Love in a Warm Climate Read online

  The children arrive back with Calypso and her two kids. Colette comes back to join us; Jacques has taken the tractor home for further repairs. We chat and drink tea and listen to the happy sounds of the children tearing around the garden, playing cowboys and Indians. This is what I imagined life in the south of France would be like; sunshine, good friends and happy children. I feel at home.

  Rule 17

  Remember that nothing tastes as good as thin feels

  The French Art of Having Affairs

  Since the mildew incident more than three weeks ago, I have been studying my adopted industry with renewed vigour. For example, should anyone happen to ask me what fermentation is while I am standing in the supermarket queue, I will be able to tell them that fermentation is the process by which alcohol is created. It is a little like the process yeast goes through when it rises. Grape juice when left alone ferments naturally to 14 degrees of alcohol and then stops.

  I would also be able to tell the, by now rather impressed, shopper that one should never lean over a vat when wine is fermenting in it because breathing in the carbon dioxide created during fermentation can be very dangerous. I have also learnt, among other things, that Château Latour is so famous because it is one of the five first growths in the 1885 classification of red wines.

  But perhaps the most surprising thing I have learnt is that all grape juice is white. Amazing. So where does red wine come from you may ask? It becomes red after it comes into contact with the skin of black grapes, as red grapes are called. I have also learned some extraordinary names of grape varieties, like Inzolia, which sounds like a disease to me, and Nerello Mascalese, which could easily be an Italian shoe designer.

  But while my knowledge of the wine business is improving, my finances are not. Nick pays me £2000 a month alimony but this has to cover all our costs: the vineyard and us. It is not enough. But he also pays the mortgage so I can’t really complain and he can’t really do any more.

  *

  Running a business in France is not as simple as just getting to know your product. You have endless amounts of bureaucratic hassle to deal with, and also the social security people just raid your bank account when they think it’s time for you to pay some more of their astronomical social charges. My credit cards are maxed out, as I have had to pay half the bottling in advance on them. And of course I won’t have a single bottle of wine ready to sell until early next year. I’ve stopped looking at my bank account as I can’t bear to see the charges going out every time a standing order bounces, making the overdraft bigger every day.

  On top of all this is the work running the vineyard, which is a full-time job for at least three people. I still have Colette once a week, but it’s not nearly enough. I have given up yoga for the time being in favour of farm-work. It is early May there is so much more to be done than at the beginning of the year. I have never been so fit in my life from lugging vats around and trellising and weeding. I can see how Colette’s arms are in such good shape.

  “Charlotte, Emily, Edward, it’s time to go to school now,” I shout. The children have been Skype-ing Nick on my computer most mornings so they can keep in touch. He has been out to see them twice but it is becoming more expensive as summer gets closer, and we both agree we need to save as much money as possible to plough into the vineyard. It is still 30 per cent his business, which is fair enough as he is funding it.

  There’s still no sign of the children so I run upstairs to get them. “Am I imagining it?” I ask, “or did I ask you to come downstairs?” They all look up at me in a horribly guilty manner.

  “What the hell have you done?” I demand. “Have you broken my computer?” I rush round to their side of the desk to see what is going on. And there on my computer screen is a woman with thick dark wavy hair and brown eyes wearing a pale pink suit. She looks very professional.

  “I ‘ave to go now,” she says in a French accent. “A bientot. Here’s Nick.”

  Nick comes into view but I switch him off. Very useful thing, Skype.

  The children go downstairs and cycle to school without a murmur. So that was Cécile. I suppose I would have to admit that she’s attractive. And thin. Well, what did I expect? What did I imagine she would be like? I suppose I didn’t want to imagine anything.

  I stomp back though the vineyards in a foul mood. Stealing my husband is one thing, but to ingratiate herself with my children – gggggrrrr.

  As I cross onto our lane, the postman comes bombing towards me in his van. He hands me the post, says Bonjour Madame and smiles before driving off.

