Love in a Warm Climate Read online

  Jean-Claude moves his hands from my back to my buttocks and pulls them closer to him. He starts to kiss my neck, which sends shivers of lust all through my body. I move my hands up to his head and run my fingers through his thick hair. It is when I feel him undoing my trousers that I suddenly realise that if I’m not careful, I could end up naked on the kitchen floor with a Frenchman. Not that there is anything wrong with that in itself, but a) one of the children might walk in, b) I’m not sure getting laid the same week as your decree nisi comes through is good for your sanity, c) I still haven’t harvested my pubes to French standards, and d) It wasn’t many hours ago I was kissing Johnny and I should really be taking things a bit more slowly.

  Having said all that, I put my hands on his hips. Hmmm, I could certainly get used to this. These French do have a way of kissing that is so, well, French. I caress his body and come across something long and hard – wow, really long and hard. But that’s a strange place for a… Then I realise it is cold and made of glass.

  I pull away from him. “Jean-Claude why are you carrying a bottle of wine?” I ask laughing. “Surely you don’t get that desperate for a drink?” I pull the bottle out of his pocket and look at the label: vinaigre de cidre.

  “Why do you have a bottle of vinegar in your pocket?”

  Jean-Claude laughs. “Oh that, it’s a present for you, from Provence.”

  “Thank you,” I smile. “How sweet of you.”

  Somehow the bottle of vinegar has broken the kissing spell and what it was fast turning into.

  “I must go,” he says. “I promised to call my aunt at 9pm. Thank you for a perfect kiss. Can I take you out for dinner next week?”

  “Of course.”

  I show him out and he walks off towards his château, but not before we have another massive snog outside the house. Then I run upstairs to watch him from my terrace. I love the way he walks; it’s so graceful, almost feline.

  When I get there, I see him talking to Kamal. I watch them chat for a bit then go in.

  I walk into the kitchen and put the vinegar on the table. Vinaigre de cidre de Bretagne, reads the full label. Strange: I thought he said it came from Provence? Oh well, I suppose he could have bought it in Provence. It strikes me now that he seemed in a rather frenetic mood. And I still don’t quite understand how we ended up snogging.

  But I hope he comes back soon, and that he sees the children soon – they adore him, and I love watching them all speak French together. It makes me feel so…cosmopolitan. I can even understand most of what they’re saying.

  Jean-Claude is one of those people children just adore, I don’t know what it is about him, but they seem to trust and like him. A few days ago when Charlotte fell off her bike on the way back from the village chemist, he arrived carrying her in his arms, her grazed knees bleeding and tears streaming down her little face. He walked into the kitchen where I was making dinner and she insisted he stay with her until I had done the nasty antiseptic thing and got the plaster on. I kept thinking about that sad thing he said the first night he came for dinner about not having children.

  *

  The morning after the French kiss, once I’ve done the school run and an hour’s frenetic cave-organising, I meet Audrey at village chemist which is amazingly well stocked. I am told this is perfectly normal, because French women will tolerate nothing less. I am buying all the things she has told me I need. The list seems endless: night cream, eye cream, slimming cream, bust gel, hand cream, lip plumper, and so it goes on. It seems every part of my body needs an individual cream – even my feet.

  “I hate diets,” says Audrey. “I’d rather die. That’s why I buy slimming creams.”

  “But surely a slimming cream can’t work? How can a cream possibly make you thin?”

  Audrey gives me an old-fashioned look. “You’re so Anglo-Saxon,” she tells me sternly.

  In an effort to prove I am changing my Anglo-Saxon ways, I tell her briefly about my weekend.

  “Mon dieu!” she exclaims. “You’ve been a busy girl. Good for you. This is a very French attitude; always have a back up. Men are notoriously unreliable so you need to have a reserve at all times. For example, I always carry two lip-glosses, just in case one runs out.”

  “I feel guilty all the time and a voice inside keeps telling me I have to make a choice between them,” I protest.

