Chapter 24
THE WEEKLY NARNESSE MARKET was typically Proven?al: stalls covered with red-striped awnings clustered around the clock tower; shoppers moving slowly between them; crates of peaches and tomatoes; tables of olive oil, saucisson and bumper packs of lingerie; locals squeezing melons as if groping a buttock – and Gray Hudson strolling among it all, wearing sunglasses and one of Phil’s old sunhats.
It was the only hat that fitted, selected from a pile that Maggie carried down from Phil’s bedroom, made from yellow straw with a wide brim. They’d peeled off the green ribbon but, even still, it was a feminine hat for a tall, broad-shouldered man.
‘Hey, don’t laugh. We can wear anything we like now,’ he’d said, pressing it down firmly on his head. ‘Brad wore a skirt not so long ago.’
‘Oh my god, what’s he lik—’ Jamie had started to ask from the kitchen table before Maggie announced that they had to go.
Standing in front of the fruit and vegetable stalls, her eye ran over the tomatoes. She was making pissaladière that night, followed by braised turbot with scallops and herbs, and maybe a warm potato salad. Then a fig tart, and cheese. She added it to her mental list. The cheese trolley needed new life.
She picked up a tomato and held it to her nose, inhaling its earthy scent. Not ripe enough. She replaced it in the crate and picked another.
‘Wait, what are you doing ?’
Maggie glanced up at his horrified tone. ‘Smelling them. Got to. Don’t want a bad one. Look, try.’ She lifted the tomato and Gray tentatively sniffed at it.
‘No, not like that. A real sniff. Like this.’ She held the tomato under her nostrils. Better; a more intense scent of vines.
Dropping it into a metal bowl, she reached for another and repeated the sniff test.
‘You smell them all ?’
‘’Course.’
‘That’s so European.’
‘Are you saying you buy tomatoes without even inspecting them?’
‘I’m gonna be honest with you, Maggie, I can’t remember the last time I bought a tomato. But I’m into this. Gimme another.’
They stood passing each other tomatoes, sniffing and laughing until the stallholder – a balding man with enormous ears that looked like jug handles – crossed his arms and glared.
‘ Pardon ,’ Maggie mumbled, passing him the bowl before filling another with waxy potatoes and a bunch of parsley. ‘ Et un sachet de figues , s’il vous pla?t ,’ she added, gesturing towards a pyramid of fat, purple figs.
‘OK, what next?’ Gray asked, once she’d paid.
Maggie smiled at him.
‘What?’
‘You! Your enthusiasm for Narnesse market.’
‘Listen, I lead a sheltered life. I live in Hollywood and only get to eat at the finest hotels and restaurants.’
‘OK, OK, Oliver Twist. Next is the olive guy. Down here.’
She led him past various stalls, noticing the bemused faces of locals, scrutinizing the tall man in his woman’s sun hat. She negotiated a bag of black olives while Gray stood beside her, frowning at a row of three ramekins filled with olive oils – one a pale yellow; the second more golden; the third so dark it was almost green.
‘You can taste these?’
She nodded at a glass bowl of torn baguette pieces. ‘Go for it.’
‘Isn’t that weird?’
‘ Weird? ’ Maggie turned back to the olive seller as he ladled olive brine into the plastic bag and tied it into a knot. ‘ Merci, monsieur .’
‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m up for trying stuff. But, since Covid, nobody does this at home.’ Gray picked up a piece of baguette and dunked it in the pale oil while the olive seller looked on approvingly. He moaned and picked up another piece of baguette while still chewing, dunked it in the middle ramekin and tried that too, then the third, before moaning more loudly. ‘This is incredible. How do I say, I need a bottle of the third one?’
‘We’ve got tons of oil.’
‘No, it’s for me.’
Maggie asked the vendor for a bottle, Gray paid, and they moved on to the cheese stall where he made friends with the vendor, who spoke broken English and laughed at his hat.
‘’Ere, try thees one. You will like, monsieur ,’ promised the vendor, passing Gray a piece of Emmental. ‘I theenk the monsieur has good taste.’
Gray ate it and threw his hands in the air. ‘My god, this stuff too! Is it even legal? I haven’t eaten cheese for like, a decade. But this! This is something else. OK, what about that one? Can I try that one?’
‘How can you possibly not have eat—’
‘Nutritionist,’ Gray replied, reaching his hand towards a knife proffered by the cheese man, which had a melting slice of Brie speared on its tip.
