Chapter 24
24
Connie
I came to the next morning, opened my eyes and saw Rémy, lying on his side on my bed, staring at me, taking in every inch of my bare skin. I’d been woken by his gaze, it was so intense.
‘I thought about you so much, you know,’ he said. ‘Ever since that night.’
I gave a sigh. ‘Me too.’
It was a dream come true, finding him beside me. Yet I felt anxious, in the cold light of day. Too much wine, barely any sleep and a nagging worry that I’d made a mistake by falling into his arms, falling into bed with him. Not that it had been on impulse. I had known from the moment he had appeared in the salon that there was an inevitability to it, and I’d dressed myself knowing full well that my velvet jumpsuit would be sliding off me and onto the floor by the end of the evening.
So why was I unsettled? Because my instinct when I’d first seen Rémy had been to protect myself, and somehow in all the excitement I’d forgotten my need for self-preservation. I was vulnerable, after what Daniel had done. The last person I wanted to rebound with was Rémy. I wanted to be ready for him. To be strong. After all, I hardly knew him. I should have taken the time to get to know him again.
Rémy was drawing circles on my shoulder. I could feel myself melting into the mattress.
‘What are we going to do?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know.’ I sighed. ‘I’m only here till Christmas, remember.’
He smiled. ‘I meant today. What are we going to do today?’
I blushed, embarrassed. I’d jumped the gun a bit, talking about the future. I didn’t want to scare him off. I didn’t want him to think I was reading too much into our night together. I tried to feign casualness.
‘Oh. I’m supposed to be clearing out Piers’s cellar. It’s in an awful mess and I’m terrified I’m going to give away something valuable by mistake.’
‘Then I will help you.’
‘Would you?’
He nodded. ‘I’ll go home. Get changed. Then I’ll come back.’
I was delighted. Not just at the prospect of spending more time with him, but because I could really use his advice. I felt a bubble of happiness. He wanted to be with me. This wasn’t a one-night stand. He wasn’t going to disappear off leaving me wondering if and when I might see him again. I felt my anxieties fade and my confidence return.
I heard my phone go. A text. I knew it would be Fiona, asking for an update. By now, the circles Rémy was tracing had got lower. I wasn’t going to stop him for anyone or anything.
Later that afternoon, Rémy came back in his work clothes. We headed down the stone steps into the cellar underneath the kitchen. The walls were racked with wooden shelving already groaning with bottles, but Piers had left the cellar in chaos, dumping deliveries in the middle of the floor, and I could see that of late he hadn’t bothered putting anything away.
We spent all afternoon sorting through Piers’s collection. Rémy was like a small boy, discovering bottle after bottle of liquid treasure, opening boxes from Berry Bros that Piers had brought over from England, and cases from growers in Burgundy and Beaujolais and the Loire. While he sorted through everything, I dusted and polished and swept, watching him out of the corner of my eye. I loved seeing his reaction when he discovered something rare. He’d give an excited little whistle.
‘Corton-Charlemagne 2019.’ He clasped the bottle to his heart.
‘You’re like a kid in a sweet shop,’ I laughed.
He looked serious. ‘This is a very good cave .’
Gradually we established order, sorting everything into regions and then dates, and making sure the house wine that was just for guests was easily accessible so no expensive mistakes were made.
‘I will send over my electrician to put up some more lights.’ Rémy stood with his hands on his hips, nodding approval at our work. He had a cobweb dangling over his eye. I reached out and brushed it away, then leaned in to kiss him.
‘Could it be that you are perfect?’ I said.
‘Maybe.’
‘I don’t want to lose my heart to you.’
‘It would be very hard not to, surely?’ he teased, with mock solemnity.
It was my favourite thing about him, his ability not to take himself too seriously. It would have been easy for him to be big-headed and a bit arrogant. Our evening out had shown me what a big deal he was, and no one could deny his charisma and rugged good looks. He even looked irresistible in the vineyard polo shirt and a pair of baggy track pants covered in grime. But he seemed oblivious to his star quality.
I was slightly astonished that he seemed as taken by me as I was with him. I’d seen pictures of his ex-wife Camille, with her sheet of silken hair and her endless legs and her Parisian wardrobe. But perhaps that was one of the advantages of being the age we were. We’d learned to have a little more depth, and to appreciate people for their qualities rather than their appearance.
