Love in a Warm Climate Page 19

  We all walk into the kitchen.

  “So who are all the presents for?” asks Charlotte.

  “Actually, they are for me,” I say.

  “Why? Is it your birthday?” asks Edward.

  “No,” I smile, “but it felt like it.”

  “So where was the mystery trip to?” he asks.

  “St Tropez, to a hotel called Byblos, I stayed in the Riviera Suite,” I say, as if they will know what on earth that is. But I just love the sound of it.

  “Wow, you’ve come up in the world,” says Nick, looking at me and making that whistling noise he always makes when he’s surprised. “I thought only film stars stayed there.”

  I go bright red and head towards the kettle.

  “Oh, I get it,” he says, putting down the tea-towel. “You were with a film star.”

  “Who, Mummy? Who were you with?” asks Charlotte, jumping up and down with excitement.

  “I was with Johnny,” I say.

  “You saw Johnny Fray?” squeals Emily. “Did he ask after us?”

  “He did,” I say. “He was very keen to know how you all are and sends lots of love.”

  “Well, this is probably as good a time as any to tell them, eh?” Nick says angrily.

  I glare at him. Why is he making this unpleasant? He’s the one who wants a bloody divorce. He’s the one who started hanging out with other people and even packing their underwear, or at least allowing their underwear to be packed, in his bag. But I can’t say that in front of the children.

  So why do I feel guilty? I mean, if he hadn’t started shagging Cécile I would never have dreamt of going to St Tropez with a film star. Well, actually, I might have dreamt about it, but I would never have done it. Lucy would argue that dreaming about something is just the beginning and then it turns into the reality, so in effect you should feel guilty about dreaming too.

  “It’s like drugs,” she says. “You start with marijuana and the next thing you know you’re a crack-head.”

  She used to maintain she never had so much as a teeny weeny illicit little fantasy, but then she was married to Perfect Patrick. Or Less Than Perfect Patrick, as he became known after he started acting like a perfect bore, moping around the house doing nothing. And then of course she found Josh, the real thing and didn’t even need to fantasise.

  “Can we just talk about what it is we want to say alone for a minute?” I say under my breath.

  “Sure,” he responds. “Kids, will you take the leftovers to Frank and Lampard please?”

  “Why?” they all say sulkily.

  “Because I asked you to. Now come on, scram, and then come back here when you’re done.” He puts on his fake-scary face, which makes them all giggle and run out.

  We are alone in the kitchen. My heart is racing because I feel so many emotions converging on me at once. The hangover isn’t helping either; I feel weak from that, but more so from the thought of what we have to go through now.

  Nick motions for me to sit down and sits opposite me.

  “So, I think we can be grown-up about this, can’t we?” he begins.

  I gulp. I feel like a naughty schoolgirl in front of the headmistress.

  “I am happy to take the blame,” he continues. “After all, it was all my fault. I didn’t mean for it to happen, but it did.”

  “What you mean perhaps is that you didn’t mean to get caught out?” I feel the nasty side of me coming out that often surfaces when I’m scared.

  Nick sighs but doesn’t have time to respond because our children have come running back into the kitchen with the news that Frank and Lampard are already eating.

  “Right kids, sit down,” says Nick. “Your mother and I need to talk to you.”

  Edward scrambles into my lap and I bury my face in the warm, soft space between his head and his shoulder. He squeals because it tickles. Charlotte and Emily sit on a chair each; Emily immediately puts her thumb in her mouth. I wait as expectantly as the children do for Nick to start speaking.

  “Right,” he begins. I imagine he is squeezing his toes. That’s what he always does when he’s nervous; he says it makes all your nerves go to your feet. “Your mother and I have decided – well, we thought it might be better if we lived apart for a bit.”

  There is silence.

  “We still love you all very much,” he goes on.

  People always say that, I want to tell him, but then it is true.

  “And we will both carry on looking after you. Just not at the same time. As much as before.”

