The French for Love by Fiona Valpy

shoulders and arms are covered in freckles of dried green and red paint. And it’s only later that I discover the bits in my hair as well.
    Why is it that whenever I’m wearing my most scruffy and revealing clothes, an unexpected Frenchman comes sailing up the drive? Perhaps there’s a whole posse of them lurking in the bushes watching and then the minute I put on an outfit that I’d prefer not to be seen dead in, they send another one along to ensure maximum mortification. I can just imagine Monsieur Dubois nudging Cédric, ‘Go on, I did it last time. Your turn next...’
    And exactly how long has he been standing there? I cast my mind back to the previous song on the playlist. Omigod, did he get here in time to catch my ladder-top rendition of ‘There’s a guy works down the chip shop swears he’s Elvis’?
    Cédric gallantly pretends he hasn’t noticed that I’m not really wearing many clothes, nor that he’s witnessed any of my grand command performance up the ladder. Composing his features into an expression of professional gravity (though that irrepressible twinkle in his eyes speaks volumes), he shakes my grubby hand.
    I try hard not to notice how gorgeous he is.
    ‘ Bonjour, Mademoiselle Gina . Please forgive me for disturbing you. I just wanted to pick up one or two of the tools we left here yesterday. My mother lost a couple of roof tiles in the storm and I’m fixing them for her.’ He nods at the shutters. ‘You’re doing a good job there,’ he says chivalrously, choosing to ignore the fact that I’ve clearly bodged things terribly on my first attempt.
    ‘However,’ he continues solicitously, ‘if you would allow me to make a suggestion, you might find it easier to take the shutters down before you sand them. You’ll probably find it a bit more stable on solid ground,’ he can’t resist adding with a cheeky grin.
    I attempt to regain my composure, concentrating on the shutters with what I hope appears to be an air of competent efficiency. ‘Why, yes, of course; they’re just a little heavy for me to take down on my own.’
    And in fact it hadn’t even occurred to me that this might be a possibility, but on closer inspection it looks like they’ll simply lift off their hinges quite easily.
    In the space of a couple of minutes, Cédric has taken the shutters off all the windows and piled them in a neat stack on the grass. ‘I believe your aunt had a pair of trestles in the shed,’ he says, leading the way.
    So that’s what those wooden frames are—I did wonder.
    ‘You’ll be wanting to put a good primer on them after you’ve finished the sanding. Mr Bricolage has ones for exterior woodwork. Look for one marked for extreme conditions. The weather here can be pretty wild, as you’ve already discovered.’
    Ah, so that’s where I went wrong. Primer.
    ‘Yes, of course. I was intending getting just that,’ I say.
    ‘The large shutters on the doors are very heavy,’ he continues. ‘But you have enough to be getting on with here, and then tomorrow, when my brothers and I return, we’ll lift the others off for you.’
    As he finishes speaking, there’s the sound of car tyres coming up the drive and we both turn to see who it is. ‘Great,’ I think. ‘Someone else dropping by, just to ensure my humiliation is complete.’
    My heart sinks still further as Nigel Yates pulls up beside us and jumps out. He comes round the side of the car and embraces me like a long-lost friend. ‘My dear Gina,’ he exclaims, ignoring Cédric. ‘I heard you’d had some damage in that awful storm the other night. Thought I’d come to the rescue!’
    Heard how? I wonder fleetingly, the power of the bush telegraph in a small rural community still a novelty to me.
    ‘Cédric Thibault, Nigel Yates,’ I make the introductions so he has to turn to acknowledge Cédric, who is standing by patiently with a polite smile on his face.
    ‘Monsieur,’ Nigel says with a curt nod.
    ‘Cédric and his brothers