Chapter 12
12
Lismay
1985
Three days after Piers had gone back to Fulham, Lismay watched as a battered old Renault bombed up the chateau drive. Out jumped a sprightly gentleman wearing a linen shirt the colour of the Provencal sky and a battered straw hat. He bounded up the steps with a pile of reference books in his arms.
‘Hugo Quinn,’ he told Lismay, as if he was a barrister introducing an expert witness. ‘I hope you don’t think I’m intruding, but I heard on the grapevine – pardon the pun – that someone had bought the chateau and I thought you might find these useful.’
He held the books out to her. She took them, uncertain.
‘Thank you,’ she said, not sure what else to say.
He burst out laughing.
‘OK. I admit it. I’m impossibly nosy and these were an excuse. But anything you want to know about Provence, its history, its art and architecture and its food, the vino – I’m your man.’
She couldn’t help laughing along with him. With his twinkling eyes, his bushy beard and his wide smile, she instinctively trusted him. Perhaps he would be useful?
‘How kind. Have you been here long?’
‘I came out here forty years ago as a callow youth, to do a bit of cooking for a family in Ménerbes, and I’ve never left. I honestly don’t know why anyone would want to.’
‘Well, quite,’ said Lismay. ‘Though I have to admit I’m a bit overwhelmed. I’m waiting for various people to come and give quotes, but they’re proving tricky to pin down.’
Piers had made appointments with as many craftsmen as possible before he left, but with his rusty French he had been a bit vague about when they were all going to turn up. Lismay was already getting frustrated. She seemed to be going into Barles three times a day to buy supplies or open accounts and worried about missing people when she was out.
‘You have to be patient,’ Hugo reassured her. ‘It’s like an elaborate dance, waiting for everyone to make their move. But eventually they get into the swing of it. And they’ll all want to work here. It’ll be prestigious, to say they’re working at the chateau.’
‘I hope so. Though I’m worried they’ll double their prices for the privilege.’
‘Well, you have to be tough.’ He was raking his eyes over the frontage of the chateau. ‘Did you know you can work out the chateau’s age,’ he said, pointing at the cypress. ‘By the height of the tree in front. It will have been planted on the day they finished building.’
‘Gosh,’ said Lismay, gazing up at the branches that almost seemed to reach the sky and trying to imagine it as a mere sapling, more than two hundred years ago. Then she looked back at her unexpected visitor. ‘Can I get you a coffee?’
‘Coffee would be splendid.’
‘And would you like a tour?’ She could tell, by the way his eyes were darting everywhere, that this was his agenda. But she wasn’t annoyed by him, far from it. She warmed to his openness, his unashamed curiosity.
He beamed. ‘You must be psychic. I’ve been longing to have a mooch inside. I’d have given my right arm to buy this place, but it needs young blood and deep pockets, neither of which I have.’
‘Well, I’m not sure we have either.’ Lismay smiled. ‘But we’re giving it a go. My husband’s back in England trying to make enough money to fund it all.’
For the next hour, Lismay listened as Hugo walked around the house with her. He explained all its architectural features and the history that went with it. He painted a vivid picture of how life might have been centuries ago, and the people who would have passed through – the owners, the guests, the staff. He was a gifted raconteur, and passionate about his subject, and it gave her a much clearer idea of what features to keep and what to reinstate. He ran his hands lovingly over the leaves carved into the mantlepiece and the ornate ironwork on the stairs. He pointed out features she hadn’t noticed, and talked to her about materials and where best to source them: limestone, marble, oak, glass. He knew all the best suppliers and who to avoid.
‘It’s a bit of a sport down here, ripping off les anglais , but I’m happy to come with you, if you want, as they know better than to try it on with me.’
‘Well, that’s very kind.’ Lismay felt a bit puzzled and disconcerted. ‘But I’m not sure I can afford you. We’re on a tight budget.’
She wasn’t entirely sure what he did, or what service she would be paying for, but she was pretty certain he was beyond her means.
