Chapter 5
Brigitte Tautou wandered through the market on her way to work, something she always enjoyed. Greeted by the stallholders, some of whom even came out from behind their stands to kiss her cheek and ask after Monique, her mother, she smiled happily.
She bought some cheese, a spray of vine tomatoes, a bundle of green salad leaves, garlic and finally an avocado. Tonight’s dinner – salad with Monique’s favourite pan-roasted chicken.
Crossing over to the olive oil stand, she bought a bottle of rosemary-flavoured oil and one of her favourite sweetened balsamic vinegars.
Turning to leave the market, she passed a young woman, American judging by her accent of the carefully pronounced French words she was reading off her phone, asking Pascale, the stallholder, which cheese she should try first. Brigitte smiled.
She could almost guarantee that it would be one of the most expensive local ones made in the countryside behind Antibes, cheeses that Pascale produced himself and was proud and passionate about.
The display of Christmas wreaths outside the flower shop on the corner as Brigitte left the covered market caught her eye and she stopped to look.
Years ago, Monique had decreed that too many Christmas decorations were tacky and insisted they were a definite no-no in Vintage Vignettes.
There were only three nods to it being the Christmas season that Monique would tolerate: a wreath for the door, white candles in a special wooden holder on the shelf behind the table that served as a counter in the shop, and a large poinsettia in an earthenware pot placed by the entrance.
Even a tree with lights was a no-go as far as she was concerned.
Brigitte had come to like the ‘less is more’ atmosphere, especially when she lit the candles in the afternoon on dark December days, although she did occasionally long to wind fairy lights around a Christmas tree and hang tinsel from its branches before placing it in the window.
Brigitte glanced up at the lights already strung high above the street. It was more than time to get festive. As she walked in, her old friend Hervé, owner of the flower shop, came across to greet her, his familiar red beret sitting at a jaunty angle on his head.
‘Bonjour, Brigitte. ?a va?’ he said, kissing her effusively on both cheeks. Brigitte, as always, managed to suppress a shudder as his large handlebar moustache touched her face.
‘Oui. And you?’
Hervé gave her a happy smile as he shrugged. ‘Good time of the year for me,’ he said, gesturing at the wreaths, the poinsettias, bunches of holly and potted Christmas trees, small enough to fit any studio.
Brigitte returned his smile as she pointed to a Christmas wreath with a bright red bow and lots of red holly berries. ‘That one looks perfect for the shop’s front door. And the largest poinsettia you have, s’il vous pla?t.’
As she paid with her card, Hervé offered to deliver both items to the shop at midday. An offer she accepted with thanks.
‘Peut-être I can persuade you to have lunch with me?’ Hervé added.
Brigitte declined politely as usual, repeating her well-known excuse. ‘Desolé, Hervé, it is not possible today. I have so much to do. Maybe another day.’
Hervé regarded her sadly. ‘Perhaps.’
She did wonder what his reaction would be if one day she finally agreed to have lunch with him.
Growing up together, they had always been friends, they’d even been an ‘item’ as it was called back then for a short while before he’d disappeared off to university.
Returning briefly three years later with a wife and what was now his signature look: the red beret worn at a jaunty angle and a large moustache.
Their friendship had changed in an instant.
At the time, Brigitte had thought the beret was fun, something that Hervé would eventually discard, but the sooner he shaved off the moustache, the better.
However, he never discarded the beret; he never shaved the moustache.
Now a widower living back in his home town after being in Paris for thirty years, Brigitte was possibly the only person these days to remember Hervé without either his beret or his facial hair.
A clean-shaven handsome look she’d much preferred.
She’d never admit to anyone, though, how glad she was that he was back in town, even if not back in her life as he had once been.
Leaving the flower shop, Brigitte turned down a little alleyway which led her directly to Place Nationale and then on to a hidden corner where her shop, Vintage Vignettes, stood.
