Whose Life is it Anyway? (15 page)

‘I’ll be leaving in June. But before I go Niamh and I are getting married.’

They turned to stare at me. The silence was deafening.

18

‘But you barely know each other,’ Fleur snapped.

‘It seems somewhat hasty,’ said Jean.

‘I went out with Brigitte for nine years and we broke up because I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life with her. I knew after a minute with Niamh that she was the person I wanted to marry. I’m forty-two. This is not the action of an impulsive teenager.’

‘Why don’t you go to Vancouver and see how things work out?’ said Jean. ‘Why do you have to get married?’

‘Because I want Niamh to be my wife and for us to have children together.’

‘Look, Mr and Mrs Alcee, I know this is a bit sudden, but I can assure you that I love your son, and I will do everything in my power to make him happy. I’ll even learn to cook!’ I said, trying to lighten the mood.

They looked at me, then turned back to Pierre and launched into French. Although my language skills weren’t up to much, I understood enough to know that I was not their idea of the perfect daughter-in-law.

There was a lot of hand-waving and head-shaking. I heard words like ‘
impossible
’, ‘
folie
’, ‘
ridicule
’ and ‘
imprudent
’, none of which needed much translation.

Pierre was getting more and more irate and kept saying, ‘
Je l’ aime
’, and ‘
parfaite
’ and ‘
heureux
’, which gave me hope.

Eventually, after twenty minutes of sitting there like a lemon, I stood up and interrupted them.

‘I’m going to leave you to it. You obviously have a lot to discuss. It was very nice to meet you. I’ll see you later, Pierre,’ I said, kissing him, and with that, my
faux
-leather bag, badly fitting dress and I strode out of the restaurant and ran round the corner to cry. It was an unmitigated disaster.
His
parents were supposed to be the easy part –
mine
were the ones who would cause trouble. Yet it was clear to me that the Alcees considered me a completely unsuitable bride for their son.

Two hours later, when Pierre came home, he was still fuming.

‘I’m so sorry, darling,’ he said, hugging me. ‘They can be so stubborn and superior sometimes. Anyway, I’ve told them the wedding is going ahead regardless, so they eventually came around. But they’re keen to meet your family as soon as you tell them about our plans.’

I must confess I was relieved. With such a negative reaction from his parents, I thought Pierre might see me suddenly through their eyes, realize he was getting a raw deal and call the whole thing off.

‘One family down, one to go,’ he said, smiling.

I grimaced. If his parents’ reaction was bad, mine were going to go loop the loop.

‘Did they really hate me?’ I asked, desperate for some comforting words.

‘No, of course not. They would just prefer it if you were French and wrote about philosophy or history. Don’t worry, darling. They’ll grow to love you when they get to know you better.’

‘Why did you have to tell them about the wet-patch column?’

‘Because it was hilarious.’

‘Did you see their faces? They thought it was about as funny as my inability to cook or speak French.’

‘They’re a little old-fashioned. My mother always cooked for us.’

‘Even when she’d worked a ten-hour day doing up houses?’

‘Yes. It’s just the way it was. French women cook.’

‘So do Irish women.’ I bristled. ‘My mother always cooked for us.’

‘What happened to you?’

‘I chose not to.’

‘Because?’

‘I find it boring.’

‘Ah, but if you learnt to cook you’d enjoy it.’

‘I don’t need to. One cook in the house is plenty.’

‘Sometimes it would be nice for me not to have to cook.’

‘No problem. That’s what restaurants are for.’

‘Touché!’
He grinned.

Suddenly we heard a noise behind us. It was the fax machine. Pierre went over to pick up the pages. He started to laugh. ‘Well, Niamh, my mother doesn’t think you’re a lost cause. Here is the recipe for my very favourite dish –
bavette au porto.’

He handed me the page and I read:

This is Pierre’s preferred dish. More recipes to follow. Fleur

Ingredients

1 1/2 lb flank steak

for the marinade

1/3 cup port

1/4 cup balsamic vinegar

1 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce (well, when in Rome…!)

