Chapter 26
26
Having decided we probably weren’t that good at making satisfactory social media videos, we gave up.
That afternoon I had a shower in my tiny bathroom, where just as in the house, the water was hot but not particularly fast flowing. Then for the first time in months, I sat in my dressing gown and did my make-up and then my nails, painting them defiantly red whereas before I might have just stuck to a nondescript pearly pink.
Isabel came in with a box containing her shoes, which were indeed pale champagne coloured with a kitten heel and were still in pristine condition. It was hard to imagine my sister wearing such things, let alone keeping them in the box. When she had been growing up her shoes were things that lay at the bottom of the wardrobe in a heap, or more often, decorating the stairs in a way that had caused more than one accident over the years.
‘I’m so excited,’ she said, ‘I can’t wait to see you all dressed up with somewhere to go.’
‘Stop it, please,’ I said, ‘it’s just dinner, nothing more than that. You’re making me nervous with all your assumptions.’
‘I haven’t made any,’ she fired back, ‘it’s all in your mind, not mine. By the way, when did you last go on a date, do remind me?’
‘Oh, shut up,’ I said, ‘this isn’t a date.’
‘Course it isn’t.’
Well of course it was, and that made me even more nervous. What if I made a fool of myself, or got drunk, or behaved badly, or spilled food down myself as I was perfectly capable of doing. What if he didn’t like me after all? What if…
‘Right then, I’ll just put your hair up,’ she said, ‘it will look as though you’ve made an effort.’
‘I think my clothes will show that,’ I said.
An hour, several hairpins and most of a can of hairspray later, I was ready. Isabel had managed to put my hair up into what I think is called a messy bun, which wasn’t just me using an elastic band and a quick run through with a brush, but apparently quite a complicated thing.
I looked at my reflection and was relieved. I looked okay.
‘You look gorgeous,’ Isabel said, ‘now come on, time to get dressed. And you’d better have that new underwear on, or I will tell Eugénie.’
I put on the trousers and the shirt, wishing they weren’t quite such a good fit. Perhaps I was just used to my clothes being too baggy. Was that a sign of my age? That I had made friends with stretchy fabric, elasticated waists and layers to cover up my figure?
‘These trousers are tighter than I remember,’ I said, ‘okay on the hips but a bit tight round the middle. Perhaps women then had smaller waists?’
‘What? Tighter than your jogging bottoms? That’s a good thing. It means they fit you,’ Isabel said.
I slipped on the beautiful jacket and stroked the fabric.
‘It is gorgeous, isn’t it?’ I said at last.
‘You’re gorgeous,’ Isabel replied, ‘you always were. You just forgot, that’s all.’
I looked at myself in the mirror on the wardrobe door and yes, I did look rather good. Perhaps this was going to be okay after all.
At seven thirty exactly, Luc arrived. He had evidently given his truck a wash and even cleaned the empty canvas bags, bits of stone and gravel out of the back. That more than anything made me feel rather sentimental. I had made an effort but so had he. And he looked very smart in a dark suit and white shirt. He even had cufflinks on.
‘You look wonderful,’ he said as he saw me, ‘ très elegante .’
‘Thank you,’ I said, fidgeting in my borrowed shoes, which were slightly too tight.
‘Shall we go?’
I got up into the truck as gracefully as I could, remembering the last time when he had hauled me up, me squeaking and complaining with my sore back.
We went to Le Poulet Argenté, as Isabel had predicted. An unremarkable stone building set back from the road behind a gravelled car park, which was almost full of swanky looking cars.
‘I hope you are hungry,’ Luc said as we parked, ‘the food here is wonderful.’
‘Very,’ I lied.
In fact, I wasn’t at all. I hadn’t had much to eat since my breakfast croissant because I’d been too nervous, and also the thought of the borrowed trousers possibly cutting into me had been on my mind. How they would cope with this meal was anyone’s guess.
Inside we were welcomed by a stout chap who introduced himself as Arnaud. He was wearing a black shirt and black trousers, had obviously spent a lot of time and money on hair products and flapped his hands about a lot. He was rather sweet and reminded me of an enthusiastic seal.
Our table was by the window with a view over the car park, but was elegantly set with a white cloth, gleaming silver cutlery and four different wine glasses.
As we sat down Arnaud lit the candle in the middle of the table, and then fussed about with our dinner napkins like a magician. The menu was short and, of course, all in French.
Moments later Arnaud brought us a bottle of chilled water and some amuse-bouche on little porcelain spoons. It was a little sliver of smoked salmon on top of a tiny blini, plus a swirl of cream, a few grains of caviar and a tiny frond of dill. It was exquisite and my bouche was very amused indeed.
‘The terrine here with black truffle oil is excellent. And I recommend the sole meunière if you like fish,’ Luc said, ‘it was supposed to be a favourite of Louis XIV.’
