The champagne arrived together with two pretty, engraved flutes. It was pink champagne, and looked expensive. ‘Are you sure we should open a whole bottle?’ she asked. ‘We’re both driving for starters.’
‘Mais oui, we can ’ave a little glass,’ Frédérique said, ‘and we will leave the rest for Marcel et ’is amis to drink in our honour later, eh?’
‘Oh, that’s a good idea,’ she said, smiling at Marcel, who looked to be about eighty years old with the kind of weathered face normally associated with a life at sea.
‘D’accord?’ he asked and, as Frédérique gave him a nod, twisted his gnarled fingers on the outside of the cork to pull it free. Frédérique raised his flute ready to catch the first frothy outpouring and save them from being showered with bubbles.
It took an embarrassing amount of time, and rather a lot of huffing and puffing from Marcel for the cork to start moving slightly in the neck of the bottle. ‘Mince!’ he said, as sweat began to form on his brow.
Lily and Frédérique both waited patiently with the kind of fixed smiles people get when they’re pretending that a situation isn’t at all awkward.
‘Ah merde!’ Marcel cried eventually as half a cork came away in his hand.
‘Oh dear,’ Lily said. ‘Never mind. Let’s…’
‘Je peux t’aider?’ offered Frédérique. Can I help you?
‘Non,’ Marcel answered, his brow furrowed. He placed the fizzing bottle on the floor and drove the corkscrew into it. Then, holding the bottle steady between his feet, he began to heave at the remnant of cork.
Watching his trembling body flex with effort against the stubborn cork, Lily unconsciously nudged her chair backwards to be further back from whatever terrible accident or explosion might be imminent. Her eyes locked with Frédérique’s – equally alarmed – eyes across the table. And then the urge to giggle came over her. She looked away, shoulders shaking with the effort of holding it in, noticing that Frédérique also covered his mouth with his hand.
‘Mais s'il tu pla?t, laissez-moi,’ he began. Please let me…
But before he could finish his sentence something suddenly gave and Marcel flew backwards, champagne cork still wedged in his corkscrew, and performed a near backwards somersault, knocking over the heavy bottle - which fizzed and spilled onto the wooden floor - before landing in a heap.
Lily quickly grabbed the bottle as Frédérique rushed to help his friend, who’d managed to clamber to his feet, his cheeks red. He said something to Frédérique in a low, angry tone before limping off to the back room.
Frédérique grabbed a cloth towel from behind the bar and lay it on the wasted pool of champagne. There was still half a bottle. He looked at Lily. ‘I think, per’aps he ’as too much pride, eh?’ he said, with a twinkle.
‘Is he OK?’
‘Oui, oui, just a little bruised in ’is mind, I fink,’ he reassured her. ‘We men, we like to be strong, uh? We don’t like to find out our plafonds, our limits.’
Lily nodded. ‘Poor guy.’
‘Ah, but ’e will be fine,’ said Frédérique, filling her glass. ‘And, of course, we must still celebrate. We celebrate for the ’ouse, and for…’
Here it comes, she thought. He’s going to say something over the top and romantic.
‘… and for surviving this terrible catastrophe!’ he finished with a wink. ‘We could have been killed, eh! We must celebrate we still ’ave life!’
She laughed. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t sure we’d get out of that one intact.’
They sat and sipped champagne and watched Marcel limping slightly behind the bar, muttering to himself in inaudible French. Lily told Frédérique about the house-warming party, and the fact that she felt she was closer to hosting some retreat guests than she’d thought. ‘I know I’ll need to do some work on the barn eventually,’ she said. ‘But if I start out small and get all the paperwork sorted I think I could have something in place by the spring.’
‘This sounds amazing!’ Frédérique enthused. ‘I can ’elp you, if you like, with the paperwork. It can be difficult, uh?’
‘Oh, merci,’ she said, clinking glasses with him. ‘I’d really appreciate that.’
‘But of course!’ he said. ‘Of course I will ’elp. After all we are lov—’