Love in a Warm Climate (21 page)

“No thanks,” I say. “Have fun.”

“Oh, by the way, I do yoga in the mornings, so don’t be surprised if you wake up to find me in a strange position on the terrace outside the kitchen,” he adds.

“Mummy does yogo,” says Edward.

“Do you?” asks Kamal. “Well why don’t you join me? I used to teach back home. I’ve done it all my life.”

“Thanks, I’d love to. What time?”

“Shall we say seven?”

“Perfect.” I say, smiling. He smiles back and heads off. Am I imagining it, or did he wink? For goodness sake – he’s practically closer to my children’s age than mine. Roquefort, Brie and possibly a bit of
chèvre frais
?

“What’s
chèvre frais
?” asks Charlotte.

Did I say that out loud? “Unaged goat’s cheese. Would you like some?”

“No.”

“Thank you.” I add for her.

“Do you miss Daddy?” asks Emily, tweaking her cat’s ears. “I do.”

“Me too,” say the others.

“I do,” I say, and it’s true. I’ve been so frantic lately, what with the vineyard together with washing, ironing, cooking, shopping and everything else that goes with looking after a family, that I have hardly had time to think about it. But when I do, I still feel a deep sadness that it ended like it did. Our relationship may not have been the most exciting thing ever, but there was nothing really that wrong with it. Well clearly there was, as Nick went off with Cécile.

But I’m determined to do well. If the business takes off, other things will follow, I’m sure. Talking of which, I wonder if I have had any more takers of my Arrogant Frog wine bond.

“Charlotte, you’re in charge of clearing up,” I say.

“Why is she always in charge?” groans Emily.

“She’s not. But she is right now. I need to pop upstairs. You must all help put the dishes in the dishwasher. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

I nip into my bedroom and have what I call a flash-shower: cold (very anti-ageing according to Audrey) and lasting less than a minute. I have a brief look at my pubes as I’m drying. Hmmmm. Maybe
Madame Figaro
has a point. It could be time to do some harvesting down there. I pull on my white trousers and black top from St Tropez. I put some make-up on and then go and check my messages. I have had three more responses, one from Sarah.

“Okay, put me down for
£
100, sweetpea. But more importantly – oh Soph, I am now well and truly gone. Mr Enormous is a god. We see each
other about once a week, maybe twice in a good week, and it is literally the time with him that I am living for now. I am so addicted. Remember I told you about the first time? We went back to my place, got naked in bed and he turned to me, looked me deep in the eyes and said ‘Are we really going to do this?’ and I nodded and we went for it and it was like… It was like coming home. He and I are just the MOST perfect fit. It was incredible. He filled me in a way no one has ever done. I don’t mean just because of his enormous – you know, obviously that helps. But I feel so complete with him. It is totally out of this world (and I speak as a woman who has had many out of this world experiences). You know how normally you have sex and you think, well, this is all fine, and then there are some bits that are better than others and at some stages you actually find yourself wondering if the rain has stopped and you could hang the washing out? Well every damn time with Enormous is PURE ECTASY from start to finish. It is unbelievable. Of course the awful thing is I will never want to sleep with anyone else, and before you say ‘I told you so’” – she was right, the words were forming in my mouth – “I KNOW it was stupid, but you know what? I wouldn’t have missed these past few months for anything, even if I spend the rest of my life longing for a similar feeling again. Call me when you get a chance. How is the sexy Frenchman? How is the work coming along? Lucy, Carla and I are all keen to come out for the harvest.”

There are two other acceptances. One of my mother’s ex-husbands has agreed to buy three cases, one of each. I must tell her that her ex-husbands are of some use; she will be so pleased. Then there is a message from Carla, who orders ten cases.

“I’m so much better off since Peter and I got divorced,” she writes. “I have a huge alimony settlement; I get to keep the house too. Added to which I can sleep with as many tennis coaches as I like without him bothering me about it. What’s not to like?”

I run down he stairs shouting “I am a wine-making, wine-selling mummy, yiippeeeee!”, straight into the arms of Jean-Claude.

“What a warm welcome,” he says kissing me on both cheeks. “What have I done to deserve this?”

