The French for Love by Fiona Valpy Page B

on that last occasion, Hugh threw open the door of their rather grand home on the outskirts of the picturesque village of Gensac and warmly embraced Liz, then turned to kiss me on both cheeks. ‘Goodness me,’ he said chivalrously, ‘Gina, you just get more and more beautiful.’
    That night I was wearing the vintage top Liz gave me. The minute I’d put it on, its clever, flattering cut draped softly and sexily over my figure and my complexion glowed against its soft colour. When I’d looked at my reflexion in the age-spotted wardrobe mirror in my room, I’d felt a sudden boost to my battered self-confidence. I smudged concealer over the dark half-moons under my eyes, the telltale signs of my newly acquired insomniac status, and brushed a little blusher over my cheeks, camouflage to help get me through the evening’s social engagement.
    Hugh ushered us ahead of him into a large, high-ceilinged room full of chattering, laughing people, and Celia detached herself from a group near the door, coming over to hug us warmly. ‘Liz, darling, and Gina too, how wonderful. Grab a drink,’ she said, pouring us each a glass of wine from a bottle on the table behind her, ‘and come and mingle. Liz, you know everyone I think. Gina, come with me; I simply must introduce you to Nigel.’ She took me by the hand and led me through the throng of guests to a trio standing beside one of the windows. ‘Gina Peplow, meet Sally and Oliver McKay and Nigel Yates.’
    With bright smiles of something that looked suspiciously like relief, Sally and Oliver turned towards me. They’d clearly been pinned down for some time by Nigel, whose pink shiny shirt matched his equally pink shiny face, which was topped off with what seemed to be the beginnings of a comb-over. My heart sank as Sally and Oliver, seizing the opportunity to make a break for it, muttered something about getting another drink and edged away towards the table, brutally leaving me stuck in their place. I looked round for Celia, but she’d already sailed off to oil the social wheels of her party elsewhere, and I caught a glimpse of Liz across the room. She was grinning at me wickedly and raised her glass with a flourish that confirmed what I already suspected: it was a set-up.
    Sighing inwardly, I turned politely to Nigel, who was enthusiastically explaining that he was new in town and asking if I lived nearby. He’d recently bought a wreck of a house here and was in the throes of major renovations, which he described with gusto—and many complaints about the shortcomings of French workmen and the difficulties in finding decent plumbing fixtures—for the next half hour.
    As he embarked on a detailed description of the installation of his new septic tank (with far too much information about solids, liquids and something called a leaching field), I allowed my gaze to wander. Liz was deep in conversation with Hugh, who leant in close to listen to something she was saying, then threw his head back to roar with laughter. I wondered idly whether perhaps he was the mystery man that she’d loved—they share the same wicked sense of humour and he’d clearly always been very fond of her. Watching them together, though, I realised they were ‘just good friends’, in the non-euphemistic sense of the phrase. It was far more likely that Liz’s unattainable lover was a rock star (Mick or Ron?) or perhaps even royalty...
    Suddenly I realised that Nigel’s fascinating description of selected plumbing highlights had paused and he was looking at me as if expecting an answer to something he had just asked. Blushing, I said, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch what you said there—terribly difficult to hear with all this din.’ I gestured with my glass in a vague sweep that took in the assembled throng.
    ‘I just wondered whether you’d like to pop round and see the house sometime? I could show you what I’ve done so far.’
    Tempting though the thought of a guided tour of Nigel’s