‘Oh, darling, I don’t charge. I do it for the fun of it. I applaud anyone who takes on a project like this and if I can help make it go smoothly …’ He stopped, seeing that she was still frowning. ‘Oh, God. I’ve gone overboard again, haven’t I? Jerry always says I’m overwhelming.’
‘Jerry?’
‘My other half.’
‘Oh.’
‘He is as gentle and sweet as I am a bulldozer and you’ll meet him when you come for dinner. Which was my other reason for descending on you. What are you doing Friday night?’
‘Coming for dinner?’ Lismay grinned.
Hugo roared. ‘Right answer. Now, you can have all of these books for as long as you like. I’m leaving you a little map of how to get to us, and my phone number, so if you have any questions …’ He mimed dialling. ‘ Bon chance , my lovely girl.’
‘Thank you.’ Lismay stood a little shell-shocked as Hugo bounded back to his car. She turned to find Gérard standing in the doorway having a cigarette.
‘Hugo Quinn,’ was all he said.
‘What does he do, Hugo Quinn?’
Gerard shrugged. ‘Nothing.’ He reconsidered his answer and corrected himself. ‘Everything,’ He nodded. ‘Hugo Quinn does everything. Hugo Quinn knows everything.’
‘OK.’ Lismay laughed. She felt as if a whirlwind had been and gone through the Chateau Villette, but Hugo Quinn had lifted her heart and opened her eyes a little, and the thought of dinner on Friday night was something to look forward to and get her through the rest of the week.
Hugo and Jerry lived down a winding road on the outskirts of Gordes, said to be the most beautiful village in Provence, with its higgledy-piggledy houses clinging to the side of a mountain. Lismay gazed up at the seemingly impossible balancing act. They seemed as if they might slip off the hillside any moment, but they hadn’t yet. She bypassed the town on a narrow road flanked by rocky cliffs, praying she wouldn’t meet anyone coming the other way, then followed Hugo’s hand-drawn map, complete with illustrations of trees and goats and the houses she would pass. She got lost several times until finally she spotted a yellow arrow pointing to a narrow dirt track, at the end of which she found a quintessential Provencal farmhouse basking in the very last of the light, with lilac shutters and planters of olive trees ranged along the front.
She hopped out of the car, bearing a beribboned box from the chocolate shop in Barles, a bunch of shiny black grapes and a bottle of rosé. She had no idea if it was going to be a dinner party or just her, and felt a flicker of nerves at the thought of meeting new people and being grilled about the chateau. Everyone she spoke to wanted to talk about what they were doing. It was a source of huge fascination locally, and she was starting to long for a bit of anonymity.
Hugo opened the door swathed in a blue-and-white apron and ushered her in.
‘You found us!’ he crowed. ‘Thank goodness. Sometimes we have to go and meet people on the main road and herd them in, but I thought you had a bit of common sense and would find it. I was right. Come and meet Jerry. He’s doing coq au vin . It’s just us. Is that OK? We want you to ourselves because we’re selfish and we want first dibs.’
‘That’s absolutely fine,’ said Lismay, somewhat relieved.
Inside the farmhouse was a riot of colour and exuberance that was so uplifting and welcoming she couldn’t help but smile. It was chaotic but with an underlying sense of order that brought everything together, one thing leading the eye to another – a bright splashy painting, a set of shelves displaying antique toy cars, a bronze sculpture of a ballet dancer, a bookshelf crammed with fat trashy novels that made you itch to pick one up and dive into one of the yellow sofas. The colour scheme was typically Provencal, with a honeycomb terracotta floor and ochre walls, and there were leafy plants everywhere, so it had the feel of a jungle-cum-library-cum-museum.
She walked across a patchwork of kelim carpet and into the kitchen, where a tall man with wild white curls was stirring a huge Le Creuset pot. Her head was filled with the scent of rich red wine and garlic.
‘Jerry. Here we have her. Our new find. Lismay.’
Jerry strode across the room, wooden spoon aloft.
