8. Les Français
8
Les Francais
The French
Bridget
A lright, so I know driving on the French motorway isn’t exactly the highlight of our trip. But honestly, I’m loving it. Everything looks just that little bit different from back home—villages, churches, you name it. I’m soaking it all in and tucking it away in the memory bank.
Every time we pull up at a petrol station we’re greeted with a cheery “Bonjour!” I reckon that’s the only French word I’ve truly mastered. Well, that and “croissant,” naturally. And “merci,” of course. So, yeah, I’m basically a pro at ordering my favourite pastry by now. “Bonjour. Un croissant, s'il vous pla?t.” Omar can’t help but laugh every time I march into a petrol station, brimming with confidence, ready to dazzle them with my tiny French vocabulary. Luckily he’s there to translate when the conversation goes beyond baked goods.
I think I’ve had three croissants already today and a ton of snacks. I'm going to return from this trip three stone heavier. Do I care? No! I'm going to enjoy this trip, diet be damned. Besides, I’ll be doing a lot of walking through museums and looking for sights. That’ll burn off some of the croissants.
Omar is pretty quiet unless I nudge him into a chat. He doesn’t say much, but I reckon that’s just who he is—probably used to it from work. Still, I’ve made it my mission to crack that shell of his. We’ve got a whole month together, and I want to know the real Omar, not just the guy who loves a bite of Colin the Caterpillar.
The only thing I know for sure is that Omar thinks I’m a bit bonkers. We stopped at a motorway services and I decided it was the perfect time to ring Bella. Omar sat there, watching me with an amused look on his face, like he wasn’t sure if he should laugh or not. Every now and then I’d catch him biting his lip, trying to keep a straight face while I babbled away to my snugglebug.
I tried to explain why I call Bella every day (aka, pull some ridiculously scientific bollocks out of my arse to cover the fact that I just miss her), but he just raised his hands and said “No judgment,” before going quiet again.
It wasn’t like I was saying anything weird—just the usual, “Are you being a good girl? Have you eaten your food? Do you miss me?” But apparently that’s not what normal people do at a service station. As I’m mid-conversation with Bella an old French guy strolled past, looking thoroughly confused. He pointed at me and said something in French.
Omar grinned and replied. Whatever he said included the French word for cat, so I can guess what this convo was about. The French bloke’s eyes practically popped out of his head. He muttered a very dramatic “Mon dieu!” and shuffled off like he’d just witnessed a three headed dog. And of course he returned to his family sitting nearby who were soon having a good look at me like I was their entertainment for the afternoon.
When we pass the first sign for Vendeuvre-sur-Barse I notice a tiny smile on Omar’s face. I wasn’t sure about staying at his family’s place at first, but he made a good point. Why hole up in some boring motorway hotel when we can enjoy a bit of his family’s hospitality? And now seeing that smile, I get it—it’s not just about convenience.
I’ve brought along two bottles of wine as a thank you and I’ve made Omar promise to tell me if there’s anything else I can do to pitch in.
Omar turns off the radio as we pull into the courtyard of a sprawling farmhouse. A door swings open before the car comes to a complete stop and out charges an older lady, about my height, waving her hands excitedly. She’s quickly followed by what seems like half the village. Just how big is Omar’s family?
“That’s my cousin’s grandmother-in-law, Aurélie, but we all see her as our grandmother.” Omar says before exiting the car.
As soon as he’s out, she’s got him in a bear hug, which is no small feat considering he’s got at least seven inches on her. She’s chattering away in French, hugging and kissing him on the cheek between every other word. Omar just laughs and tries to keep up with her questions. Hearing him speak French does things to me; I want to fan myself. This man needs to stop getting hotter by the minute.
I hang back a bit, unsure what to do with myself. It’s a bit awkward, barging in on such a lovely family reunion. Omar’s passed around like a beloved teddy bear, everyone giving him hugs and kisses.
I briefly consider grabbing my bag. I’ve packed smartly, with a smaller suitcase holding everything I need for tonight, saving us from having to schlepp all the luggage in. But before I can get to it the old lady spots me, shouts “Bonsoir!” and makes a beeline straight for me. Next thing I know, I’m wrapped in her arms too.
She smells of lavender and something sweet, like cake. It reminds me a little of hugging my aunty Ruth because she also always smelled of lavender.
I smile politely and reply with a masterful “ Bonsoir ” which she takes as an invitation to let off a stream of French. Omar interrupts her to explain that I don’t understand a word she's saying. She just smiles, pats my cheek and then waves us into the house.
Omar tries to introduce me to the rest of his relatives but there are so many names I’m not sure I’ll remember them all.
