* Restoring a French olive farm - an actress's lyrical account that will appeal to all admirers of UNDER THE TUSCAN SUN.

* Subtitle: A memoir of life, love and olive oil in the South of France

The Olive Farm

Penguin Books

Chapter One

WITH PASSION

four months earlier

"Shall we look inside?" suggests Michel, climbing the stairway tothe main entrance, which is situated on the northwest side of the upperterrace. The estate agent, Monsieur Charpy (pronounced "Sharpee"), confessesthat he does not have a key.

    "No key?."

    It is only now that he owns up to the fact that he is not actually representingthe property. But, he swiftly assures us, if we are genuinely interested,he will be able to "faire le nécessaire."

    I am in the south of France, gazing at the not-so-distant Mediterranean,falling in love with an abandoned olive farm. The property, once stylish andnow little better than a ruin, is for sale with ten acres of land.

    Once upon a time, Charpy tell us, it was a residence of haut standing,which owned land as far as the eye could see in every direction. He swingshis arms this way and that. I stare at him incredulously. He shrugs. Well,certainly that valley in front of us and the woods to the right but, hélas?heshrugs again?most of the terrain was sold off.

    "When?"

    "Years ago."

    I wonder why nothing else has been constructed. The villa still standsalone on its hillside, and the magnificent terraced olive groves Charpypromised us have become a jungle of hungry weeds.

    "An olive farm with vineyard and swimming pool," he insists.

    We stare at the pool. It looks like an oversize, discarded sink. Dottedhere and there are various blossoming fruit trees and some very fine Italiancedars, but there's no sign of any vineyard. There are two cottages includedin the purchase price: the gatekeeper's house, at the very foot of the hill,is firmly locked and shuttered, but even from the outside, it is plain thatit needs major restoration; the other, where the gardener or vine tenderwould have resided, has been swallowed up beneath rampant growth. Asfar as we can tell, for we cannot get within two hundred meters of it, allthat remains is one jagged stone wall.

    "The villa was built in 1904 and was used as a summer residence by awealthy Italian family. They called it Appassionata." I smile. Appassionatais a musical term, meaning with passion.

    "Pied dans l'eau," continues Charpy.

    Yes, it is ten minutes by car to the sea. From the numerous terraces,the bay of Cannes is within tantalizingly easy reach, while the two islandsof Lérins lie in the water like lizards sleeping in the sun.

    To the rear of the house is a pine forest. Most of the other shrubs andtrees are unknown to me?those that are not dead, that is. Michel askswhether it was drought that killed off the little orange grove and thealmond tree, now an inverted broomstick of dead twigs in front of a tumbledowngarage.

    "Je crois pas," says Monsieur Charpy. "They caught cold. Our last winterwas harsh. It broke records." He stares glumly at four bougainvilleabushes which once straddled the front pillars of the house. Now they arelying across the veranda like drunks in a stupor. "Aussi, the place has beenempty for four years. Before that, it was rented to a foreign woman whobred dogs. Évidemment, she cared nothing for her surroundings."

    The years of neglect aided by the recent freak weather have certainlyput pay to Appassionata's former glory. Still, I am drawn to its faded elegance.It remains graceful. There is beauty here. And history. Even thegnarled olive trees look as though they have stood witness on this hillsidefor a thousand years.

    "The propriétaire will be glad to get rid of the place. I can arrange agood price." Charpy makes the offer disdainfully. To his way of thinking,paying any sum for such dereliction would be scandalous.

    I close my eyes and picture us in future summers strolling paths wediscover beneath this jungle of vegetation. Michel, at my side, is surveyingthe facade. The baked vanilla-colored paint flakes at the touch. "Whydon't we try to find a way in?" he says, and disappears on a lap of thehouse, tapping at windows, rattling doors.

    Charpy, ruffled, sets off after him. I hang back, smiling. Michel and Ihave known each other only a few months, but already I have learned thathe is not one to be defeated by such a minor detail as the lack of a key.

    The land is not fenced. There is no gate; the boundaries are notstaked. There is nothing to secure the property, to keep hunters or trespassersat bay. There are broken windows everywhere.

    "Come and look here," Michel calls from around the back. He, withhis more practiced eye, points out the remains of a makeshift vegetablegarden. "Squatters. Been and gone in the not too distant past. The lockson all three doors have been forced. It should be relatively easy to get in.Monsieur Charpy, s'il vous plaît."