‘Hugo wasn’t going to rest until he’d captured you and pinned you down. He’s like the most ruthless butterfly collector, honestly. And what a gorgeous butterfly you are.’ He scooped her into his arms and kissed both cheeks. ‘Congratulations on the chateau. We’ve been on tenterhooks waiting to see who’d buy it.’
‘We must be mad,’ said Lismay. ‘I blame the rosé at L’Epic .’
‘Oh God, yes. It’s an elixir, that stuff. It will make you do mad things. Now, I’ve got leek vinaigrette to start – is that OK? Home grown, of course.’
‘Delicious.’
‘Here.’ Hugo pressed a glass of golden wine into her hand. ‘Try that and tell me it’s not absolutely heaven.’
She took a sip and agreed that it was – like drinking liquid peaches.
‘Our favourite Viognier. We don’t give it to just anyone.’ Jerry was back at the stove, stirring, seasoning, scooping.
The kitchen was just as ebullient as the living room, hung with strings of garlic and onions and fresh herbs, Provencal pots and plates, baskets of fruit and vegetables. There were wooden spoons and chopping boards and racks of knives with every size and shape of blade, copper saucepans and cast-iron pots and not a single inch of workspace showing. Everywhere there was a dish in progress – a pile of chopped chives, a bowl of poached apricots, a colander of cooling steamed potatoes. If she could capture an ounce of its atmosphere at the chateau, her guests would soon be under a spell.
‘How long have you been here?’
‘Ten years now. Jerry bought it when he left the university – someone pointed him in my direction for advice. And it was a coup de foudre . After just two weeks I sold my little place in Ménerbes where I’d resigned myself to eternal bachelordom. And I moved in. It just goes to show you never know when love might rear its beautiful head.’
After two glasses of wine and fifteen minutes of interrogation combined with a barrage of information, Lismay’s head was spinning and she felt quite faint. She realised she hadn’t really eaten much but a piece of baguette since lunchtime, and her stomach was growling. A small ginger cat came and sat at her feet, staring up at her and yowling as if to say ‘What do you think you’re doing here?’ Hugo scooped her up.
‘This is Isabelle Huppert, for obvious reasons.’
The reasons weren’t entirely obvious to Lismay, so she assumed Isabelle Huppert was a redhead. Hugo put her on his shoulder, and she lay, wrapped around his neck like a fox fur, while he gathered plates and Jerry pushed potatoes through a mouli for pommes purées .
‘Shall we?’ Hugo nodded towards a dining area that looked out into the garden. It was dark, but she could just make out a tangle of statuary and box hedging and lavender drifts.
Lismay sank into her seat. Jerry placed a plate of leeks in front of her: a row of three, bright green against the white plate, perfectly uniform. And with it, a loaf of fougasse, shaped like a head of wheat.
‘He’s very annoying. He made it himself,’ Hugo told her. ‘I’m not allowed to go to the boulangerie .’
Jerry’s cooking was sublime. Everything was simple and rustic, yet she had never tasted food with such depth, bursting with flavour and brightened with salt and lifted with the right touch of herb. The leeks were sweet, offset with mustard and honey and hazelnuts, while the coq au vin was deep and rich and dark. Dessert was luscious apricot tart with a glass of Beaume de Venise.
‘Oh God,’ said Lismay. ‘I’m going to have to do something about my cooking. I thought I wasn’t bad, but now I’ve had this, I’m really worried. This is the level people are going to expect, isn’t it?’
‘Ah,’ said Jerry. ‘Well. In that case, you need Cyrille. I couldn’t boil an egg until I retired.’
‘Cyrille?’
‘He used to run our favourite restaurant in Bonnieux,’ explained Hugo. ‘But he got fed up with the hours. So he closed the restaurant and opened a cookery school instead. He still gets to cook all day, but he can hang up his chef’s hat at six o’clock. He’ll teach you everything you need to know. He’s a wizard. One week with him and you’ll know your béchamel from your béarnaise .’
‘That’s a fantastic idea.’ Lismay thought that would give her the confidence she needed, rather than her guests having to endure her kitchen experiments.