2 garlic cloves, pressed

1 tablespoon fresh thyme, leaves only

1/2 teaspoon salt

1/4 teaspoon pepper

2 shallots, finely chopped

2 teaspoons butter

The cooking is ridiculously simple.

Whisk the marinade in a small bowl, then pour it over the steak and place it in the fridge for a few hours.

When you are ready to cook it, remove the steak from the marinade and grill it – Pierre likes his meat bloody. I know Irish people like to burn theirs, but please do not overcook it. It destroys it. As the steak is grilling, place the marinade in a small saucepan and heat it while mixing in the butter.

Pierre likes this with a salad.

There was no ‘nice to have met you’, ‘you seem like the perfect bride for my son’, ‘welcome to the family’. She hadn’t even bothered to write ‘hello’. And she had insulted Irish people for liking their meat well done. So what if we didn’t like eating an animal that was still winking at us? Where’s the crime in that?

Pierre read it over my shoulder. ‘Excellent! I’m looking forward to dinner tonight.’ He grinned.

The fax machine continued to churn out pages of recipes. Fleur was on a mission to turn me into a chef. What she didn’t know was that the raw ingredient she was dealing with was as stubborn as she was.

As I stuffed the recipes into a drawer, the phone rang.

‘Oui, Maman.
The faxes arrived. Yes, she’s here beside me.’ Pierre handed me the receiver.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello, Neeev,’ she said, making my name sound like a curse. ‘I wanted to make sure the recipes arrived safely.’

‘Yes, thanks, they did. All of them.’

‘I would like to take you for coffee tomorrow. I think we need to have a chat, us girls alone.’

Although it was the absolutely last thing in the world I wanted to do, I couldn’t refuse. She was, after all, my future mother-in-law. ‘That would be lovely.’

‘We will meet at La Maison des Gâteaux. I believe it’s the only place in Dublin that serves palatable coffee. I will see you there at eleven.’

‘I can’t wait,’ I said, through gritted teeth.

‘Well?’ Pierre asked.

‘She wants to meet for coffee.’

‘That’s great. It’s a really good sign. She obviously feels bad about her reaction to the wedding. I knew she’d come round. I’m glad that’s sorted,’ he said, and sat down to read the paper.

I went into the bedroom and buried my head in the pillow to stifle a scream.

The next morning, I got up early and went shopping. I was determined to look good for my head-to-head with Fleur. I went to the most expensive boutique I knew, one of those really intimidating shops where the assistants are like supermodels. I’d never had the nerve or money to go in before, but this was an emergency. I took a deep breath and opened the door.

No sooner was my foot over the threshold than a tall, rail-thin girl came over to ask me if I needed help. Instead of scurrying away to the other side of the shop with a grunt, I said, ‘Yes, I do. I need all the help I can get.’

I explained my situation and she was very sympathetic. Turned out Paula had worked in Paris for a few years and knew how intimidating formidable French women could be. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll have you looking a million dollars,’ she assured me.

I fingered my credit card nervously and hoped it wouldn’t burst into flames when it came to paying.

An hour later, having tried on everything in the shop, I left looking a hell of a lot better than I had going in, and feeling a whole lot poorer. I winced every time I thought of how much I had spent, but then I caught my reflection in a shop window and knew it had been worth it. Paula had persuaded me to buy a pale blue dress with ribbon detail on the sleeves and hem. I never wore pale blue and the dress was more girly than my normal taste, but it was great on. The waist was empire line, which hid my stomach and made me look slim. I bought shoes to match and she even persuaded me to get a daisy clip for my hair, which she had made to look stylish rather than stupid in the way she had placed it.

When I arrived, Fleur was chatting to the owner in French. When she saw me she did a double-take and the owner actually whistled. I was thrilled.

‘You look different,’ she said.

‘Thanks.’ I decided to take it as a compliment.

‘I wouldn’t have thought blue would be a good colour on such pale skin, but in fact it is quite flattering.’

