Love in a Warm Climate (27 page)

The harvest is almost over. There have been no major disasters since the fire and most of the grapes are safely in. The fermenting period is about to begin in earnest for the vines we have picked. But tonight it is party time.

I am still not feeling in much of a party mood after the fire and the discovery of Jean-Claude’s betrayal, but I feel I owe it to all my helpers who have done a great job. Carla and Sarah, spurred on by a desire for Kamal’s approval (and his body) have worked like Trojans. Colette and Calypso have been fabulous too, Calypso not working every day but whenever she’s been able to.

Lucy has used her time as a manual labourer to think about how her memoir should end.

“I suppose a happy ending would be that my heroine slots back into her old life without anyone noticing?”

We all nod in agreement.

“A book needs a satisfying ending,” she goes on. “Is that satisfying enough?”

“Maybe the reader should be left with a hint that there is something more to come around the corner?” says Sarah.

“Is that realistic?” says Lucy.

“Yes!” we all shout at once. “Otherwise what’s the point?”

The party is going to take place mainly outside, on and around the terrace by the kitchen. We have a band coming to play; some friends of Colette’s who live towards the mountains and play anything you want to hear. I have given them a list of some songs I would like. She tells me they are in their late 50s but will play for free, so who am I to be ageist? And rather like Alice in Wonderland finds no point in a book without pictures, I see no point in a party without music.

Johnny has promised to come. He is in Paris filming and will be here by 8 o’clock. I haven’t seen him since his last visit but we have been in touch constantly. I am really looking forward to seeing him. I thought I had made my decision, but I was clearly wrong.

I keep thinking about Jean-Claude. He came by with a letter the day after the fire. In it he explained what had happened.

“I just can’t believe it,” I told the girls after I’d read it. “It’s the kind of thing you expect from an Agatha Christie novel, not the sort of thing you think will happen to you.”

Basically the situation was this. Jean-Claude’s brother, the one he fell out with over the English girl, had actually hired Kamal, who was unaware that he was being paid to spy, he just thought the brothers wanted to help me.

Alexandre, Jean-Claude’s brother, was intent on getting hold of Sainte Claire as a way to gain forgiveness from Jean-Claude, because Jean-Claude had always loved the property and spent a lot of his childhood there with his grandmother.

For the boys it had always been a kind of haven, somewhere they could run to and get away from the endless socialising and arguing of their parents in the château.

Alexandre had tried to buy Sainte Claire before Nick and I did, he was the one who had made the lower offer, and he just couldn’t raise the cash to match our bid. He didn’t ever hear about it being for sale again during the time I was leaving.

He got Jean-Claude involved in the day-to-day working of the plan and told him to get as close to me as possible, because he is based in Aix, where he lives with their aunt, having split from Jean-Claude’s English fiancée.

“It seemed like a good plan to begin with,” Jean-Claude wrote. “I supposed a little part of me also wanted revenge on Englishwomen in general. But that night when I went to the
cave
to put vinegar in your Cabernet Sauvignon I realised I just couldn’t go through with it. I had grown too fond of you. I wanted to tell you everything then and there but I was worried you wouldn’t understand. We French have a very different attitude to family and love and land. I was convinced you would think I was a crazy person. So instead I tried to get Alexandre to stop. But by then he was on some kind of mission, he gets obsessive, like he did when he stole my fiancée. He said I had clearly lost my head to yet another English
salope
and needed saving from myself. I saw the fire as I was walking over to help with the harvest. Alexandre got one of the village boys to start it I’m sure. I got there as soon as I could to stop it and minimise the damage.

I don’t expect you to forgive me, I have behaved abominably, but I just
want you to know that you and the children are the best thing that ever happened to me. You gave me a whole new view on life, with no bitterness or ambition or feuds.”

I have no idea where Mr Fox, as we have nicknamed him, is now. Probably sulking in his lair. Thank God the girls were all here to cushion the blow, although two betrayals in less than a year does seem slightly excessive. Could it be third time lucky with Johnny? Or maybe this is a sign that I should give up on men. I could always ask Calypso for some Sapphic tips.

