Love in a Warm Climate (17 page)

“But what about the effect on house prices?” asks Helen. “Aren’t you angry that the English are driving up the prices, especially here in the south?”

“Is it the fault of the English that the French are selling at inflated prices?” he counters. Can nothing rattle this man? He is as smooth as a
full-bodied
Merlot and just as drinkable.

After dinner I carry some plates into the kitchen where Calypso is preparing sliced oranges with syrup for pudding.

“Thank you,” I say. “It was delicious.”

Calypso takes the plates from me. She is looking very pretty; her dark hair is tied up and she’s wearing a pink tie-dye dress.

“Is everything all right with, you know?” I ask gesturing towards the dining room where Tim is sitting. “No more scares?”

Calypso smiles. “No, all fine thanks. It only happens about once a year. Our charismatic M. de Sard seems quite taken with you,” she adds, changing the subject.

Rather annoyingly I blush.

“Oh, and it seems you’re quite taken with him. Whatever will your husband say?”

“He doesn’t really have a say any more,” I begin. “He’s been having an affair. I told him to go back to England.”

“God, I wish my husband would have an affair. It’s one of the main reasons I moved to France.”

This was not the reaction I was expecting. Once again Calypso has turned my dramatic moment into something concerning herself. How typical is that?

“Why?” I ask. “It actually was quite a shock when I found out about Nick. I’m not sure I’d wish it on anyone.”

Calypso looks astonished for a moment. “Oh, yes, I understand,” she says. “I’m sorry, but things are just so irritating right now. One day I’ll have to tell you about it. Meanwhile it looks like you may have found someone to console you?” 

I smile. “Well, it is quite odd. Maybe it’s the champagne, but I haven’t felt this way for years. In fact, I thought I had stopped having these sorts of feelings, like they died in childbirth or something. But I feel like a
sixteen-year
-old.”

“Maybe part of it is that until now you weren’t really looking until your husband buggered off with someone else?”

Fair point.

“How is it all going anyway?” she continues. “How is Colette doing?”

“Great. Thanks for putting her in touch with me. I will need someone else too once it all gets busy, but heaven knows how I’ll be able to afford it.”

“Let me know if I can help with anything,” she says. “I have harvested every year since we got here so know a bit about vineyards. And I like the work. There’s something therapeutic about working the land, using your hands; it stops you thinking too much. Colette always says the best relief for stress is trellising – the mix of strength and precision needed, being outside in the fresh air, listening to the sounds of nature.”

We go back to the dinner party carrying pudding and plates. Jean-Claude looks up and smiles as I walk into the room and for a split-second I feel like there is no one else there.

Sadly, that feeling is rudely interrupted by Robert, who is keen to tell me all about his latest property-rental venture, ‘Pet Your Pets’: holiday rentals where people can bring their pets.

“It’s a huge niche market,” he insists, leaning forward in that rather unstable way that people do when they’ve drunk more than their body weight, which for him wouldn’t be too difficult – he’s awfully scrawny.

“Never trust a man whose shoulders are smaller than yours,” Carla always says. I couldn’t agree more.

He talks about his venture as if he were talking about something that would really change the world, or a favourite child. I try to muster up some enthusiasm but find it difficult. This is more tedious than someone telling you the plot of their unpublished novel. And there’s only so much I can contribute really; I can’t imagine ever taking Daisy, the peacocks or Wolfie on holiday. The children are bad enough on their own.

“If you will allow me Sophie, I could walk you home across our vineyards.” Jean-Claude de Sard is standing by my chair with his hand outstretched, waiting for me. I love the way he says ‘our vineyards’. I wish Robert the best of luck, thank Calypso and Tim for a lovely evening, and within minutes am out in the starlit night with the world’s most charming Frenchman.

“So how is the vineyard?” he begins. “All under control?” 

“No, not at all under control,” I tell him, sighing and looking up at the clear star-lit sky.

“What I need really is for someone to come in and wave a magic wand and make it all okay.”