“And this is my aunt Thérésa,” Omar guides me to a woman in her sixties. “She's my mum’s sister. They both left Lebanon around the same time. My mum settled in the UK and my aunt in France.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” I say and hold out my hand in greeting.
“Nice to meet you too,” Thérésa replies with a strong accent before gently swatting my hand away and pulling me into a hug. “Now come, come, dinner is ready.” She ushers us into the house.
Omar puts a hand on my back just below the shoulder blade and guides me towards the entrance. “Should we get our suitcases?” I ask nervously, trying to avoid going into the house. I’m still feeling a little awkward that I’m invading someone else’s house and interrupting what could be a lovely family meal.
“Nah, leave it to me. I’ll get them after dinner because the food is probably already on the table waiting for us, and you don't want it to get cold. Her cooking is amazing.”
He leads us down a long hallway into a large kitchen with a massive oak dining table. There are more new faces waiting for us and Omar is pulled into hugs and kisses again before we finally all end up around the table laden with food; food I've never seen before, but food that smells delicious.
I sit between Omar and his cousin Khalid who speaks English. He keeps pointing out dishes and explaining if they are Arabic or French.
“My mother likes to mix both cultures. I guess in modern cooking it’s called fusion,” Khalid chuckles. I like him. There's a tiny bit of resemblance to Omar, but his nose is bigger and his eyebrows bushier. His skin looks withered. And his smile is crooked with slightly tinted teeth, probably from smoking.
Most men around the table, except for Omar, seem to smoke. Except when it’s time to eat. Aurélie shouts at them like they’re little boys and they all obediently get rid of their cigarettes.
By the time the meal is done, I’m stuffed. Omar’s whole family made sure I tried every single dish and took seconds and thirds. Whilst I was feasting, Omar kept chatting up a storm with his family. I haven’t seen him as lively or happy… ever. Okay I don’t know him that well yet but seeing him with his family makes me even more determined to succeed with my mission of making him smile more.
I think his aunty Thérésa caught me watching him; she gave me a wink and a knowing smile that immediately made me blush. Great, now his family thinks I’m a cougar trying to shag the young man in my employ. Only, he’s not that young, really. He’s only four years younger than me and—okay, I need to fucking stop this train of thought because…no!
“ Bridget, es-tu mariée? ” Aurélie asks, her eyes twinkling with mischief.
“She’s asking if you’re married,” Khalid translates with a grin.
“Divorced,” I reply with a casual shrug, trying to play it cool.
“ Pas de petit ami? ” she presses on after Khalid relays my answer. And just like that, everyone’s eyes are on me. Including Omar’s. Do I have a boyfriend, Khalid passes her question on to me.
“ Non, ” I say, leaning on one of the few French words I’ve got up my sleeve.
“ Omar est célibataire aussi —” Aurélie’s grin widens.
“ Grand-maman! ” Omar cuts her off, clearly mortified.
“What did she say?” I ask, curious and slightly amused.
“Nothing,” Omar mutters, but his vague response makes everyone else at the table burst into giggles.
“She said Omar is single too,” Khalid chuckles, earning himself an evil look from Omar.
“Just ignore them,” Omar mumbles, looking thoroughly embarrassed as he grabs his plate and heads to the sink. “They’ve got a habit of trying to marry everyone off.” His move seems to cue the others to start clearing the table, and I’m secretly relieved the spotlight is off us.
Sure, Omar is fan-yourself hot, but I don’t think my cynical take on long-term relationships would go down too well with this crowd of happily hitched couples.
After dinner Omar and his cousins head outside to play football, leaving me with his aunt and the other women. We don’t say much, just sit there smiling and watching the lads kick the ball around. It’s comfortable now, not awkward at all. They’ve really made me feel at home and I’m glad we decided to stay here. Maybe we could even pop in again on the way back to England. Yeah, I’d like that.
I can’t help but admire Omar a little as I watch him running around with his cousins. Alright, maybe more than a little. There’s something about the way he moves—so confident, so effortlessly cool. And then there’s that smile of his, the one that lights up his whole face and makes you forget your own name for a second. I’m putting this down to my general state of perpetual horny-ness and the fact that it has been a long time since a man has paid me as much attention as Omar. Even if I obviously pay him for it. This just is all so wrong. I need to get him out of my head and focus on the stallions that await me when we finally get to Italy.
As Omar kicks the ball towards the goal, narrowly missing, I let out a small cheer. Omar’s eyes land on me and he gives me a big grin that definitely makes my body forget the agreement we just made about focusing on Italian stallions. His aunty throws another knowing look at me, so I mumble an excuse and head back into the house. I need a cold shower.