Ma Folie Française (My French Folly) by Marisa Raoul

loudly that several passing shoppers stopped to see what all the fuss was about. I dragged Liz by the sleeve giggling, as we stumbled up the cobbled passage towards Place de L’Eglise .
    â€˜Poor sod really,’ I declared sarcastically, ‘probably never imagined you could get so much more for your money. I mean her tiny little bits of lace were probably twice the price of mine and he gets a lot less to play with.’
    â€˜Stop it or I’ll wet myself,’ Liz giggled. ‘I haven’t had this much fun in ages.’
    â€˜You need to come out with me more often,’ I replied grinning.
    â€˜I need a strong coffee,’ she said. ‘My shout.’
    â€˜You’re on,’ I replied. ‘I couldn’t afford one anyway, after those bras.’
    We enjoyed recounting our delirious shopping adventure to Jean and Albert that evening, who both found the entire incident extremely amusing. We all laughed so hard, I thought my sides would split, but I couldn’t afford to let that happen while I was wearing such expensive lingerie, now could I?

CHAPTER 9
Tales from the Hills
    â€˜ Salut Marisa ! Are you doing anything zis afternoon?’ asked Thibault , the moment I opened the front door, before grabbing me for the customary double-cheek kiss.
    â€˜I don’t think so Thibault . Did you have something particular in mind?’ I asked, eager to see what this flirtatious Frenchman had in store, as I led him into the dining room.
    â€˜ Ah! Salut Jean ,’ he said, grabbing at Jean ’s hand. ‘I was just about to tell Marisa , zere’s zis great place in a tiny village, about an hour’s drive from here. I waz planning on taking a ride up zere wiz a couple of friends and I’d really like you to come.’
    â€˜What’s so special about this place?’ Jean asked.
    â€˜ Bien … well … it’s like travelling back in time. Zere’s a café zere owned by an incredibly eccentric man called Fernand . Believe me, it’s worth ze trip just to meet him. He’s a legend throughout the entire Limousin .’
    â€˜If you say so, Thibault . We’d love to go, wouldn’t we Jean ?’
    â€˜Oui … yes, of course. Anything for a laugh and a bit of fresh air.’
    â€˜Great! Zen we will meet chez “Lacoste ” at two, and go from zere, okay?’
    â€˜Okay! A deux heures. ’
    Thibault departed in his usual energetic fashion, leaving Jean and I slightly perplexed. How could a café in a tiny village, lost on the Plateau de Millevaches * (Plateau of One Thousand Springs), be of so much interest? We knew Thibault loved pulling stunts and feared this afternoon could well be one of his spectacular, practical jokes in the making.
    â€˜Do you think Thibault was having us on?’
    â€˜How should I know?’ replied Jean , shrugging his shoulders. ‘He always seems to be up to something, but look … we have nothing else planned this afternoon, so even if it’s a joke, we have nothing to lose but a few hours. A change of scenery will do us good and the MG could do with an airing. Let’s just go.’
    â€˜Okay.’
    An hour later, we made our way to Lacoste’s , the local riverside café, rugged up and ready for our mountain adventure.
    â€˜ Salut! ’ cried Gilberto , a happy-go-lucky Nigerian boy who had been raised in the village at the Centre Claude Pompidou and was now one of Thibault ’s regular playmates. He was as black as coal and his generous smile shone with a quasi-phosphorescent glow.
    â€˜ Salut Gilberto! Ca va ?’ we replied in unison, leaning from the doors of our shiny, red MG.
    â€˜ Extra . (Fantastic)’ he replied, whilst shaking Jean ’s hand and bending to kiss me on both cheeks. ‘ Alors … we are off to see ze famous Fernand and you have let out your little, red beast for zis special occasion.’
    â€˜We sure have,’ I