One Day in May - Catherine Alliott [89]
Hal’s house nestled in the fold of a hill, in an idyllic spot in the valley. Vineyards rose up behind it in steep, geometric lines and before it, in long meadow grass, a gnarled olive grove made a more tumbled, haphazard picture. The house itself was stone and flat-fronted, with tall thin windows and streaky grey shutters. It had that slightly guarded, arrogant look French houses have. It was perfect and I told him so.
‘Hal, what’s happened to you?’ I said as I got out and gazed around. ‘You’ve gone all tasteful.’
‘Oh, thanks!’ He laughed, relieved I was making fun. But then I’d always known the way forward: knew instinctively how to lighten the indelible fact of his bringing me here. ‘You mean I never was before?’
‘Never. Not one ounce. Your clothes were dire. Remember that fur hat that looked like a dead cat?’
‘I loved that hat! Bought it in St Petersburg. Still got it somewhere, actually. I’ll dig it out if you’re not careful.’ We were passing through the front door into a cool flagstone hall.
‘No, thanks. Remember when I tried to burn it?’
One bonfire night, pissed and giggling I’d run out of the pub, across the road, and into the recreation ground that was hosting our local firework party. Hal was running after me, roaring with indignation as I’d pretended to toss it in the flames. He’d caught up with me and seized me from behind, clamping my arms down, both of us gasping with laughter, an organizer bustling up to shoo us away – ‘Bloody pissed students!’ Hal, with his arms tightly round me, the closest we’d ever been physically, his face, as I turned, in the light of the flames, on fire too. Why was it that night, of so many, that I’d reached for and tossed between us, like that old hat, on this still warm night so many years later? Instinctively I saved us, reminding him of my own legendary good taste, even in those days; inviting him to scoff.
‘Yours!’ he spluttered. ‘You used to go to parties in silver lurex tights and one of your father’s old shirts.’
‘That was actually a Bad Taste party, Hal, which, if you recall, you attended as an airline pilot with a white stick.’
‘Inspired,’ he grinned, as we sailed under an arch into a room full of squashy cream sofas and bright rugs. ‘At least I’d given it some thought. And the white stick came in very handy later, if you remember.’
I’d gone into town with some hero dressed as Hitler, but Hitler had turned amorous outside the chippie, and when Hal came to find me at two in the morning the white stick had kept the dictator at bay as we’d legged it and flagged down a taxi.
Hal was crossing to open the French windows now, reaching up for the lock, his back to me. I ran a practised eye around the high-ceilinged room. The beams were all painted cream in the Provençal way – no zebra effect here – and the blue and white ticking-covered chairs I’d have chosen myself. The doors he flung wide issued onto an achingly pretty terrace, tumbling with Mediterranean plants, and a shimmering view of the hills beyond. No wonder he’d wanted me to see it.
I followed him out. Centre stage on the terrace was a table laid for two: napkins, flowers, the lot. For a moment I was lost for words. Hal was doing better. Pulling a cork from a bottle he’d plucked from an ice bucket, he was accusing me of sluttishness now, saying he couldn’t really believe I was an interior designer.
‘Your room in Edinburgh was a complete tip, as far as I remember.’
‘No it wasn’t, it was organized chaos, very arty.’ He’d set the table and rigged up the ice bucket? My mind was busy as I sat down. ‘And