    Once inside, we are moving through a sea of cobwebs. A deep mustystench takes our breath away. Walls hang with perished wiring. The roomsare high-ceilinged, sonorous spaces. Strips of wallpaper curl to the floorlike weeping silhouettes. Tiny shriveled reptiles crunch underfoot. Suchdecay. We tread slowly, pausing, turning this way and that, drinking theplace in. Rip away all the curling, rusted mosquito netting fixed across thewindows, and the rooms would be blissfully light. They are well proportioned,nothing elaborate. Corridors, hidden corners, huge rust-stainedbaths in cavernous bathrooms. In the main salon, there is a generous oak-beamedfireplace. There is an ambience. Chaleur.

    Our voices and footsteps reverberate, and I feel the rumble of liveslived here. Tugging aside the netting, grazing a finger in the process, Igaze out at eloquent views over land and sea, and mountains to thewest. Sun-drenched summers by the Mediterranean. Appassionata. Yes.I am seized.

    Charpy watches impatiently, fussing at the sleeves and shoulders ofhis jacket, while we open doors, shove at long-forgotten cupboards, runour fingers through layers of dust and disintegrating insects and flick orturn switches and taps, none of which work. He does not comprehend ourenthusiasm. "Beaucoup de travail," he pronounces.

    Back outside, the late-morning sun is warm and inviting. I glance atMichel, and without a word spoken, his eyes tell me he sees what I see: awild yet enticing site. Still, even if we could scrape together the askingprice, the funds needed to restore it make it an act of insanity.

We head for a bar Michel frequents in the old port of Cannes. Thepatron strolls over to greet him. They shake hands. "Bon festival?" heenquires. Michel nods, and the patron nods in response. The conversationseems complete until Michel takes me by the arm and introduces me. Myfuture wife, he says. Mais, félicitations! Félicitations! The patron shakes ourhands vigorously and invites us to a drink on the house. We install ourselvesat one of the tables on the street, and I feel the heat of the middaysun beat against my face.

    Although it is only late April, there are many foreigners bustling toand fro laden with shopping bags. Several wave to Michel, calling out thesame enquiry. "Bon festival?" He nods. Occasionally, he rises to shakehands or, in French fashion, lightly kiss another's cheeks. Mostly, thesefleeting encounters are with executive types in sharply cut blazers, lightweightslacks, Italian soft leather loafers. They talk of business. It is theclosing day of the spring television festival which precedes the CannesFilm Festival. Both festivals are dominated by the markets that run alongsidethem. The world of television, the filming of it rather than the sellingof it, seems to me a million miles removed from these markets. I marvel athow Michel can survive in such a milieu.

    A lithe waiter zips by with our glasses of Côte de Provence rosé. Theseare accompanied by porcelain saucers filled with olives, slices of deep pinksaucisson and potato chips. He deposits the dishes on our table and departswithout a word to us. We clink glasses and sip our wine, silent, lost in ourmorning's visit. Both musing upon our find, buried aloft in the pine-scentedhills way above this strip with its glitzy hotels.

    "I wish we could afford it," I say eventually.

    "I think we should go for it. They want to get rid of the place, so let'smake an offer."

    "But how could we ever ...?"

    Michel pulls out his fountain pen, takes his napkin and we start scribblingfigures and exchange rates; the ink bleeds into the soft tissue. Theanswer is clear. It is way beyond our price range. There are Vanessa andClarisse to consider, daughters from his previous marriage.

    "The pound is strong," I say. "That will work in our favor. But it's stillway more than we can afford." I glance at the clock on the church towerup in the old town. It is after one. Charpy's immobilier office on theCroisette has closed for the weekend. It is just as well. We will have left byMonday. I am returning to London, where it is raining, Michel to Paris. Iturn, peer up the lane that leads to the old fish market and tilt my headskyward. Only rounded summits of green hills are visible above the blocksof crab-colored buildings. I cannot tell which of them harborsAppassionata.

    "Let me talk to Charpy on Monday," says Michel. "I have an idea."

    "What?"

    "Perhaps they'll sell it in stages."

    "Of course they won't!"

Our pension overlooks the old port. I pass the afternoon watching theto-ing and fro-ing of yachts and the ferries plying a path to the islands.Michel has disappeared for a final, postfestival business meeting. He willnot return before evening. I am seized by a desire to slip back up to thehills, but I know that, alone in the car, I would never find my way. Instead,I idle away the afternoon reading and jotting in a notebook.

    I didn't come to Cannes to look for a house. Michel was flying downfor the festival and invited me to come along and spend the week withhim. It's true I have always been drawn to "my house by the sea," andwhenever I am at the coast, whether it be Finland, Australia, Africa orDevon, I browse the estate agents' windows, visiting occasional properties,hungry to discover something unexpected, to walk into a space where Ibelong. No other property I have ever visited has felt this close to belonging.Even so, to buy Appassionata would be an act of madness.

