L'amour Actually (13 page)

I sat out on the terrace with my regular breakfast of croissants, which I picked up each morning from Claudine's shop, and a big mug of
café au lait
. I was going to have to cut down on the croissants though I thought, feeling the slight pinch around my waist where my shorts were digging in. Better still, I should be walking to the shop, not taking the car. Ah well, I'd start my croissant-free diet next week. I licked my buttery fingers and took another sip of coffee as I heard yet another car making its way up the hill. It was unusually busy in the otherwise sleepy little hamlet. The road ended in open fields just past Les Tuileries so normally the busiest it got was the farmer pootling along in his old white Citroën van to check on his crops. Strange.

  Curious to know what was happening, I downed my coffee, grabbed my sunglasses and set off to investigate. I didn't have to go far. It seemed that my neighbour, Tracey Tarrant, was the reason for all the action. The tall, wrought-iron gates to her house were surrounded by what looked suspiciously like paparazzi. Seedy-looking men with long-lens cameras strung round their necks hung about chatting and smoking, every now and then glancing through the bars of the gates towards the house.

  Hanging back a bit, looking more than a little bemused at the press invasion, were Monsieur and Madame Brunel, Martine and Laure in their housecoats and Monsieur Marcel. Just to make it really French, Martine's chickens had come along too. I smiled at my neighbours and was rewarded with a row of blank looks. Clearly the fact that I was also a foreigner meant I was guilty by association and, in any case, Madame Brunel had definitely not forgiven me for our first meeting. When I'd returned her housecoat, clean and folded, she had just snatched it from my hand and slammed the door in my face before I'd even had a chance to say thank you. She probably took it straight out the back and ritually burned it to cleanse herself of the evil of the foreign whore. Monsieur Brunel, on the other hand, definitely had a twinkle in his eye whenever I saw him, although his wife had clearly banned him from any further contact with me. I was almost certain that I could detect the slightest hint of a smile, even now.

  'Excuse me,' I said to the least scary-looking of the photographers, a smallish man with a shaved head and several cameras trampolining on his rather ample belly, 'what's going on?'

  'It's Tracey Tarrant, innit,' he replied. 'We've been looking for her for weeks, ever since she run off with our boy, Warren. His missus is not happy at all.'

  'Well that's a bit rich coming from her. She's not exactly living a nun's life in LA is she?' I said, feeling a moment of pity for Tracey. Yes, she was a bit brash and vulgar, but there was also an air of vulnerability about her that I found intriguing. She held the world at arm's length, scowling and swearing at anyone who got too close. She'd been the subject of more than a little media bitching and 'Tracey shows her flabby thighs' type stories. The
Daily Mail
had even published that photo of her getting out of a car in a tight dress and no knickers. They must have had to lie on the floor to get that one.

  'So how did you find her?' I asked. 'I mean, she's been here for weeks and she's not exactly been hiding herself.'

  'Beats me. Maybe there's still honour among thieves, so to speak, you know the expat
omertà
. Don't tell on us and we won't tell on you. Anyway, we got a tip off from someone who had "inside information".'

  My stomach lurched, thinking about the conversation I'd had with CeeCee at her mother's party the previous week. She couldn't have, could she?

  'So, um, who was it?' I asked, nervously.

  The man tapped the side of his nose, then went back to his vigil.

  'So, is she even there? I don't see her Merc,' I said.

  On cue, the silver convertible purred round the corner with Warren at the wheel and Tracey in the passenger seat, a scarf wrapped around her head making her look a little like Audrey Hepburn, just more orange. Seeing the press pack, Warren jammed on the brakes and the car skidded to a halt. I saw Tracey's stunned expression, mouth open in a perfect O. With the sort of quick thinking that had made him the star striker for his team, Warren rammed the car into reverse and shot backwards, only to meet Julien coming round the corner in his tractor. They were caught, like love rats in a barrel. The paps engulfed them in seconds, cameras flashing in their faces as they tried to fend off the hordes. The photographers shouted evermore provocative questions looking for the one shot that they could sell to the tabloids, while Tracey tried to fight her way out of the car and make for the safety of her house. Warren sat there motionless, his face in his hands. I looked on in horror. Whatever I thought of Tracey, this just wasn't fair. A sense of righteous indignation made me push my way through the rabid photographers. This was a moment for the sisterhood to stand up against the common enemy. Sharpening my elbows, I barged towards her. As we met, Tracey's face twisted into a mask of rage.