The moon is a delicate thin crescent – or a banana, as the children would call it. I still can’t get over how bright the stars are here compared with London

“I am basically going to have to run it alone,” I carry on. “Nick, my husband, has gone back to London to…well, work and, another woman.”

“I see. I am so sorry. What a fool he must be,” he says looking at me. “But you will stay?”

“Yes, I am really trying to get to grips with it all, I have a helper, Colette, who is showing me the ropes. And I am reading a lot, learning about the wine-making process.”

We are walking perfectly in time with each other even though his legs are much longer than mine. It feels very comfortable. And it is so nice to be outside in the clear air, away from the smug expats, listening to the gentle breeze and talking to someone who understands wine-making, unlike me.

“But to be honest I really haven’t the first clue what I’m doing,” I continue. “It could all be a total and utter disaster and we will all be homeless.”

“There is only one thing you really need to know,” he says, nodding towards the vines we are walking through. I hope it’s not too complicated; I’ve drunk far too much red wine to remember anything technical. We stop by a vine and he gently caresses one of the leaves with his thin, elegant fingers.

“You have to know when to pick the grape,” he says looking at me and smiling.

“When they’re ripe?” I guess.

Jean-Claude smiles enigmatically.

“But how do you know when they’re ripe?” I ask.

He laughs. “That, my dear little
vigneronne anglaise
, is the real question. But don’t worry, I am here to help you.”

Is this man too good to be true?

“To produce a good wine, you need to start with good grapes,” he goes on. “And this you have. Your terroir is excellent, in fact better than mine, even though it is just next door. I know and love Sainte Claire, it used to belong to my grandparents, I practically grew up there.”

“Really? How amazing.”

“Yes, we were very sad when they sold it to the Grécos, but it was all part 
of an unpaid debt. Anyway, you don’t need to worry, wines have been cultivated here in the region since the first century before Christ. It is the oldest wine-growing region in France. You are just continuing the tradition. There is nothing to fear.”

We walk on and are home far too soon. He leads me up the steps of Sainte Claire. I feel like a teenage girl. What is the protocol for this? I mean, I am still married. Is he married? Oh help, I haven’t even asked him that. Not that it seems to matter in France. And happily all my windows have shutters. The baker should have thought of that before he got in such a dough mix.

Or maybe I should ask him. I don’t want to make enemies with my neighbour’s wife, assuming there is one. But now might not be a good time to do so; if he says yes then there is no chance of a kiss, and if he says no it might look like I am hinting for more. Oh God, how do single people cope? It’s all far too complicated.

We stop on the steps. He takes my hands in his. They feel warm and comforting. I’m not sure if it’s the effect of the wine, but I start swaying gently towards him as if I’m being drawn by a magnet. I try to remember if I flossed my teeth. Then I’m ashamed of myself. What a trollop. Talk about getting in touch with your inner French woman.

“Sophie, I really enjoyed this evening and normally I hate dinner parties,” he says. Our faces are now less than two inches apart. “If you would allow me, I would love to take you out to lunch to talk about the vineyard and also get to know you better.”

I gulp and nod. This is scary. I think I am about to kiss another man for the first time in almost ten years. What will it be like? Will I be struck down by lightning for adultery?

“Shall we say two weeks on Monday? I have to go to Aix until then to see my aunt.”

I nod again and smile. “I would love that.”

“Sophie!”

I hear my name being called but the voice is not coming from my
soon-to
-be – hopefully – French lover. It is coming from my front door.

“Oh, hi. Sorry to disturb. I managed to get an earlier flight and sent Agnès home.”

It’s my husband. Early as usual.

I spring away from Jean-Claude de Sard as quickly as Daisy does from the children’s leftover Weetabix when I catch her snacking. There is nothing like the sight of your husband when you’re about to snog someone else to sober you up.

“This is Nick,” I say to Jean-Claude. “My…” I’m not quite sure how to describe him, but Nick interrupts me.

