Bordeaux Housewives. Daisy Waugh

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       COFFEE AND PETITS FOURS

      As soon as Daffy has wiped her eyes and apologised to everybody, Timothy announces it is time for them to leave. He is embarrassed and angry and it’s obvious to everyone that he can hardly wait to get his wife alone. The guests feel a united blast of pity as they see her tripping along behind him, saying her feeble goodbyes. He’s going to give her hell in the car. Emma – rather more lively now, after the mini-drama – suggests that remaining guests should move from the terrace, where it has grown a little cool, to the drawing room, where Mathilde will soon be laying out coffee and home-made petits fours.

      ‘I told you he was gruesome,’ she announces, to no one in particular, as she returns from waving them both goodbye via the downstairs lavatory and one of her briskly administered sharpeners. ‘I just knew he was a bully.’ But no one pays any attention. They have already settled themselves into little groups and are doing quite adequately without her.

      Horatio is nowhere to be seen, having mumbled something about a football match, or possibly the news, and needing to find a television with satellite.

      Madame Bertinard, fat, middle-aged, and hopelessly intimidated by her smart surroundings, sits perched like an eager parrot beside her liverish and sulky looking host, Mr David Rankin. She’s sliding most of Mathilde’s petits fours into her mouth and nodding earnestly at her husband, seated on David’s other side, while he expounds on the civic value of his new position.

      ‘Fascinating,’ murmurs David Rankin. Not even bothering to look at him. ‘Fascinating. Fascinating.’

      To Monsieur Bertinard there are two types of Englishmen: the ones who come here, push up the property prices, clutter up the schools with their English children, and then go slowly broke. And then the others. Who don’t. The smell of money which exudes from David Rankin’s fat, spoilt body is intoxicating to him. It’s actually making the Mayor’s hands sweat.

      ‘…And I am presently in the situation, Mr Rankin,’ he is saying, leaning a little closer, so that his knees and Mr Rankin’s thigh are touching, ‘I am in the situation of comprehending that you are someone who is involved, on a day-to-day foundation, in the business of the high financial world. This is very, very interesting to me.’

      ‘Jolly good,’ says David, throwing back the remainder of his brandy. (Not for David anything so rough as the local pineau. David only drinks the best.) ‘Well – Monsieur…Monsieur…If you’ll excuse me.’ He begins to lever himself forward and upwards, but it’s hard work climbing out of Emma’s deep sofas. Especially when a man like Olivier Bertinard is working against you.

      ‘You will allow me to observe, Mr Rankin,’ continues Bertinard blithely, ‘that you must be superbly proficient in this department. This beautiful château has certainly costed a little more than the purchase of a small caravan! Yes, I imagine so! It’s a correct supposition, David, non