“Oh, so sorry,” I bluster. “It’s just that I have sold some wine and I got a bit over-excited.”

“How have you sold some wine without even making any?” he asks, looking rather puzzled.

I explain about the wine bond.

“I see. Well, maybe I’ll have to invest in some bonds myself.”

“That would be lovely,” I say, “but surely you have enough wine?”

He smiles. “It is always good to know what the competition is up to.”

We walk into the kitchen, where Charlotte is taking full advantage of being in charge.

“No, Edward, I told you, in the dishwasher,” she is saying. “Emily, bring me the drying-up cloth, please.”

“Ah, a foreman in the making,” says Jean-Claude. “She will come in useful for the family wine business.
Ca va, les enfants
?”

As is the custom in France, the children all come and kiss Jean-Claude hello. He speaks to them in French and they respond in French. I look at my beautiful bi-lingual children and am so proud of them. Jean-Claude strokes Emily’s cat’s ears, which makes her purr. They look angelic for once, and they have also done quite a good job of clearing up.

“Right. Now Emily will be in charge of bath time, and Edward,” I say before he can start wailing about how unfair life is, “you will be in charge of choosing the DVD after the bath.”

They all seem very happy with this arrangement and traipse off.

“I will be up in ten minutes to check on you,” I say as they go. Then I pour us both a glass of wine. It is a Viognier, the same white grape that I have, made by a Swiss lady who lives about half an hour away. It is more expensive than mine will be, retailing at just under
£
10. Jean-Claude and I both automatically swirl the glass to smell the aromas, a habit I have picked up not to look pretentious but to try to determine what actually makes one wine more agreeable to drink than another so I can try to do the same with mine.

We take a sip. “
Pas mal
,” says Jean-Claude. “Undertones of honey, a rich nose, and a clean finish.”

I couldn’t agree more – at least I think I couldn’t agree more. I have another sip. Yes, now he’s mentioned honey I can see what he means. It certainly tastes
good
. But I’m going to have to work on my tasting skills.

We sit down at the table that still has a few crumbs from the children’s dinner on it. I automatically start to wipe them off into my hand.
Jean-Claude
takes hold of my wrist and looks at me.

“Relax,” he says. “This is not a formal dinner, is it? I would rather talk to you than watch you clear up. Tell me about your wine. What are you going to call it?”

I smile as I remember the inspiration for the name. “The Arrogant Frog,” I say.

Jean-Claude laughs and claps his hands. “I love it,” he says. “And of course you need separate names for the red, white and rosé. Something like – let me think – Lily Pad White?”

“That’s a great idea,” I say. “Let me write that down.” I grab a pen and paper. “What about the red?” I ask. “Tell you what. I’ll go and check on the children and we’ll see who has the best name by the time I get back.”

I go upstairs and come back a few minutes later with the children. They all go into the sitting room and Edward tells me he chose
Spiderman Three
but Charlotte and Emily both said they would give him one of their Saturday sweets if they could watch
The Little Mermaid
instead. It frightens me how manipulative those girls can be; I reckon between them they could get anyone to do just about anything.

I walk back into the kitchen. Jean-Claude is doodling on the piece of paper. He has drawn a very arrogant-looking frog dressed a bit like Mr Fox in
The Tale of Jemima Puddleduck
(except for the beret) leaning against a bottle of wine.

“That’s great,” I say leaning over his shoulder. “And what about the name?”

“Ribet Red,” he says.

“Brilliant. I can’t beat that. In fact I hadn’t even thought of one, sorry. But I will now turn my attention to the rosé while I put the spinach on.”

“So what great English delicacies are you feeding me this evening? It will be the first time I have dined
à l’Anglaise
in this house.”

“I am feeding you that famous English delicacy called
pommes dauphinoise
,” I laugh. “And steak and spinach.”

“Delicious. You really are a talented lady: wine-maker, mother, cook and marketing genius. You know, you have really done well with that name; it is funny, charming and above all memorable. The wine business is so competitive. I think nowadays 50 per cent of your success depends on how well you can market your wine.”

“So the rosé…” I begin. “I think it should have the word pink in it, women love pink and I’m sure it is one of the reasons we all drink rosé.”

