  I thanked him profusely. 'Maybe I'll see you soon?' I said.

  'Yes, maybe, now that we are neighbours.'

  He winked at me, then turned and with a cheery wave stepped out into the honey-coloured sunlight leaving me wondering whether that was a promise of things to come or just my overactive imagination.

  Left on my own for the first time in my own little cottage, I had a 'Julie Andrews' moment and swung round, arms outstretched, like Maria in
The Sound of Music
. 'I'm here,' I cried then, catching sight of myself in the glass of the door, 'and I'm already in a bloody housecoat!'

Breathing out a contented sigh, I sat down on the step to read the contents of the envelope that I was still clutching in my hand. There was a letter from Madame Mollet handwritten in that particular flowing, French style that I remembered from a school exchange trip to Paris. It put my own childish scrawl to shame.

Mademoiselle,

  I am so sorry that I cannot be there to meet you. There has been a problem with the furniture for the house. It should have been delivered yesterday but the van broke down. Monsieur Marin, the landlord, has assured me that it will be delivered by the end of the day today.

Also enclosed are full instructions for the cooker, the hot water...

I carefully folded the letter away. There would be plenty of time to read all that later. For the moment, I wanted to slip into something a little less revealing and a little cleaner, have a good look around my cottage and maybe take a quick dip in the pool. I picked up my suitcase and wandered from room to room, finally setting it down in the room which I decided would be my bedroom. It was large and airy with exposed stone walls and a door that opened onto a little patio at the side of the house, the perfect place to relax with a nice glass of chilled
rosé
in the evening.

  Flicking the catches of the suitcase, I opened it and contemplated for a minute the devastation that had been caused at the airport. I then upturned it in the middle of the floor and rummaged around the clothes, shoes and well-trodden underwear before finally picking out a short denim skirt and a linen blouse. I stretched luxuriantly. It was so lovely to be here, finally, in my little home in France. Fishing my sunglasses out of my handbag, I slipped my feet into a pair of sparkly flip-flops, wiggling my toes deliciously. Fancy being in flip-flops in April, I thought.

  From the lounge of the cottage, French windows led out onto a terrace in the garden. An ancient vine grew up a pergola overhead and a couple of old wrought-iron chairs were placed around a vintage bistro table just calling out to be shabby chic'd with a spotty oilcloth and some coloured-glass hurricane lamps.

  Do they call them French windows in France, I wondered? I knew the French called a condom a
capote anglais
or English cap rather than a French letter – one of the few things I remembered from the school exchange. Outside, the spring sun broke through the trees in shafts of light the colour of melted butter. I could see that the garden had potential, not that I knew much about gardening. Goodness knows, my previous attempts at growing anything had been a disaster. It was hard enough trying to remember to take my make-up off every day, never mind water the plants.

  The lawn sloped gradually down to the edge of the hill, where it dropped away sharply and amid the undergrowth, I could just make out a ruined building, probably an old shepherd's hut or something. The view was magnificent and I felt my spirits lift. Rolling hills, a patchwork of a hundred different colours from burnished gold to a deep green, spread out in every direction.

  One side of the garden was edged by a dry stone wall that was just a fraction too tall for me to look over. Wondering what was on the other side, I slipped off my flip-flops and found some footholds on the rough stones; grabbing hold of the top of the wall, I pulled myself up just far enough to peep over.

  On the other side was a beautiful three-storey square house, the mini-chateau I had seen from the road, with stone steps leading up to a balustraded veranda that wrapped around the first floor. A stunning pool, complete with waterfall, was surrounded by some seriously chichi sun loungers, while exotic plants flopped over the lips of huge terracotta amphorae. Someone clearly had some serious money here. It seemed so incongruous in this little French farming hamlet.

  Even more incongruous, a convertible Mercedes and a Porsche Cayenne people carrier were parked in front of the house and I was sure that the people carrier was the one I had seen at the airport. I was too engrossed in the splendour of the neighbouring property to notice an angry-looking woman bearing down on me.

  'Oi! What do you bleedin' well think you're doing?' yelled the irate woman in the flat estuary vowels of Essex. 'Piss off out of here, bloody nosy Frogs.'

  'Um, actually I'm English,' I shouted back.

  'Whatever! Just piss off outta here, silly bitch. Stop spying on me.'

  This wasn't going well at all.

  'Gosh, sorry,' I called. 'It's just I've only moved in today and I was wondering who my new neighbours were.'

  Despite the woman's enormous sunglasses and large floppy sunhat, her face was vaguely familiar but I couldn't quite place it.

  'Yeah, well you've seen all you're gonna. Now bleedin' get out of here.'

  'Sorry, sorry,' I called, embarrassed, and jumped down from the wall more than a little taken aback by my first meeting with my new neighbour. Hopefully the next meeting would be a little more positive. But who was she? I was absolutely sure I'd seen her somewhere before.

  At the end of the garden was the swimming pool. I smiled. I actually have a pool, I thought. A closer look, revealed water that was a rather unattractive shade of
crème de menthe
green, decidedly slimy-looking and certainly not fit for human use. A big, fat bullfrog croaked loudly then hopped into the water with a plop. My stomach gurgled loudly and I remembered that I hadn't eaten since the overpriced, undercooked toastie on the plane.