When we came up from the cellar that afternoon, Lilou was in the kitchen. She was prepping for the following weekend, making madeleines. She scowled as Rémy pinched one from the cooling rack. She seemed no more enamoured of him than she had been the first day she’d seen him.
‘ C’est delicieux ,’ he told her. ‘Even better than my grandmother’s.’ He wiped the crumbs away from his stubble, knowing he’d paid her the ultimate compliment for a Frenchman.
Lilou turned her back on him and scrubbed at her madeleine tins.
‘He’s very kind, Lilou,’ I told her when Rémy had gone. ‘Please try to be polite.’
She made one of her faces, the one that signified disdain, exasperation and reluctant compliance. I could tell she didn’t trust him, but I suspected she didn’t trust many people. I was sure she would get used to him before long. Maybe she was jealous that he had my attention? Or perhaps she was being protective – that was her default setting, after all. I’d seen it with her grandmother.
Either way, I wasn’t going to fall out with her. She hadn’t let me down once, and she and Delphine were now as thick as thieves as Delphine taught her the secrets of a French kitchen. Lilou could now make quiche Lorraine and crème br?lée and gougères with her eyes shut. I knew Rémy would win her over in the end. Surely no one could be immune to his charms?
The next week, we were both very busy, me at the chateau and Rémy at the vineyard, but we spent as much of our free time together as we could. We took long walks at lunchtime, meeting halfway between the chateau and the vineyard and tramping over the fields. Autumn was starting to slip away, the ground that had retained the heat of summer becoming as cold as iron, but we warmed each other, our clouds of breath mingling in the air as we kissed endlessly. I felt the sludge that had been in my veins for so long turn to champagne, and my once heavy heart felt as light as a balloon.
‘It’s too good to be true,’ I told Fiona.
‘Just enjoy it for what it is,’ she told me. ‘Don’t read too much into it or try and make plans. Live in the moment.’
It was good advice. For how often did this kind of thing come along, especially at our age? Common sense told me it couldn’t last, for Christmas and my ensuing departure were looming, so I was going to make the most of it. Of him.
I barely saw him the following weekend, as I had to give my guests my undivided attention, but he sent me funny texts, and I hoped I wasn’t behaving like a teenager, jumping every time I felt my phone go in my pocket, rushing off to pore over every word and compose the perfect reply. I was skittish, my eyes sparkling, a smile never far from my lips. Delphine looked at me quizzically.
‘Rémy Gaspard.’ It was a statement not a question.
Even the sound of his name made me tingle. ‘Yes.’
She nodded. ‘Be careful.’
‘Why?’ I worried that she knew something I didn’t.
‘It is like a drug. The …’ She searched for the word. ‘ Le désir. ’
Lust. It stopped me in my tracks for a moment, for there was something in her eyes that told me she had experienced just what I was feeling. And I knew that the counsel of an older woman was something you should never ignore.
‘It’s not just lust, though, Delphine,’ I reassured her. ‘I really like him. He’s funny. And kind. And he makes me feel safe.’
She didn’t reply and I appreciated her not bursting my bubble. Because it was a bubble. But why shouldn’t we enjoy being in it? We had both been through a lot of emotional turmoil, with our respective exes. Enjoying each other was a reward for all the angst and heartache. I would throw myself into it until Christmas, I told myself, relishing every moment, every kiss. By then I would know him better, and him me, and we could take stock.
In the evenings when I had no guests, I would cook for him at the chateau, and he would bring over something to drink. My palate became more discerning under his tutelage and I learned to differentiate between rich and buttery, silky and smooth, bright and zesty.
‘What notes are you getting?’ he asked, pouring a glass of Grüner Veltliner and holding it out to me.
I swirled, smelled, tasted. ‘Grapefruit. Radish. Tarragon. A touch of … gorilla’s armpit?’
He stared at me. Then nodded. ‘Extraordinary,’ he said. ‘Your palate is extraordinary.’
Then we both burst out laughing.
‘It’s delicious,’ I told him, not wanting him to think I was taking the mickey out of his profession.
We went off to explore hidden corners of Provence, wandering through the deserted villages that lay dormant, seeking out the single café that might stay open to share a croque monsieur . We circled the ramparts of the ruined castle belonging to the Marquis de Sade. He took me to the Camargue, and held up his powerful binoculars for me, pointing out the birdlife wading in the lagoon, and herds of white horses clustered in the marshes. An enervating wind whipped across the water, biting my cheeks.