  “Can’t you tell the voice to shut up? I mean it is a perfect situation; one lives next door and the other travels all the time. So when the film star is off filming you entertain yourself with the other.”

  I sigh. “Johnny would really not like that idea.”

  “Of course not, but he won’t know.”

  “No, but I will,” I say. “I just don’t want to treat him like that, he’s been so good to me, and we go back a long way. It’s almost like fate has finally brought us together, although I wish it hadn’t happened quite so quickly. I just don’t feel ready yet.”

  “Stop being too serious about all this. Just enjoy the attention and have some fun, Sophie. You don’t have to have either of them forever.”

  She’s right of course. Why am I being so puritanical about this? Or as Audrey would say “Anglo-Saxon”.

  “What perfume do you wear?” she asks me, as she catches me looking at a bottle of Lily of the Valley.

  “I wasn’t actually going to buy it,” I defend myself. “It’s just that my grandmother used to wear it and I was very fond of her.”

  “A woman should have what I call a signature-scent,” says Audrey. “I have been wearing Cuir de Russie by Chanel since my first boyfriend gave it to me when I was only 17. And I have been faithful to it ever since.”

  “Unlike to your boyfriends?”

  “Bien sûr,” she says. “Some things in life demand absolute fidelity. Perfume is essential. As Coco Chanel said; ‘A woman who doesn’t wear perfume has no future’.”

  While I am paying for my new stash of goodies, we see Calypso racing past the front door of the chemist on a bicycle, closely followed by Tim. I notice with some relief he doesn’t have a gun with him.

  We dash outside to see what happens, Calypso makes a bee-line for the bakery, runs in and locks the door behind her. Tim is outside shouting and stamping his feet.

  “It must be his old Gulf War Syndrome,” I say to Audrey. “But it’s not even windy.”

  Audrey looks perplexed. “Gulf War Syndrome? What is that?”

  “Nothing you can use to make your thighs look thinner,” I explain. “Calypso’s husband was in the Gulf War and sometimes the wind reminds him of it and it sends him off his head and he tries to murder her.”

  “Aaah,” says Audrey, “and I thought he was just trying to murder her because she’s having a lesbian affair with Colette.”

  For some reason this news doesn’t even surprise me.

  Rule 21

  The end of an affair is the beginning of another

  The French Art of Having Affairs

  “It’s all over,” Lucy weeps down the phone. “Josh is going back to the US. He’s been offered a job there, one he can’t turn down. Oh Soph, what am I going to do? He was the highlight of my day. The thing I most looked forward to doing was running my fingers through his hair and feeling his body on top of mine.”

  “When does he go?”

  “Another three weeks. Another three weeks of heaven and then…”

  “Then you can focus on your husband and children. Come on Luce, you knew this wasn’t forever, affairs with young men never are. You had a great run of it, you got away with it, you should be happy. Take a Carla approach.”

  “What and find another young man? Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Noooo. I know Josh was a one-off. You’re not as, whatever, as Carla. But just take it for what it was – great fun – and now get on with the rest of your life. Your ADULT life.”

  Lucy grunts.

  “You could always write a book about it? An anonymous memoir; call it Sex and the Married Wom
an and write it under a pseudonym,” I joke.

  “That’s a great idea,” says Lucy, finally stopping sobbing. “My father always used to say those who can do and those who can’t – well, they just write about it. At least that will take my mind off things. And I won’t have to look far to find a publisher…”

  I can almost hear her brain whirring.

  “But I am going to miss him,” she goes on. “And I won’t ever be able to look at my kitchen table without remembering him.”

  “I know, I know, but you can relive all those moments together through your memoir.”

  “Good plan. Well it’s a plan, which is more than I had. Gotta go: Antonia’s just come in, she needs help with her homework.”

  I call Sarah to tell her about Lucy and ask her to keep an eye on her.

  “How are you sweetpea?”