“Soon to be ex-husband,” he says confidently, stretching out his hand for Jean-Claude to shake. I am not sure how to react to this news. I certainly don’t want to let Jean-Claude know I had no idea we were getting divorced until a few seconds ago.

“Yes, exactly,” I add with more vigour than I feel. “He’s here to see the children.”

“
Bonsoir
, Nick,” he says, shaking my husband’s hand. I look at them together. Nick is shorter than Jean-Claude. The latter, though obviously a few years older, doesn’t suffer in comparison. He is so very elegant, almost regal.

“Now if you will excuse us, I need to say goodbye to Sophie.” He turns away from Nick and focuses his whole attention on me. I love the way he is doing that; it makes me feel like a princess. The Princess and the Frog – ha, that would make the girls laugh.

He takes my hands in his. He clearly isn’t as bothered by the presence of my husband as I am.

“So, see you in a couple of weeks?” he asks, smiling.

“Yes,” I nod. He kisses and misses my hand, nods to Nick and then saunters off back to his château.

Nick and I go inside. He looks tired but more or less the same. Cécile is 
clearly feeding him though; he seems to have put on some weight.

“Why are you here already?” I ask him. “You weren’t meant to come until tomorrow.”

“You look great. Soph,” he says. “Really great. Wow – amazing in fact. How are you?”

“Fine, no thanks to you,” I snap.

“You’re wearing that dress,” he adds. I don’t react.

“You’ve even had your nails done. Christ, are you turning into a French woman?” he laughs. It’s nice to hear that laugh again and his Irish accent, but I’m not about to forgive him. “And getting your hands on a Frenchman?”

“So I hear we’re getting divorced?” I say.

“Yes,” he says. “And it seems just in the nick of time,” he adds, gesturing to the door. “You certainly haven’t wasted any time making friends with the locals.”

I think about defending myself but am suddenly too upset to even go into it all. Since when did we agree to a divorce? So instead I do what most of us do when we’re hurt; I snipe at him.

“Well, as we’re now officially getting divorced it’s no longer anything to do with you, is it? And why are you here so early anyway?”

“Your mother asked me to come. She says she has arranged for you to go away for the weekend so she asked me to be here to take care of the kids. She says she sent you a text with all the details. Did you not get it?”

No I didn’t. And bugger – I really don’t want to go anywhere with my mother. Where is she taking me? Why does she insist on organising me as if I were still seven years old and just about to lose my gym kit? I’m now in my mid-thirties and have lost my husband; you don’t get more grown up than that.

“Did you see the kids?”

“They were all asleep by the time I got here, but I looked in on them,” he says. “It was grand to see them, really grand.”

“They’ll be pleased to see you. They thought you were dead,” I say and then realise that may sound a bit harsh. But Nick, with his indomitable Irish sense of humour, finds it amusing.

“Dead? Is that what you told them?” he laughs. “Well, they’ll wake up in the morning and meet a ghost. I’m knackered. I’ll go to the spare room. Send them in when they wake up, will you? Night, Soph.”

He walks upstairs and I go into the kitchen. My heart is beating hard. It was tough seeing him all happy and relaxed. I was rather hoping he might be hurt seeing me with Jean-Claude, or even better, consumed with jealousy, but he doesn’t seem at all bothered. It’s touching that he recognised the dress,
though. I wonder if he still longs to take it off me. I guess not.

I make a cup of camomile tea and take it upstairs. I take out my phone and look for my mother’s message.

“Darling,” it reads. “Pack some nice things for a night away in smart hotel. Don’t worry; I’m not coming with you. A car will collect you at 9am.”

I can’t imagine what she has arranged, but I send her a text back saying thank you. I suppose at least I won’t need to stay here with Nick all weekend, which would be strange and strained to say the least. The temptation would be to read HIS messages, why didn’t I think of that before? I could have sent one back to Cécile telling her to bugger off.

A break will be lovely; I am beginning to have a whole new level of respect for single parents. At that point when you’ve had enough and can’t cope and just want to scream or at least say ‘go and ask your father’, you can’t. There really is no one else to fall back on. And the thing about three children is that it is very rare that they’re all happy; there is almost always someone needing something.