    Every bean I have ever earned, I have spent traveling, crossingborders, roaming the world. I have been intensely restless, hungry to livea hundred lives in one lifetime. I have never settled anywhere. I have nocapital to speak of. I am not fluent in the language; schoolgirl French ismy limit. And as for farming? My mother's family owns a farm in Irelandwhere I spent childhood holidays, and I played a country vet's wifein a television series: hardly an agricultural pedigree. Still, to restorethis old olive farm, with views overlooking the sea?to create roots,and with this man, who proposed the day after I met him. A coup defoudre, he said ... an act of insanity, but since we met, life has beengiddy. We've been spinning like tumbleweed. It may be illogical, but itfeels right.

    I begin to scribble several to-do lists, which is out of character, simplyan attempt to contain my excitement, to comprehend the enormityof the venture. I'm drawing the possibility of ownership closer to me, toquieten the fever.

    Finally, about six in the evening, as the church bells chime the first ofthe Sunday masses celebrated on Saturday evening and after I haveexhausted all avenues to make-believe ownership, I stroll the beach toswim. The water is bracing. I am alone in it, which pleases me. I savor thesalty taste on my lips. I flip over on my back and scan the waterfront, thecoastline which stretches as far as the cap of Antibes, and the hills behind.I drink in its foreignness. The cream and salmon tones of the buildings,the softly evocative light that has drawn so many painters here. I notice theobservatory on a hill to the right of me for the first time. I begin to putmyself in the role of habitant. Could I really live here? Yes. Yes!

Sunday, we drive out of town. We head inland, up into the hills, makingfor the pretty old town of Vence, perched atop a hill at the end of a longwinding road. Michel wants to show me the chapel the Dominicans commissionedMatisse to redesign when he was living at Cimiez, an elegantquarter in the hills above Nice, but when we arrive, it is closed. How disappointing!I had expected a discreet mass to be in progress, with monks andincense. We shove our faces through the fencing, clamoring for views of thegarden and building, and Michel directs my eyeline toward the chapel roof.The tiles are a brilliant azure blue. So simple, so unlikely and so pure.

    And then, drawn like nails to a magnet, we head for the villa.

    There is no gate or fencing to prevent us from entering the land, sowe do. Without Charpy at our side, we can explore the site more thoroughly.On the tarmac driveway, I find several dead shells from hunters'rifles and look around, wondering what they were shooting. Rabbits?

    "Wild boar," suggests Michel.

    I laugh. "This close to the coast? No way."

    Once up on the top terrace, we decide against going inside. Charpyforcing the door is one thing, but alone, we will not contemplate it. Instead,we press our faces against filthy, sticky, cracked panes of glass and peer inthrough the windows. The sludge-brown shutters are bleached and peeling.

    "We'll paint the shutters the color of Matisse's chapel," says Michel,Azure blue. Côte d'Azur. The blue coast. I lift my eyes heavenward. Bluesky. Cobalt blue. Vanilla walls and blue shutters. I try to picture it. A coolyet vibrant combination. "Yes, let's," I murmur.

    Many of the slats are splintered and broken, forced by squatters orrobbers. "They will need to be replaced," says Michel.

    "Everything will need to be replaced. Nothing is intact."

    A curious feature we hadn't noticed yesterday is a bread oven thatlooks like a monstrous beehive. It has been added, stuck on, to the mainchimney breast at upper terrace level. "That will have to go!"

    "Definitely!"

    "We haven't seen inside the garage."

    "I bet it's locked." And yes, it is. Alongside it are two stables with theupper and lower doors hanging loose on heavy rusted hinges. I expectthem to reek of hay, but they are stacked with misshapen cardboard boxescrammed with disintegrating papers and files. On the ground are a fewbroken bits of gardening tools, rusting and useless, a cracked cup with nohandle and a row of dusty dark green bottles lining the walls. I wonderwhose life those objects belonged to. And what became of that person,those people.

A house is so much more than a house. And a house in a foreign countrypushes the learning experience that much further. It expands, promises toexpand, the psyche; the inner journey. We are two embarking on this pathtogether. Newly in love. Thrilled by each other. The house that MonsieurCharpy saw with us yesterday and the potential farm, the regeneration weare picturing, are two different properties. We are purchasing a dream. Wewill nurture it through the pruning of trees and the harvesting of fruit.We will celebrate our union by extending invitations to friends andfamily worldwide ...

