A French Affair (30 page)

Feeling her chest starting to tighten as those terrible moments closed in on her again, Jessica rose to her feet. ‘I'm sorry,' she said, ‘it's just . . .'

‘Please don't apologise,' Galeron broke in kindly. ‘I understand this is very difficult for you.'

Jessica nodded, then attempted a smile. ‘You've been very helpful,' she told him. ‘Thank you for going over it again.' She turned to Luc. ‘I think I need some air.'

Once they were outside, squinting in the dazzling brightness of the sun, she took several deep breaths, and pushed her hands through her hair. ‘That was harder than I expected,' she confessed, realising she was shaking, ‘but I'm glad I did it.' Her eyes went to his. ‘Thank you for coming with me.'

Unlocking the car, he said, ‘I have booked us into an
auberge
a few miles from here. I think it is time for you to relax a little and have some lunch.'

Though she wasn't at all sure she could eat, the mere idea of sitting somewhere peaceful with only him and strangers around her for a while was enough to put some warmth back into her veins. ‘I don't know how often I can say thank you,' she told him as he held the door open for her to get in, ‘but I'm beginning to think it won't ever be often enough.'

The eighteenth-century
auberge
with its yellow-rose-covered arbour and ancient stone walls was on the crest of a hill overlooking some of the famous Montrachet vineyards as well as the glistening black turrets of an ivory-coloured château, deep in the wooded heart of the
combe
. From the moment they arrived, entering through a crumbling stone arch, it was evident that Luc knew not only the owner, but several of the diners who were already tucking into their midday meal.

After some protracted and humorous greetings, as well as introductions, they were shown to a shady table at the edge of the terrace where a pristine white
tablecloth was set with claret-coloured napkins and a triangular vase of wild flowers. Almost immediately the owner reappeared with a perfectly chilled Chablis, the bottle dripping condensation as he uncorked it, and the colour shimmering like pale amber in the sunlight as he poured a small amount into the bowl of Luc's glass.

After holding it up to the light, smelling, swivelling then tasting it, Luc declared it, ‘
Pas mal. Pas mal du tout. Comme d'habitude un bon vin de la maison de Jean-Paul et Benoît Droin.'
And continuing in French to Jessica, ‘Crisp, light, slightly fruity with a hint of honey.' Then to the owner, whose expression glowed delight, ‘
Allez-y, Noel
.'

Jessica watched the wine going into her glass, while listening to Noel recommending the Coquilles St Jacques as an excellent accompaniment to the
premier cru
, then after wishing them
bon appétit
, he took himself off to greet another
vigneron
who was just arriving through the arch.

‘So food is ordered according to the wine here, rather than the other way round?' she remarked dryly, after she and Luc had taken their first sip.

His expression was droll. ‘Of course. You are in Bourgogne. What do you expect? But you do not have to choose the Coquilles St Jacques, there is a very good menu . . .'

‘No, I'm perfectly happy to follow expert advice,' she interrupted, glancing up as a waiter set down a filigree basket of delicious-looking breads. Then her eyes started to twinkle as, finding himself recognised again, Luc was forced to get up to greet the new arrival. The irony of it wasn't lost on him either, since he'd promised to bring her to a place where no English
tourists were allowed, so it was unlikely she'd be recognised – what he hadn't warned her about was how well known he was himself.

‘So why,' she asked as he sat down again, ‘are no English tourists allowed here?'

His grimace was so comical it caused her to laugh even before he answered. ‘I am afraid that Noel detests the English,' he admitted. ‘So I have smuggled you in right under his nose, but from now we must speak only French.'

Delighted, she said, ‘
Enfin. Tout le monde veut parler anglais depuis je suis arrivée et moi, je meurs d'envie de parler français
–
et pas seulement aux gendarmes
.' Everyone has been wanting to speak English since I arrived, and me, I'm dying to speak French – and not just to the
gendarmes
.

So from there they continued in French, discussing what had transpired during their interview with Galeron, which they had to confess hadn't changed anything to any remarkable degree.