‘Is this the Mistral?’ I asked, pulling up my hood, and he nodded gravely.
‘ Attention ,’ he said. ‘If I don’t drive you crazy, the Mistral will.’
One night, he took me to a friend’s birthday party in Marseille. I was nervous, for I wouldn’t know a soul but him, and I was out of practice on the party scene. I made small talk with the guests at the chateau, of course, but there I had a certain role. At a glamorous French party, I was afraid I’d be a nobody. But it would be a good test, to see how our relationship worked outside that bubble I’d got so used to, so I raided Lismay’s wardrobe. I knew she wouldn’t mind. I borrowed some silky black palazzo pants and a tuxedo-style jacket and girded my loins.
The party was in a penthouse, with a wood-burning oven on the terrace churning out pizzas and a bar with non-stop champagne. The lights of the city burned bright below us, and the air was filled with the scent of smoke and rosemary and the salty sea. The music was wild, pulsating with a heavy bass you could feel deep inside. Everyone was exotic and artistic, dressed in clothes that I wouldn’t even begin to know where to buy, but somehow I didn’t feel threatened, because being with Rémy was like a charm. He gave me confidence, barely leaving my side, holding my hand even while he was deep in conversation with someone else, and everyone greeted me effusively and wanted to talk.
‘I have not seen Rémy smile like this for a long time,’ said a woman in a burnt-orange silk trouser suit. ‘You make him happy.’
‘I hope so,’ I said, still unable to believe that I did when he could probably choose from any of these sophisticated partygoers.
‘It must be love,’ she said.
Love. It was far too early to call it that. But I relished the fact that my effect on Rémy was being validated in public. We had something. Something tangible. Palpable. It was thrilling.
Be careful, a little voice told me. Perhaps Delphine’s? Her warning came back to me.
I sipped champagne to make it go away. Rémy stuck to water, as he was driving. I realised that going to a party with him was a completely different experience from going to one with Daniel, who would slide away from me at the first opportunity and start circulating. I could go all evening without speaking to him, and often I would leave without him, unable to bear the agony of trying to persuade him to leave at a reasonable hour.
Conversely, Rémy turned to me at eleven o’clock. ‘Shall we go?’ he whispered. ‘We can slip away without saying goodbye.’
‘In England, we call that a French exit,’ I told him.
Rémy laughed. ‘We call it filer a l’anglaise .’
We wove through the crowds, hand in hand. Moments later, we were back in his car. He drove through the dark night, and as I fell asleep in the front seat I felt him take my hand, weaving his fingers through mine. Sweet dreams wrapped me up, my mind cleansed of the fears and worries that had haunted me of late. I had never thought I would feel like that again. Easy. Light of heart. It was bliss.
‘I want you to meet my family,’ Rémy said the next week.
I hadn’t made myself known to the Gaspards yet, because I was self-conscious. At the chateau, we could keep ourselves to ourselves, especially when there were no guests, but at the vineyard we would be open to speculation and gossip, and I was wary about meeting his mother.
‘She and Camille were very close,’ Rémy had told me. ‘She was very sad when we split.’
I quailed at the thought of having to live up to Camille, and Madame Gaspard’s expectations, but at the same time I reminded myself it wasn’t me who’d caused the split, after all. I had every right to be going out with her son.
Going out? Was that what we were doing? It seemed very prosaic for such an intense experience. I still wasn’t sure where we were going with it. But being introduced to Rémy’s parents felt like a big step so early on.
‘Jeans and a silk shirt,’ Fiona told me when I phoned her in a panic about what to wear.
I raided Lismay’s wardrobe again, and ended up finding the very shirt I’d worn the night of the party, when Rémy and I first met. Lismay was a big believer in spending as much as you could on clothes, but keeping them forever, and I realised she was right as the cream silk crêpe slid over my head and settled on my shoulders. With jeans, black suede boots and the Dior scarf she’d given me for my twenty-first, I looked passably chic.
I didn’t need to be afraid of Rémy’s mother, I told myself. I was a smart, attractive, successful woman in my own right, even if I had been through a bit of a blip. But it seemed I was coming out the other side of that blip. I’d got an email that morning, from an old friend who was marketing director for a chain of glitzy boutique hotels. Belinda needed someone to edit their magazine – would I be interested?
