Bordeaux Housewives. Daisy Waugh
to do, why don’t you both come over for dinner tonight?’
‘…Dinner? DINNER? What did you say?’
‘You’ve probably got something much more glamorous –’
‘NO! No we haven’t. Yes please. That would be – Are you sure?’
‘I’m afraid I’ve got David with me,’ Emma continues blithely, with a little confiding laugh. ‘But that’s all right. Didn’t you say your husband was a banker? They can bore each other about money all night and we needn’t pay the slightest attention to them.’
‘They can bore each other to death, for all I care,’ croaks Daffy wildly – and immediately blames the whisky. She’s never made a joke against Tim before. Never said a word against her husband in ten years. Never. She feels a rush, suddenly, of the purest freedom, and it occurs to her that perhaps, just perhaps, it could be a taste of a life to come.
VERTICALLY CHALLENGED ERITREANS
The sun is shining and peace reigns supreme at La Grande Forge. For once, Maude Haunt has the house to herself. Jean Baptiste Mersaud has just left, having successfully fitted his sliding bookcase in front of the COOP’s now hidden door. The children are in the village visiting friends and Horatio has taken their only car to Bordeaux to stock up on wine, in preparation for the arrival of Rosie and family, due first thing tomorrow. She is on the brink of confronting her unpacked flat-pack kitchen blinds again when the telephone rings. She hurries to answer.
‘Oui, allô?’ she says. Full of gratitude.
‘Hello Maude,’ breathes a familiar voice, soft as a whisper, as always, but brimming with mischief. ‘Goodness. Do you actually answer the telephone in French? How extraordinary! How chic!’
‘Oh.’ Maude feels a thud of disappointment. A lurch of misery, in fact, which she fails to keep hidden. ‘Hello Emma.’
‘I must admit I used to. Answer in French. For ages I did it. But then I realised nobody French ever actually called me unless they were asking for money. And then I thought it served them right, rather, to have to listen to a bit of English first. Before they started demanding things. Don’t you think? Remind them where my ruddy euros are coming from…Or maybe not,’ she sighs, when Maude doesn’t immediately reply. ‘You’re always so incredibly nice, Maude. You probably just think I’m being horrid.’
‘You’re always being horrid, Emma. So far as I can see. What do you want?’
Lady Emma Rankin gives one of her light, delightful chuckles. ‘Hello Maude. And how are you this afternoon? I’m very well, thank you. Thank you for asking…Actually I think I probably owe you an apology.’
‘I think you probably do.’
‘Oh God…Maude. I – am – so – sorry,’ Emma says, in her soft, sweet voice, and it sounds quite heartfelt. ‘Really…What can I say? It was a moment of –’ She pauses, notices a thread has come loose on her dress (silver-beaded white muslin; £989 inc. p&p; delivered, on spec as it happens, from a tiny shop on London’s Westbourne Grove, whose owner sends things out to Emma on an incredibly regular basis, always accompanied by monumental invoices and passionately flattering handwritten notes). Emma tugs at the loose thread, clicks her tongue. ‘Maude, it was a moment of total insanity. And I really am terribly – terribly – sorry. Maude, if there is any way I can make it up to you…’
Maude snorts impatiently. ‘Why are you calling me, anyway? Heck’s not here. If that’s who you want.’
‘Oh. Don’t be silly! What would I want with him? Actually, I want you both,’ Emma adds quickly. ‘Will you come to dinner tonight? I’ve got the woman who’s bought the Marronnier coming. She’s just called. Sounding slightly mad, I might add. I didn’t know what to do, so I invited her to dinner.’
‘Really?’ says Maude, biting back her curiosity. The entire region has been longing to meet this mysterious, mermaid-haired new English woman. It is typical that Emma Rankin should be the one in the loop. Emma Rankin always seems to know everything and everyone before anyone else.
‘Plus she’s got a husband with her –’
‘Oh!’ Maude says, though she hadn’t meant to. ‘But I thought she was single?’
‘I think she is. Unofficially speaking. Presumably this is the cheapest way of offloading her.’
‘I don’t understand –’
‘He’s horribly rich, Maude. David knows all about him. David’s here, by the way,’ she adds glumly. ‘Turned up this morning. For some reason. Won’t tell me how long he intends to stay…Anyway. Will you and Horatio come and meet her tonight? Please? I have a feeling the poor woman needs friends. All the friends she can get – and I’m not entirely certain I want to be one of them…She’s slightly mad and awfully wet. But you’re so much nicer than I am, Maude. You might take pity on her.’
Maude doesn’t answer at once. Through the open window she’s noticed a car stopping on the road in front of the house. It’s a saloon car, a metallic-green Renault with a small, fat man sitting inside. Her own car is in Bordeaux, Maude remembers. The man probably thinks there is no one in the house.
‘I’ve got lobster…’ Emma says hopefully.
The car lingers a moment, engine running. Maude peers at it more closely until, with a flutter of unease, she realises she recognises the driver. It is Olivier Bertinard, the new (as of three days ago) Mayor of Montmaur. What does he want? What’s he doing out there?
‘…And Maude, I’ve got François Bourse coming. Especially for you! He said he’d only come if you came, as a matter of fact. So really I’m depending on you…’
‘He said that?’ Maude asks, her attention snapping back.
‘Absolutely he said that!’ Emma says. ‘More than once! Several times!’ Emma lies like a government minister. Without apparent compunction. Without hesitation, so long as the purpose is served. She’s not actually spoken to François Bourse for a month, not since the dreaded fête. ‘Oh, please, Maude. Do say we’re still friends and that all that – silly – stuff that happened before really doesn’t matter, and that you’ll come to dinner tonight.’
Maude doesn’t want to come to dinner tonight, nor any night in the future, and it will take a lot more than the very attractive François Bourse, former Mayor of Montmaur, to persuade her otherwise. Emma Rankin may be excellent company. She may serve the best food, and live in the nicest château in the entire region. She may even have a mysterious new mermaid in tow. It’s not enough. Not after what happened last time.
‘We can’t,’ says Maude simply. ‘Sorry. Thank you very much, Emma. I’m afraid we can’t.’
A long pause. Maude hears Emma crunching on something – something slimming, no doubt. Emma is thin as a racehorse, beneath the melon-tits. (Melon-tits which, incidentally, Maude happens to know are made of plastic, though Horatio refuses to believe her. Emma disappeared for the whole of January last year, without any explanation of where she was going. She returned, sun-kissed, smug, and with breasts that defied gravity, one and a half times their original size. There could be no doubt about it.)
‘Is that a radish you’re eating, Emma?’ Maude snaps irrelevantly, thinking of Emma’s tits, and of all the men, including her bloody husband, who believed in them.
‘What?’
‘Never mind. Anyway, thanks for the invitation. And have a good evening. But no. Thank you. I’m afraid we won’t be able to come.’
‘Why? Are you busy?’ Emma asks slyly.
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