He groaned and swallowed the Brie. ‘OK, we’ve gotta get that. And that. And the Emmental. And hey, man, what’s that one there?’ He pointed towards a small log of goat’s cheese and the cheese man cut a round of that off, too, grinning, delighted by this large, eccentrically dressed American taking such keen interest.
‘Here, Maggie, try this.’ He held out a piece of goat’s cheese before turning back to the stall. ‘OK, can we get a big chunk of that one, and this. And what did you call that?’
‘ Brillat Savarin , monsieur .’
‘I’ll take the whole thing.’
‘Gray!’
‘You said you need cheese. And also the Emmental, and oh, yeah, one of the goat’s cheeses. And that Brie? Thanks, man.’
‘Gray, that’s enough.’
‘OK, Mom.’ He grinned at her and reached for the plastic bag, bulging with wrapped cheese, then handed over his card. ‘And thanks,’ he added, turning to Maggie.
‘What for?’
‘For this.’ Gray waved a hand around the square. ‘I’ve had a great time.’
‘We haven’t finished. I need to get the fish, then we’re done. And then we should probably get back.’
‘Sure thing, ma’am. Lead the way. Merci ,’ Gray said over his shoulder, in such a bad French accent that she couldn’t help laughing again.
They bought turbot, fresh white anchovies (which Gray also tasted, an oily sliver passed to him by the fishmonger on a cocktail stick), and a large pile of plump, white scallops.
‘I’ll carry,’ he said, taking the bag from Maggie. ‘Anything else?’
She pulled up the list on her phone. Nothing else. ‘Uh uh, we’re goo—’
‘Hey, can we get one of those?’
She followed his gaze across the square to the glacerie where a small boy was sitting on a bench in front of it, swinging his legs back and forth while eating an ice cream.
‘Would your nutritionist approve of that?’
Gray made a show of being hurt, sticking out his lower lip like a child. ‘C’mon, Maggie, you’re showing me authentic France. I feel like a trip there should be on the itinerary.’
‘OK, but you need to be hungry. This is serious ice cream, not like the stuff you get in the States. And we can’t be long because I need to get back.’
‘Hey, nothing wrong with Dairy Queen.’
‘There is a lot wrong with Dairy Queen. You might as well eat bath foam.’
‘That is not true.’
‘It is true. Come and try the real deal.’ She led him over the cobbles and into the shop.
Inside was a marble counter with high stools underneath and, in front of them, a glass cabinet under which sat dozens of jewel-coloured ice creams. A blackboard above the cabinet alerted visitors to the flavours in swirling chalk letters.
‘OK, so they have all the usuals, but my aunt always made me try the more unusual ones.’
‘Why?’
‘Because she wanted me to develop my taste buds. Said if I wanted to become a chef it was important I always try new flavours, and not just order chocolate. So, let’s see …’ Maggie stepped forward and squinted at the board. ‘Chestnut, pistachio, coconut,’ she translated. ‘And there are always interesting sorbets, so today they’ve got strawberry and basil, Rhone pear, plus Alphonso mango, which is the best mango in the world, from India. And then …’ She made a squeal of delight, ‘I’m having the miel. Honey, infused with local lavender. I remember that as a kid. It was insane . In a cone, with cream on top.’ She squealed again and clapped her hands.
‘See?’ Gray gently nudged her shoulder with his.
‘What?’
‘This is fun.’
‘It is,’ she agreed.
He took off his sunglasses and stepped closer to see the board. ‘What’s the deal with mixing flavours? Can I have more than one?’
‘You may.’
‘Thanks for the permission,’ he joked, before looking back to the board. ‘OK, so I’m gonna—’
‘Madame Desmoges!’ interrupted Maggie, seeing the old lady come through the beaded curtain.
‘Maggie!’ Madame Desmoges lifted a frail hand in a greeting before looking at Gray. ‘Thees handsome man, ’e ees your ’usband?’
‘Oh, no!’ She laughed loudly, awkward at both the idea that Madame Desmoges might think that, and that Gray was witness to it. ‘No, just a, er, guest at the hotel. I told him that this place did the best ice cream in the world.’
‘I should be so lucky,’ Gray added, lowering his voice and leaning close to the glass cabinet as if this was a secret between him and Madame Desmoges.
Her eyes vanished into their creases. ‘You are a funny man. Mais, Maggie, you do ’ave a ’usband?’ she checked in a more concerned tone, as if Maggie might have lost her husband through carelessness on a train or bus.
‘Mmhmm, he’s coming today. This afternoon. I’ll bring him in to say hello.’