‘But it seems they did go for a walk in the rain that morning,' Jessica said, putting down her glass. ‘I'm still having a problem with the bird's nest story, but I suppose it does sound very Natalie, so maybe it is true. And obviously they've accepted my mother's story of some tourists being lost.'

‘And what about you? Are you any closer to believing it?'

‘No.' She sighed. ‘I don't know. I'd like to ask her about it myself, because I can almost always tell when she's lying.'

‘So why don't you?' he said, offering her the basket of bread.

She took a small piece, then watched his fingers as he
broke apart a chunk of richly seasoned
pain d'olive
. It was reminding her of how he'd unwrapped a truffle last night after dinner, and passed it to her. For some reason the gesture had felt more intimate than it should have. ‘I tried earlier,' she said, in answer to his question, ‘but she's on Capri at the moment and the number's just ringing and ringing with no reply. Typical. Knowing her, she's jetted off somewhere else by now and not bothered to let anyone know.'

After putting a morsel of bread in his mouth, he chewed it thoughtfully, before saying, ‘I think Lilian told you that your mother called to ask if she could come back to the cottage.'

‘At the beginning of June, yes,' she replied, ‘but she didn't show up. Do you know anything else about that?'

He shook his head. ‘She spoke to my father, not me, so I can only repeat what he said.'

‘Which was?' Jessica prompted, already half-afraid it was going to be more than Lilian had told her, not necessarily because of what it might be, but because she didn't want to find out that anything else was being held back from her. But she needn't have worried, for it turned out that Luc could only tell her what she already knew.

‘I think,' she said, as the main dish arrived and their glasses were refilled, ‘that you must have had enough of listening to me going round and round in circles by now, so why don't we talk about you?' Then suddenly worried about how flirtatious that might have sounded, she quickly added, ‘And the vineyard. Hasit always been in your family?'

The amusement in his eyes told her that he'd read her accurately enough, and though she blushed she slanted him a look that made him laugh.

Continuing to speak in French he said, ‘I am sure Lilian has already told you this.'

‘Even if she has, I'd like to hear it again.'

‘OK,' he said slowly, still seeming to suspect that she was just being polite rather than genuinely interested. ‘The vineyard has been in my family for four generations, but on my mother's side, not my father's. When my father married my mother, who was an only child, he was a financier in Paris, and she was an artist who was enjoying a little success. They fell very deeply in love they tell me, and when she took him home to meet her parents, she says they liked him more than they liked her. So my father, after he married my mother – he had already made a lot of money by then – he took an early retirement, went back to university to study viticulture – how to make wine – and after my mother's father died, my parents left Paris to come and take over the vineyard. Since then my father has added several plots to our estate, which are scattered around Burgundy, Chablis, Clos-Vougeot, Côte de Beaune, Côte de Nuits and Côte Chalonnaise. Many of these are our
vins de garde
, naturally, while at Valennes we grow the grapes mainly for the
vins de table.
So there, I think, you have a potted history of our small winery.'

Aware that the Chablis, along with the perfect ambience of a hot sun and beautiful setting, were all adding to how entranced she was feeling, she said, ‘Are all the paintings around the house your mother's?'

‘Every one,' he confirmed. ‘My father won't allow anyone else's.'

She blinked in surprise. ‘But I've seen your sculptures and photographs.'

‘They're not paintings.'

‘Ah, I see.'

Seeming amused, though she wasn't entirely sure why, he watched her pick up her fork and dig it into a succulent scallop. Finding him still watching her as she looked up again, she put the scallop in her mouth and felt her appetite fade a little as his eyes dropped to her mouth. He was a man who seemed fascinated by almost anything, she was thinking, and whose scrutiny was almost as hypnotic as the ambience.

