Lavender & Linen Page 6

  5. Offers of ‘mate’s rates’ had to be kept under control.

  6. Costs had to be kept to a strict minimum.

  7. I had to break up with Raymond, whom she found to be oafish and a bore.

  Nathalie and I concentrated solely on business matters when she was in office mode but as she was guiding me towards the exit, grabbing her handbag and a large clutch of keys, she mentioned the last item. I had wanted to discuss my financial problems over lunch — after all, it was lunchtime and the bank had to close — but obviously she thought otherwise.

  I could not depend on chance telephone calls from the United Kingdom to fill up the booking sheet that was looking ominously empty. With Amanda’s dexterity with the computer and her increasing technological expertise, it did not take her long to find a long list of Internet sites that either had a free ninety-day trial period or a low annual cost, so that we could add Villa Agapanthe to their lists and thus generate inquiries that could flow on to solid bookings. At the same time, Amanda was patiently showing me how to organise the bookings and revenues from Place de la Fontaine and Rose Cottage. For someone so young she was admirable in her capabilities; as the temperature rose dramatically she became cooler and less flustered by my series of inane questions.

  The statement on the first massive payment for the four mortgages had arrived, sending me reeling back and making it extremely difficult to remain buoyant and positive. The clients were out there; I just did not know how to reach them. How could I send them a message about our wonderful countryside, which was improving daily? Provence did not get any better than this. The weather was idyllic; the days stretched endlessly with long hours of sunlight then fell dramatically into balmy still nights. The muted colours of winter had finally been replaced in late March with fields of cherry trees laden with white blooms, only to be upstaged in the subsequent months by the wonderful clumps of intense purple and white irises, and the red poppies along the roadside nestling below the bright yellow fields of canola. In July the fields of lavender intensified from pale mauve to a richer hue against green stalks, rippling in the breeze in perfect straight lines. So how could I get these images to my prospective clients, wallowing in their raincoats amid yet more summer rain?

  Weekend papers with large travel sections in London, New York, Washington, Toronto and Amsterdam — even the Hollywood trade papers — were my next points of attack. With Amanda’s help I worked out the rates for advertising and the possible attainable revenue. Prospective clients from the United Kingdom were waiting patiently to see if any last-minute airline deals could be got before committing themselves to a particular part of France. It appeared that most of the travellers were going to Spain, and then there was a large section of the tourist pie tempted by introductory deals to new venues such as the Dalmatian coast in Croatia.

  Judging by my clients during the 2001 season, my clientele base would be mainly serious travellers, well read and well versed in everything concerning Provence. They had arrived with pages of photocopied notes or printed sheets from Internet sites spilling out of matching suitcases bursting with carefully chosen clothes. The clients also had a list of questions ready to throw at me the moment I indicated that I was available. But from their months of research, they already knew the best restaurants, the best deals on hiring bikes, and where to go for kayaking, walks and picnics in the Luberon. Specific days had been set aside to visit the markets in the area; the cheese market in Banon, the breathtaking rose show in Simane la Rotande, the antique market in Isle sur la Sorge, the pottery and art exhibitions, the deluxe tablecloth vendors were all earmarked, paged and referenced. Other days had been circled for a trip down to the heavenly village of Cassis or to explore the sandy dunes and flamingo reserves of the Camargue Regional Nature Park. They wanted to experience Provençal life and every minute counted.

  The Americans stood out from the crowd in their incredibly smart casual clothes: for the men, Ralph Lauren polo shirts, crease- and soil-resistant chinos, plaited leather belts and navy blue jackets all carefully handpicked by their wives, who stood beside them in their equally studied casual clothing ready for their seven days in the French countryside, where few spoke English and no one accepted American dollars — much to their constant amazement. I often wondered if they ever bothered to unpack, because their holiday was spent at such neck-breaking speed. Was there any latitude for the niceties such as lazing around, sleeping in and relaxing? There were lists of must-do places and activities that spread across several pages: so much effort and organisation had gone into their trip; there would be no time for meandering or daydreaming in tranquil villages. Their stamina and fortitude were awe-inspiring, regardless of age. I have given up explaining to clients that a holiday in Provence is much the same as a gym class: it just does you good to be there; everyone should go at their own pace.