Afterwards, they sat back in the living room. Lismay sank into the depths of the sofa, kicked off her shoes and accepted a tiny cup of black coffee as Isabelle Huppert slinked onto her lap. She felt cocooned, deliciously full and a bit sleepy, but she didn’t want to leave. She loved their chatter, loved looking around the room at the artefacts that had been collected over a lifetime, loved the lazy jazz that was playing softly somewhere in the background.
‘So tell us,’ said Jerry. ‘What made you do it? Not everyone’s got the balls to buy a chateau. Was it a lifelong ambition? Or was it a spur-of-the-moment thing?’
She looked between the two of them. They were so kind, so caring, so interested, and she felt as if she’d known them forever. And suddenly she felt the need to tell them the truth.
‘It was sort of a knee-jerk reaction,’ she said. ‘We’d just found out we were never going to be able to have children. We came to Barles for the week to get away.’
‘Oh darling.’ Hugo reached out a hand and squeezed her shoulder. ‘That’s rotten for you. We’re so sorry.’
‘Life can be very cruel,’ said Jerry. ‘And you’re very brave.’
She looked at them both and realised that they had both assumed the same thing. That it was her. That she was the one who couldn’t have children. And she suddenly felt a need to tell them the truth. Apart from Jeanne, she hadn’t really had a chance to discuss how she felt, and she thought these two dear men, who had been so kind and had scooped her up, might understand, might provide the perfect shoulders to, if not cry on, lean on.
Would it be a betrayal of Piers, to tell them? She decided not. She needed to talk about it, and they were the only friends she had here. She was sure she could trust them. They loved a bit of gossip, but they were honourable. They could tell the difference between tittle tattle and something personal and confidential.
‘It’s not me,’ she said, rather carefully.
‘Not you?’ Hugo frowned.
‘Everyone always assumes it’s the woman, don’t they? But there’s nothing wrong with me. I’ll never have children, but I could. If I wanted. If things were different …’
There was just one tear to start with, and she thought she could brush it away. But there was another close behind, unstoppable, and a thousand others which had all been queuing up ready to bounce out onto her cheeks and before she knew it she was sobbing, and Hugo had jumped up to take the cup out of her hand and Jerry had sat beside her and put an arm around her shoulder.
‘I’m sorry,’ she gulped. ‘I haven’t got anyone to talk to about it. Piers doesn’t seem to want to talk, and I don’t mind, honestly I don’t, because I love him and I’m so excited about the chateau but I feel so …’
She stopped. What did she feel? She wasn’t sure she knew.
‘Sad,’ she said. ‘I think I feel sad. Not just for me. For Piers too. And the babies that won’t be. It’s a funny feeling. Like being boxed in.’ She made the shape of a box with her hands, then looked up and tried to smile through her tears. ‘I’m so sorry. I think it must be all the wine. It’s made me weepy.’
‘That’s our fault,’ said Jerry. ‘We’re a horribly boozy pair.’ He looked at Hugo. ‘I think what we should do is take you up to the spare room and tuck you in. You’ve had enough of us grilling you all night.’
‘Yes.’ Hugo patted her. ‘Have a good sleep and if you want to, we can talk about it in the morning.’
Lismay didn’t protest. After all, she really shouldn’t drive home after all that wine – how careless of her. Suddenly all she wanted to do was curl up in bed. And ten minutes later there she was, in a pair of borrowed paisley pyjamas that swamped her, perched high up on a sleigh bed in the softest sheets that she’d ever felt, her head buried in a goose-down pillow.
How embarrassing, to have dissolved into tears like that. But it honestly had been the first chance she’d had to articulate her feelings to anyone. Buying the chateau had been such a whirlwind, and every time she’d thought about broaching the subject with Piers there had been something else to think about. And maybe they didn’t need to talk about it because even if they had talked it all over, she knew she would have chosen this life in the end: a wonderful project that would become their legacy. The Chateau Villette.