I’d seen Julia Child’s videos in the past, and I knew what that meant. Fish cooked in a lot of butter. Sounded brilliant to me.
‘That would be wonderful,’ I said.
I watched him across the table from me for a moment, he looked as appetising as anything that could possibly be on the menu, and how amazing that he had wanted to bring me here.
I gave a little sigh of pleasure and went back to the menu, wishing I had put my reading glasses into my bag, and angled it back and forth trying to read the swirly font. It could have said anything. At this rate I would be ordering something I didn’t like.
‘I’ll have the sole,’ I said at last.
‘And some wine?’
‘Always,’ I said, more confidently that time, ‘what goes well with it do you think?’
‘Perhaps a Sancerre or a white Burgundy?’
‘Ideal,’ I said, ‘I like either.’
‘And I am going to have the steak for the main course. What about you?’
Main course ? I didn’t know we were going to have that too. Amuse-bouche , starter, fish and then steak, not to mention the possibility of a dessert, which was often my favourite part of the meal. In fact, in the past, I had been known to have a starter and a dessert and do without a main course. I was going to have to be rolled out of there at that rate.
I gave a confident smile and put the unreadable menu down.
‘Splendid. Me too.’
We ordered and Arnaud went off to find wine, a white napkin, ice and an ice bucket, which he brought back to the table and did a lot of fussing about with the cork.
‘You taste it,’ Luc said, ‘see what you think.’
My ability to taste wine was non-existent other than to say it was very wine-y, but I did my best, swirling it around the glass and giving an appreciative sniff and a sip.
‘Lovely,’ I said, trying to think of some things to say that I had heard, ‘grassy, with a hint of green.’
Arnaud went off satisfied and Luc’s eyes twinkled at me across the table.
‘I might be French but I’m not a snob about it. It tastes like wine to me too,’ he said, and I grinned.
The starter came, a minute portion of terrine garnished with three drops of truffle oil, some pea shoots, one sliver of red pepper and one thin slice of melba toast. I gave a mental sigh of relief. If these were the portion sizes, perhaps I would be okay. And it was delicious, in fact, I could have eaten a big slab of it.
Actually, back home I could remember scooping paté out of the packet in front of the television with some ordinary toast, but of course that was not the way things were done here. I picked daintily at my food, savouring every tiny bite, taking little sips of water and remembering to sit up straight, not hunch over my plate as though it was a school dinner.
We talked about his house, how he had been busy rearranging his furniture and belongings now that they had arrived from the storage unit.
‘I am enjoying the process, but I would appreciate your advice, if you were free to come over one day. You need to pick up your car anyway,’ he said.
‘Of course,’ I said, ‘I’d promise not to make everything too – what did Felix call it – l’air girly .’
He laughed. ‘I don’t mind, it’s a long time since my home had any feminine influence.’
‘That’s a shame,’ I said.
He was about to reply when Arnaud appeared and cleared away our plates, checking very respectfully that everything had been to our satisfaction.
And then he brought the sole meunière , which was nestled comfortably in its own butter bath and was accompanied by three miniature new potatoes and three green beans in a china dish on the side.
I looked around at all the other diners, who were evidently having a pleasant evening too. No one was making a fuss or grumbling, no one was looking at their watch or complaining that the beans or the potatoes were the wrong shape. I bit back a smile at the thought of the speed eating and general dissatisfaction that had accompanied the meals in my house over Christmas. Wow, that seemed a very long time ago.
‘This is possibly the best thing I have ever eaten,’ I said after a few mouthfuls.
He smiled. ‘You can see why the King liked it.’
As the meal progressed, the sole was followed by a tiny fillet steak that was the most melting I had ever tasted, again swimming in sizzling hot butter, plus five identical, hand-cut and probably much-loved chips in a metal pot. It was scrumptious, and I discovered that eating small amounts of food very slowly and thoughtfully, meant I felt fuller than if I had eaten larger amounts very rapidly; how odd.
I told him about my family, the town where I lived, how I spent my time. He told me about his life, what he had done since his wife had died, how he wished they’d had children. I could tell he was lonely, but then so was I. I don’t think I’d really realised that. It seemed a bond was forming between us, one I hadn’t expected.
‘And what have you been doing today?’ Luc asked.
I had a mental flashback to the five-legged dog, saving the ceramic buttock from the Marcel and Isabel falling over the wheelbarrow and grinned at the memory. I don’t think I had laughed so much for ages. There was fun to be had, and sometimes in the most unexpected places.
‘Something fun by the looks of it,’ he said.
I chuckled. ‘Isabel and I were trying to make videos for social media. Let’s just say it didn’t quite go as planned.’
Then there was the prospect of cheese before dessert, which was how the French preferred things. A tiny, equally unreadable menu was brought to us with a flourish, and again I squinted at it, wondering what these cheeses were.