  The attitude of the English is quite different. Having spent most of their childhood holidays in France, there are few corners of France where they don’t go. The English take their free time very seriously, spending most of it sitting in the sun, glass in hand, book open and eyes shut.

  On the whole, the Australians were the most capable type of clients: in one case, perhaps a little too resourceful. To my sheer embarrassment, one client had taken a door off the hinges and driven down to the handyman shop to have a fraction shaved from the bottom to stop it scraping and making annoying noises.

  Most, however, started their holiday the moment they spied the bottle of red wine on the kitchen table. Stress and tiredness from their hectic lives were the common threads that linked everyone, regardless of nationality.

  By the time I met the Woolleys, I was becoming accustomed to the various quirks and peculiarities of my international clientele. Brian was in his early fifties but looked older: exhausted, tense and very preoccupied, weighed down with the pressures of his work at one of London’s most prestigious banks. His wife Joy was desperate to get their lives on a new track and leave the hustle and bustle of London. They lived among various consulates in a very exclusive part of London. Bomb alerts, explosions and a heavy police presence were part of their everyday life and they were asking themselves if this was really how they wanted to spend their days.

  A quick trip to Provence in mid-spring eventually changed their lives. During their holiday they found an abandoned, wild black cat hiding in the hedge at the edge of their holiday home between St Rémy and Avignon, which they named Marie. She was heavily pregnant and very distressed and uncomfortable. Both Brian and Joy were mad cat lovers and understood that it was best to let nature take its course as she prepared for her litter of kittens, whose arrival was imminent. Brian’s golfing holiday was fast turning into an animal rescue operation. At the local vet’s office, the staff said that they could find homes for the adorable kittens, but Marie would be returned to the wild. All possibilities were investigated, but the regulations for travelling with animals were fairly stringent and meant that Marie could not travel with them back to London as she needed vaccinations and a passport, all of which took time that they did not have. Marie was put into a cattery where she would be well looked after and the Woolleys went back to London to see how they could bring the cat to England.

  This was the impetus that they needed to have a complete about-face, leaving behind their drab banker’s life in London. They had often toyed with the daydream of leaving London and going to live permanently in Provence. With no children to worry about, the biggest problem was Brian’s job and how he was going to be able to walk away from wonderfully remunerated employment. It was not going to be easy to drag Joy out of Harrods and Harvey Nichols, but they wanted to think about downsizing their belongings and making a fresh start. The simple life had great appeal.

  Brian found me on the Internet and rang one evening, booking into Rose Cottage for a fortnight’s holiday in late spring with a view to looking around the area for a rental property with a large garden that was available from late June to the end of the year. J
oy was already booking airline tickets while I was finishing my conversation with Brian.

  At the end of their fortnight, they invited me for a drink and a chat. We sat outside Rose Cottage, next to the prolific rose bushes, listening to the water splashing into the little fountain at the end of the square. They didn’t have to say very much. I knew what was coming, as every guest said much the same thing: about how they wanted to change their life, move to France, run a guesthouse. In short, looking enviously at me, they wanted my lifestyle. Joy sat transfixed in her chair, aghast:‘Oh no, you have to be kidding! There is no way that we want to run guesthouses or spend hours washing and ironing. No, you misunderstand. I don’t want to be rude about your lifestyle choices, but we couldn’t think of anything worse to do. And we certainly haven’t come here to spend time playing canasta with a bunch of gossips. You see, all I want is a garden where we can sit and play with our cats and basically spend our time doing the crosswords and drinking a glass of rosé. Isn’t that right, Brian?’

  Brian nodded his head in assent, adding that he quite liked pastis as well; the aniseed-flavoured drink goes so wonderfully with fat black olives or slices of crunchy bread spread copiously with tapenade, the paste made from olives, oil, lashings of garlic and liberal doses of Provençal herbs. He was almost drooling in anticipation as he popped a little slice of baguette into his mouth. We observed Brian savouring his tapenade with such evident relish that he had passed into a state of total oblivion, making little noises of delight as the oily paste slipped over his tongue.