We sit out in the afternoon sunshine at the pool's edge, side by side, fingertipstouching, and dangle our feet in the vast, empty basin. We walkdown the steps, enter, stand within it, calling loudly, hooting and singing.Our voices echo. We run around its perimeter until we are out of breath.Swallows wheel and swoop high in the sky above us. We close our eyes andlisten to the stillness. I have never walked in an empty swimming poolbefore. With the soles of our shoes, we shove thick plaits of ivy out of ourpath and find puddles of sludgy muddy rainwater seeping into the deepestcrevices of the basin. Drowned black insects float among speckled ivyleaves. The walls are so much taller than we are. I press my back againstthe bleached blue cement and feel as though I have fallen into the veryheart?no, we will be the heart?the watery womb of the property. Welinger and kiss, our pulses racing. We look deep into each other, smiling,overwhelmed. Two tiny excited people in this vast expanse of space. I thinkof Jules Verne's Journey to the Center of the Earth. I feel as big as TomThumb. Rather, as tiny. I am Alice in Wonderland. Like Alice, the adventure,the challenge, has shrunk us in preparation for our journey. We willgrow bigger and taller as we inhabit this space, as we reach into it and learnfrom it; learn to farm it and to know its myriad secrets. And in its restoration,we will discover each other.

    I love this place already. I love this man at my side who has tumbled intothis crazy dream with me. He seems to want to make it work as much as Ido. He appears to be as energized and bowled over by the prospects as I am.

    Although we have known each other only a few months I feel safewith Michel. I trust him. He loves abundantly, with risk, and is tender.I needed that. I was losing faith. After a series of short-lived affairs,one rather public relationship?I lead a life in the public eye, albeit at amodest level?I had become isolated. I was losing myself. I was hurt andgrowing brash. I was independent, driven and alone.

The sun is moving to the right, preparing to slip behind the hills. The skyis changing color, augmenting its palette to include tawny orange, pastel redand soft purple. "Where is that?" I ask. "There, where the sun is setting?"

    "Mougins."

    We are back on the upper terrace. Michel is smoking a cigarette?Iwish he wouldn't?and it is time to go.

    "We'll follow the sun to Mougins and have dinner there, it's too soonto return to Cannes."

    Yes, too soon to return to Cannes and its gaudy lights, its meretriciousfestival nightlife.

    We descend the drive slowly, pootling past the olive terraces to theright and left of us. My attention is drawn to flowers on the olive branches,tiny white specks, little crocheted blossoms, delicate as finger lace. Webuild the future by enlarging upon our past, Goethe wrote.

At the entry to the hilltop village of Mougins, where cars are banned, wefind an inviting petit hotel restaurant. It has a terrace with extensive viewswhich nosedive into the deep valley and sweep toward the sea. We take ourplaces on the terrace.

    Michel orders us deux coupes. Our patron nods approvingly anddisappears. We notice a hand-painted sign that reads 140ff la chambre,parking inclus. "It's a good price," says Michel. Less than fourteen pounds."We must remember this place for our next visit. It's closer to the house,quieter than Cannes and cheaper." The monsieur returns with our twoglasses of champagne, and says, "I am the only one, le seul, in the villagewith my own parking."

    We nod encouragingly.

    We eat ravenously. Our meal is delicious and an excellent value as theset menu at 70f. I begin with warmed goat cheese melted on toasts ofbaguette and dressed with an arugula salad, while Michel chooses une petiteomelette au briccio, omelette with goat cheese and mint. I follow with gigotd'agneau, succulently pink, with tian de pommes de terre, a dish of potatoesand tomatoes cooked beneath the roast leg of lamb. Michel orders veau auxolives noires à la sauge, veal casserole with black olives and sage. The ownerrecommends a Bandol rouge to accompany; a wine from the neighboring Varregion. Michel, although a faithful Bordeaux man, decides we should go forit. It is fuller-bodied than I would have expected, but it complements themeal and our mood of discovery. Michel accepts a slither of brie de Meauxto follow and then the tarte au citron et aux amandes. I decline the cheese butam tempted by a dessert I have never come across before: lavender crèmebrûlée. It is heaven, one of the most sensuous foods I have ever eaten. We setoff into the night replete and happy. The patron has wooed our stomachsand won our hearts. To my amazement, as we are leaving, he introduces usto his very glamorous wife. She, he announces proudly, is the chef!

On Monday, after several phone calls to and from Brussels?where thevendors, Monsieur and Madame B., reside?a deal is struck. We will buythe house and the first half of its terrain immediately and will sign apromesse de vente for the second five acres, to be paid within four years ofthe completion date of the purchase of the villa. On top of this, Michelhas beaten down the original asking price by almost a quarter.