‘ Bon .’ Madame Desmoges was relieved. ‘ Alors , what can I get you?’
‘Please could I have a cone, with a scoop of miel et lavande ? Gray?’
‘Madame Desmoges,’ Gray said, clasping his hands as if in prayer before an altar, ‘what do you recommend?’
Maggie shook her head as the elderly lady gave a girlish smile, tickled by the charming, handsome American in front of her.
‘You would like to try some pieces of them?’
‘I would like nothing more,’ Gray replied solemnly.
Madame Desmoges passed him multiple spoons of ice cream and, eventually, he settled on three scoops in a sundae glass, drizzled with caramel, sprinkled with hazelnuts and covered with cream.
‘Your nutritionist is going to lose her shit,’ Maggie said, as they sat on the bench outside the shop, and she rested her head on the stone wall behind them, lifting her face to the sun.
Gray shrugged. ‘His shit. And not sure I wanna go back and see him anytime soon. Although I’m supposed to be getting in shape for my next project so …’
‘What is it?’
‘A Vietnam film.’
‘And who are you?’
Gray dug his spoon into his sundae. ‘I’m a stranded private, the only survivor from my platoon, left in the jungle and I have to make my way back to the US base without getting killed by the VC.’
‘And do you?’
‘Do I?’ he replied, through a mouthful of cream.
‘Make it back?’
‘If I tell you that it’ll ruin the story. Jeez, this stuff is better than the cheese. Why isn’t everybody in this village the size of a house?’
‘I’m probably not going to watch it.’
Gray’s spoon froze in the air.
‘Kidding! You actors and your ego. I’ll watch it.’
‘You don’t have to,’ he replied quickly, embarrassed by his vanity, burying his spoon back in the sundae glass.
‘No, I will. My husband likes war films.’
‘And you don’t?’
‘No no, I do. I think I just probably like you more as a cowboy.’
Gray matched her smile. ‘You like me, huh?’
‘Oh my god, what did I just say about your ego?’
‘Now I’m kidding. Keep up.’ He nudged her again, and Maggie felt a flare of something so unexpected she couldn’t place it at first.
She tried to identify it while they sat in silence. Gray was so easy to be around that he felt familiar. But it wasn’t familiarity. Maybe it was happiness at sitting here, overlooking Narnesse square with him? She’d laughed almost continuously at his endearing enthusiasm for the market, and she hadn’t laughed that much or teased a man since, well, so long she could scarcely remember. And then she realized: the brush of Gray’s bare arm against hers had sparked a bolt of desire, a sudden, almost primeval longing which she hadn’t felt since sex had become a calendar activity in her marriage, like bin day.
‘You OK?’ checked Gray, and Maggie noticed she’d been holding her breath in her chest, caught out by her own revelation.
‘Yeah,’ she said quickly, trying to avoid looking at him because suddenly it felt embarrassing, as if he’d be able to see her thoughts.
‘What’s your husband like?’ Gray went on, through a mouthful of ice cream, which made Maggie’s heart thump because it was as if he could read her mind. ‘Is he very British?’
‘Mmmm,’ she murmured, ‘kind of.’
‘Like a character from a period drama?’
At least this made her laugh, breaking the tension she was imagining.
‘Is he going to arrive in a horse and carriage and be all “How do you do, my good sir”?’
She shook her head.
‘I can’t imagine you with someone like that.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘I don’t mean to be rude. You just seem less formal. Less uptight.’
‘Oh, thanks. I think?’
He turned and gave her an easy smile. ‘It was meant as a compliment. How did you meet, anyway?’
‘When I opened my restaurant. But right, I think we should be getting back,’ she said, glancing at the clock tower. She felt disloyal; how could she be sitting here, examining her feelings towards Gray while discussing her husband? ‘He’ll be here any second. And you’ve got a ceiling to paint.’
‘You’re a slave driver, Maggie. What about lunch?’
‘You can eat lunch after that?’ She nodded at the sundae glass and thought that she liked the way he pronounced her name, the drawl of it in his mouth. Magg -ie.
‘Sure. I haven’t eaten properly since 1999. And even before that, because in 1999 I was in drama school and I couldn’t afford to eat anything other than microwave pizza. So technically, I haven’t eaten properly since leaving home.’
‘Good sob story. Come on, let’s go.’ Maggie stood and, unthinkingly, reached out her hand towards him.
Gray reached for her fingers and pulled himself up, then slid on his sunglasses.
From across the square, neither of them heard the rapid shutter of a camera lens.