Brigitte carefully unlocked the roll-up shutter on the front window and waited for it to roll itself up, before inserting the two keys that would unlock the door.
Once inside, she locked the door again and moved to the back of the shop.
Opening hours were nine-thirty to twelve and three to six-thirty.
Time for a coffee, a quick dust and a vacuum of the carpet before opening up.
Brigitte had opened the shop with her mother’s help soon after her grandmother Florence had died.
Sorting through Florence’s vast dressing-room wardrobes with Monique, she’d realised the value of the unique collection of mainly designer clothes, handbags and shoes dating from before the war.
The idea of Vintage Vignettes had been born.
Monique, declaring herself to be a sleeping partner, had paid for the premises and the refurbishment whilst Brigitte managed the shop.
In the beginning, Monique had been there almost every day.
These days, she just paid fleeting visits on her way to lunch with friends, or appointments at the hairdresser’s or having a massage.
To say she led a busy social life in her late seventies was to understate it, but she always noticed any changes Brigitte made in the shop, however small, and gave her opinion freely.
Nowadays, the shop not only sold its own items, consisting mainly of clothes, handbags and accessories, but customers also brought items in that Brigitte sold for a small commission.
Until recently, too, Brigitte had been able to offer a bespoke mending and alteration service for clothes that were starting to show signs of wear.
Sadly, Theresa the seamstress had decided that her elderly eyes could no longer cope with the close detailed work involved.
After her coffee, Brigitte vacuumed the shop floor, dusted the shelves and wiped the table where the till and the cash machine stood.
She cleaned the two mirrors, the large eighteenth-century gilt-framed one in the shop and the modern full-length one in the changing room.
Finally, she cleaned the glass of the large picture frame that held over a dozen photographs of woman showcasing their vintage dresses bought from the shop.
Fleetingly, Brigitte thought about the folder with more photographs waiting to be displayed and made a mental note to find another large picture frame.
She’d check out the box of frames in the back bedroom at home, see if she could find one suitable.
* * *
When Brigitte arrived home that evening, Monique was in a state of high excitement.
‘Albert is coming back to live here. Marc too.’
‘Vraiment? Not surprised you have a smile on your face,’ Brigitte said, knowing how much Monique adored her only brother.
Albert had walked out after a row with their father when he was twenty-two and had disappeared to live his own life.
He and Monique had somehow managed to keep in touch via mutual friends through the years, without their parents knowing.
It was to be thirty years, though, before they saw each other again when he returned for their father’s funeral.
Monique had sent him a message telling him of their father’s death but had not been expecting him to attend the funeral.
They learnt that he had been a widower for five years, and met his son Marc for the first time that day.
Albert and Monique’s mother, Florence, had grudgingly accepted his and her unknown grandson’s presence, but it was not a return of the prodigal son in any way.
Twenty-four hours after the funeral, Albert and Marc had gone.
When Florence had died six years later, they came again for her funeral and the siblings’ relationship re-established and flourished strongly once more. As did Brigitte and Marc’s.
‘Did he say why he’s coming back?’ Brigitte asked.
‘Wants to get back to his roots, he said.’ Monique gave her a sharp look. ‘It doesn’t matter why. The point is he is returning, and Marc is coming with him.’
Brigitte nodded. ‘And Marc is happy to come? I thought he was thinking of relocating to Silicon Valley.’
A fleeting shadow passed across Monique’s face before she spoke. ‘I think he realised Albert is getting older and he couldn’t be thousands of miles away. And then he was headhunted by a new high-tech company here in Sophia-Antipolis. So it’s all worked out well.’
‘It’ll be good to have an IT expert on hand,’ Brigitte said. Inwardly, she couldn’t help but feel there was more to Albert’s decision to return to his roots than Monique was telling her.
‘Marc is going to buy a house and they’ll both live here until that goes through.’
‘When are they coming?’
‘Sometime before Christmas. I can’t wait,’ Monique said.