  I asked them what they had done during their fortnight stay. They hadn’t done much nor gone far but the straining button that was valiantly trying to hold Brian’s shorts together and the ample oversized T-shirt that Joy was wearing gave away the fact that they were victims of the Provençal Banquet Belly. They had managed to sample most of the culinary delights available in late spring, several times over.

  As the ice cubes melted in their glasses, they, too, drooped and wilted into the furniture. Their eyes had that glassy look and I knew that they were beyond help. They were addicted to Provence.

  Did I know of any property that was large, comfortable and had a large garden, appropriate for a couple of docile cats? Bingo. Villa Agapanthe was available. Was it suitable for them? My biggest dilemma was their cats; there were not just two docile cats like ours. Wild Marie from St Rémy was desperate to break out from the cattery and there would be three other black cats from London; their passports and travelling baskets were at the ready.

  We scheduled a meeting for the next day to view Villa Agapanthe, which they loved at first sight. It was perfect for their needs, but the biggest stumbling block was the question of heating — or rather, the lack of heating. Having lived in London and all over Europe, they had survived many a brutal winter. They were quite prepared to downsize the dimensions of their new home but certainly not to give up their basic comforts — comforts that I couldn’t provide. Another meeting was scheduled with Nathalie the bank manager.

  Grasping reams of paper of projected rentals that I had prepared for the two properties in Saignon and the prospective rental of Villa Agapanthe, I set them all in neat piles in front of Nathalie, who sighed heavily, clearly wishing that she had chosen her friends more wisely. My argument was that if I took out a short-term loan from the bank I would be able to install central heating, thereby ensuring I had paying clients for six additional months, which would pay for the heating and show the bank that I was capable of achieving extraordinary winter occupancy rates — and the cash flow would be marginally better. My project of keeping the three holiday homes operational while living in the Wild Thyme Patch was doomed in the long term, but this plan would push the inevitable sale of one or two of the properties back a couple of months. I pushed up my sleeves and asked what the rate was and where I should sign. No, she couldn’t put this application through. The bank would not accept my reasons. The party was over for me. No more money from the bank was coming my way. Even if the money was available, she added, how on earth would I be able to have central heating installed before July? My papers flew everywhere as I gathered them up and shoved them into the very smart Italian leather briefcase that Raymond had bought me in an effort to make me behave like a true businesswoman. I stormed out of her office, slamming the door.

  The options were very limited. I could go cap in hand to my father and crawl on my knees, begging for help. Or I could sell the car and buy something smaller and more economical, and maybe then I would have enough to pay for the central heating. Both options were untenable, but which one was the lesser of the two evils? The words choked in my throat as my father answered the telephone from his sister’s house in Scotland. As always, Jack was canny in his perception of the problem. He might have been on holiday but he had not left his business acumen behind. After a good ten minutes of him ranting and raving while I remained stoically silent, he said that he would lend me the money for the heating only because it would increase the value of the house when it came to selling it the following year. We would have to have a long talk about the state of my finances next month, on his arrival in France. I breathed a sigh of relief. One thing had fallen off my list of things to do.

  The weeks were ticking by. My first choice of plumbers to install the central heating was unavailable until the beginning of November, as was my second choice. As I went further and further down my list of plumbers I realised that I would have to go back to Didier, who had worked on my two properties in Saignon. During the period that the renovations were taking place at Rose Cottage the previous year, I had had several disputes with Didier as he exercised his right to male dominance. How could I possibly entertain the thought that this megalomaniac plumber would have changed within twelve months? Didier said that he would be there to start on Friday, and that within ten days everything would be finished. He had used similar words when he started work on Rose Cottage and managed to finish more than six weeks behind schedule — which I had to concede was more to do with the missing pieces of the staircase than the plumbing. I just had to hope that Didier had not told me another pack of lies.

  My heart sank at the thought of his team invading the freshly painted rooms, drilling holes and making a mess. I was sure the floor tiles would crack as they laid out the pipes in the narrow space under the house. My fingers were crossed so tightly that the knuckles went white. I could only hope that this time the budget would stay in check and that the central heating and the repairs to the walls would be finished in time for the Woolleys’ arrival from London. When their six-month rental contract was drawn up they had been firm in their demand that any work on the house had to be finished by the time they moved in. It was not an unreasonable request.