  I look through it; more admin and demands for money, plus an official-looking letter from England. I open it, hoping it won’t be a tax demand or something equally horrid. It is another letter from the lawyer about the final details of the divorce that need sorting out.

  I want to yell at someone, to tear the thing up, to kick and scream and shout and protest. The sight of Cécile talking to my children and the letter in my hand make the whole split so very final, so real, that there is just no way back.

  My life, our life, as I knew it is now well and truly over. I have to move on, I need to go forward, but at the moment I just feel like weeping.

  I sit down on my doorstep and read through the details of my broken marriage in stark black and white. The visitation rights (makes it sound like we’re in a loony bin), my monthly allowance, how Christmas will work from now on (one year the kids are with me and then New Year with him, the following year the other way around). Oh, I am so looking forward to those Christmases alone while he and Cécile get to do the stockings and spend Christmas morning with my children on their bed peeling satsumas and wondering why Father Christmas always insists on putting a brazil nut in the stocking.

  This isn’t what I wanted, damn it. This isn’t how the story was supposed to end.

  Rule 18

  Body hair is not an option

  The French Art of Having Affairs

  People always say that things come in threes. London buses, for example, or accidents. But I am still somewhat surprised as a third attractive man strolls into my life.

  I get home from the school run with Audrey, who has come for coffee, to find a young man in jeans and a white T-shirt standing on my doorstep.

  “Hmmm,” I whisper to her. “Maybe he is part of a new ‘get over your divorce’ programme run by the local council. How very thoughtful of them.”

  As we approach he smiles and walks towards us. He has what you would call an inviting smile; broad and cheeky.

  He looks like he is of Indian descent, with slightly wavy shoulder-length jet-black hair and dark eyes. He is wearing a dark-red and white checked shirt, which is just a tiny bit too tight and shows off a muscular torso. Is that on purpose, I wonder, or did it shrink in the wash? His jeans are black and held up with a black leather belt. He is just a bit taller than me. I would guess he is in his mid-twenties. He reminds me of a less bulked up version of Jacob from Twilight.

  He holds out his hand. Audrey in typical French fashion kisses him immediately. They are shameless. Looking quite amused, he turns to me.

  “Hello, I’m Kamal,” he says. “I’ve come to work for you.”

  “What?” I say, shaking his outstretched hand. “Why? Doing what?”

  “Well, looks like you need some help,” he grins, nodding towards my unweeded vineyards. I am trying to go as organic as I can right from the beginning, the aim being to go totally organic by year two or three. And the weeds love me for it. As does mildew.

  I look at Kamal in dismay; much as I would love to have this young man sort out my weeds, it is just not possible.

  “I would dearly love to employ you,” I begin. “But I just can’t afford to take anyone on at the moment.”

  “No worries,” he says. “My salary is paid, I just need a roof over my head. I’m happy to plonk my sleeping bag down in the cave or a barn.”

  He points to his luggage: a rolled-up sleeping bag, a leather bag and what lo
oks like a yoga mat in a thin black tubular cotton bag.

  I sense Johnny Fray’s involvement here. We have been in constant touch and he knows how frantic and broke I am.

  “Who sent you?” I ask. “Where are you from?”

  “What does it matter?” Audrey says in French, nudging me but never removing her gaze from Kamal.

  “I’m from South Africa. My parents have vineyards close to Cape Town, I’ve worked with vines since I left school.” He smiles. “I’m travelling around Europe for a year and want to get some experience of European vineyards.”

  “And who is paying you?”

  “My employee would prefer to remain anonymous. That’s what he told me to say.” He gulps and colours slightly. “If it is a he that is.”

  How like Johnny to be mysterious. I suppose he knew I would say no because I’ve already rejected his offers of money. But this is different. I can at least pay Johnny back when I start selling the wine, I shouldn’t think Kamal’s salary is enormous, and if I don’t have some time out of the vineyards to focus on how to sell the stuff, none of it will ever be sold. I would be a fool to say no to Kamal. And anyway, Audrey would never forgive me.