She pulled up the bedcovers and drifted off, feeling the kindness of not-quite strangers fill her heart as Jerry and Hugo moved around downstairs, tidying up, the faintest plink of piano a backdrop to their murmurings.
When she met Piers at the airport three weeks later, she couldn’t wait to get home and show him everything she’d accomplished. Over the past couple of weeks, Hugo had helped her prioritise what needed to be done, and they’d drawn up a work schedule and a budget that was as watertight as possible. Hugo had sketched out everything with a fine-nibbed black pen and annotated the drawings with his beautiful italics. Deliveries had started arriving – terracotta tiles, oak beams and slabs of marble.
‘Darling, to be honest, I just want to have some supper and a glass of wine and go to bed,’ Piers said as they headed up the steps. ‘It’s been a bloody long day. I had a board meeting before I left for the airport.’
‘Of course. It can wait. I’m just excited. I feel really inspired. Hugo’s given the whole project real meaning. We’re not just tarting everything up. We’re putting the history back in.’
‘How do you do that, exactly?’ Piers already had his hand around the neck of a bottle of C?tes du Rhone.
‘By using authentic materials. And the old methods.’
‘That sounds expensive.’
‘Oh, but worth it. And actually, it’s not that much more expensive, because everything ’s expensive. We might as well do it properly. Don’t you think?’
‘If a job’s worth doing,’ he said, but his voice sounded a little tight. ‘Isn’t that what they say?’
‘Exactly!’ She went over to put her arms around his neck. ‘Oh, it’s so good to have you back here. I’ve missed you.’
Piers dropped a kiss on her head and reached for the corkscrew, extricating himself from her grasp as he opened the bottle. ‘Me too. I don’t think work were too thrilled at me sloping off today.’
‘They agreed it to it though, didn’t they? Three weeks on, one week off.’
‘Yes, in theory, but it’s very different when they realise I won’t be back for a whole week. They’ll get used to it.’ He took a slurp of wine. ‘They’ll have to. Someone’s got to pay for all these elaborate plans.’
Lismay couldn’t help but feel a little deflated by Piers’s reaction, but she supposed he was exhausted from the travelling. When he woke up tomorrow and the sun was shining and he saw how everything was starting to come to life, he’d feel very differently.
He couldn’t possibly be threatened by Hugo, who was hardly going to be interested in her, after all.
The week passed in a flash, and Piers seemed to spend most of his time sending faxes and on the phone and didn’t seem to have much time to help. She’d wanted to get started on clearing out the little lake but he didn’t seem very enthusiastic.
‘It’s a messy job and too cold at this time of year. Let’s leave it till spring.’
He didn’t seem to want to meet Hugo and Jerry either. She’d wanted to ask them for supper on his last night, to repay their wonderful hospitality and all the help.
‘They’re dying to meet you.’
‘I just want to spend it with you. We don’t seem to have had long together.’
Lismay didn’t want to point out that he’d spent most of the week shut in the office. But that last night he was sweet. They opened a tin of cassoulet and ate it by candlelight in the kitchen and it was so cosy and atmospheric and he seemed to relax at last.
‘I can’t believe the time has gone so quickly,’ he sighed. ‘I don’t want to go back.’
‘Three weeks will fly by.’ Lismay unwrapped a triangle of St Nectaire. She tried to suppress a horrible thought: that she was looking forward to him leaving. This week had been hard. Thank God for Hugo, who was always there as a sounding board. He was much more interested than Piers seemed to be.
‘I’m sorry if I’ve been grumpy. We’ve got a couple of big clients throwing their weight around, and Alistair was pissed off at me abandoning ship although he pretends not to be.’ Piers looked a bit shamefaced. ‘And I hate to admit it, but I suppose I feel a bit left out. Which is bloody childish of me.’
Lismay felt a wave of relief and love, and realised perhaps she’d been a bit thoughtless, not understanding the pressure he was under and expecting too much. Next time she’d tone it down and not bombard him so much.
On the radio, Phil Collins starting singing their favourite song.
