The French House by Helen Fripp (english readers TXT) 📗

her friend since the funeral. Natasha hadn’t visited once, and on one rare occasion when she had ventured out, to breathe the outside air and escape the ghosts in the house, Natasha had crossed the road to avoid her. Nicole didn’t have the strength to question Natasha on her unaccountable behaviour.

‘We need that one,’ said Mentine, pointing to a luscious millefeuille, the biggest cake in the shop. ‘We’re having a party.’

‘Oh? What’s the occasion, ma petite?’ Her demeanour completely changed and softened speaking to her daughter.

‘Me and Maman are having a tea party for Papa.’

Natasha whisked away the cake, expressionless, out to the back and shut the door to wrap it, then called Mentine to collect it. Nicole longed for a sign of affection from her friend. Perhaps she thought everything was her fault. After all, Natasha had been the one to warn her about caution before everything had fallen apart and she had ignored her.

Mentine came out with one of Natasha’s special packages, neatly wrapped with gold ribbon. ‘She said as it was for Papa and I was such a good girl that it’s a gift from her.’

‘Merci, Natasha!’ Nicole shouted to the back, but there was no reply and she felt lonelier than ever.

That evening, Nicole put Mentine to bed and, the minute she was asleep, she ran downstairs to the empty drawing-room and sobbed. The evenings were the worst. People were kind, but she missed him just being there, no effort, no ceremony, just the two of them chatting about the day. She hadn’t visited her secret riddling room since he died, either. Hard to imagine that a time had existed where she was so full of optimism about the future that she thought she was capable of anything. The corner of the basement where she hid the riddling sandbox and upturned bottles seemed utterly pointless and stupid now.

The battered leather chair he loved still described his shape, but it was fading. Next to the chair, a spindly table held a pile of books he read to her from: Diderot, Rousseau, and the manual that was just an endless list of grape varietals – but it was their favourite. They both loved the sounds of the grapes they’d never heard of. Whole evenings were spent guessing where they came from – Clairette, Muscat d’Alexandrie, Aramon, Auxerrois blanc (easy!), Jacquère.

She opened his violin case. It was gloomy and dark, but she knew it so well that she didn’t need to see. Yellow velvet, turned mustard with age. A box of resin falling apart, warm wood and scrolled f-holes, brought to life in his hands, filling the room. She held it up to her chin to feel him against her. Nothing.

When Josette came to announce a caller, she waved her away. The well-meaning scrutiny, sympathy and subsequent forced reassurances from her were worse than anything.

‘Sorry, Madame, it’s just Xavier and he says it’s urgent.’

‘In that case, send him in, thank you, Josette.’

His Sunday best was stretched incongruously over his broad chest and his cap was pulled down stoutly on his forehead.

‘What are you doing sitting here in the dark all on your own?’

‘Sit anywhere, apart from that leather chair.’

Xavier perched awkwardly, legs apart. Dear Xavier, always her stalwart through the years, and her most trusted overseer at the vineyards.

‘I’m no good at pussyfooting around, so I’m coming straight to the point,’ he said.

‘It must be important if you’ve chosen me instead of Etienne’s opening time.’

‘It is important. I can’t think of another way to put it, but Clicquot Ponsardin and Company has gone to hell.’

‘What?’ This was not what Nicole had been expecting to hear.

‘The harvest wasn’t brought in, the grapes are still hanging there shrivelled like an old man’s bollocks, Monsieur Olivier and his tasting gang are off sniffing for Moët and the press yard is covered in milkweed. I know this is a delicate time for you, and I’ve left it as long as I can. The weeds and the grapes don’t matter so much, it’s just it’s Christmas and none of us have been paid since the end of September.’

‘September! I only know the date because it’s his birthday today, but that’s nearly three months. I’ve left you all to cope without me. You know you could have come to me earlier. I’ve just been so…’

‘You don’t need to apologise to me. I knew you wouldn’t mind my saying, though. But… his birthday, today? I’m so sorry. Terrible timing on my part.’

‘And you, Xavier, you don’t have to be kind! It will only make me worse. Look, I’m writing you a cheque now. I know what courage it must have taken for you to come and talk to me, and I’m grateful. You must always feel that you can. People are scared to talk to me about anything meaningful, and it feels like living in cotton wool.’

‘Just write the bloody cheque and let me get to Etienne’s. I’ll raise a toast to him, don’t you worry, he was a good man. I wish I could do more for you. I’ll cash the cheque tomorrow and if it’s all right with you I can dole it out. I know where the wage slips are down at the press. You look like you could do with a good night’s sleep.’

She scrawled out the cheque, noticing the ledger, open at the place she had last left it, blank for good news, the day François died. Her beautiful, clever husband had loved this business and her, in equal measures. He had made them both into poetry. And now all was turned to ashes. She’d been in such a fog that everything but her sharp grief had been a blur, just a meaningless background to the searing vision of François lifeless in their secret hideaway. Any good memories of him just made it worse. She’d neglected the business and refused all visitors. The only person she’d have liked to have seen was Natasha, but her friend had inexplicably abandoned her in