The subject changed then, several times, as he told her about his sculpture and the pleasure he got from using his bare hands to create art. Then she wanted to know about his work as a photojournalist which he was gradually winding down now, and soon they were discussing his love of other cultures, travel, film and opera. Then he coaxed her to tell him about where she'd grown up, the grandparents who'd cared for her, the time she'd spent in Canada, and why she'd chosen to read French at university. He listened so attentively that she became almost as carried away by his interest as she was by the wine. It was as though she wanted to open herself up to him, and hold nothing back . . . Then he was asking about her career, how she had come to be in TV, and if she regretted giving it up.

‘Not at all,' she answered, feeling, as she sat there with the sun beating down on them and the landscape seeming almost to bleed colour it was so perfect, that her real life had been swallowed into another dimension. ‘To quote my daughter,' she said, with a playful twinkle, ‘I am so over it.'

He didn't smile in return, merely held her eyes, and as his intensity seemed to steal into her she felt her breathing slow almost to a stop. Needing to escape the moment she looked around, saying she hoped no-one had heard her drop back into English. It was only
when she saw how unsuccessfully he was disguising his laughter that she said, ‘I think you've spun me a line. Noel doesn't have a problem with English people at all, does he?'

‘No,' he confessed, ‘and yes. If you are local you always get a reservation first – and he prefers French to be spoken because we are in France. The real truth is, I wanted to make you speak my language because I have not heard you do it very much.'

Enjoying the way that made her feel, she said, in French, ‘So now you know I'm not as bad as you thought, do I get a medal?'

‘Not at all, because I speak much better English.'

Her eyes narrowed, but knowing he was teasing her she said, ‘It's true your English is good, but I think your knowledge of wine is even better, and I'd like you to teach me.'

At first he only raised his eyebrows, then seeming to realise she was serious he lowered his eyes to her mouth again as he said, ‘I would be happy to.'

The potency of his gaze made her gasp, very softly, but she knew he'd heard, and then it was as though all her senses became heightened: the sun felt hotter, the food smelled richer and the melodious sound of French being spoken merged with corks popping from bottles and wine gurgling into glasses.

As though at a distance she heard her mobile ringing, and reaching into her bag she took it out.

‘Darling, is that you?' Charlie said loudly.

At the sound of his voice her mind seemed to go into a slow sort of spin. ‘Yes, how are you?' she said. Her eyes went briefly to Luc as he continued to eat.

‘I'm fine. Actually, missing you like crazy.'

He sounded drunk, she thought, and might have
said so if Luc hadn't been there. ‘Where are you?' she asked.

There was a moment's baffled silence before he said, ‘Oh, I get it, you're not alone?'

‘No.'

‘So where are
you
?'

‘At a restaurant. I went to see the . . .'

‘I had a call from the Pettifers last night,' he interrupted. ‘They're inviting us to spend the last two weeks in August with them, at their villa in Majorca. Harry too, obviously, he'll be company for their boy, Craig. I said we'd probably love to, but I needed to check with you. Remember how much we enjoyed it the last time we went? I think it could be just what we need, to get away together, relax, drink some wine . . .'

‘Well, actually,' she said, ‘I was thinking of staying on here for a while longer. The book's starting to take shape in my mind now . . .'

‘Fuck the book!' he growled in a way that made her flinch. ‘What about me and Harry? Don't we deserve some of your time too?'

‘Of course, but you could always . . .'

‘Jessica, I'm getting pretty sick of this now,' he told her heatedly.

‘I went to see the
gendarmes
this morning . . .'

‘Oh, for God's sake,' he snapped. ‘When the hell are you going to let this go?'

Wishing Luc wasn't able to hear her, she said, ‘You're doing it again, Charlie, getting angry . . .'

‘What do you expect when you never stop to think how this is for me,' he cried. ‘It's all about you and how you feel, never about anyone else . . .' His voice started to falter. ‘I miss her too,' he said. ‘I'd give anything in the world for our family to be whole again . . .'

‘I know,' she said softly. ‘I'm sorry.'

After a moment he said, ‘No, I'm the one who should be sorry. I've had too much to drink. It's someone's birthday in the office.' He took a breath, then sounding more like himself he said, ‘Did you get my message last night? Have you tried calling your mother yet?'