  “I’m fine, thanks, gearing up for the harvest. Today I spent the morning in the vineyards. Bloody hell it’s hot. It feels like the sun has sucked the countryside dry. The roots of the vines must stretch all the way to the centre of the earth to get moisture. This afternoon is dedicated to washing out barrels ready to put the wine into. How is Mr Enormous?”

  “Enormous and I are still in a state of bliss. But I have decided to be mature about it all and take it for what it is.”

  “And what is it?”

  “A rampant, gorgeous, sexy affair. His wife and he seem to have some kind of arrangement whereby she doesn’t really care what he does during the week up in London, but his part of the deal is that he goes home at weekends, and he stays married to her.”

  “How very convenient for him. So where does that leave you?”

  “Alone at weekends, I suppose. But also a free agent, free to do what I want, when I want, and also not be obliged to listen to some bloke snoring next to me. OK so sometimes I wish I could have him to myself, but as that’s not going to happen I’m just going to have to be happy with what I can get.”

  “But Sarah, there’s no future in it. What happens next? I mean where’s the happy ending? Do you want to be a mistress all your life? Don’t you want to be a wife?”

  “I have been thinking a lot about this over the past few months. I’ve even started meditating to get a clearer picture of my life and where it’s going. I have come to the conclusion that we are all, as women, conditioned to think that the way forward is marriage and kids. And I always thought I wanted that too. But you know there are other options, other ways to live. And being a mistress is one of them.”

  “But what happens when he gets too old to get it up, or he loses interest in you? Or you get too old to be a mistress. How many mistresses over 60 do you know? You could end up terribly lonely.”

  “Just because you’re married doesn’t mean you can’t get lonely,” says Sarah.

  She has a point.

  Rule 22

  Personal grooming is your only religion

  The French Art of Having Affairs

  I am naked in front of my bathroom mirror. In front of me there are five bottles of creams. I start at the bottom with the foot cream. Onto my weary, vineyard-walking feet it goes, this pink peppermint concoction. Then I pick up the anti-cellulite cream. This has to go on in upward strokes on my thighs, buttock and, according to the instructions, ‘other areas in need of attention’. This could be just about everywhere, but I focus on the most obvious bits.

  Maybe as an experiment I should do one buttock but not the other, just to see if it makes any difference at all? But then who wants one buttock bigger than the other? Or even smaller than the other?

  Next is the bust gel. I do as the instructions tell me and sweep it upwards towards my neck, I guess the idea being that your breasts miraculously go in an upwards direction as well. It’s worth a try.

  My phone rings while I am in the middle of this exercise. Hastily I wipe my hands on my buttocks, hoping they don’t grow nipples. I run for the phone and almost kill myself falling over on my slippery peppermint-cream-covered feet.

  “Hello?”

  “Oh, hi there Soph, it’s Nick. What you up to? You sound out of breath.”

  “Not much,” I lie. “Just running for the phone. How about you?”

  “Oh this and that,” he replies. “How are the kids?”

  “Asleep thankfully,” I say, inching my way slowly back to the bathroom to grab a towel.

  I feel slightly vulnerable talking to Nick in the nude. Especially now I have almost no pubic hair. Yes, I went to the beautician and I think there was a breakdown in communication because after a lot of pain and 40 euros there is now a Hitler moustache where my furry mound used to be.

  “Today was just awful. Edward’s girlfriend decided she was in love with Charles, typical French hussy, so he came home crying, saying his heart was broken in a thousand bits. Charlotte had some awful French grammar homework I had to try and help her with, but you know how much of an idea I have about French grammar, and as for the French poems they have to learn every week, oh my God, they are soooo difficult…”

  I go on telling him about our day. It is lovely to be able to talk to someone about the children. Jean-Claude is great with them, as is Johnny, but talking to their father is somehow very different. It can be a lonely old job being a single parent.

  “Anyway, sorry to go on, how is everything with you? You know we start the harvest in a few days, if you’re bored you could always come and help?”

