Chapter 17
17
‘So, you don’t have a date with Luc!’ Isabel said gloomily as we drove away ten minutes later. ‘After all that effort. I knew it. I knew my plan wouldn’t work.’
‘You had a plan? Don’t you think you should have told me?’ I said.
‘I just thought that as you are on your own and so is he, you might sort of – pair up? There aren’t many good-looking, unattached men around here.’
‘I think I have been ambushed,’ I said, ‘and why are you so determined to pair me off with someone?’
I sounded annoyed, but I was looking out of the car window and feeling rather confused and disappointed with the way things had turned out. Even at my age I didn’t want to be thought of as some old bird who might be interesting but …
I hadn’t been on a proper first date for decades. I hadn’t spent any time alone with a man who wasn’t Stephen, a doctor, dentist, or solicitor for years. I’d just spent a lot of time on my own. And much as I enjoyed relative peace and quiet, being lonely was a very different thing.
I spent the rest of the journey listening to Isabel recommending various cafés and restaurants where we could have gone, and then berating herself for coming back downstairs too soon.
‘I’m not looking for anyone,’ I said, ‘and nor is he. Stop trying to tidy me away; married couples always do that, a woman on her own seems to make them twitchy for some reason. You’re wasting your time.’
I didn’t volunteer much to the conversation after that. As always with my sister, it was easier to let her get on with it. But I did think about it a lot. I wondered if it was as hard for men his age as it was for women. How did they know what the dating rules were these days? I certainly didn’t. And I was beginning to see that he was just as nervous about it as I was. Perhaps I should do something to help myself, to help both of us over the first stumbling steps. And if it all went badly wrong, so what?
The supermarket was stuck on the side of a new industrial estate, which I didn’t remember at all from my previous visits, and it was huge. In fact, it seemed far too big for the small, scattered communities I knew about, but Isabel said it was very popular, although the local traders in town had been predicting doom and disaster for their businesses ever since it had opened.
We took a big trolley and headed off down the aisles.
I loved visiting foreign supermarkets; they were full of unfamiliar food and unexpected things. Even the sight of the price cards, written in the classically French way, with curly script and sevens written differently were exciting. Back home I knew my local shop so well, I could have navigated it blindfolded; here things were different.
There were dozens of different jams and spreads, scented honeys, boxes of rounded sugar cubes, a whole aisle devoted to various mustards and flavoured salt, hundreds of chilled desserts. The shopping cart was half full in no time.
I added a few things, proper English tea bags, some lavender soap in a beautifully rustic block, a new comb, because I’d mislaid mine, and some Mère Poulard butter biscuits. I didn’t much care what the biscuits were like, but the square tin was delightful, with vintage writing and a picture of Mont St Michel. Then I added some rather more exotic chocolate cookies.
‘We’d better get back,’ Isabel said at last as she threw a new dog toy into the cart. ‘I didn’t actually plan on buying half these things, I just need some of those brioche rolls, I’m going to make burgers.’
‘Just one thing before I forget, or it’s too late,’ I said as we loaded our shopping into the car, ‘please don’t go spreading this nonsense with Luc all around the town, will you? I know how gossip works.’
‘Absolutely not,’ Isabel said, rather outraged, ‘as if I would! I am discretion personified!’
‘So, you have a date with Jean-Luc,’ Eugénie said the following morning when she called in unannounced for coffee.
I gave my sister an exasperated look, and her eyes slid away from mine.
‘No, I don’t. I don’t know where you heard that,’ I said, trying to sound outraged.
Eugénie sat down and took off her gloves, which were dark blue leather. Underneath her hands were, as always, beautifully manicured, with just one large diamond ring sparkling on her left hand.
‘Goodness me,’ I said, seeing an opportunity to deflect the conversation, ‘what a beautiful ring, are you and Charles engaged?’
Eugénie flared her nostrils at me. ‘ Ridicule ! Of course not. What an idea. I am married to Bastien.’
‘He has been dead for twenty-three years,’ Isabel muttered, ‘poor Charles.’
Eugénie bridled. ‘ Pas le pauvre Charles! Not poor Charles at all. He is the most fortunate of men to spend time with me, and he knows it. This is a friendship ring. He gave it to me a long time ago. It was his mother’s. I expect it is glass, and worth nothing. But it is pretty, I’ll admit.’
‘Is he still wooing you with romantic songs?’ Isabel asked.
‘He has taken to singing “Boum”, all about his heart beating with love for me. But he pronounces it “Bum”, which spoils the effect. Charles Trenet sang it much better. Now then, Jean-Luc. Tell me about that.’