  'You bloody bitch. You did this didn't you?' she screamed, loud enough for the paps to stop their clicking and fall silent.

  'But… no…'

  'I knew it the moment I saw you, knew you'd be trouble, nosy cow. I said to Warren we was in the shit. How much d'you get from them? Must have been worth a few hundred quid, eh?'

  I looked at her in shocked silence as Tracey launched at me, punching me squarely in the nose. I fell backwards on the ground, my sunglasses spilling off my face. Tracey threw herself on top of me, slapping and punching as I tried to protect myself.

  The paps, realising they had been gifted
the
picture, possibly of the year, snapped away, leaving me at her mercy.

  Suddenly I felt Tracey's weight being lifted off me and opened my eyes to see Julien with his arms around her, restraining her. She was no match for his strength and he picked her up, feet flailing as she tried to kick him, and carried her back to Warren, who was by now standing by the car looking on, about as much use as a chocolate teapot.

  'Get her out of here,' Julien snarled, pushing Tracey roughly towards Warren.

  I sat on the floor, blood dripping from my nose, tears making tracks down my dusty face. Julien picked me up gently, retrieving my sunglasses from the nettles at the side of the road, and led me towards Les Tuileries and sanctuary, the staccato clicking of shutters the only sound. Well, that and Madame Brunel's loud 'tsking' as we passed by her. I felt the eyes of my neighbours bore into me. What must they think?

  The cool, darkness of the cottage was like a womb, keeping me safe from the troubles of the outside world. I sat on a chair in the kitchen holding a bag of ice to my eye while Julien tenderly bathed the blood from my face with balls of cotton wool dipped in salt water.

  'Ooowww,' I winced. 'Sorry, I feel such a baby.'

  'Keep still and it won't hurt so much,' he said, reaching for more cotton wool. 'Well, I think your modelling days are over for a while,' he smiled, trying to cheer me up as he gently dabbed at my nose. 'How bad is it?'

  'Not good but at least nothing seems to be broken. Let me finish up here and you can go and look in the bathroom mirror.'

  My face throbbed and I was fairly sure that I would have the mother of all shiners by the next day.

  '
Bon
, that's the best I can do,' he said, tipping the bloody water down the sink.

  I went into the bathroom and turned on the light over the mirror to get a better look. My eye was starting to close and the beginning of a purple bruise was taking shape underneath it. My nose was swollen, but fortunately still in one piece and my lip was split. I looked like I'd just gone through a couple of rounds with a heavyweight boxer. God, where did Tracey learn to punch like that? I could feel the first twinges of anger building up in the pit of my stomach as hot tears pricked the backs of my eyes. I'd only been trying to help and I'd never have told on her. That just wasn't me at all. I bet it was that bloody CeeCee. There was a loud rap on the front door. 'Julien, could you go and see who it is please?' I called from the bathroom. A few minutes later he tapped lightly on the door. 'It is the
gendarmes
.'

  I went cold, feeling suddenly faint. Brilliant! Now I was going to be arrested for public affray. I'd had a morbid fear of the police ever since the local bobby had come to my primary school when I was growing up. Standing at well over six-foot six-inches, PC Berry had put the fear of God into my seven-year-old self, and from then on, I followed the letter of the law to the last full stop. I'd never even had a parking ticket.

  'Shit, what do they want?' I asked him quietly, my voice shaking with nerves.

  'They want to know if you wish to
porter plainte
, you know, press charges against Mademoiselle Tarrant.'

  I leaned on the sink, relieved that they hadn't come to cart me away.

  'Tell them no, would you?'

  'I think you'd better come and talk to them yourself.'

  'Do I have to?'

  'Yes, come on. It is only the officers from Bussières, nothing to worry about.'

  
'Oh là là, mademoiselle,'
said one of the officers, drawing in his breath sharply as he saw my bruised and puffy face.

  '
C'est bon,
really, it's not nearly as bad as it looks.'

  'They don't speak English, shall I translate?'

  'Yes please, but just tell them that it's OK. I don't want to press charges.'

  A long conversation ensued with much gesticulating and shrugging and the occasional question thrown my way. I tried to keep up with what was said but in the end gave up. Turning from Julien to the
gendarmes
and back again was making my head hurt. If this is what it took when I didn't want to press charges, I could only imagine how much more complicated it would be if I did. Despite everything, I didn't really blame Tracey. That sort of intrusion into your life was enough to tip anyone over the edge. I wondered whether I might just be going a bit soft in my old age.