Right now though I have to get ready for the party. It has been an exhausting few weeks.

The most important thing, of course, is to decide what to wear. It is still extremely warm. I need something sleeveless if I’m not going to end up in a sweaty heap. I opt for a pretty flowery pink strappy dress I picked up in Pézenas market for only 20 euros. It is cut on the bias, and the right length for me, if I go by the St Tropez method of measuring lengths.

Charlotte and Emily come into my bedroom. They are dressed in lovely pink and white polka-dot dresses my mother brought them from London.

“You look gorgeous girls,” I tell them. “Emily, is there any chance you could not wear your cat’s ears for once?”

“No,” she says.

Edward comes in wearing his Spiderman suit.

“You look stunning, Mummy,” he says. Stunning is his new word; he uses it in most sentences.

“Thanks baby,” I say, brushing my hair and adding a final touch of
lip-gloss
. “Let’s go downstairs.”

Kamal and the girls have done everything. The terrace looks lovely, lit up with fairy lights and lots of candles in brown paper bags. This is an old trick of Carla’s: put some sand in a brown paper bag and then pop a candle in, and the effect is great while being so much cheaper than buying candleholders.

“We put the candles in,” says Charlotte proudly.

“All of them,” adds Emily.

“I did too,” says Edward.

“No you didn’t,” snaps Charlotte, “you just got in the way.”

A diversion is created by the band arriving in a battered old white Renault van. Simon and Ray, the singer and lead guitarist, who both greet me like a long-lost sister. Simon looks like he’s rocked with a few girls in his time, he has a definite twinkle in his eye. Ray has an impressive moustache that reminds me of a character in that poem I often read to the children;
The Walrus and the Carpenter
. Ray surveys the terrace and at the stage we have
created for them using wooden planks.

“Groovy,” he says, looking anything but.

“Is that the Walrus?” whispers Edward to the girls, clearly thinking along the same lines as I am.

Emily tells him to be quiet. I send them off to help my mother, who is preparing some inedible eats for the guests.

I look around. I feel a real sense of achievement. The first harvest is over, the wine is bottled and ready to be sold with around
£
10,000 already
pre-ordered
thanks to my wine bonds and marketing drive to local restaurants and hotels. Of course there is a long way to go before the business is really stable, but it is a great beginning. My personal life may be all over the place, but the cicadas are chirping and I finally believe that Domaine Sainte Claire can be a success.

An hour later and the cicadas are drowned out by
Hotel California
. It’s amazing how the proportions of a space change when it is filled with people, the noises of chatter, of glasses clinking, laughing and music. The crowd takes on a sort of life of its own. I am loving the buzz of my own party, of my friends bonding, eating, drinking. Is this how cicadas feel every evening? Is this why they are constantly chirping?

For the first time since Jean-Claude went from lover to villain I feel really relaxed and happy. That might also have something to do with the white wine, the fact that the stress of the harvest is over, and also the anticipation of Johnny showing up later on.

Kamal and Sarah are dancing; they look good together. It was only a matter of time. She is still seeing her CEO lover but obviously she does as she pleases when they’re not together. Maybe I should behave a bit more like her. Why does it have to be all or nothing with me? If I had taken Audrey’s advice and had a fling with Johnny at the same time as Jean-Claude, then I might not have been so heartbroken about the duplicitous frog. Being faithful has certainly never got me anywhere. I am beginning to think these French women are on to something.

“Is your friend Carla married?” Tim nice-but-dim is suddenly standing next to me.

“No, but you are,” I smile.

He gives me a stern look.

“She’s divorced,” I go on. “But normally she goes for tennis coaches.”

Tim’s face lights up. “I used to teach tennis in the Army, we had marvellous facilities at Aldershot. Thanks, Sophie. Oh, great party by the way.”

He skips off back to Carla to discuss forehand slices, or whatever it is
tennis players talk about.

I go and sit next to Lucy, who has been entertaining the children by telling them short stories.

“Do you miss your kids?” I ask.