She was a vision in a pale pink wrap dress and high-heeled shoes to match. Her waist was the size of my calf – forget the French lessons and cooking: I could have done with a few tips on how to be skinny. After we had ordered, a young woman sat at the table beside us. She was wearing a tracksuit – a nice one. Fleur frowned. ‘I don’t understand how anyone with any self-respect can go out in public in a jogging suit,’ she said. ‘Sportswear is for the gymnasium, not for town.’

‘They’re comfortable.’ I shrugged.

‘They are slovenly. A woman should make an effort to look nice every day. If you look good, you feel better about yourself.’

She had a point there. I felt a lot better about myself today than I had yesterday in my ill-fitting dress.

‘Besides,’ continued my style guru, ‘a man will not be faithful to a woman who dresses like a slob.’

I was going straight home to burn my tracksuits before Pierre took off with a woman in a skirt and high heels.

‘Thank you for the recipes,’ I said, deciding to change the subject before she slated people who wore jeans and thus my whole wardrobe would have to be thrown out.

‘You’re welcome. I know Pierre joked about your failure to cook yesterday, but I think it is very important for a woman to look after her husband in every way. Men are very simple creatures. They need to be fed, encouraged in their work and satisfied in the bedroom.’

I choked on my coffee.

‘Oh, Neev, there’s no need to be shy about sex. Don’t tell me you’re one of those frigid Irish girls.’

‘I can assure you I am not frigid,’ I said, highly insulted that she thought I might be. Granted, we weren’t at it every night, but I put up a good show in the bedroom. Pierre hadn’t complained anyway. ‘I’m just not that comfortable talking about sex with my boyfriend’s mother.’

‘
Pffff
! In France we talk about it all the time. It’s a very important part of a relationship. If you keep Pierre satisfied sexually then hopefully he won’t need a mistress. A clever woman knows how to keep her husband happy. You also need to stimulate him mentally. You will have to take an interest in phonetics, French culture and history. A man needs a wife he can take to a dinner party with his colleagues and know that she will be engaging, articulate and well informed. You will, of course, have to learn to speak French like a native.’

I was beginning to wonder if it was worth it. Marrying Pierre was going to require years of intense study, becoming a chef and – if I had any energy left after cooking the seven-course meals – being a tiger in the bedroom. Maybe I should pack it in now.

‘It was a shock to us to discover yesterday that our only child is getting married to someone we don’t know, from a different background and culture. We didn’t mean to react in a rude fashion. Pierre was very angry with us. We were merely concerned that you were rushing into the wedding. But my son has assured us that it’s a
fait accompli
.’

‘Fleur, whatever reservations you may have about me – and I can see you have many – I love your son. I may not be what you had in mind as a daughter-in-law, but I make Pierre happy and we’re a good team. I’m willing to take French lessons and try to cook, but the bottom line is that we love each other and none of the other stuff matters.’

‘That, my dear, is where you are mistaken. The excitement of falling in love will fade and you must make sure that your marriage has a solid base to fall back on. You need common interests, goals, aims, desires. The “other stuff” matters very much. A good marriage is like a good figure. It requires hard work, discipline and sacrifice. You are very naïve if you don’t realize that.’

So now I was naïve as well as everything else. I felt as if I’d been rapped on the knuckles for being silly. ‘I know how a good marriage works,’ I said testily. ‘My parents have been married for thirty-five years, and although they’re very different people, they have made a success of it through compromise, respect, love and laughter. I’m not entering into this marriage lightly. In fact, there are a thousand reasons why I shouldn’t marry Pierre, but I love him, I want to spend the rest of my life with him and that’s exactly what I intend to do.’

‘And how do you think you parents will react when they meet Pierre?’

‘They’ll go absolutely mental, but once they get to know him and see how happy he makes me, they’ll come round.’

‘And if they don’t?’

‘We’ll go to Plan B.’

‘Which is?’

‘Vegas,’ I said, and grinned as Fleur’s face dropped.

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