  On a scale of speeches, it is hardly a classic, but at least he said it, which is more than I could have done.

  And now it sinks in. Emily starts weeping first, closely followed by the other two. I try to console them. Charlotte is the first to speak.

  “But why? Don’t you love each other any more? Are you getting divorced? Amelia’s parents got divorced and she had to move to Germany.”

  “No one is going to move to Germany,” I reassure her. “We do love each other, of course we do and we always will. But somehow it’s just not enough any more.”

  Emily is totally inconsolable. I would do anything to erase the pain on her little face. Even her cat’s ears are wobbling with grief. Edward just clings into me, sobbing.

  “Listen, kids, it really won’t really make much difference to you. I was away during the week anyway and I will still come back at weekends and see you, and you can come to England and see me too,” says Nick in his most jovial Irish voice.

  “Of course it won’t be the same,” snaps Charlotte. “You’ll be divorced. And anyway, why are you getting divorced if you still love each other?”

  “Well, as your mother says, sometimes loving each other is not enough. And I have also, er, met someone else,” he admits sheepishly.

  “Who?” says Emily. “Who is she?”

  “She is called Cécile, and you’ll really like her,” says Nick.

  “No I won’t,” says Emily. “I’ll hate her.”

  That’s my girl.

  “So will I,” says Edward, extricating himself from my hug. “I’m going to kill her with my Spiderman sword.”

  “That’s not very nice,” I say, taking the moral high ground and suddenly feeling rather saintly. “She might be a very nice girl.” As if.

  “Do you know her, Mummy?” asks Emily.

  “No,” I say. “But I am looking forward to meeting her. If Daddy likes her then she must be very special.”

  If Daddy likes her more than he likes us, is what I want to say, but I don’t. I feel the anger and bitterness coming back. Best to end this here before I start yelling at him for hurting my children like this.

  “Now who wants to come and look at the fish in the fountain?” I ask. No response. “And then when the bakery opens we’ll buy some bread and some cakes for tea. Come on, last one on their bike is a rotten banana.” I get up and chivvy them all along.

  Nick grabs me as I go to walk out. “I suppose I’d better get to the airport. Sorry I can’t come with you, it sounds lovely.”

  “That’s fine,” I say, looking at him. “You can be the rotten banana.”

  Rule 16

  Anticipation is almost the best part

  The French Art of Having Affairs

  The buds are blooming; it is like the spring fairy has waved her magic wand over the vineyards. Suddenly the vines are no longer upside-down candelabras but vibrant green carriers of new life. The children and I are settling into a routine at home.

  It is now the middle of April. One month has passed since the weekend we told them we were getting divorced. They are fine. It is extraordinary how adaptable children are, which is mainly an advantage since they get over things very quickly. But it can also be a disadvantage – if life is incredibly exciting or easy, they get used to that very quickly too. Some friends of ours moved back from the Middle East over a year ago and their children are still complaining about the lack of maid and driver in Streatham.

 
; I walk through my vineyards; first the Syrah, then the Grenache, the Viognier and a small parcel of Cabernet Sauvignon, planted more than twenty-five years ago and potentially very valuable. They are all growing well, looking healthy and promising, rather like my children: Edward the blond like the Viognier, and the twins the two younger reds. But hopefully the vines will be a bit more profitable.

  I love the vineyard with the Cabernet Sauvignon in it, and not just because it is the most valuable – it is the oldest and so looks the most established, and the views of the house and the surrounding mountains when you stand in the middle of it are gorgeous.

  Somehow the ground is slightly raised and gives a 360-degree view of the graceful lines and colours of the landscape. It is also home to my favourite tree, a beautiful olive with an elegant, slightly twisted trunk and abundant branches with silver-green leaves. Often after dinner I walk and stand underneath it for a bit to contemplate the views around me.