  “Okay,” I say, “you’re on. You can live in the spare room until we get the wine-pickers’ accommodation sorted out in the barn, which will be one of the jobs you can help me with. I’ll show you to your room.”

  “So, is this your first time in France?” purrs Audrey, sidling up to him. How do French women manage to make such an innocuous question sound like an invitation to spend the afternoon naked in bed discussing Justine by the Marquis de Sade?

  And another thing. Audrey is wearing jeans and a white T-shirt today, yet she looks incredibly chic. I guarantee you could put me in the same jeans and white T-shirt and I would look scruffy. What’s that all about? Another of life’s great mysteries, along with what is neutral pelvis and where do odd socks go?

  I practically have to drag Audrey out of the spare room so Kamal can unpack in peace.

  “You’re here on another mission,” I remind her. She is going to give my bathroom a makeover, or rather encourage me to continue my makeover by making sure I have the right products to turn me from frumpy to yummy mummy.

  Unsurprisingly, nothing in my bathroom impresses her.

  “Neutrogena, bah, what is this?” She picks up my moisturiser and eyes it with the same suspicion a turkey might view an invitation to a Christmas feast. I thought I had splashed out – normally I just use Sainsbury’s own brand.

  She rifles through my bathroom shelf, picking things up and reading the labels on the bottles. After a few minutes she turns to me.

  “Is this all?” she asks looking around.

  “Yes, why?”

  “What do you use to cleanse your face?”

  “Well, I have eye make-up remover, and then just water,” I tell her.

  “Water is not enough, you need a proper cleanser. And where is your exfoliator?”

  “My what?”

  Audrey sighs. “You should exfoliate at least twice a week; face and body. It removes all the dead skin cells, which if left on your skin create oxidants and are incredibly ageing.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “As a French woman, the souci de soi or personal grooming is something we are brought up with. Creams, lotions, potions, even vitamin supplements are indispensable allies in our battle to look better than all other French women.”

  “It sounds exhausting. I think I might just surrender here and now.”

  Audrey laughs. “It’s not just about looking good you know. It’s about feeling good about yourself too. The more care you take of yourself, the more self-esteem you have. And it really is not that exhausting, it is just a question of habit. Cleansing morning and night, exfoliating twice a week, a mask once a week and a facial once a month. Those are the basics. And you should read a lot. For example, you must get Madame Figaro every week. This week there was a wonderful article all about pubic hair.”

  “What about pubic hair?”

  “How it is vanishing.”

  “Mine was fine last time I looked.”

  “No, it is no longer acceptable to walk around with a cat between your legs. You need to get it removed. Or at least most of it.”

  “Why? Says who? Who has the right to tell me what to do with my pubic hair? It’s no one else’s business.”

  Audrey shakes her head. “And it will continue to be no one else’s business unless you do something about it. And the right is all yours. As the article said, it is your decision whether you want a forest, a formal garden or even une éminence désertique. I have gone for the latter and feel much better. But before we deal with your forest or lack of it, we need to go shopping for all the things you are missing.”

  “But I’m broke,” I say. “I can’t afford to go buying a lot of expensive creams.”

  I tell her about the situation with the vineyard and the money Nick is sending to keep us afloat. I am working night and day on the vines and cannot afford to hire any more help. Which also means I can’t even think about earning money elsewhere. And who knows how Kamal will work out? Basically we have a very limited amount of cash until I start making money from selling wine. And that’s assuming I can sell any wine at all.

  Audrey listens in silence and then nods. “I had a client in Paris who was a wine-maker,” she says. “He sold wine bonds up front to finance the first year’s harvest. Basically he contacted all his friends and contacts and offered them a stake in the production: a certain amount of bottles for a certain amount of money.”

  “How does that work?”

