There were stalls filled with grapes, melons, apples and pears. The colours were so glowing she imagined she could feel warmth coming from them. Peppers, which in England tended to be green and considered exotic, were red and yellow, and as big as a hand. Garlic bulbs the size of cricket balls, courgettes and aubergines like purple balloons. Even the vegetables Alexandra was more familiar with, like carrots, cabbages and potatoes, seemed bigger, better and more beautifully presented.
She had a basket full of onions, potatoes, garlic and carrots and was buying some peppers and aubergines when Stéphie appeared. ‘Milou has escaped.’
‘Oh, love!’ Alexandra knew there was no point in being angry. ‘Can you try and catch him? Then we can put him in the car until we’ve finished. It’s probably a bit confusing for him, being in this crowd.’
Stéphie disappeared again and Alexandra headed towards a cheese stall. There was no earthly point in being in France if you didn’t buy cheese, she decided. She was also tempted by stalls selling jam and honey, soap and lavender products. There were also cured meats and prepared foods, like cooked chickens, vats of bœuf bourguignon, cassoulet, and bouillabaisse, a rich fish soup.
She had just been offered an olive by an attentive stallholder when Milou appeared at speed, colliding with the man next to Alexandra and causing him to spill his carton of olives all over her.
There was a welter of apologies, both Alexandra and the man (who she had time to notice was young and very handsome) fighting for the privilege of taking the blame.
Stéphie and Henri arrived in Milou’s wake. Félicité joined them more slowly.
‘Sorry! He just saw you and dashed off!’ Stéphie explained. ‘He loves you!’
‘He hardly knows me,’ said Alexandra, continuing to speak French without thinking.
‘It was my olives that poured oil all down your dress,’ said the young man. ‘Oh, I know you!’ He addressed Félicité and her siblings and then turned to Alexandra. ‘I’m a friend of Antoine. Indeed, I am his lawyer.’ His remorse increased. ‘So I must apologise even more! I have ruined the clothes of a friend of my good friend le Comte.’ He took hold of her hand and kissed it. ‘Maxime de Marais at your service. Now, what can I do to make amends?’
‘Ah!’ said Alexandra. ‘I am so pleased to meet you. I have been given your name if I need help with anything. I had a letter with information on it saying I wouldn’t be able to get in touch with le Comte but you could do it for me.’
Maxime bowed. ‘And now I have covered you in oil. I must immediately make amends.’
Alexandra laughed. ‘It’s all Milou’s fault, but if you want to do me a favour, could you escort this lot to a café? I need a little time alone to buy clothes.’
‘Clothes? From here? Mam’selle, it is hardly an appropriate place …’ Maxime sounded outraged.
‘I need something now, not when I can find the right shop,’ Alexandra said. ‘And don’t worry, I needed clothes before Milou’s accident.’
‘Then I will take the children to a café,’ said Maxime. ‘With the greatest of pleasure.’
As he didn’t immediately move, Alexandra put her hand in her bag, remembering the letter she had written to her relations on the train. ‘And if you could find a stamp and a postbox for this, I’ll forgive you for everything.’
Maxime took the letter and then kissed her hand again. ‘We’ll be in the café across the road. I’ll order you a glass of champagne.’
‘What are we celebrating?’ asked Alexandra, smiling.
‘We’re celebrating our meeting,’ said Maxime. ‘Come along, children. And keep a hold of Milou. He’s done well this morning, but let’s not push our luck!’
A little burst of joy accompanied Alexandra to the stall she had spotted earlier. It sold cotton dresses in bright prints and pretty, off-the-shoulder styles. It was a peasant look that would have been very out of place in London, where styles were mostly rectangular, skirts were short, and geometry ruled. But here, in the autumn sunshine, gathered dresses with flounces and frills seemed appropriate. She bought two, and was impressed by the price and charmed by the free neck scarf that went in the paper bag along with the dresses. She discovered that flirting was part of the language and found it made her smile. It was respectful but enjoyable too.
A couple of stalls along from the one that sold dresses was a more sober set-up. Here traditional clothes for working men hung from hangers. There was the blue jacket that workmen wore in several shades of blue; there were trousers and jeans, long cotton coats and boiler suits.
It was the boiler suits that attracted Alexandra. There were famous pictures of women wearing these during the war and Alexandra felt there was a lot to recommend them to someone who was going to be living in a French chateau in the autumn. It took her a while to convince the stallholder that she wanted one for herself but amid much laughter she finally had one in her hands and held it up against her. The arms and legs were too long but she could roll them up.
She was just wondering if it was too long in the body when the stallholder said, ‘Would you like to try it on? Here? In my van. There is a mirror.’
‘Superbe,’ she said, and in no time she was in the van, taking off her oil-covered dress, climbing into the boiler suit. It was perfect! It needed a tight belt round the waist to give her shape and – a thought occurred to her and she found the neck scarf she’d been given and put that on. She turned up her collar and reapplied her lipstick. Great! She was delighted. She got down from the back of the van and paid for two boiler suits because, she explained to herself, she may never be able to get one again. They were useful and comfortable and, with the addition of a belt, she was certain, sexy.
She couldn’t be away from her charges too long so she decided not to look for a stall that sold belts: she’d make do with the wonderful scarlet scarf. She felt like a revolutionary and found her way to the café with an extra spring in her step. Alexandra had discovered that she liked flirting, and having Maxime to do it with, even for a morning, was delightful.
Her group had a good outside table, with an excellent view of the square and the market and Maxime looked up when Alexandra joined them. ‘Mon Dieu! You have changed, and somehow you have made the uniform of the French worker into a stylish outfit!’ His expression told her he wasn’t just being polite and Alexandra returned the smile.
‘Merci du compliment! Are we really having champagne?’ she said to Maxime as he handed her a glass. ‘How delightful! What are you having?’ she asked her charges.
‘I’m having champagne,’ said Félicité defiantly, obviously waiting to be told off.
‘Excellent,’ said Alexandra, thinking one glass would probably be fine for a fifteen-year-old, especially if they had something to eat.
