30. French by Name, French by Nature
French by Name, French by Nature
MADDY
Thirty feels better than I thought.
But why wouldn’t it?
The air under this canopy of pine trees is cool enough to be considered balmy, and its faint breeze carries the scent of fertile undergrowth.
Even in summer, this area of the C?te d’Azur is pretty verdant.
Shouts of effort and triumph carry over from the tennis court, where Stella is hopefully thrashing Zach.
And, best of all, the warm and slightly sticky skin of our youngest, three-year-old Nicky, is pressed up tight against mine in this hammock.
We both woke from our naps a few minutes ago, but he seems as content as I am to lie here and just be.
It’s hot beyond these trees, and my interest in thrashing anything out on the tennis court is literally zero.
I’d rather lie here, entangled with my little man, our heads close enough that I can inhale the glorious scent of sunshine off his hair and his skin for as long as he lets me.
He’s usually the active one. His elder brother, Jonny, is a dreamer and already more interested in books aged five than any child of mine should ever be. Thank God he got some of his father’s genes. He and Nance are probably off reading with Ruth right at this moment, in fact.
Nicky, on the other hand, is rarely seen without an implement for hitting balls.
Since he was old enough to walk, he’s trailed cricket bats and hockey sticks and tennis racquets behind him.
They’re practically an extension of his little body at this point.
This kid is in such a hurry to grow up and do everything his brother and sisters can do, especially the sporty Stel, who he hero-worships.
He and his daddy totally knackered each other out in the pool this afternoon, between volleyball and Marco Polo.
When Nicky crashes, he crashes hard. He’s either on or off.
No in between. He falls asleep in the weirdest positions—he often looks like he’s mid-stride in his bed when we go up to check on him.
I’m amazed Zach’s still standing. Surely, he too will need a nap before dinner.
‘Swim, Mummy?’ Nicky asks sleepily, and I laugh to myself at this kid’s Duracell bunny powers as I brush his dark hair away from his forehead and give him a kiss. His hair is so soft, but it’s slightly grimy from all the sun cream. There are white streaks of zinc on his forehead.
I love him so much I can barely breathe.
‘How about a night-time swim?’ I murmur against his skin. ‘When the lights are on in the pool?’
He fist-bumps the air with one tiny arm. ‘Yeah. I splash Stel on the floatie.’
I laugh and pull him closer. ‘Of course you will. That’s what little brothers are for.’
My phone pings, and I feel around for it next to me. I unearth it under my thigh and squint at it.
‘Who is it?’ Nicky demands.
‘It’s Caro,’ I tell him. I open the WhatsApp. It’s a thank you message from Stel and Nance’s grandmother, Caroline.
Claire’s mother.
I’ve been bombarding her and Peter with photos from this thirtieth-birthday trip.
The girls, who look more like Claire every year, will always be their favourite way of keeping their daughter’s memory alive, but they’ve taken to their granddaughters’ little brothers with great enthusiasm and open-heartedness, and for that I’ll always be grateful beyond belief.
Peter was a wonderful cricketer in his day and still coaches his local team at the weekend.
He was underwhelmed by Jonny’s lacklustre reaction to cricket, but he’s already pronounced Nicky a future pro.
I personally think the hours he puts in to teaching Nicky to bowl are probably wasted at this age, but it seems to make them both very happy to lark about outside.
Mum and Justin are super-involved, too. Once my mum got over the horror of becoming a grandmother far too young (her words), she embraced the role with her customary gusto.
She’s actually been brilliant with Stel, educating her on the importance of good nutrition and helping her get her hormonal acne mostly under control through a decent diet.
Four kids.
Three sets of grandparents.
One old but gorgeous dog.
And one incoming Labrador puppy, whose imminent arrival Zach and I are guarding like a state secret and who will undoubtedly make Norm’s life a misery.
It’s messy, and exhausting, and not where I thought I’d be at thirty, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Alchemy’s now global, so Zach’s role is bigger than ever, and my role has expanded massively.
We work from home a lot. It’s easier that way.
Once the boys came on board it was clear we’d need a lot more outdoor space, so we’re down near Richmond Park, and neither of us can be arsed to go into the office more than a couple of times a week.
We still head for The Playroom once a fortnight, though. Wink, wink.
We don’t play with anyone else, but my husband likes to show me off. He’s as bad as Rafe.
The weirdest thing is that, despite the chaos, and the noise, and the lack of me-time, I feel more peaceful than I ever thought I could. Belle and I had this chat a few weeks ago, and we identified the feeling as contentment.