  “Well, how much were you thinking of selling the wine for?”

  “Around £7 a bottle, with maybe some higher-quality more barrel-matured reds made from the Cabernet Sauvignon going for around £10 a bottle. The wholesale price would be around £3 per bottle.”

  Audrey does some mental arithmetic. “So if a case of 12 bottles of, say, the rosé would normally cost £84, the wine-bond holders will get it for £60 because they have paid up front for it. You will have to pay the shipping costs, of course, but you will still be making almost double per case than you would be if you sold it for the wholesale price, which makes a total of £36 per case.”

  “It’s a great idea,” I say. “But do you really think people will be interested?”

  “That’s up to you. You have to make them interested. Now, do you have a pen and paper? I want to make a list of products you need to buy. I think I had better come shopping with you, though, I dread to think what you might end up putting on your face otherwise.”

  We hear Kamal leave the spare room to go outside.

  “He’s cute eh?” says Audrey winking at me. “And the location is convenient.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I say. “I’m not even divorced yet. I’m not ready to start a relationship with anyone, let alone someone ten years younger than me.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of a relationship,” she replies. “But you have to get under someone to get over someone.”

  When Audrey has gone I get together a list of potential clients and put all their email addresses in a group called ‘wine bond’. I put old contacts on there, my mother’s ex-husbands (they have to be of some use), friends, all the mums from school in London – heaven knows, most of them could do with a drink – and basically anyone else I can think of who might have an as yet undiscovered yearning to buy some wine from an unknown winemaker.

  Once I have been through my whole address book I have fifty-two names on it. It’s a start. Then I set about writing the email.

  “Be among the first customers to sample this year’s vintage Sainte Claire,” I begin. “This exclusive offer is only for friends and family. You can purchase wine bonds for the red, white and rosé wines. These bonds will translate to wine once it is bottled and ready. The cost will be £60 a case as opposed to £84, delivery to your home included.”

  As I write the las
t bit I say a silent prayer that none of the takers live in Scotland.

  “Sign up for this exclusive wine bond and you could be drinking…” Help. I need a name for my wine. What should I call it? Château Sainte Claire? Bit dull. Château Sophie’s Plonk? Not that appealing.

  Just then my mobile phone peeps. It is a message from Jean-Claude.

  ‘I see you have a new vigneron,’ it reads. ‘If I didn’t know you prefer older men, I might be jealous, x’

  I laugh and send him a message back, suggesting he come for dinner. I press send and almost simultaneously the name of my wine comes to me: The Arrogant Frog.

  I am supposed to be cooking dinner but keep having to run upstairs to check my emails. At last at 6pm I have one response, from Johnny.

  ‘Hey gal,’ it reads, ‘put me down for £2000. This is a great idea, will pass it on to some mates. Love ya’.

  “Yipppppeeeeeee!” I yell so loudly that the children all come running upstairs. “We’ve sold our first wine.” I am jumping around the room in a state of total excitement.

  “Is that all?” says Charlotte, and they all trundle back downstairs.

  Who would have thought that my computer, which was such a source of irritation earlier today, could bring me such joy?

  And what a hero Johnny is. I email him immediately: “Thank you for everything,” I write. “Love Cunningham xxx.”

  He emails back “Three xxx’s? I might have to buy another £2k’s worth! xxx”

  Johnny’s other godsend, Kamal, is already working away brilliantly and has got rid of the major weeds in the biggest vineyard. We’re never going to get rid of all of them, but the big ones take the nourishment from the soil that we want going to the vine to create a juicy, flavoursome grape.

  By the end of the week I will have Johnny’s money in the bank, which will pay for wine labels. These of course have yet to be designed, and I still need to buy all sorts of tools still needed for the upcoming harvest. But as of now my vineyard is a business, which it wasn’t a few hours ago. Because in a business you need customers, and now that I have one, I can imagine getting more. Even if Johnny is likely to be by far the most generous.