Hélène poured Michèle more of her delicious Syrah from 2004, as if egging her to go on, which she did: “Romances are story driven, and it’s a hell of a job writing them. The writer must have a keen ear for dialogue and be able to craft deft sentences, create page-turning tension, and give the reader compelling characters. They are written by women for women, and I’ll defend them to the ends of the earth, even if none of you here have read them. If a man writes them,” she said, looking at me, “they are called women’s fiction, or not even given a label. If a woman writes them, they are called romances, and they are never reviewed by the major newspapers, nor are they ever made into films.”
“But I’ve read about you in Le Monde,” Hélène said. “Or perhaps it was Le Figaro.”
“Yes, you read about me,” Michèle said, “but you didn’t read a review of my books.”
Hélène nodded. “I think you must be right.”
“I’ve never thought about it like that,” Marine added. “My husband, Antoine, is a bit of a snob—” Here Hélène and Bruno laughed, and I was getting curious about this Antoine guy. Marine continued, “A few weeks ago we were in Paris, on the Métro, and most people were looking at their cell phones, not reading. That got Antoine cursing under his breath. When we finally did see someone reading, it was—”
“A woman of a certain age,” Michèle said.
“Exactly,” Marine replied. “And she was reading one of your books. Antoine made some disparaging comment, but I defended your books, saying that I much preferred to see someone reading than not at all.”
“Odd logic,” I said. “It’s like giving students Abba lyrics to read in a poetry class.”
“Shut up, Valère, you little twerp,” Michèle said.
“If I may,” Marine said. “I think the problem many people, including myself, have with romance fiction is the obligatory happy ending. It gives women unrealistic expectations.”
“But my books aren’t bodice rippers, where the ultrawealthy man meets the governess or secretary and they hate each other but are in each other’s arms by the end of the book,” Michèle explained. “Jane Austen invented that, by the way. In my books, my heroines are strong, they have unusual occupations, and they may not even want to get married in the end. Besides, women are smart; I think they know the difference between reality and fiction.”
“There’s also an assumption that if a book has a happy ending, it’s light reading, and if it has a tragic ending, it’s more important,” I said.
“Finally, you’ve stopped talking gibberish,” Michèle said.
“My lighter books were huge sellers but panned by the critics, and my earlier, dark ones won every literary prize in the book.”
“Except the Nobel,” Michèle said.
“I’m saving that one for my next opus,” I replied, grinning.
“You haven’t written in years,” she said. “You’ve lost—”
“Dessert time!” Hélène said, standing up. “Léa and I bought strawberries at the market this morning.” She looked over at her daughter, who was bored with our bickering and playing a game with Charlotte. I’ll do it for you now, Justin. Reach over and grab the tip of my chin, and now I’ll grab yours. I’ll sing the rhyme; the first person who starts laughing loses. You’ll have to excuse my singing voice. Je te tiens, tu me tiens, par la barbichette; le premier de nous deux qui rira aura une tapette! Je te tiens, tu me tiens, par la barbichette; le premier de nous deux qui rira aura une tapette! That was bad, Justin. You only lasted two verses. Plus you spewed out wine all over the table. Léa lost after about ten rounds, as Charlotte was an expert at keeping her face still. When the girls finished, Michèle turned to me and said, “We used to play that when we were kids, didn’t we, Valère? I’ve got you, you’ve got me, by the little beard.” She reached over and grabbed my chin and added, “I’ve got you, don’t I?”
I haven’t yet told you why Michèle was there, what she had on me, but you’ll know soon enough, perhaps by the time our dessert comes. I hope there’s no corn in the dessert. We left the Pauliks’ just before midnight, and Michèle and I walked up the lane to the bastide with the help of a flashlight. We heard noises—an owl, and then a branch snapping—and she grabbed my arm and said, “I’m sorry, Valère, but your new house gives me the creeps.”
“It’s scary at night,” I replied, “but that’s only because the blasted cigales have stopped their racket, and the sounds seem louder, exaggerated.”
“No,” she argued, “it’s more than that. Like the taxi driver making the sign of the cross as he turned up your lane.”
I laughed. “Some kind of Provençal village superstition.” And I really meant it. “Who knows what—”
Another breaking branch caused Michèle to jump and pull me in closer. She turned around and grabbed my arm, pulling me along. “Faster,” she said. “There’s someone behind us.”
“Don’t be daft,” I said. And again I really meant it. She was getting on my nerves. “You’re a novelist. It’s normal to imagine things and be under the spell of a centuries-old house.”
“I’m no stranger to centuries-old houses,” she replied, almost running. “I own one in the Loire, built during the reign of Louis XV, and it has good karma!”
We got to the front door, and she almost grabbed the keys out of my hand. “Hurry up, Valère! You were always so slow!”
When we stepped into the front hall, we were both breathless. I showed her how well I was locking the door, giving each lock—there were three—an exaggerated thump as I turned them. “Okay?” I asked.
“I need a nightcap,” she said, leaning against the banister.
“Help yourself,” I said. “Sandrine set up the drinks cart in the big salon.”
“Won’t you join me?”
“No, I’m exhausted. Help yourself to anything, and I’ll see you
