L'amour Actually (6 page)

  'Can we join you? Louis will be here in a minute.'

  'Yes, of course,' I moved my bag so he could sit down next to me.

  'Are you eating?' he asked.

  'No, not today. Another time maybe.'

  'And you are settling in all right?'

  'So far, so good. Well, apart from all the ditches I keep falling in to, I suppose.'

  From behind my sunglasses I studied his face. He really was gorgeous. There was something about him that made me want to just reach out and touch him. 'So…' we both said at once. I laughed, feeling suddenly very self-conscious.

  'Ah,
l'anglaise
again,' said Louis as he pulled up another chair without waiting to be asked and sat down. The moment was lost.

  'Something to drink?' asked Julien, nodding his head towards my half-empty glass.

  'Oh, thank you but no. If I have one more drink at lunchtime, I'll be sleeping all afternoon. No, one is my limit, especially if I'm not eating.'

  'That is
pas normale
for an
anglaise
, an English girl. I heard you all drink like a
poisson
… a fish,' said Louis. I wasn't entirely sure whether he was joking.

  'You know, you really shouldn't believe everything you read in the papers,' I replied. Louis just shrugged his shoulders.

  'So,' he said as his brother disappeared into the bar to order them both a drink and something to eat, 'you have been to this part of France before?'

  'Well, not exactly. I've been to Paris but not here. I've not had much chance to spend time anywhere really, what with work and all that. I used to work in PR. Celebrities and stuff.' He looked decidedly unimpressed.

  'But still, you made the decision to move here.
C'est bizarre,
' he said breathing out in a long, low whistle and shaking his head.

  I bristled ever so slightly. Put like that, it did sound pretty naive.

  'Well, how much different can it be here than in England? I'll find myself a job. I'm not worried what I do. It doesn't have to be anything high powered, I'm happy to work in a bar or something as long as I can make enough to live on. My friend Tania moved down to Dorset, which is very rural and found herself a job straight away.'

  '
Sacré bleu
, I have a real
lunatique anglaise
here. Whatever
you
read in the newspapers is probably not true, or possibly it is true in Paris, but certainly not down here in
la France profonde. Chômage
...' Louis searched around for the word '… inemployment...'

  'Unemployment,' I corrected, a snarky note slipping into my voice.

  '
Un
employment,' he repeated, emphasising the first syllable, 'is over ten per cent in the country, maybe up to twenty-five per cent in the
ados
... the young people. And they are French. They have no problems with the language. How you think that you will find a job? You don't even speak French. Even to work in a bar you almost have to go to the
Fac
... the university now. Look at Noélia,' he nodded his head towards the waitress who was leaning on the door frame looking like someone had stolen her favourite teddy. 'She has a
licence
in law from Bordeaux and she still can't get a job.' God, I thought, no wonder she looks so pissed off!

  'Well there seem to be loads of English people here, maybe I can find a job with one of them,' I replied defensively, hoping for Julien to reappear. They may have been identical but their personalities were very different and Louis was making me feel slightly uncomfortable.

  'Pah,' Louis almost spat, 'they mostly work on the black, you know, cash only. You need to find a proper job so you can get healthcare and pay your taxes, get yourself a French pension.'

  I hadn't even given that side of things a second thought. I had just assumed I'd find a job, apply for it, get it (of course) and then the rest would fall into place.

  The throaty roar of a car engine put paid to any further discussion on the subject as a Mercedes convertible, which I knew belonged to my bonkers neighbour, raced into the village and turned sharply into the square behind the church. The woman I'd had a run-in with earlier was at the wheel, hair flying out behind her and the same oversized sunglasses shielding her eyes. The clunk of a car door closing was swiftly followed by her appearance – young, spray-tanned a rather alarming shade of orange and wearing a tiny sundress that erred only just on the side of decency and left little room for imagination – or lunch. Long legs led down to a pair of Jimmy Choos that I knew didn't leave much change out of £1,000. She seemed so out of place in this little French village.

  I suddenly had an epiphany. 'Bloody hell!' I exclaimed loudly. All heads swivelled in my direction.

  Louis looked at me as if I had lost my mind, though in fairness that was pretty much how he'd been looking at me since the whole 'moving to France' conversation.

  'I know who that is,' I hissed in his ear. 'That's Tracey Tarrant.'

  She'd been a runner-up in one of the interminable talent shows that had filled my Friday nights, losing out to some boy band from Dagenham. Her record label had dropped her after her second album bombed and rumours had recently appeared in the tabloid press of a very ill-advised affair with a married footballer. So
this
is where she'd disappeared to. Just wait until the girls back home heard about this one! I whipped my mobile out of my pocket. Damn! No signal again. I watched as Tracey made her way round the terrace until she found a table on her own at the back, half hidden from passers-by. No one seemed to take much notice of her.

  Despite the shade from the lime trees, she kept her sunglasses fixed firmly on her face and seemed at pains to hide herself. Shortly afterwards the reason became clear. The Porsche Cayenne, the one with blacked-out windows from the airport, purred into a parking space in front of the village shop.

  The doors opened and a heavily-muscled leg, clad in shorts, appeared from the door, closely followed by the six-foot-two-inch frame of… flaming hell... it was him!

  'Warren Hartson!'

  It seemed that there had been more to the rumour than just idle gossip, and with his media darling of a wife apparently playing away from home with some actor in Los Angeles, he was clearly putting his free time to good use. I leaned across the table towards Louis.