  I had been a fool in my first dealings with tradesmen in Saignon, thinking that a handshake would suffice; now I demanded a signed quote and firm handshake. It was now in the lap of the gods and, of course, someone of equal stature: Didier the Plumber.

  The garden was the next problem: how to transform it instantly and who was going to do the job. I needed some fast-growing Provençal natives that would be able to withstand the heat of the summer and the frosts of the winter, to add to the beginnings of a garden that I had planted the previous month. The local nursery was not interested in giving me advice when they saw my meagre budget. There was no way I could buy the size of plants that my heart desired.

  As the plumber and his team worked incessantly on the central heating, I worked outside in the garden, ensnaring the aid of anyone who could be talked into a couple of hours of backbreaking work. In Monsieur Perrard’s office, Valérie — who had now replaced her wedding magazines with catalogues for cots and other baby paraphernalia — took time out from her columns of figures to pore over her mother’s horticultural books and search out Internet sites, researching trees and shrubs that were hardy enough for the rigours of the Provençal climate.

  Amanda continued to work at my files; when no one was looking she would
jump on a bike and cycle up to the café in the village to indulge in some harmless flirting and some serious pastis drinking, momentarily escaping the madness that besieged our family.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Carpe Diem — Seize the Carp?

  The creaking wooden gate of the Wild Thyme Patch swung back and forth with the comings and goings of various tradesmen. As nobody had successfully snapped the loop of iron over the opposite side to ensure that it remained firmly fastened, aided by strong gusts of the Mistral it eventually swung off its hinges and lay in a broken heap beside the gateposts: the entrance to our beautiful new home. School had finished, and as Mimi, Harry and Amanda pedalled their bikes through the gap between the gateposts, they screamed in unison, against the howling wind, that it was perhaps best to leave the gate in the wrecked state, as they found that it was a nuisance to have to get off their bikes to open and shut the crooked thing. Raymond lifted his eyes from his Latin Catullus poetry book, slipping his arm around my waist and planting feather-light kisses at the nape of my neck; he said that he would fix it later. I knew his method of distracting me only too well. Here was yet another thing to add to my list of things to do. Nothing was dropping off the list, but more was being added daily.

  Summer had begun and lethargy went hand in hand with the rising temperature. Raymond was exhausted from his first term at university after an absence of thirty years. While he was living with us the previous year, he started a Latin course by correspondence through the University of New England in Armidale. This had whetted his appetite so much that he had decided to become a fully fledged full-time university student, travelling back and forth across the bustling harbour by ferry and bus to the sacred halls of Sydney University. His working days in finance had finished unexpectedly early when he was retrenched due to a boardroom plot. Someone wanted his position in the company, and after months of negotiating behind some of the senior partners’ backs, a brutal but bloodless coup had taken place. He was now in enforced retirement, with little to no chance of returning to the workforce in his professional field. He was over fifty and apparently over the hill. The network of acquaintances from his working days had shut down completely. He was tired of being an Aussie battler when the only thing he battled through was the traffic. He cut up his credit cards, kissed goodbye his European appliances in his ultra-chic kitchen and rented out his house with its drop-dead view. His life was immediately simplified as he downsized the rest of his possessions, selling or giving them away. At the age of fifty-three, he packed his grey Nike backpack with his books, paper and pens — two travelling tinnies of beer tucked into the side pockets to combat travel sickness — and set out four times per week to mix it with the other university students, who were young enough to be his children. Things had changed since he was last at university; the mood was very serious, with the students being driven by economic necessity to score high marks and exit quickly into the workforce, whereupon they could begin to repay the government their alarmingly high university fees. Gone were the days of spending idle moments smoking marijuana in the Quadrangle, drinking beers or coffees in Manning House, and only occasionally attending lectures in subjects that would lead to degrees that were rarely needed. In those days, jobs were in plentiful supply with or without degrees. For him, it had been Electrical Engineering and a Master of Business Administration, neither of which had served him particularly well.