I want articles about interesting people in all the locations where they have hotels – artists, writers, musicians. And about the food, which is why I thought of you. You could do it standing on your head. Lots of travel, and of course you’d get to stay at the hotels for free. If you’re interested, send me a pitch.
A few weeks ago, this would have been the answer to everything. But I felt a chill as I took in the details. I’d be a fool not to take it. The money wasn’t as much as I’d made at the magazine, but a lot more than I’d been pulling in over the past couple of years, and it wouldn’t be full-time, so I’d be free to do other things. But it brought home to me how temporary my time with Rémy was. I was being an ostrich, coasting along hoping life would sort itself out eventually but not really doing anything about it. To have an offer for what was effectively a dream job shook me out of my complacency. I had to get real. I had to focus on the future.
I arrived at Rèmy’s house, hoping there would be time to tell him my news before his parents arrived. He lived in a tiny converted dovecote on the edge of the vineyard. I knew he had an apartment in Biarritz too, for when he went to visit Mimi. It had been a relief to discover that, for I didn’t like to think of him staying with Camille. I couldn’t help feeling threatened by her presence, even though we’d never met and he showed no sign of being interested in her. But what woman isn’t suspicious of the ghosts of the past?
‘ Ra-vi-ssante ,’ he said to me as he answered the door, swathed in an apron with a cleaver in his hand. He swore he couldn’t cook but he was making sushi like a boss.
‘It’s not cooking!’ he said, slicing up cucumber with precision. A side of gleaming salmon sat next to sheets of nori and piles of avocados. It was all spread out on a white marble island in the middle of an open-plan kitchen and living area with stone walls and elm floorboards.
He handed me a cold glass of oily Riesling while I took in the modern art and the minimalist furniture. It could have been austere and over-masculine, but there were splashes of colour saving it from sterility, Gorillaz trickling out of hidden speakers, and a giant framed poster of Tintin sitting on a sofa with the Maharajah of Gaipajama – I recognised it because Harry had been crazy about Tintin for years.
‘ Cigars of the Pharoah ,’ I laughed, pointing at it with my glass.
‘My hero,’ said Rémy, touching his heart.
‘I’ve had a job offer,’ I blurted out, staring into his eyes.
When he heard the details, he shrugged.
‘It is what – a no-brainer?’
‘But what about us?’
‘We are modern. There are aeroplanes.’
He didn’t seem unduly concerned, and I wondered if this had only ever been a fling for him, that he had thrown himself into it knowing full well it would come to an end. A nice little autumnal diversion over by Christmas.
‘Connie,’ he said, kissing me as he saw the expression on my face. ‘ Courage, ma belle. Love will find a way.’
Love. He had said love. Using the word love was a big statement. I was confused and scared but maybe I needed to be more sophisticated about the whole thing? A glitzy job and a boyfriend with a vineyard – what was I worried about? I tried to look insouciant, tried to be more French about it, more laissez-faire .
Before we could carry on the conversation, the door opened and Madame and Monsieur Gaspard came in. Monsieur looked how I imagined Rémy might in thirty years’ time, his hair snow white, in jeans and a navy polo neck, while Madame sported a black denim shirt dress and leopard-skin ankle boots that should have looked tarty but were the epitome of power dressing – she looked fierce, predatory and in control. I felt insignificant in my shirt and jeans. She was going to walk all over me.
In fact, she was charming. Yes, she fussed over Rémy, telling him off for not serving champagne in my honour – ‘ Maman , it’s a very good Riesling. Plus intéressant ’ – and squeezing the avocados with disapproval – they were too hard for her liking – but she put me at my ease very quickly.
‘Lismay was so happy when you came. She asked me if I knew anyone who could help but there was no one here who could cook. And Piers – he is well? The operation was good?’
‘He’s like a new man, I believe.’
‘And they will be back for Christmas?’
‘That’s the plan.’
She nodded approvingly. ‘We always have New Year’s Eve together. We share our best wines. You will still be here, non ?’
‘I hope so.’
‘Good!’ She raised her glass to me with a smile.
I began to relax. The Riesling was indeed delicious, and perfect with the sushi. I liked this life, I thought. Was there a way to hold on to it? Rémy was right. There were aeroplanes. Maybe at our time of life a long-distance relationship worked better than the intensity of living on top of each other. We had our own commitments and responsibilities.
I would accept the job offer, I decided. We would find a way.