‘You’re very welcome. We’ve heard lots about you,’ the man replies with a soft Welsh accent. I know my own cheeks have reddened now.
‘I’m scared that most of it’s true.’
‘She likes you. Doris is a good judge of character.’
‘Doris?’ I look at The American who doesn’t look like a Doris one bit. In fact, I don’t know what she looks like because I don’t know her name, and now it feels rude to ask.
‘It’s my little pet name for her,’ the man says in a stage whisper. ‘The poor man’s Doris Day.’
I let out a snigger. ‘Dare I ask the story behind that one?’
‘You daren’t.’ The American interrupts and shoots flirtatious daggers at the man and thwacks him over the head with a black lace fan for good measure. I don’t know why she has one on her, it’s barely fifteen degrees Celsius; I am coming to the conclusion that theatrics form a heavy role in her outfits. ‘Honestly, Crispy, you’re intent on making sure I have no friends left up here, aren’t you?’
‘I don’t mind if you have friends, my dear, just that I’m your favourite.’ The man called Crispy pouts over the table at her and she melts a little. I want to ask about his name but he grabs my arm and pulls me closer to him before I get chance. ‘We’ve been friends for so long, at this point it’s becoming a hostage situation.’ I snort and I notice how his eyes glisten, partly from the lights and partly from the alcohol. ‘But I’m glad you’ve managed to join us, Ava, nice to add a bit of youth to our expat troupe.’
‘Oh, I’m not an expat.’
‘You’re not?’ He looks surprised. ‘Thought Doris said you were an English girl out here.’
‘I am, but not to live. Just to visit.’
‘She’s a smart girl, unlike us.’ The American leans over with the bottle and tops up the wine that is evaporating. ‘Wouldn’t want you to end up drinking yourself into an early grave like we are.’
‘Early grave? Doris, you’ve been coffin-dodging since the last millennium.’
She hits him with a fan again. This time I can hear it whistle before it’s brought down on his shoulder. His wince isn’t at all a performance.
‘What’s good to eat?’ I ask the table, desperate to change the subject.
‘Not sure. We haven’t had the pleasure yet.’
‘Let’s change that.’ I get to my feet and reach for my purse.
‘What are you going to get us?’
‘Carbs,’ I say quickly, and before I can take requests, vault it over to the stall with the shortest line, which happily is a steaming vat of paella.
It is only when I get to the front and Florian is there to take my order that I realise my mistake. Small bloody towns.
‘Hi.’ Florian wipes his fringe from his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘Nice to see you.’
‘You too,’ I lie. Whilst it looks like everyone who lives in a ten-mile radius of Monpazier is here tonight, I had tricked myself into believing that he may have become some sort of social hermit too, avoiding any signs of life. Instead, he has taken it upon himself to help.
‘What can I get you?’ He gestures to the cauldron of rice and meat in front of him.
‘Three paellas and… do you do bread?’ I ask hopefully.
His face screws up. ‘With paella?’
I throw my hand in the air. ‘Don’t worry.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Actually, do you have water?’
‘Yeah, sure.’ He pulls out a small bottle and I shake my head.
‘More, like five of those?’