  From the sixteen hectares of vines I can produce just over 100,000 bottles of wine a year. The plan is to sell them at a cost price of around three euros a bottle. The cost of producing them is around one euro a bottle. Most of any profit will go back into the business, but even if I am left with a tiny bit of cash after the first harvest I will be happy – and extremely lucky, if all the articles I have read about the wine business are true.

  It is the most lovely day; I stand for a moment just breathing in the air and looking around me. There is never a day that goes by when I don’t appreciate the beauty of Sainte Claire. Looking at the elegant lines of the building and the mountains in the distance fills me with calm. The light today is particularly stunning: a translucent light filled with hope and warmth.

  However low I get, there is something about this place that gives me hope – in part because the sun is often shining. Calypso always says that even if there is bad weather, it feels somehow as if it is trying to get better. Unlike England, which is always the other way around.

  This morning I had a letter from Nick’s lawyer. The divorce proceedings will be simple; neither of us is keen to spend money on lawyers that could go into the vineyard. I wonder how I will feel when the divorce actually comes through. Depressed? Liberated? Or maybe it will be a bit like losing your virginity or turning thirty – there’ll be no discernible difference.

  I have heard of people running riot minutes after their divorce comes through, dancing on tables and so on. I have been known to dance on tables, well one table, in St Tropez – but divorce hardly seems a reason to do so.

  I can’t quite believe how quickly it is happening. I never imagined Nick and I being divorced; it seems such an odd idea, and I don’t think it’s really hit me yet.

  I take a deep breath and keep walking through the vineyards. Wolfie follows. I still have a lot of work to do, but things could be worse. The sun is shining, the children are at their lovely little school and oh, I see a familiar and handsome figure sauntering towards me.

  I walk to meet Jean-Claude, who smiles broadly when he sees me. It is nice to feel so welcome.

  “I could have you shot for wandering over my vineyards,” I joke.

  “Bonjour Madame,” he says, kissing me on both cheeks in that very Parisian way. I note with interest that I have been promoted from hand kissing and missing. I wonder what comes next. The anticipation is compelling and killing, at the same time.

  He really is looking good. What is wrong with me at the moment? After years of not feeling remotely interested in sex or men I am suddenly experiencing lust. It’s a feeling I haven’t had for a long time and thought I hadn’t missed. But now it’s come back I realise how bland life was without it. Johnny is still in LA but happily there is someone else to stir my new-found feelings.

  “How are the buds?” he asks.

  “Beautiful,” I say, blushing slightly. “Just look at them. Aren’t they glorious?”

  He looks at the buds and then a leaf, and then another. “Mon dieu,” he mutters. “What have you sprayed them with?”

  “Well, nothing yet. I was waiting for you to come back so I could borrow your tractor. Mine doesn’t seem to want to start,” I say. “Why?”

  “You have a huge attack of mildew going on here, ma chérie. You could lose your entire crop. We need to act immediately.”

  “What does that mean?” I shriek. “Quick, what do we need to do?”

  “Mildew is one of the most notorious vine diseases there is, it attacks everything. Look at the underside of this leaf; it is infested,” he says, showing me a leaf that is grey on one side. He takes out his mobile phone from his pocket and dials a number. Then he barks some orders at someone; I understand very little except the words tracteur and vite.

  “Right, where is Colette?” he asks.

  “She only works one day a week now,” I say, “I can’t really afford to have her for more.”

  “Call her and tell her to come. The three of us will tackle the vines with handheld containers and my foreman will spray using the tractor.”

  I feel shaky; did he really say I could lose the entire crop? “Is everything going to be all right?” I ask him nervously. We’re talking about thousands and thousands of pounds worth of vines here; vines that could eventually make 300,000 euros worth of wine.

  “I think we have it just in time. Just pray it doesn’t rain, and call Colette now,” He rushes off to meet the tractor that is arriving from his fields.

  I call Colette, who sounds as if she was asleep but says she will come straight away. Then I call Calypso and ask her if she could get the children from school.