  Eventually the
gendarmes
seemed happy that they had everything they needed and I had a mild case of repetitive strain injury from signing my name so many times. The French certainly loved their form filling. Bidding me a good day (well, it could hardly get any worse), they left. 'I must go too. My tractor is still sitting on the hill and I must move it.' 'Thanks so much,' I said, 'really. Thank you.'

  He didn't say anything, just enveloped me in his arms. It was the last straw for me. The tears came and I sobbed into his

  shirt while he stroked my hair, gently kissing the top of my head.

  'I was only trying to help her,' I sobbed. 'I didn't tell them she was here. I'd never do that to anyone… I might think it, but I'd never do it. I can't stay here now. Madame Brunel hates me. I can't imagine what the others think either. I feel completely and utterly humiliated.'

  'Listen, what is it you say in England? Today's news is tomorrow's chip paper? Something like that. By next week it will all be forgotten and everyone will have someone else to talk about.'

  I smiled up at him. 'Thanks, but I'm not so sure. Listen, you go. I'll see you soon.'

  He cupped my face in his hands and kissed me gently on the lips. I tried to kiss him back but the pain of my split lip made me wince. I stood back to let him out of the cottage. Bloody typical, I thought as I watched him leave, the nearest we get to full-on kissing and I've got a fat lip. I went back to the kitchen, pulled out a chair and sat down, head resting in my hands as I felt my lip and eye throb in unison.

  A few minutes later, there was a gentle tap on the door. Fearing it was the paparazzi again, I dropped to the floor and commando crawled to the window where I could just about get a clear view of who was on the doorstep.

  Pulling myself up slowly, I peeped out of the window, straight into the face of Laure, who was peering through it, her hand shading her eyes. It was hard to tell who surprised who first. Both of us screamed and jumped.

  I opened the door, intending to apologise for frightening her, but before I'd even had a chance to say
bonjour
, she thrust a tube of cream into my hand and made a rubbing motion on her face, indicating that I should use the cream on my bruises. 'Arnica,' she said, smiling shyly.

  I was genuinely touched at the unexpected display of kindness and without thinking, threw my arms around her neck and hugged her tightly. I felt the young woman stiffen in my embrace and knew that, once again, I had transgressed another of the unspoken rules of the French countryside.

  'Sorry,
désolée
,' I said, releasing her straightaway. Laure scurried away like a scalded cat, the chickens running along behind her.

  'Cocked up again,' I said out loud.

  Opening the fridge, I helped myself to a glass of ice-cold
rosé
and went outside to sit by the pool and consider my future. France certainly wasn't what I had imagined. I realised how wrong I had been to think it would be just like home but in a different language. Maybe I'd been stupid to think that it was that easy just to take off and start a new life somewhere else. I hadn't planned it, the spontaneity of my decision making me feel a bit like a modern day adventurer, but even I had to admit that the secret to any sort of 'adventuring' was planning. After all, Sir Ralph Fiennes didn't conquer the North Pole on a whim and a prayer.

  I desperately wanted my friends around me now, even Alex. He drove me mad sometimes but we always had fun and he gave the best hugs. He was a bit like an old woolly jumper. Comfortable, but a bit scratchy in places. I suddenly realised that I missed London, my friends and my mum and dad, and that I had neglected them since I had left. I had been so wrapped up in my new life that I had barely spared a thought for theirs. The Brits I had met were all a lot older and I felt I had little in common with any of them. I had thought there would be more people of my own age here but most people, even the French I'd met, were nearer to my parents' age than mine. I had also expected there to be more clubs to join and activities to take part in, but so far, apart from the classes at the Club in Bussières, I hadn't found anything. CeeCee had seemed like a breath of fresh air, but in reality, back in London we would move in completely different circles and I wasn't sure I could buy into this idea of being friends with people just by virtue of a shared nationality. I'd had high hopes for my friendship with Nick's wife but my trip to his disco at La Fontaine had been depressing to say the least. 'Ernie, the Fastest Milkman in the West' was almost impossible to dance to and his wife, Libby, a frazzled, nervy woman in clothes that could have done with a good wash if I was being honest, was never going to be my new best friend. Nick seemed to make sure every hour of her life was filled with doing 'important jobs' for him and I knew I would have little in common with a woman who had to ask her husband's permission to go out.