at first - bonjours and ça va biens and all of that. Then Franck asked, “Have they seen our offer?” and as he listened to the realtor’s answer, a storm descended over his face. It couldn’t be. This couldn’t be happening.
Franck slammed down the receiver without even saying au revoir or merci .
This was happening.
Franck swore vividly and at length. “He had other offers. Higher offers,” he spat. “One in particular from Switzerland .”
My hand flew up to my throat and I backed up to use the wall behind me for support. We weren’t going to get our dream house.
I stomped my foot. If only I could go back and rewind time. I would never have suggested an inspection; we would never have been duped by Maître Ange. I should have trusted our instincts that the property was an amazing deal and gone ahead and bought it right away.
Franck stalked outside and I followed him. I lowered myself down on the front step and cradled my head in my hands. I waited for an onslaught of anxiety to crush me. The dream of the house had distracted me from obsessing about my final examination marks or getting into the Master’s program next year at Oxford. My future without the fantasy of our French house seemed bleak indeed yet, bizarrely, the panic didn’t come.
The next few days were depressing ones filled with lots of melancholy drives past what I began to think of as our Paradis Perdu in Marey-les-Fussey.
Then came our worst drive by, and our last.
As we slowed down in front of our maison de rêve (or maisons , more accurately, because I clearly have a masochist ic bent) we saw the Maître Ange’s silver Mercedes ranged alongside an equally gleaming black BMW with a Swiss license plate. We could make out some figures walking down the lawn of the house.
Fury made my heart gallop. “Can we sideswipe their cars?” I asked Franck.
Franck didn’t answer, but sped up and did a violent enough U-turn in the dusty parking lot in front of the church to wake up the dead underneath the flagstones.
“ Assez! ” he shouted to the air. “Enough. It’s done.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. I wanted more than anything to yell at Maître Ange and his fancy Swiss buyers, as well as punch them and maybe throw them down the well. My fists were balled up in my lap, but deep down I knew Franck was right.
Franck pulled the car up in front of his parents’ house. He reached over and took my hand in his.
“ Assez ?” he asked, gently.
“ Assez ,” I whispered.
Two days later we dragged ourselves to the Notary’s office - not Maître Ange’s office, but back to Franck’s family notary, Maître Lefebvre, who was too slipshod to be truly devious – to see if any new houses were for sale. Maybe the perfect house was waiting for us at Maître Lefebvre’s office. A pinprick of hope pierced the disappointment.
When we outlined what we were looking for to Maître Lefebvre’s secretary she blew out between her lips in that French sign of hopelessness and shook her head. She pointed to the corkboard beside her desk where a few dilapidated, overpriced properties were featured on yellowing bits of paper. A brief perusal drove home just how thoroughly we had been shafted by Maître Ange. The Marey property had been a complete steal; it was head and shoulders above all the other ruins and shacks for sale. He had doubtless turned a pretty bit of coin thanks to our naïveté. Without any real hope we spoke to the secretary again about what we were looking for in a property. She rolled her eyes but finally wrote a note on a scrap of paper.
The drive back to Franck’s house up into the undulating vineyards of our Hautes Côtes was a silent one. There was nothing else we could do except wait for me to get accepted in the Master’s program at Oxford in the fall. Our Oxford life would continue behind that shiny blue painted door of our flat on Little Clarendon Street in Jericho. I would spend most of my
Franck slammed down the receiver without even saying au revoir or merci .
This was happening.
Franck swore vividly and at length. “He had other offers. Higher offers,” he spat. “One in particular from Switzerland .”
My hand flew up to my throat and I backed up to use the wall behind me for support. We weren’t going to get our dream house.
I stomped my foot. If only I could go back and rewind time. I would never have suggested an inspection; we would never have been duped by Maître Ange. I should have trusted our instincts that the property was an amazing deal and gone ahead and bought it right away.
Franck stalked outside and I followed him. I lowered myself down on the front step and cradled my head in my hands. I waited for an onslaught of anxiety to crush me. The dream of the house had distracted me from obsessing about my final examination marks or getting into the Master’s program next year at Oxford. My future without the fantasy of our French house seemed bleak indeed yet, bizarrely, the panic didn’t come.
The next few days were depressing ones filled with lots of melancholy drives past what I began to think of as our Paradis Perdu in Marey-les-Fussey.
Then came our worst drive by, and our last.
As we slowed down in front of our maison de rêve (or maisons , more accurately, because I clearly have a masochist ic bent) we saw the Maître Ange’s silver Mercedes ranged alongside an equally gleaming black BMW with a Swiss license plate. We could make out some figures walking down the lawn of the house.
Fury made my heart gallop. “Can we sideswipe their cars?” I asked Franck.
Franck didn’t answer, but sped up and did a violent enough U-turn in the dusty parking lot in front of the church to wake up the dead underneath the flagstones.
“ Assez! ” he shouted to the air. “Enough. It’s done.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. I wanted more than anything to yell at Maître Ange and his fancy Swiss buyers, as well as punch them and maybe throw them down the well. My fists were balled up in my lap, but deep down I knew Franck was right.
Franck pulled the car up in front of his parents’ house. He reached over and took my hand in his.
“ Assez ?” he asked, gently.
“ Assez ,” I whispered.
Two days later we dragged ourselves to the Notary’s office - not Maître Ange’s office, but back to Franck’s family notary, Maître Lefebvre, who was too slipshod to be truly devious – to see if any new houses were for sale. Maybe the perfect house was waiting for us at Maître Lefebvre’s office. A pinprick of hope pierced the disappointment.
When we outlined what we were looking for to Maître Lefebvre’s secretary she blew out between her lips in that French sign of hopelessness and shook her head. She pointed to the corkboard beside her desk where a few dilapidated, overpriced properties were featured on yellowing bits of paper. A brief perusal drove home just how thoroughly we had been shafted by Maître Ange. The Marey property had been a complete steal; it was head and shoulders above all the other ruins and shacks for sale. He had doubtless turned a pretty bit of coin thanks to our naïveté. Without any real hope we spoke to the secretary again about what we were looking for in a property. She rolled her eyes but finally wrote a note on a scrap of paper.
The drive back to Franck’s house up into the undulating vineyards of our Hautes Côtes was a silent one. There was nothing else we could do except wait for me to get accepted in the Master’s program at Oxford in the fall. Our Oxford life would continue behind that shiny blue painted door of our flat on Little Clarendon Street in Jericho. I would spend most of my
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