‘There’s nothing to tell,’ I said, at last realising it was pointless to lie about it. ‘Felix suggested Luc should ask me out to dinner, but it was obvious he didn’t want to. Which is fine by me.’
Eugénie pulled a face and then sighed.
‘Men never know what they want until we show them, don’t you know that? Bastien told his friends he didn’t want to ask me to the Bastille Day dance in 1958. But I knew better, I knew he was the man for me. So handsome, with a wonderful head of hair. Three years later we were married with two sons, and I was digging rows of potatoes. So what do you know of him?’
Men never know what they want until we show them.
Yes, that was an interesting thought. Perhaps my idea to be a bit more proactive was worth considering.
‘He seems very pleasant; we went to visit him and see how he is getting on with his house. And that’s all.’
‘You should have taken me,’ Eugénie said, ‘next time you go, if the Lord spares me, I wish to be included. I will ask him about my liver problems and ask if there is some new treatment.’
‘I did tell you, he’s not a medical doctor,’ Isabel said, handing her mother-in-law her coffee in its special cup.
Eugénie took a sip. ‘I will ask him anyway.’
‘By the way, that special box you were asking about,’ I said.
‘The one you were going to do something clever with?’
I went to get it off the dresser. In Isabel’s collection of things, I had found some vintage photographs, and some sentimental old Valentine’s cards. I had bound them up with faded pink ribbon and put them inside.
‘This was what I thought might be nice,’ I said.
Her voice softened. ‘Yes, that is very romantic. My Bastien used to give me cards like that. So pretty. I wish I had kept them all.’
I watched her as she examined the cards, a little smile on her face, her hands gentle on the ribbon. It was evident she liked what I had done, and I felt happy for her and rather proud.
At last, she re-tied the pink ribbon carefully around the cards, and put them back into the box, closing the lid with care. She was deep in thought, and her expression was unusually tender.
‘Perhaps romance is what the handsome doctor needs. To take his mind off illness and death.’
‘He’s not that sort of doctor,’ Isabel murmured again.
Two days later the first people came to stay in the g?tes. One was a young couple, Marcus and Cathy, who were celebrating their first wedding anniversary. They arrived in a battered old VW Beetle, laden down with cases and boxes of food. They seemed delightful, said polite things about the countryside and the brocante and then giggling, disappeared into the g?te, presumably to enjoy each other’s company, so to speak. We didn’t see anything of them for the rest of the day.
Later that afternoon the second renter, Bill, arrived; a man of about seventy, on his own who had come to ‘ finish his work’ . He made a lot of fuss about the broadband speed and wanted to know if there would be much noise, because he needed to concentrate.
‘Not really,’ Isabel said, handing over the welcome pack of leaflets and maps, ‘the countryside is quiet, the dogs may bark a bit occasionally, but I don’t think there is anything that will disturb you too much.’
‘That’s good,’ he said, pushing his glasses up his nose, and looking earnest, ‘because I am on a tight deadline. And I am hoping my two weeks here will sort things out.’
‘That sounds interesting,’ I said, ‘what are you doing?’
‘I am finishing my book,’ he said proudly, ‘my debut. I have nearly completed the first draft, it’s already over two hundred thousand words, and I need to think about killing someone.’
‘Not actually killing someone?’ I said.
He gave a short, barking laugh. ‘In my book. They do say that when you come to a tricky part, the best thing you can do is kill someone. The problem is, I have already killed off three people, including the main character. I’m wondering if another one is a good idea.’
‘You won’t have anyone left at that rate,’ I said.
He looked thoughtful.
‘Yes, I was sorry to lose my hero because I quite liked him. But then over Christmas I got fed up with him, he used too many adjectives, and he kept shrugging, so I had him shot. I did think of poison but then I couldn’t decide who would do it and how. Poison is hard work, you know? Not for the faint-hearted. I’d already spent two weeks down a rabbit hole of research learning about cyanide. I hope the authorities never search my browsing history.’
‘So it’s a murder mystery?’ Isabel asked.
‘A murder-romance-steampunk crossover,’ he replied, ‘with elements of police procedural. I’m creating a new genre. And I do wonder if I did the right thing – shooting Simon at the end of chapter forty-seven, but then I was really pleased with the way that scene went.’
‘Perhaps you could invent an identical twin brother to make a surprise appearance,’ I said.
‘I didn’t know Simon had a twin,’ Bill said, looking worried.