  'Do you know who that is?' I hissed. 'It's only Tracey Tarrant. She nearly won a talent show a few years ago and there's been a rumour that she's been having a fling with this married footballer – and that's only
him
, Warren Hartson, he plays football for Chelsea.' I waited for a response. Louis looked at me, baffled.

  'Him I have heard of. He is good but he is not Zizou,' he whispered back. 'But her, I have no idea who she is. Is she unwell? She is a very strange colour.'

  Ignoring the urge to ask who on earth Zizou was, I pressed on.

  'You must have heard of her. She had a single out that went to Number One. It was called "Light Up My Love".'

  Louis frowned and shook his head. 'The French radio stations are not allowed to play much foreign music. Anyway, we have our own celebrities here, so we are not much interested in yours. Johnny Hallyday has a
château
very close to here.'

  It was my turn to look baffled. 'Johnny who?'

  Louis looked almost offended. He turned to Julien who had finally arrived back with the drinks.

  
'Elle ne sait pas qui est Johnny Hallyday!'

  Julien feigned turning away and walking off in disgust then turned back to me smiling, 'You don't know Johnny Hallyday? You have much to learn about France. You have the Internet at your house?'

  I nodded. 'Well, as soon as I get connected I will have.'

  'Then you must look him up. He is a legend in France, a real legend.'

  I wondered if something had been sadly missing from my education. If he really was that famous, surely I would have heard of him?

  The two brothers and I chatted companionably for a while longer until lunch arrived. I had to admit it looked divine and I was suddenly very hungry. A large salmon steak nestled in a seasonal salad dressed with a sublime-smelling balsamic dressing, all on a large, oval white plate. It looked like something out of
Jamie Oliver Does France
rather than the kitchen of a little café in a rural village.

  'Gosh, that looks amazing!' I exclaimed.

  'Oh yes, we have a great chef here,' said Julien.

  
'Eh, Jacques, viens, il y a un de tes compatriots,'
Julien called out to a thirty-something guy who had appeared by the door to the café, his chef's whites marking him out as the one who had prepared all the fabulous food.

  He sauntered over to check out the new English girl and I took a moment to take him in. Tall, long-legged, short hair styled in a brush cut and a rangy, loose-limbed walk. Cute, I thought. There was certainly no shortage of lush men in this village!

  His whites had the name 'J Tournier' embroidered on the chest.

  A real French chef, I thought.

  'Ey oop lass,' he said in the broadest of Yorkshire accents. My heart sank.

  'He is also English but he has married a French woman,' said Louis, as if that forgave him his transgression for being a foreigner.

  Hmm, I thought, I'm sitting in deepest France surrounded by British people in a French café with an English chef. This wasn't exactly what I'd signed up for.

  'Jack Tournier,' he said, stretching out his hand to shake mine. 'Another newbie eh?'

  'Very,' I replied, 'I only arrived this morning.'

  'Blimey, and you've already met these reprobates. Bad luck eh!' He laughed, clapping the Twin Hunks on the back.

  'They had to drag me out of a ditch... well, not me exactly, more the car I was in.' I smiled.

  'Crazy Gérard was picking her up from the airport,' said Julien.

  'Oh well, that explains a lot,' he laughed. 'I'm surprised he was even sober at this time of the day. He's usually unconscious by mid-morning.'

  'What?' I said. 'You mean he's a rampaging alcoholic with a taxi licence?'

  'Yes, that's about it. Welcome to France, where we shrug our Gallic shoulders at "Elf and Safety".'

  'So do you own this place then?' I asked.

  'No, more's the pity. Claire and Stéphane own it but they are away visiting their grandchildren near Nice.' He got up from the arm of the seat he had been perching on.

  'Well, back to the coalface. Looks like it's going to be a busy lunchtime session. Nice to meet you. Drop in any time.'

  'Yeah, I will,' I answered smiling up at him. 'Thanks. Nice to meet you too.' Jack turned and retreated to the kitchen.

  'Well boys,' I announced, standing up to leave, 'I'd better be getting off. I need to do a bit of shopping then get back for the arrival of the furniture.'

  'No one will come during lunchtime, this is France,' said Julien. 'Your delivery men will be in a café somewhere having a big lunch and a carafe of wine. And the shop doesn't open until three o'clock either.'

  'Three o'clock!' What am I supposed to do until then? What happens if people can only shop in their lunch break?'

  'Then it's tough luck, innit,' came a voice from the shadows. 'They only seem to work a few hours a day. Does my bloody head in. Lazy bastards.'

  Every head on the terrace turned in the direction of Tracey Tarrant but she just ignored them all and went back to texting on her smartphone while Warren Hartson glared at her. I sat down again, a little embarrassed at being the cause of her outburst.

  'This is France,' said Julien. 'Lunch breaks are for lunch, not for shopping. Here food is to be savoured. Most places outside the towns close for two hours for lunch.'

  'So my usual half an hour for a sandwich and a latte at my desk wouldn't go down well here then.'

  'I think the French would probably go on strike,' he smiled.

  I smiled back. 'Yeah, I've heard it's your national sport.'

  'Let me buy you some lunch. It's the least I can do after what happened earlier.'

  'Well, in that case… thank you, lunch would be lovely.' I smiled back at Julien and our eyes held each other's. For a moment, it was as if there was no one else there. It felt like one of those seminal moments in an old black and white film, when the hero and heroine realise they are falling in love. My heartbeat quickened. The loud scrape of a chair being pushed back broke the moment.

  'I'll get some more drinks.' Louis practically stomped off towards the bar, leaving me wondering what on earth his problem was. Julien watched him go but I couldn't read the expression on his face.