Contentment.
Weird, huh? I can’t say it’s an emotion I’ve ever aspired to, but it turns out it’s the healthiest, most restorative type of happiness. Like I’m full. Replenished.
Mum says it’s because I’m spending more time in my ventral nervous system, but then again, she gave me a jade Goop egg for my vagina after Jonny was born, so it’s always best to take what she says with a pinch of salt.
* * *
I’m assuming Stella won the tennis match, if her elated and not particularly gracious shrieks of I won! echoing around the grounds of this gorgeous villa are anything to go by.
Sure enough, a moment later she’s running up to me and Nicky, puce and breathless and dripping with sweat. ‘I won! Dad was rubbish!’ she yells as she grabs Nicky under his arms and lifts him out of the hammock.
‘Go Stel!’ he cries.
I’m grinning at them when my husband materialises.
He too is seriously sweaty. As he approaches, he peels off his soaking t-shirt and uses it to mop his face.
I’m instantly interested. Despite being super old, he is super fit, and the appearance of his gorgeously tanned, toned chest and shoulders has me salivating.
He catches my eye and smirks. I’m not exactly subtle.
‘I wasn’t rubbish,’ he tells Stel. ‘I was fine, but you, my darling, are a lot more than fine. You’re bloody amazing.’
‘Bloody,’ Nicky agrees.
Zach licks his lips as he takes in what I’m wearing. Or, more accurately, what I’m not wearing. I changed out of my wet bikini for my nap, and this little pistachio-green ERES number is an exact replica of the one I was wearing on Rafe’s terrace all those years ago.
My husband has since told me a million times just what a tidal wave of carnal fantasies that bikini unleashed for him.
And yes, just as I suspected, he fantasised about coming all over my tits that day.
Since then, Zach’s kept ERES in business with a steady stream of bikinis for his wife. We travel a lot, so they get put through their paces.
They get ejaculated on a lot, too.
Truth.
I smile seductively at him.
‘Stel,’ he says, not taking his eyes off me, ‘can you take Nickychops here inside to find Ruth?’
‘Want Paw Patrol,’ Nicky whines.
‘And you may have it,’ his father says in a gracious tone. ‘Ruth will put the TV on for you.’
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Thank fuck for Ruth.
‘Thank you, sweetie,’ I say to Stel, who flashes me a wide grin and hikes Nicky up on her hip. I love that girl so much. I love both my girls.
As our kids wander off in the direction of the house, my chivalrous husband holds out his hand. ‘Come shower with me?’
I grip it tightly as I clamber inelegantly out of the hammock.
As if he needs to ask.
One of the many amazing things about this villa is that the master suite is located away from the other bedrooms. Another is that it boasts its own private outdoor shower area. Zach and I are making it our life’s mission to shower alfresco in as many incredible locations as possible.
Bali held the top spot until this holiday, but I have a feeling Ramatuelle has beaten it.
He leads me by the hand through the house and into our bedroom, cranking open the shuttered doors to our secluded terrace and showering spot.
This shower is particularly chic—unsurprisingly, given where we are.
The French do house porn so well. The entire back wall and floor of the enclosure is made of the smoothest, whitest pebbles, a canopy of bougainvillea blanketing the wooden slats that run across the top.
It’s fragrant, and pretty, and private.
‘Why don’t you go stand over there, sweetheart,’ my husband says as he cranks the overhead spray on and unhooks the handheld attachment.
It’s not a question. Nor is it a request.
I lick my lips and sashay a few steps, plastering my back to the cool smoothness of the pebbled wall.
‘Nice,’ he murmurs. He makes quick work of my bikini strings with a couple of strategic tugs. Within seconds I’m naked. Waiting. I bend a leg and lean the sole of my foot against the wall.
The heat in my husband’s eyes is literally the best thing in the world. There’s nothing that does it for me more than my quiet, understated and very British husband going fucking feral over me.
‘I can always lie down,’ I suggest innocently, and his face contorts as if he’s a man in pain as he turns on the attachment.
‘Fuck. I’ll never get over that,’ he says, testing the spray against his hand. ‘Hottest moment of my life.’
‘Try getting railed to within an inch of your life by your gorgeous boss on the floor of your shower,’ I retort. ‘That was a game-changer.’
He grins at me and steps closer, tugging his shorts down with one hand over his painful-looking erection. ‘Christ, I love you so fucking much, Mrs French. Nice tits.’