I take out a bag and think about what to pack. Something nice, she said. If I were a French woman, I would start with my underwear. I have yet to go shopping as the new slimline-ish Sophie so have to settle for the old stuff. I find some trousers I used to hate because they were so tight they gave me that very attractive camel-toe look, and I could barely sit down in them. I try them on. What joy – no camel. In fact, I can even do a downward dog in them. I will wear them with my pink cashmere jumper and brown leather boots for the journey. But what about the evening and the day after? I look through my wardrobe and conclude that I have absolutely nothing to wear. I could have told myself that without even looking – why did I even waste my time? My clothes were hardly likely to start reproducing overnight, creating new little chic outfits I might like to take with me to a luxury hotel that I don’t even know the location of. The phrase ‘familiarity breeds contempt’ is doubly true when it comes to clothes.

As a last resort I pack some jeans and a couple of jumpers. And obviously that little black dress I can now fit into and have just worn. I have a relaxing bath and then get into bed. How odd it is, to be sleeping under the same roof as Nick again but in a separate room. Thankfully I don’t have a desperate desire to go and pounce on him, so no change there. But it would be nice to just lie and chat to him.

Maybe that was the problem with our marriage; we were too much like pals. Isn’t that what happens after several years of marriage, though? I mean, if you’re not friends, then what else is there? I don’t know a single couple that’s been married for ten years and are still in it for the sex, or at least, the
sex with each other.

I am woken by the children at around 6am. Emily and Charlotte are fighting about who can wear a certain pair of light purple leggings, which belong to Emily.

“You promised me last night you’d share them to me if I let you sleep with Johnny,” she yells. Johnny is the name of her furry dog she bought with the
£
20 that Johnny Fray gave her. “And now you’re saying no. You’re just a big fat liar, liar pants of fire.”

“Pants on fire,” I correct her, “and share with.” I roll over, wishing they didn’t have an inbuilt alarm for 6am that only seems to work at weekends. But for once I have something that will distract them. And that something is on English time, so for him it is only 5am. How very satisfying.

“There’s a surprise for you in the spare bedroom,” I say. “Go and look.”

All three rush into the spare bedroom, anxious to be the first to get there. I hear them say “Where is it?” and then Nick’s voice yelling “Boo” and the shrieks of delight from the three of them.

“Daddy, Daddy,” is all I hear, then Emily starts to weep. I get out of bed, pull on my dressing gown and go and see them. Nick is hugging Emily, who always gets very emotional, and the other two are on the bed.

“Morning,” he says to me. “Are you ready for your trip?”

“Where are you going, Mummy?” says Charlotte. “And why did Daddy sleep in here?”

“He came in late and didn’t want to wake me,” I say. I had already prepared for that question. “And I’m not sure where I’m going, Granny has arranged it all.”

“I know,” says Emily between sobs. “Granny told me. It’s called Some Trapeze and it’s in France.”

Three hours later a vast black Mercedes rolls up outside the door to take my very shabby bag and me to Some Trapeze – or St Tropez as it is more commonly known. I wave goodbye to the children and Nick, who are all standing on the steps of Sainte Claire looking gorgeous.

My heart always breaks a little whenever I leave them. But this time it is especially difficult, knowing that when I come back from this mystery jaunt Nick and I will have to tell them our news. I can’t imagine how we begin. I mean, when is a good time to tell your children their parents are getting divorced?

The driver is French and either doesn’t want to talk to me or really does 
misunderstand everything I say. So all I know about my magical mystery tour is that we are heading to St Tropez. I text my mother to get some more information but she just texts back “Enjoy yourself, it won’t be a surprise if I tell you”. So I decide the best thing is just to relax and enjoy the trip. There are worse ways to travel than in a black Merc with cream leather seats and little buttons that you can press to adjust their position. And there are worse destinations than St Tropez.

