The French for Love by Fiona Valpy Page B

for the job? They tend to have one price for the French and one for the English, you know.’
    I don’t want to admit to him that I haven’t had a quote, that in fact I haven’t asked at all what this is going to cost. ‘They’re giving me an excellent price and I’m more than satisfied that they’ll do a good job. They come very highly recommended.’
    By their own mother, admittedly.
    ‘So thank you for your offer of help, but I’ve got it all under control,’ I end firmly. ‘Now, if you’ve finished your water, please excuse me. I must get back to my sanding.’
    I hold out a hand to take the glass from him.
    ‘Well, I’ll be interested to see how you get on. Let me know if you have any problems with the work. I just hope they get it finished before they bugger off on holiday for most of August. The French do, you know. Remember, I’m always here if you need anything. Us expats have to stick together!’ And with a slightly damp peck on each cheek, he finally departs.
    ‘Yuk,’ I say, rubbing my face and watching his car disappear. ‘I’m not bloody sticking anything anywhere with you, that’s for sure.’ And with renewed energy, I plug myself back in to my iPod, turning the volume up high again, and take my irritation at Nigel and my frustration at the un-attainability of Mr Blue Pickup out on the next shutter.

CHAPTER SIX
    A Social Life at Last
    To-Do list:
• Attain balance and poise in life—ongoing
• 45 mins Pilates (exercise to help ward off frustration)—daily
• Buy more paint
• Get manicure
• Think of ways to meet attainable, unmarried man, with or without children—ongoing.
    B y the end of the following week, my life is feeling a little more under control. Oh, I’m still upset and angry, to the point of nausea, whenever I allow myself to think about that photo of Dad and to speculate about Liz’s affair with him—no wonder she said meeting the love of her life had been an impossible situation! But I’ve pretty much managed to shrug off the frustration and disappointment of discovering that Cédric is safely married with two children. I try not to let myself think about any of it much, immersing myself in sandpaper and olive-green paint: denial and distraction seem to be by far the best strategies for coping with the train wreck that is my life at the moment.
    And tonight I’ve got the welcome distraction of company for once. Hugh and Celia have come for an evening drink and we sit on the terrace with a bottle of blanc sec on the table before us, condensation forming a thirst-quenching dew on the glasses before us, even before we take the first sip.
    Celia raises her glass. ‘Cheers, Gina. You’ve had quite a fortnight, but you seem to have coped admirably and I’m sure it can only get better.’
    I lift my glass in return and take the first sip of my cool wine, savouring the balance and depth of the flavour.
    If only you knew, I think. The roof has been an almost welcome diversion from the discovery that my quiet, unassuming father had a secret, passionate affair with his sister-in-law at some point in his married life. And, for all I know, it may have continued until he died. I wonder how I can bring the conversation round to the subject of my father nonchalantly, to see whether the Everetts know anything about the timing and frequency of his possible visits here.
    But Hugh’s more interested in the progress of my roof than in idle chit-chat. He tips his head back to look up at the scaffolding which still encases the wall of the house.
    ‘You know, Gina, you were terribly lucky getting the Thibault brothers, and at such short notice. They’re the best in the area, real craftsmen. Everyone wants them for their building projects. There’s usually a six-month wait. You’ve obviously charmed them,’ he smiles archly.
    ‘Hmm, I think it was more the fact that their mother ordered them to do it than anything to do with me. I’m very lucky to have a neighbour who wields