The French for Love by Fiona Valpy Page A

are stonemasons. They very kindly came yesterday to patch up the worst of the damage and are coming back tomorrow to carry on with the job. So it’s good of you to come by, but thanks to the Thibaults, everything’s under control.’
    Instead of sharing my delight at this fortunate turn of events, Nigel appears somewhat annoyed. He spots the pile of shutters. ‘And are they fixing shutters for you too?’ he asks.
    ‘ Non ,’ replies Cédric, who has clearly understood the gist of our conversation. ‘Mademoiselle Gina is undertaking that work herself. I was just giving her a hand taking the shutters down. In fact, now that you’re here, perhaps we can remove the larger ones too.’
    ‘Of course,’ replies Nigel in a tone that suggests he is man enough for any such challenge, and he removes his jacket, arranging it somewhat fussily across the back seat of his car. I can’t help but compare the slight flabbiness of his stomach beneath his neatly tucked-in shirt with the firm muscularity of Cédric’s midriff under his clean white T-shirt.
    Leading the way, Nigel seizes the first large shutter beside the front door and heaves it upwards but it doesn’t budge. Cédric produces a hammer and chisel and, with a few deft taps, loosens the hinges. Taking a side each, the men lift the heavy wooden panel and carry it over to lean it against a tree beside the trestles. Cédric’s arms are tanned and muscular and he balances the weight with the easy grace of a man accustomed to physical labour. They repeat the exercise until all the door shutters have been removed, by which time Nigel’s face is looking distinctly red and shiny and the long, carefully arranged strands of hair covering his receding hairline have flopped free and are hanging down, in a somewhat alarming style, over one ear. Damp stains have appeared under the sleeves of his shirt, the tail of which has come adrift from his waistband.
    Though, of course, I’m hardly in a position to criticise, given my own scruffy state.
    Cédric, on the other hand, remains neatly unruffled and hardly seems to have exerted himself at all in lifting the heavy and cumbersome shutters.
    When they’ve finished there’s an awkward pause. ‘Would anyone like a glass of water?’ I ask, to fill it.
    Nigel accepts with alacrity, combing his hair with his fingers to plaster the wayward locks back into position.
    ‘ Non merci ,’ says Cédric. ‘I must get on with fixing my mother’s roof.’ He picks up a box of tools. ‘See you tomorrow, Gina,’ he says, shaking my hand, ‘and bonne continuation with your work. Monsieur,’ he nods and politely proffers a hand to Nigel.
    Once Cédric disappears down the drive, Nigel turns to me. ‘You want to be careful about who you use to do work on your house, you know, Gina. You can’t just ask the first cowboy who comes along. And French workmen can be tricky. I’ve got an excellent English builder whom I use. I’ll phone him for you first thing tomorrow and ask him to come by and look at what needs doing.’
    ‘Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,’ I say firmly, trying not to let my annoyance show. ‘The Thibault brothers are extremely experienced and I’m lucky to have them.’
    ‘But surely it’s difficult communicating—how will you tell them what you want done?’
    ‘That won’t be a problem,’ I reply shortly. ‘I speak excellent French.’
    As long as you ignore the occasional complete foot-in-mouth bloomer, I think. And also the fact that I haven’t the first clue about roof construction in English, never mind in French, so I have no idea what I want done. Other than the fact that I want it all put back to how it was, and preferably so that it won’t blow down again in the next storm either.
    Nigel is clearly not picking up, from the warning note in my voice, the fact that he’s seriously beginning to piss me off. ‘Well, I just hope they’re not ripping you off,’ he persists. ‘What’s their quote