The French for Always (7 page)

‘Wow. Well, I’m extremely honoured that they chose Château Bellevue de Coulliac for their celebration. What exalted company you keep! Now, drink that tea—things always seem a little more manageable after a cuppa. And tell me, what are you wearing to the party?’

At that moment, Matthew appeared. ‘Aha, I thought I heard the encouraging clink of teacups.’ He put his arms around his mother and hugged her.

‘Good morning, dear.’ She rested her head on his shoulder for a second, her eyes closing. ‘I’ve got a new blue dress,’ she said, responding to Sara’s question. ‘And I did bring a fascinator with me, but I don’t know if I shall wear it, it’s a bit daring for me.’

‘Oh, Mum, that’s wonderful!’ Matthew’s eyes gleamed bright with what Sara suspected might just be a tear or two. ‘You’ve gone to so much trouble; I can’t tell you how much that means to me and Hamish. Of course you must wear it! You’ll be the belle of the ball. I’ll come and help you fix it in place when you’re ready if you like. Just like at the shows.’

Mrs Humpreys nodded. ‘Thank you, my darling boy. I’d really like that.’ She nodded again, and this time it seemed to Sara that she was smiling right at her. ‘Thank you so much.’

Matthew turned, still with an arm around his mother. ‘And Sara, we’re a few women short this evening. When it comes to dancing reels, it would be a huge help if you’d join us. I know it’s above and beyond your job description, but we’d love it if you could?’

‘Why, thank you! I haven’t danced in ages. That would be so much fun.’

S
ara peered
into the misted depths of the mirror in the cottage’s tiny bathroom. She was preparing hastily for the ceremony and, where she would usually take a quick shower and then change into her wedding ‘uniform’ of a smart-but-unobtrusive navy shirt dress, today she had put on one of flame-coloured silk. Its fitted bodice flattered her slim figure and the skirt flared flirtatiously just above the knee. She was trying to tell herself that she was only making the extra effort because of the presence of the fashion world, but she couldn’t quite push the image out of her mind of the man who would be in charge of the music at the dance tonight. She dabbed on her lip gloss and then lightly ran a finger over her lips, reminded of the brush of Thomas’s fleeting, momentary kiss when they were on the weir. Had it been anything other than a passing whim in that perfect, romantic setting? The memory brought a flush to her cheeks, the glow heightened by the colour of her dress.

She brushed her long dark hair dreamily, remembering... But then squared her shoulders at her reflection in the mirror, pulling herself together, ready for work.

It was the end of a hot August afternoon and the guests, summoned once again by the sound of the pipes, were beginning to assemble at the viewpoint, elegant in their wedding finery. Conscious of the time, Sara gently encouraged them to take their seats. A welcome breath of breeze cooled her hot cheeks and made the hemline of her skirt flutter and flow.

Once everyone was seated and Nicola had taken her place under the pergola, Sara went back to the terrace where Hamish and Matthew were waiting with Mr and Mrs Humphreys. Matthew was making the final adjustments to his mother’s headpiece, a flourish of blue-and-cream feathers which sat jauntily in her hair. He hugged her close. ‘There. You look wonderful. I’m so proud to have such a chic mother.’

She held him at arm’s length, taking in the elegant cut of his suit and minutely adjusting the deep-red rose in his jacket buttonhole. ‘And we couldn’t be prouder of you. Both of you,’ she turned to embrace Hamish, resplendent in his kilt. ‘We’re so happy that you’re making this commitment to each other and we wish you much joy.’

Mr Humphreys cleared his throat, looking less at ease than the other three. But, after a moment’s hesitation, he hugged each of the boys in turn, awkwardly clapping them on the back, man-style, in a display of affection that was really most unlike him.

Matthew turned to Sara. ‘And look at you! You do brush up well, Miss Audrey-Hepburn-Cheekbones.’

She blushed and smiled. ‘Thank you. Are we ready to go?’

The others nodded and so she led Mr and Mrs Humphreys to their seats, the signal for the piper to strike up
Highland Cathedral
. To a round of applause, Hamish and Matthew walked hand in hand up the aisle between the chairs to where Nicola waited, smiling.