‘Come here,’ Piers said, standing up and opening his arms. She slid into them and they began to dance, just as they had in the kitchen in Fulham when a smoochy record came on. It was like old times, old them, before their world had been if not completely shattered then sent spinning off in a different direction. Lismay felt safe in his arms, melted into his warmth, rested her head on his shoulder as he kissed her gently on the side of her head. It was going to be all right. They were still strong.
‘Shall we go upstairs?’ she whispered to him.
He stretched out an arm and looked at his watch.
‘Good idea,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to leave at six if I’m going to get that plane, so we’d better get some kip in.’
He stepped away from her and picked up the wine glasses to take them over to the sink. Lismay stood in the middle of the floor as the song sang on. Of course he was right. Of course they needed an early night.
It rained nonstop on the drive home from the airport the next day. She could barely see out of the front windscreen, the wipers made little impression, and by the time she got back to the chateau, it seemed as if darkness was falling already even though it was only early afternoon. Everywhere felt damp and was shrouded in gloom. Not a single workman had turned up. Even the kitchen seemed to have turned its back on her and felt stiff and cold and unwelcoming. She ran up to her bedroom and saw water pouring down one wall.
‘What’s the French for leak?’ she wailed down the phone to Hugo.
‘ Poireau ,’ he answered.
‘Not the vegetable! The other kind of leak.’
‘Ah! Fuite . You’re panicking, darling. You mustn’t.’
‘But there’s water pouring down my bedroom wall.’
‘Gérard will fix it.’
‘He’s not here.’
‘Leave it with me.’
By four o’clock, Gérard had materialised and a blocked gutter was found to be the problem. At least the leak hadn’t ruined any of the redecoration, Lismay supposed, as their bedroom was last on the list for a revamp. Nevertheless, she felt deflated. She was missing Piers, even though she was still disappointed in the week they’d had. She’d pictured joyful camaraderie and excitement. A bit of laughter and levity. She’d even hoped they’d get a little bit closer, physically, having spent some time apart. Were they ever going to be their old selves? They’d often sneaked off to bed, giggling, at silly times of the day, or begun the day with a sleepy session of lovemaking. If they went out and got tipsy, they inevitably ended up strewing their clothes on the living-room floor, not even making it upstairs. She’d never felt shy about making the first overture, but now she was terrified to approach him, even though she wasn’t sure what she was afraid of. She supposed it was two things: hurting him, for he still seemed so fragile, and she was scared of rejection. Every time he turned away from her, something inside her shrivelled: the place where she kept her confidence and her joie de vivre and her Lismayness.
She lay on the bed, listening to the whir of the fan heater which had been positioned to dry out the wall. She wasn’t sure if she had the heart to carry on, but of course she had to. They had invested far too much for her to bail out so soon. And she did love it, when the team achieved the impossible and restored something to its former glory – or gave it a new kind of glory, in the case of the bathrooms. The new Chateau Villette was going to be ravishing. But what was the point, if they weren’t them anymore? If they were two people each on their own sad, lonely road trying to navigate a new life, their hearts no longer entwined.
She felt very alone.
She could survive the weeks, for there was always masses to do and people in and out and decisions to be made. It was the weekends that floored her. They seemed to have as many hours in them as the weeks, stretching out with no momentum, for no one worked on a Saturday or Sunday, and she hadn’t had time to make any friends of her own age and she was wary of over-relying on Hugo and Jerry, for she didn’t want them to tire of her or for her to become a burden. And although there were things she could do, it was hard to get motivated, for sometimes it was overwhelming: she didn’t know where to start with the garden. She thought what she needed was to get away from the chateau, even if it was just for one day a week.
And so she signed up for the cookery classes Jerry had recommended with Cyrille, in Bonnieux. Six weeks every Saturday, learning French classics at the feet of a master – everything from petits pois à la francaise to poulet r?ti . It would be a distraction, yet it would stand her in good stead for when the guests started to arrive. The better she was at cooking, the more they could charge, after all.