What I really needed was a menu with pictures. Like in the Wimpy Bars I had frequented as a kid. You knew where you were then; a Brown Derby was in your face – a doughnut, ice cream and chocolate sauce. And the light from the candle on the table was romantic and probably flattering, but it didn’t make life any easier. What should I do? Of course, the perfect get out of jail free card. I tucked the menu into my pocket.
‘I’m just off to…’
… The Ladies, although I didn’t say that I just tried to look mysterious.
Once in the lady’s cloakroom, the light was better and there was a young woman in there, in a blue wraparound dress.
I hadn’t actually needed the loo, but of course once in there I realised I probably should. Always take the opportunity.
When I came back, after wrestling a bit with the button on my trousers, she was still there, wiping the tap with a tissue and then examining her lipstick in the mirror.
‘Can you help me? Aidez-moi ?’ I said, whipping out the menu from the pocket of my jacket.
‘ C’est une menu ,’ she said, looking confused.
‘Yes, I know.’
There was a nice-looking but low chair in one corner, upholstered in Toile de jouy fabric. It might be pleasant to have a few minutes sit down, and the chairs in the restaurant were quite high and hard.
I flopped down into the chair. There was immediately a terrible, rending noise and I looked in horror at my companion. Perhaps it had been a mistake to wear vintage— no forty-year-old trousers and sit down in them without due care.
Oh God.
I sprang up and wheeled around a couple of times, trying unsuccessfully to see what damage I had done. I don’t know what I was thinking. Who has ever seen their own rear view without a mirror?
Further examination revealed that yes, the forty-year-old stitches in the back seam of my lovely trousers had given up, and there was a huge hole that could never go unnoticed without remedial action.
The young woman and I looked at each other in horror and then she raised her eyebrows.
‘ Oh, mon Dieu !’
And then she made some clucking noises and put her fingertips over her lips. Whether in sympathy or to stop herself from laughing I wasn’t sure.
‘Have you got a needle and thread?’ I asked.
She looked at me blankly and I scoured my remedial knowledge of French to think of another way of saying it.
‘ Réparer… repairing?’
She shook her head.
‘ Adhésif ?’
And how exactly did I plan on gluing my trousers back together? And if I did what would stop them sticking to my knickers? I could almost see myself being carted off to the local hospital to have the whole lot removed by a giggling nurse with some surgical spirit.
‘Ah!’ she said, her face brightening.
She made a hand gesture telling me to stay where I was and opened her capacious handbag. She rummaged around in the depths of it, bringing out her purse, a small umbrella, a phone, several letters, a brush, a toy car and a colouring book and crayons.
‘ épingles de s?reté ,’ she said proudly.
Oh, good grief. Two massive safety pins. I hadn’t seen things like that since the children were in terry nappies.
‘ Merci ,’ I said weakly and took my trousers off.
Her face lit up.
‘ Quelle jolie culotte !’
What pretty knickers.
Oh God .
I went back into the loo and did what I could to pin my trousers together. When I came out the young woman had gone. I took a look at myself in the mirror and smoothed down my hair. After all my playing about with trousers and safety pins, bits of it were coming down from the messy bun, so I just looked messy, and of course, being plastered in hairspray the strands were sticking out in all directions. And how long had I been in here anyway? Luc would think I’d had an accident. It didn’t bear thinking about.
As I returned to my seat, he stood up very respectfully. Apart from throwing me a worried glance, he didn’t ask where I had been for so long, and wisely, I didn’t offer any information. I decided to let it go into the ‘ mystery that is woman’ category.
I sat down very carefully, knowing that there was a possibility that one of the safety pins could open up and stab me in the nether regions. I composed myself, folding my hands on the table and trying to look relaxed.
Then Arnaud wheeled out the cheese board on a trolley. There was a fabulous selection of course, because the French do cheese better than anyone.
Following on from my disaster in the Ladies and the split trousers episode, I tried to moderate my usual greed, and just had a small piece of brie and some roquefort, which was my absolute favourite. Luc had something wrapped in leaves. I had no idea what it was.
‘Banon. Goat’s cheese wrapped in chestnut leaves that have been soaked in brandy.’
‘Hmm, I don’t like anything goaty,’ I said.
‘Try it,’ he said, holding out a fragment of cracker with a little bit of cheese on the top, ‘you might like it.’
He popped it into my mouth and watched as I chewed. It was a very suggestive, almost erotic thing to do, and just then despite everything – my tight trousers, my pinching shoes, the need for two giant safety pins to hold my trousers together and the fact that the particular cheese was not to my taste – we didn’t seem able to take our eyes off each other.
‘I still don’t like it,’ I said, my voice a bit croaky.
‘More for me then,’ he replied.
For a moment it was as though the whole room was holding its breath, although obviously that wasn’t the case. I realised I was.