After the short, but moving, ceremony and the couple’s exchange of their heartfelt vows, the piper led the way back to the courtyard where the caterers were waiting with flutes of champagne and trays of canapés. Matthew and Hamish had opted not to have an official photographer, so at least Sara didn’t have to keep an eye on Henri Dupont this time (not that there would have been quite as much scope for his predatory ways at this particular gathering). Their friends snapped away with cameras and phones though, exclaiming at the picturesque backdrop of the ancient stonework and soft drifts of flowers.

Aperitifs over, Sara and Hélène began to usher people into the marquee. On this warm evening, the sides had been rolled back to allow the breeze through, the garden setting enhancing the arrangements of deep-red roses and hazy fronds of asparagus fern that had been used to decorate the dining tent.

After Hélène had departed, Sara left the caterers in charge while the meal ran its course. She slipped back to the château kitchen for a welcome sit down. The caterers had made up three extra plates of food and Sara pulled up a chair at the table where Antoine and Thomas were already tucking in.

Thomas gave a low whistle when he saw her. ‘Wow, Boss. Looking good tonight.’

‘Why, thank you, Mr DJ. I’m looking forward to your reels. Antoine, we’d better bring a few more bottles of whisky up from the cellar. These Scots will probably get through quite a bit later on.’ She reminded herself that she was still on duty, even if she was mixing business with pleasure for once.

When they could hear the sound of applause for the last of the speeches, the three of them crossed the courtyard to the barn, each carrying a couple of bottles of a single malt. Setting these on the bar, Thomas took his place behind the decks and flicked the switches for the lights. Above their heads, the glitter ball began to revolve, spangling their bodies with its white diamonds.

The strains of the first dance rang out. Hamish and Matthew were leading off with
The Gay Gordons
, to the delight of their friends whose cool elegance was beginning to give way to more animated whoops and whistles.

The caller announced
Strip the Willow
: ‘Sets of eight please, boys down one side, girls down the other, and if you’re not sure which you are then choose whichever one you’d like to be!’

Mr Humphreys was propping up the bar, deep in conversation with Antoine about the range of whiskies on offer and the relative merits of an eighteen-year-old Bunnahabhain versus a twelve-year-old Cardhu. Matthew grabbed his mother’s hand, and Hamish caught Nicola, pulling her onto the dance floor. The piper materialised at Sara’s elbow. ‘Ya dancin’?’ he asked.

‘If you’re asking,’ she replied.

The caller was skilled at his job, walking them through the dance first, before giving Thomas the nod to set the music playing. Matthew twirled his mother down the set and then took his turn back up again and, by the time they were both spinning back down together, Mrs Humphreys’ fascinator had assumed a distinctly rakish angle, and she was flushed and laughing giddily.

Sara’s feet flew when it came to her turn, her red dress swirling as her partner spun her deftly. Once they’d reached their places at the bottom of the line again, she glanced over at Thomas. He was watching the dancers with a broad smile, clapping his hands and stamping his feet in time with the rest of them. His eyes met hers in the dizzying disco lights and she grinned back as he let out a whoop as wild as that of any of the Scots. Flinging her head back, Sara laughed with the sheer joyous exhilaration of the dance.

S
he’d slipped away
some time after midnight, as the mood of the party began to mellow, the music slowing. It was much later than she normally would have stayed but she’d been having so much fun she’d hardly noticed the time. Her head was still buzzing and she didn’t feel the slightest bit tired, so she sat down in a deckchair on the terrace outside the cottage door, kicking off her shoes and propping her feet on the low wall in front of her. The sky was amazing tonight, a velvety black, copiously sprinkled with millions of winking stars. The Milky Way was a sheer veil, draping itself above her. She was reminded of the veil of water on the weir, on that magical walk across the river with Thomas. She rested her head against the chair back, gazing upwards, remembering.

In the barn, the music fell silent. She listened to the calls of ‘goodnight’ as the guests meandered back to their rooms and their cars.

Suddenly she was aware that he was standing there before her. He held up a champagne bottle and two glasses. ‘I wondered if you might still be awake. It seemed a shame to waste this last half-bottle of Louis Roederer’s very finest. In fact, as a winemaker myself, I know how very disappointed he would be if it was not drunk on this most perfect of nights.’

