The French for Love by Fiona Valpy Page A

grins at me. But his final retort is in French, so I congratulate myself on winning that battle at least. ‘ Ah , les Anglaises . Always with a closed mind. You don’t understand how pleasant our little French ways can be. And I assure you,’ he finishes with an upward glance, ‘you’ll regret not seeing to that roof. Welcome to the region, mademoiselle.’
    And with a jaunty mock salute he climbs back into his cruise ship of a car and sails off, with unhurried insouciance, down the drive.
    ‘Bloody cheek,’ I mutter, going back inside. Another cheating slime-bag. There seem to be a lot of them about these days.
    I sit back down at the desk, but there’s not much I can do with no Internet for another week. I think back to the last time I saw Liz sitting here in the study...
    The book-lined room, with its tall, large-paned windows looking out onto the courtyard, was usually a comfortable muddle of papers, magazines and folders full of old photographs, negatives and contact sheets. But on that last visit when Liz was alive, it was even messier than ever, positively awash with heaps of paper in a kaleidoscope of colours and forms—and in the middle of it all sat my aunt, glasses perched on the end of her nose, peering at a folder of photos. I waded through the detritus and bent down to kiss her soft, wrinkled cheek. She looked up with a slight start. ‘Sorry, didn’t see you there. I was back in the sixties with Keith and Ron.’ She held up a black-and-white print of the Rolling Stones grinning into the camera, fresh-faced images of their current-day selves. ‘I’m having a bit of a clear-out,’ she explained with a sweep of her hand. ‘Time I got rid of some of this nonsense. Which reminds me,’ she continued, ‘come upstairs to my room. I’ve got a few things I thought you might quite like.’
    The bedroom takes up the entire attic of the long, low farmhouse. Liz had converted it to living space when she moved in, adding low windows beneath the eaves, and skylights to let in the sun. The clear-out she was having obviously extended to her wardrobe as well as her study, as piles of clothes were heaped on the floor and every chair around the room. On the bed, next to a roll of black bin bags, there was a small pile, neatly folded. Liz picked up the top item and shook it out, holding it up against herself. It was a top made of floating layers of creamy silk with long, softly flared sleeves and a plunging neckline.
    ‘Wow, that’s gorgeous!’ I exclaimed.
    Liz handed it to me. ‘Try it on and see if it fits. I thought it would suit you. It’s an early Ossie Clark piece. Have a look through these others as well, see if there’s anything else there you’d like. Here, take them to your room,’ she said, putting the pile of rainbow-coloured fabrics into my arms and draping the cream tunic across the top. ‘You can try them on while I get your breakfast. Oh, and I meant to tell you, we’re invited to Hugh and Celia Everett’s for drinks this evening. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to, but they said you’d be most welcome.’
    ‘I’d love to come,’ I replied. ‘I’m very fond of them both.’
    The Everetts are—were—some of Liz’s oldest friends. Celia was at school with my mother and my aunt and she was Head Girl when Liz was a hippy rebel, according to my mother. Three years younger than the pair of them, Mum worshipped them both from the lowly ranks of the Upper Fourth. Despite their divergent styles, Liz and Celia remained friends and, having holidayed in the region for years, on Hugh’s retirement from the Diplomatic Service, the Everetts bought a house a few miles from Liz and set about establishing themselves as lynchpins of the local social scene.
    ‘Well, there’s sure to be a crowd there. Celia always invites the world and his wife. Perhaps there’ll be an eligible bachelor whom we can team you up with,’ Liz added with an arch twinkle.
    As we arrived at the Everetts’