She smiles. “I know I should, but I’m having such a lovely time, to be honest I haven’t really thought about them that much. I think I needed to get away for once. I really love it here, you’ve done a marvellous job, you know. You have so much to be proud of.”

I feel close to tears. This is the kind of thing my mother should say but never does.

“Thanks Lucy, and thanks for all your help during the harvest.”

“Oh, all that bending over, sweating and suffering in the scorching sun, you mean? I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Cheers, here’s to you, Sainte Claire and your future together.” She raises her glass.

“And you’re okay about Josh?”

She twitches her nose, a little in the way Samantha from
Bewitched
does when she casts a spell. This is as close as Lucy will normally get to showing any emotions.

“I miss the excitement of him being there, and of course the sex. But the book is a good substitute.”

“How are things with Patrick? I mean, are you…?”

“Having sex?” she interrupts. “Yes. Not much, but probably as often as most couples who have been married for almost 10 years. Of course it’s not as much fun as sex with a young man who looks like a Calvin Klein model, but I am determined that my affair will not break up my marriage. I would never forgive myself. Are you OK, after the Mr Fox incident?”

I am about to answer when a loud, familiar sound drowns out our little party.

Of course it’s Johnny and his chopper; why can’t the man make a more subtle entrance? And being pathologically scared of heights, can I really marry a man who travels in a helicopter?

The locals look terrified; I think they assume anything loud with lights is going to be the taxman. I walk over the vineyard to meet him. I feel a little giddy and the walk does me good. It’s amazing how much wine you find yourself downing as you stand around and chat. Without even meaning to I am slightly tipsy and feel the need to sober up. Nothing like the wind from the helicopter blades to do that; my breath is taken away as I get closer and see Johnny jumping down the steps towards me, doubling over to avoid the worst of the wind.

“Hey gal,” he shouts and waves. When we get close, he puts his arms
around me and I look up at him.

“Good to see you, Cunningham,” he says, planting a kiss on my forehead.

“You too,” I smile. “You certainly know how to make an entrance. They’re expecting President Sarkozy down there.”

“I hope they won’t be too disappointed,” he laughs. “Shall we?”

He extends his arm to me and we walk towards the rest of the party. I am grinning like the cat who got the cream as I arrive with my film-star friend. Carla, Lucy and Sarah are all jostling to be the first to greet him.

“We’ve heard so much about you,” says Lucy.

“Did you really sleep with Scarlett Johansson?” asks Carla, shameless as always.

“Who’s she?” laughs Johnny and puts his arms around my shoulder.

Sarah looks amazed. “God you really are gorgeous,” she says, clearly refreshed with wine already. “Even more gorgeous than on telly.”

I interrupt her before she embarrasses herself any more. “What would you like to drink, Johnny?”

“I suppose asking for a beer in a vineyard would be seen as very bad form?” he replies.

“Not at all.” I go off to get him his beer, leaving him in the hands of my three friends.

In the kitchen my mother is preparing smoked-salmon blinis, sausage rolls and something that looks like guacamole.

“How are you?” I ask her as I walk over to the fridge.

“Alive,” she says. “Alive and cooking.” Then she collapses with laughter. She was always very good at laughing at her own jokes, I suppose someone has to.

I go back and join Johnny. The girls see my return as a sign to push off and leave us alone.

We sit at the table and eat something indescribable containing avocado and red peppers, but which tastes great. I see Colette and Calypso dancing together. Tim and Carla look as if they’ve struck up a deep and meaningful discussion about tennis, so he’s happy.

“You’ve got a lovely bunch of friends,” says Johnny.

“I expect this isn’t really the sort of party you’re used to,” I laugh.

“I hate all those parties,” he smiles. “I’m much happier somewhere simple, with honest people around me. But sadly if I want to make a career out of films, that’s where I have to be.”

He pauses for a moment and takes my hands in his. “So Cunningham, have you thought any more about what we talked about? About moving out to California and running a vineyard there?”

I sigh. He has that sort of desperately expectant look the children have when they’re asking me if they can go on a sleepover but they know the answer will be no. I hate to do this, but I can’t move to California, I’ve only just got to grips with the vineyard here and it just feels, so, well, wrong.