She smiled up at him. ‘Well, in that case, I certainly wouldn’t want to upset your good friend Louis.’

Thomas poured the champagne and handed her a glass, sitting down in the deckchair next to hers. She took a sip, the bubbles as delicately heady as distilled starlight, and gave a little sigh of happiness.

Watching her in the darkness, a slow smile lit up Thomas’s face.

‘What?’

‘I was just reflecting on something my English teacher told me,’ he mused.

‘What’s that?’

‘Apparently there are about twice as many words in the English language as there are in French. But in spite of this, we French have many more phrases for expressing joy than the English do. Maybe that says something about our different cultures.’

She pondered this for a moment. ‘What made you think of that?’

He shrugged. ‘This evening. The party. Seeing those people dancing together. Watching you dance. Being here with you now. You embody a phrase we have in French:
joie de vivre
. You know it?’

She nodded. ‘Yes. We cold-hearted English even borrow it ourselves sometimes. I suppose it means, literally, something like
the joy of being alive
? “Exuberance” would probably be our closest word.’

‘I think it’s more than that really. It’s the very essence of life. Without joy, life is empty.’ He looked about him, taking in the dark outline of the château, the black velvet of the lawn spreading out at their feet like a deep pool, bordered on the far side by the faint glow of white roses, the silk of their petals picked out in the moonlight. ‘You’ve created a place of joy here, Sara. It’s a place so filled with beauty and love that it allows people to find their true
joie de vivre
.’

She raised her glass to him, smiling back, quietly pleased that he felt the same way she did and understood the place so well. Then she tilted her face to the night sky once more.

Thomas sat beside her in companionable silence, gazing upwards too.

Sara gasped: ‘Oh, look! A shooting star! And another!’

As they watched, the sky became alive with movement suddenly and then it was gone again as quickly as it had come.

‘
Les Larmes de Saint Laurent
. Saint Laurence’s tears. It’s a meteor shower,’ said Thomas. ‘They come each year at this time. It’s dust from the tail of a comet, showering down on us and burning up in the Earth’s atmosphere.’

‘There’s another one!’ she pointed.

He turned to look at her enraptured profile as she scanned the sky for more.

‘You must make a wish,’ he smiled.

She turned to meet his gaze, her eyes dark. ‘What would your wish be, Thomas?’

‘Oh, let me see. I think my wish would be to sit under a star-filled sky, sipping fine champagne with a beautiful girl in a red dress, whose smile is as bright as the starlight itself.’ He blinked slowly. ‘Wow, look at that! These shooting-star wishes really do come true,’ he smiled.

‘And what would yours be, Sara?’

She held his gaze for a long moment. And then reached out her hand and brushed the side of his face with her fingertips. Getting to her feet, she set down her glass and held out a hand to him. And, without a word, the two of them went into the cottage, shutting the door quietly behind them, as the night sky lit up once again in a shower of stardust.

S
ara hummed
a Scottish reel under her breath, as she and Karen dried glasses following the Sunday brunch. It was a mellow afternoon, and the guests were lingering over their coffees on the terrace. Sara had noticed Mr and Mrs Humphreys looking relaxed and happy as they chatted with Nicola Carter, who was regaling them with titbits of gossip from the world of glossy magazines. Sara smiled to herself.

‘Someone’s in an awfully good mood today,’ Karen nudged her in the ribs.

‘Just enjoying the fact that this wedding’s been a good example of what such occasions really should be: a bonding experience all round and a gesture of support and solidarity for the couple making the commitment. It seems obvious, but it’s funny how many events we’ve had here that have felt more like a tug of war between the two families, or a competition to see which can put the other side down more.’

Sara imagined, just for a moment, what her and Gavin’s wedding might have been like, with her own mother and father, long-divorced, still hardly on speaking terms, each with their own new partner and assorted stepchildren with whom she had little in common; and then the added dimension of Mrs Farrell, stirring the pot at every opportunity with a snooty put-down or a superior look. Matthew and Hamish might not have come along the easiest of paths in life to get here but, with such a loyal and loving crowd of friends around them, Sara had high hopes that their future together was looking good. The wedding, on neutral territory and in the soothing setting of the château and its grounds, had helped win round Matthew’s parents. Hopefully Hamish’s would soon thaw too.