“Agreed,” says Jean-Claude.

“I guess I could just stay simple,” I continue. “Sort of consolidate the brand by calling it Lily Pad Pink? What do you think?”

“I like it,” he says. “Very good brand reinforcement.”

“Great, that’s that done. Now, how do you like your steak cooked?”

“
Saignant
, of course, like any French gentleman,” he laughs. “I suppose you will have yours totally overcooked?”

I nod and put my steak in the pan first. “I have not yet gone native.”

“Please never do,” he smiles and looks me in the eye. “I like you the way you are.”

I feel something like a fillip of joy in the pit of my stomach – or maybe
I’m just very hungry.

The minute I serve the potatoes I notice they are undercooked. Damn. What with rushing every two minutes to see if I’ve sold any more wine, I didn’t notice I was cooking them at too low a temperature. I apologise to Jean-Claude before he takes a bite and breaks his teeth on them.

“Oh, I prefer them undercooked,” he says smoothly, taking a large mouthful of what is more or less raw potatoes in warm cream.

Is this the world’s most charming man?

We eat and chat about village life, the school. Jean-Claude went to primary school here before being sent off to a Paris to complete his education, which he hated. He longed to come back to the sunshine,
wide-open
spaces, his English nanny and the vineyards of the Languedoc.

The Little Mermaid
has swum away and the children come into the kitchen. I tell them to say goodnight to Jean-Claude.

They approach him individually and his face lights up.

“
Bonne nuit, ma puce
,” he says to Charlotte and kisses her. He strokes Emily’s hair and says the same to her. “
Bonne nuit, mon brave
,” he says to Edward.

“Do you speak English?” Emily asks him.

“Yes,
bien sûr
,” he laughs. “But you all speak French,
non
?”

They nod.

“Well, French is easier for me, because I am French,” he goes on in his native tongue. “So, if you don’t mind, we could all be French speakers together? And I will tell you stories about the mischief I got up to in this very house when I was your age.”

He sounds so sexy. I mean he sounds sexy speaking English with a very slight French accent, but when he speaks French, the way those r’s roll off the tongue, it’s enough to make me want to kiss him goodnight too.

“You lived here?” says Charlotte. “How?”

“I didn’t live here, but my grandmother did, and she was lovely. I used to visit her every day. Next time I come over, I will tell you a bedtime story in French that she used to tell me. How would that be?”

“Superb,” says Emily, but she says it in French. She is also able to roll her r’s. I’m hoping it’s genetic but so far have not managed it.

“Okay, my little Frenchies, upstairs now and brush your teeth. I’ll come up and put you to bed,” I say. Miraculously they do as they are told. As they walk out, Jean-Claude lets out a long sigh.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Oh nothing, it’s just, well,
quand on n’a pas d’enfants, on n’a pas d’enfants
,” he says, looking sad.

“But surely you could have children? There must be lots of women keen to marry a French aristo and bring little heirs into the world?”

He looks at me. “Maybe, but not many I’m keen to marry.”

“Is that why you’re not married yet?”

“You think I am too old to be single?” he laughs. “Of course you have a point. I am forty-one and I should be settled by now, as my mother keeps telling me.”

“So why aren’t you?”

He looks down at the floor, shuffles his feet slightly and takes a deep breath. “I was very much in love,” he says in staccato tones, as if the words hurt him to say. “She was English, like you. We were together for many years. I thought we would get married and live happily ever after. It was not to be.”

“Oh I’m so sorry,” I say. “What did she die of?” I know it might be a rude question but I’m always desperate to know what people die of so I can avoid the same fate.

Jean-Claude looks surprised. “Oh she’s not dead,” he says and then adds. “It’s worse than that.”

“Worse than death? That must be bad.”

“It is,” says Jean-Claude, clenching his fist. “She ran off with my brother.”

I pour him another glass of red wine. These French and their family feuds – you couldn’t make them up.

“Ah, I see. Sorry to hear that. I can see that must be quite irritating.”

“It was extremely irritating,” he says, sipping his wine. “But maybe I will still get my revenge.”

I can’t quite decide whether or not he is joking.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” I say and go up to kiss the children goodnight.