‘But he could have if you wrote one,’ I said.
‘Hmm.’
Bill disappeared into his g?te and slammed the front door behind him.
‘He’s either furiously angry or inspired,’ Isabel said. ‘Come on, we have two customers at the barn. Let’s go and encourage them.’
There was a middle-aged couple in there, poking about and admiring the watering cans. They also seemed to like the vintage farm implements and the milk bottles, but as the woman said, they didn’t have room for much in their car. In the end they bought two tea towels with pictures of the iconic stripey beach tents of Dinard on them.
‘Well, it’s a start,’ Isabel said, ‘I always think it’s lucky to have a sale on the first day we open.’
‘Even luckier to have two,’ I said as another car pulled up outside.
Two women got out and went towards the barn with a determined tread. One turned as she got to the door.
‘Have you got any Beanie Babies? We are looking for a Princess Diana. Or Star Wars figurines?’
‘No, I’m afraid not. But we do have some lovely vintage?—’
They turned smartly around and got back into their car and were gone in no time.
‘—pillow cases,’ Isabel called after them. ‘Oh well, can’t win them all. You should go into the bookshop and help Felix out tomorrow; it would give you a change of scenery and I know he can do with the help. And Saturday is always the busiest day of the week, particularly now the holiday season has started. I could give you a lift. Or I suppose you could go in with Felix?’
‘Do you think I would be any use?’ I asked.
‘Of course you would. If you can sell tea towels, you can sell books.’
‘I don’t think it’s quite the same thing,’ I said, ‘particularly as most of the things will be in French.’
‘But you could persuade him to stock those notebooks, I think that’s a great idea.’
I suddenly felt rather unsure about the prospect. What would I know about the notebook-buying habits of the French?
‘Oh, I don’t know, Isabel, old dog, new tricks? I might say the wrong thing and then Felix might lose a lot of money. I’d hate to be responsible for that.’
Isabel looked exasperated. ‘Look, I was reading about something called Kanreki the other day. It’s a thing the Japanese do, a big celebration when people turn sixty. You wear red and get a party and presents, which sounds great to me. I’m annoyed I missed out on that. It’s all about rebirth and new beginnings. And passing on the ghastly, adulting responsibilities to the next generation. Which if you think about it is what you and I have both done with our own children, isn’t it? Although Pierre and Sylvie do live in a flat above Sylvie’s parents’ garage, so perhaps that doesn’t count. Sylveste and Margot are living in a flat in town and are buying their first house soon, so that’s definitely first-rate adulting.’
‘I suppose so, although I’m still not convinced I did the right thing where Sara was concerned. But she does sound quite cheerful and positive in her emails.’
‘Well there you go. But it means we’ve both missed out on a party. But when you get to seventy there’s also a celebration called Koki when you’re supposed to wear purple. And eighty is called Sanju. And you wear gold. So, the Japanese don’t think that people our age are past it, do they? And nor should we.’
‘I don’t know. Sometimes I feel I am, and other times I’m not so sure. My hearing isn’t as good as it used to be. I can’t stay up as late as I used to, and I don’t sleep as well either. I think I need stronger reading glasses too.’
Isabel put an arm around my shoulders.
‘I like to think that although my eyesight might not be as good as I’m getting older, I can certainly see through people much better.’
I shook my head. ‘Getting old is a pig of a thing.’
‘Yes, but the alternative is worse. I used to be able to do handstands against the garage wall when I was younger, now I’ve been known to fall over putting my pants on.’
We both laughed and she hugged me.
‘Okay, with that image seared into my brain, then I’ll do my best. I’d quite like to drive actually,’ I said, ‘otherwise my battery is going to go flat. I haven’t been out in my own car since I got here.’
‘Always the practical one,’ Isabel said. ‘I’ll tell Felix when he gets back, he’ll be so pleased. And tomorrow is market day in the square, which is eternally interesting, and you know where you can park already.’
‘By the tin plate sign?’
‘Absolutely. Felix parks round the back of the shop, and he will tell the local gendarmerie it’s your car, anyway they never make a fuss. His nephew, Andre, married one of the sergeants two years ago. I don’t think you’ve met her, Mireille, she looks like a long-distance lorry driver but she’s very sweet really. And her father is the mayor. That counts for a lot over here. You have to keep on his good side.’
I imagined myself driving into the town the following day, knowing where to park and the prospect was rather fun. I had opened my mind to the possibility of doing new things and found another one. It wasn’t something for me to lie awake all night worrying about, it was exciting.