  “Problems with the vines, eh?” she asks me. How did she know?

  Jean-Claude acts like an army general telling us all what to do. I am sent to spray the Syrah by hand with a contraption that looks like a diver’s air canister; I march up and down the aisles of vines spraying the horrible smelling sulphur on them – apparently the only thing that can protect them from mildew. Jean-Claude is at the other end of the vineyard, the plan being that we meet in the middle. Colette is spraying the Sauvignon Blanc and the grumpy foreman in the tractor is in the Grenache field that Jean-Claude says is the most infected.

  I walk as quickly as I can in my rubber boots. I am wearing rubber gloves to protect my hands from this poison that will, I hope, save my vines but makes everything it touches a livid blue. I stomp along from plant to plant, not daring to think what would have happened if my French knight and his gleaming green tractor had not shown up.

  We must have been going an hour and a half or so before we meet in the middle of the field. Jean-Claude kisses me on both cheeks.

  “There have to be some perks to the job,” he smiles. “Come on, let’s help Colette finish the Sauvignon Blanc.”

  I follow him through the vines, grateful and now even more taken with this elegant aristocrat from next door.

  After my night in St Tropez, I thought Johnny might be the one, and indeed, every time he sends a text or calls, which is most days, I feel like jumping in the air. But looking at Jean-Claude I am no longer so sure. Maybe I should really get in touch with my inner French woman and have both. That would be one way to mark my impending divorce.

  We find Colette, who is halfway through the Sauvignon Blanc vineyard, our biggest. When I thank her again for coming at such short notice, she nods and says “C’est normal”, which basically means anyone would have done the same, it is correct behaviour. One thing I have learnt after a few months in France is that you know you’re in trouble in France when someone tells you “C’est pas normal”.

  We finish the vineyard after another half an hour and I offer everyone a cup of tea on the kitchen terrace in the afternoon sun. We take off our rubber gloves and sit down. Even Jacques the foreman joins us, although I suspect it is only so he can berate me on my ignorance of vines. I cut everyone a slice of a quatre-quarts cake I made yesterday.

  “I love this terrace,” says Jean-Claude. “My grandmother would always have meals here when
she could, even in the winter if it was warm enough. Sometimes I thought I could smell her cooking from home.”

  I don’t know if it’s the relief of saving the crop or the sunshine or the fact that Jean-Claude has kissed me four times in the same afternoon, but I suddenly feel inexplicably happy. I smile at Colette, who gives me a rare smile back; she actually is very pretty when she smiles.

  “Thank you so much,” I say in French and then continue in a mixture of the two languages. “I feel very stupid and I can’t thank you all enough for saving the day. I just hope there aren’t any other nasty surprises around the corner.”

  “There are always surprises around the corner,” says Jean-Claude smiling, “not all of them nasty. But you do need to watch out when it comes to fermentation. That is another potentially very dangerous juncture.”

  “Why?” I ask in English as Colette and her former father-in-law nip off to solve the problem with my tractor.

  Jean-Claude leans closer to me and looks me in the eyes. I find I can’t do anything but stare back at him and breathe in the smell of his aftershave, which is a relief after all that sulphur.

  “Because fermentation takes place in two stages,” he begins softly. “The first one happens immediately, and it is rapid, like a tumultuous love affair. The second one takes place in the spring the year after the first. Extreme heat or cold at any time can interrupt the fermentation and if it has to be restarted the quality of the wine is rarely good.”

  “Well, I’ll be sure to be careful,” I say slowly, partly because the way he said ‘tumultuous love affair’ has sent me into a tailspin, and partly because I had no idea fermentation could be so complicated. How will I ever cope? Trust Nick to run off and leave me with all this. He might just need to be here when it comes to harvest –it’s his business too, in the sense that he also paid for it. We have still got to work all that out, but of course he’s hardly in a position to demand anything.