Unravelling Oliver(47)
Dermot from L’étoile Bleue put the idea in my head. I was dining with some actor friends there one evening, and when he graciously presented the bill, a flyer for this French cooking school was attached. An idea began to form. I suggested to Alice that she would really enjoy it. She was immediately enthusiastic about the idea, but didn’t like the thought of travelling on her own. Con, who must have been hovering somewhere while this discussion was going on, decided for the first time in his life to buy me a decent birthday present: a two-week residential gourmet cuisine course in France. With Alice. He is such a gobshite.
Oliver didn’t seem terribly interested when I told him the bare bones of my plan and how it had backfired. He was increasingly distant with me and insisted it would be good for us, Alice and me, to go. I’m not sure how I let him talk me into it. He actually wanted me to be friends with his wife. The few times I had made a disparaging comment about her had been met with a frosty silence on his part, so I kept my thoughts to myself. He said he really did need time on his own to work on his next book. This book, he said, was going to be the most important thing he had ever written. Initially, I was suspicious. Wasn’t this the excuse he gave Alice when we were due an assignation? Was he seeing somebody else? He was certainly interested in getting us both out of the way, and showed no interest in where we were going or what we were doing. If I had been Alice, I’d have just taken the credit card and gone on a spree, but God love her, she was never the brightest.
We travelled to Cuisine de Campagne, an hour from Bordeaux airport. I did the driving (even when she drove on our side of the road, Alice was a terrible driver. Oliver refused to buy her a decent car, as she had accumulated so many scrapes, dings and insurance claims that it was a wonder she was still on the road).
The cookery school was based in a small village. The classes took place in some large modern chalet buildings overshadowed by what must have been a very impressive chateau at one time. One of the wings of the chateau functioned as our lodgings, individual bedrooms opening on to a gallery, below which was a large lounge and communal eating area. Overseen by the elderly but sprightly Madame Véronique, we spent a wonderful two weeks immersed in the culture of French food and wine, with day trips to local bakeries, olive groves and vineyards. The grounds were beautiful. Apparently all the surrounding land had belonged to the chateau until recent years, and we had permission from the local farmers to wander as we pleased. We met other food lovers from Europe, the US and Canada, mostly women our own age, but of course there was inevitably the one handsome single man: Javier, early fifties, handsome, slightly portly. His hair was silver, not that dirty grey you see on Irishmen. Actually silver. He owned a riverboat on the Garonne and was talking of converting it into a floating restaurant.
I admit that the competition from the other ladies was stiff and that I did suffer a tinge of guilt when I thought of Oliver (and none at all when I thought of Con), but Javier was divine. I was very tactical in my approach, at first paying far too much attention to a balding fat Texan and his wife, but then gradually inserting myself into his eye-line as subtly as possible. I am an actress, you see, so I know how to attract attention. I know how to accentuate my attributes. Botox only gets you so far.
In the beginning, I did my best to be discreet. It was very exciting, creeping around the stairwells in the middle of the night. Javier is, without a doubt, the most considerate lover I have ever had. I worried about trying to keep my emotions out of what was, after all, a holiday romance. Charming, sophisticated, but unfortunately stony broke, supported by a brother who was a car dealer, he made me laugh a great deal and promised to get all my films on DVD. Well, both of them. In total we only spent six nights together, but for the first time in my life I felt like I could be honest with this man. I had nothing to lose. Maybe because it was a ‘fling’, I felt less inhibited. He found me to be outrageous and funny. I have never thought of myself as either of those things. On our last night together, Javier asked me to stay with him. In France! I laughed at the notion. Leaving my husband at this age seemed a bit ridiculous, and the more I thought about it, the more I became convinced that he was always going to be the one who got away, although the idea of a new life, a second chance, was certainly liberating.
Alice was off doing her own thing, mostly hanging out with Madame and the staff, improving her French. I’m sure Alice knew about Javier and me, but she never commented. I imagine that she wouldn’t even like to think about it. She had heard me moaning about Con for the last twenty years, but always said that it would all be OK and that we were a great couple. Poor Alice, she only ever saw the good in people. Even her husband.
On that last morning of the second week, I was sneaking through the lounge when I found Alice sitting up. It was about 7.30 a.m.; dawn was breaking over the valley. She didn’t seem in the least bit surprised to see me. She asked me straight out, ‘How well do you know my husband, Moya?’
I was taken aback. What had prompted this? Had there been a confessional phone call earlier in the evening? Was Oliver leaving her? I had to play this very carefully.
‘Jesus, Alice, what are you talking about? Did you overdo it on the wine?’
She looked at me. Stared at me, actually.
‘Do you think he’s honest?’
‘For God’s sake, Alice, I think you need more sleep!’ I said jovially, trying to keep the nervousness out of my voice. What was I to think? If she had discovered our affair, was that a good thing? Would she leave him now? Should I admit it? After my time with Javier, did I still feel the same way about Oliver?