We whizz past a sign to Montpellier airport, which makes me think about those early trips Nick and I took here to look for a house. Was I being terribly stupid not to notice there was something wrong? Did I have an idea deep down there was someone else but just not want to face the fact? No, all I knew was that I was getting bored, but I put that down to a combination of a mid-life crisis and several years of marriage. I also thought things would improve between us; I guess I just never thought about how. And now it is all too late. Nick wants a divorce and I am going to St Tropez.

We pass a sign to Aix-en-Provence; that’s where Jean-Claude said he was going. I have his mobile number now, I could text him to say hi, but that might seem a bit desperate. Whatever else happens at our lunch it will be nice to have someone to talk to. Do I want more? Am I ready for more? Maybe not, but it wouldn’t do any harm to try to move on. What other option do I have?

I smile as I remember our walk home. I love the way he takes my hands in his; he has such strong hands. I wonder what his body is like. He is a bit older than me, probably around forty, but he does look in good shape. He told me he used to row at university and that he plays a lot of tennis now, when he isn’t busy running his estates next to our house and in Limoux, a couple of hours away. He knows all there is to know about wine-making; he grew up in a wine-making family and now he runs the business himself.

He could become my wine guru – and maybe something else too? It would be a great way to learn French. And how many chances in life do you get to have a romance with a French aristo? I don’t know for sure that he is one, but I did read somewhere that a de in front of your surname means you are aristocratic. I could become Madame Sophie de Sard. It has a certain ring to it.

I fall asleep daydreaming of a wedding in Boujan’s church and wake up when we pull up to pay the toll at the entrance to St Tropez. So this is the place that made Nick fall in love with France and brought us all here? Or rather the place with the girl on the beach he fell in love with.

We drive down a windy road into the town. It is very pretty; the light seems different here, more translucent. There are palm trees lining the
streets, the houses are painted in pastel colours and in the distance the sea is shimmering. But I would still say the landscape around Sainte Claire is more dramatic and beautiful. Thankfully not many other people agree with me, which is why a vineyard down this way costs about five times as much as mine did.

We stop outside a hotel and the driver gets out to open my door. Almost immediately there is a man in uniform ready to take my shabby bag for me.

“Welcome to Byblos,” he says smiling.

“Thank you,” I smile back. But what the hell is Byblos and why am I here?

My driver gives me his mobile number and says he will be here should I need anything else. I try to ask him who sent him but he feigns incomprehension. I just can’t imagine my mother would do all this; she doesn’t have the money for a start. But then who? And how come she is in on it?

I walk to the reception, unsure what to do next. As soon as I get there a young woman wearing trendy jeans and a suede top approaches me.

“Madame Reed?”

“Yes,” I reply.

“Welcome to Byblos, it is our pleasure to have you here, I am Chantal, the hotel’s guest relations manager.” She holds out a perfectly manicured hand for me to shake.

“Thank you. Can you please tell me what is going on? I haven’t booked a room here but you seem to know all about me and I certainly can’t afford it and…”

“Madame Reed,” she interrupts me gently. “Please do not worry. I too have no idea who is behind this little gift for you but I can assure you that you will have a lovely time with us and there will be no bill to pay, it is all taken care of.”

I sigh. Mainly with relief at not having to pay the bill. But I was also rather hoping she could tell me what was going on. What if it’s some random psycho? Do I know any random psychos? Oh my God maybe it’s Nick and he’s going to pitch up too? But wouldn’t it just have been easier to ask for my forgiveness at home? And if that is the case who on earth is looking after the children?

“Would you like to hear your itinerary?” smiles Chantal.

“I’d love to,” I say.

“You are staying in the Riviera suite, which is Mick Jagger’s favourite room here,” she begins.

“Oh, I hope he won’t mind,” I joke.

“Oh no, he’s not here,” says Chantal, completely straight-faced. You’ve got to love the French for many things but not for their sense of humour. “I will take you there, where there is a light lunch waiting for you. After lunch a personal shopper from one of St Tropez’s best shops, Riviera Chic, will come and escort you to the store, where you will choose any clothes you like.”