  “I’d love to,” says Nick. “And I love hearing about the kids. I really miss them. I even miss their bickering. We’ll come out soon to see them, but I’m not sure I can make it to the harvest, Soph.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, that’s what I rang to tell you. Cécile and I are getting married.”

  I am in shock but try not to sound like I care.

  “Wow, that was quick. You don’t hang around, do you?

  “I could say the same about you,” responds my ex-soon-to-be-Cécile’s husband. “The decree absolute should be through by the end of August and we wanted to get married in September before the weather gets too bad. That’s when the harvest is, right?”

  This conversation has now become almost surreal. I am standing semi-naked in front of the mirror rubbing potions into my in-parts bald body and Nick is telling me he is getting married. Any minute now the mad hatter will appear and offer me a cup of tea. Or hopefully something stronger.

  “The exact date will depend on the maturity of the grapes and the weather, but yes, normally it starts the last week of August and goes on until early September,” I explain in a rather shaky voice. “And erm, congratulations,” I add, although obviously I don’t mean it.

  “Thanks,” says Nick. “I’m glad we’re still friends.”

  “Yes, me too,” I say. “Maybe I should get married too and we could have a double wedding, save on costs.”

  Nick laughs. “It’s grand to hear you’ve not lost your sense of humour, Soph. And I meant to tell you, you looked great when we saw you in France, really fantastic.”

  You ain’t seen nothing yet, I mouth to my Hitler moustache in the mirror.

  “Thanks. I have finally got in touch with my inner French woman,” I say. “It’s been an expensive, and sometimes painful, encounter, but worth it.”

  “I love the look of your inner French woman Soph. She’s grand.”

  “Well, must get on,” I say quickly before I start enjoying his flattery. “I have nails to file and eyebrows to pluck. Thanks for calling to let me know. Bye.”

  I hang up and go back to my bust gel. I smother the cream vigorously upwards from the base of my breasts to my neck, the idea being that you don’t rub down because that might increase the general gravity-induced desire one’s body has to reach earth. Audrey was right. It does make you feel better.

  The conversation with Nick has not exactly left me feeling overjoyed. This marriage thing. I mean it’s one thing to run off with the French hussy, but why does he have to marry her? What if they have ch
ildren? How will that affect our three? Will he be as keen to see them and take as much of an interest in them if he has a whole new family?

  I walk carefully to bed and pull my nightie over my perfectly-pampered body.

  Several hours later I am woken up by my phone ringing; it’s Johnny, calling from Los Angeles.

  “Hey Cunningham, how’s things? Sorry to call so late but I just had to talk to you, gal.”

  “S’okay,” I mumble. “You all right?”

  “Yes, more than all right. Listen, I’m here with my agent who is friends with some bloke who has the most amazing vineyard for sale with a beautiful house and, hang on a minute ‘how many hectares of vines?’” I hear him ask someone.

  “Fifty hectares of vines. Well this bloke is selling it and he’s in a rush because the tax man is after him and he’s got to get the asset off his hands and well, Cunningham, you still awake?”

  “I’m awake, go on.”

  “Well, you know what we talked about and all that, and well I’ve got to be in LA most of the year for the next three years, well I was thinking, maybe I should buy it and you and the kids could move out here and we could live there and you could run the vineyard and…”

  I don’t know what to say.

  “Cunningham?”

  “Johnny, I don’t know what to say, I mean, it’s a lovely idea, of course, but, well I have a life here, the children have a life here, they love it.”

  “They could love it here too, it’s even sunnier, and everyone speaks English. Ed might even meet Spiderman!”

  “Don’t be silly, he’s in New York,” I tell him. “Johnny, I’m really happy you called, please let me think about it. I’m half awake and this is a big decision. I mean I’ve never even been to California.”

  “I understand, Cunningham, I was just so excited about it I had to call you. Let me try to email you some pictures later on. Sorry I woke you up. Love you, gal.”

  “Love you too,” I say. I hang up. Seconds later there is a text message. ‘Sleep well, Cunningham, miss you. LA is lonely without you.’