    Now we must leave the south of France. We have stayed over a daylonger than we had planned, in order to set the purchase of the houserolling. Although we are leaving the sun and the sea, the bustle ofMediterranean life and, tonight in Paris, I must say au revoir to Michel forseveral weeks, my heart is sailing like a kite. A house in the south ofFrance. More than a house: the restoration of a disused farm, a canvas topaint on, a new life to forge and someone to share it with. In my mind'seye, I can already picture the pouring and bottling of liters of olive oil,lashings of nature's liquid gold.

Back in England, I am barely able to contain my excitement until afriend takes me to lunch and invites me to ponder some well-meantadvice. I am warned about the horrors of the French tax laws, propertylaws, by-laws and the black holes of the Napoleonic system. Should Idecide the whole affair has been an aberration and choose to sell, I amtold that the French will hold on to my money for five years. I leave therestaurant shocked and weak at the knees.

    This is followed by an encounter with another longstanding chumwho flummoxes me entirely by telling me for my own good that all thesedifficulties come of having been too secretive. Next, my family wants towarn me against being hasty. "Have you considered the pitfalls?" my fatherasks, and begins to list scenarios of corruption and deception, summing upwith "You're too impetuous. You don't want to get landed with a pig in apoke, now do you?"

    I am still trying to catch my breath when my mother phones, confidingthat while out shopping with my sister in Bond Street, she broke down andcried. "I had to been taken into Fenwick's coffee shop. I couldn't stand up."

    "What's wrong?" I ask.

    "You."

    "Me?"

    "How could you? We are Irish Catholics," she wails.

    I say nothing. What can I say?

    "And he's a foreigner. You've always been the same. You've got no commonsense!"

    I replace the receiver. Slumping into uncertainty, I begin to stew. Yes,I am impetuous, I probably lack common sense, I hadn't been aware thatI am particularly secretive and I certainly have not troubled to investigatethe pitfalls of the French system. On top of which, we cannot afford thefarm. It is an unachievable fantasy fed by a whirlwind romance which isprobably destined to go the route of all others. I should pull out. So, myframe of mind when Michel telephones from Paris to say that he hasreceived a call from Brussels is one of mounting hysteria.

    "What?" is my amorous greeting.

    "Madame is insisting on ten percent of the selling price up front, incash."

    "Absolutely not. It's illegal."

    That kind of request is quite common, I am hearing, in French propertytransactions. It is known as the "deposit." The buyer pays a percentageof the agreed asking price in cash, and the vendor declares a sale pricelower than the property's true total. It helps to alleviate the astronomicalfrais levied against both purchaser and vendor.

    "It's black-market money," I shout insanely. "She can't do that."

    "I'm afraid it is a generally accepted practice."

    I refuse to discuss it. In fact, I refuse to discuss anything and replacethe receiver rather too abruptly. I know, though, that if we don't agree, wewill lose the olive farm. A decision that felt organic a month ago is nowdriving me over the edge with doubts. Virtually everything I own, includingthe cashing in of my one and only insurance policy?much against myaccountant's advice?is going to be sunk into this enterprise. What if it allgoes wrong? What if everything my friends and family are telling me istrue? I am woken by appalling dreams. I pace the nights away, jabberingto myself. Terror is taking hold.

Now it is high summer. Due to French bureaucratic nightmares, ourhope that the sale would be completed before the holidays is receding fast.And while complications of the contract?such as the division of theland?are being wrangled over and ironed out, the pound is falling. Ourcalculations are out the window. Due to the devaluing exchange rate, theproperty price has already risen by twenty percent. If matters get anyworse, we will have to pull out. I am tearing my hair out. Michel keeps hiscool. Bastille Day arrives. We motor down through a celebrating France tovisit the abandoned property one more time, mainly to appease my stewingfinancial fears, before signing any commitment.

    Our arrival is greeted by a magnificent tree alongside the top terracewhich is in full and glorious bloom. Exhausted, after twelve hours' soliddriving, taking turns to catnap in the car because we have too little cashfor hotelrooms, we cast ourselves like weary shipwreckers on the upstairsterrace, adjacent to this majestic tree. Its blossoms are the color of ivory,its petals thickly textured with a fragrance so redolent it envelops thewhole hillside. Collapsed before the dawning day, my head on Michel'schest, I know that this perfume is imprinting upon me. It will foreverremind me of the south of France, and of being recklessly in love.

    As the day unfolds, the perfumes, the views, the hot, clear weatherseduce me once more and I am calmed by Michel and his quiet strength.I see my doubts for what they are; I am stepping off into the unknown,moving out of one life to inhabit another. Fears, real or illogical, excitementsare part of that transition. Misgivings laid to rest, we make for thebeach where we steep our weary limbs in the Med, doze the afternoonaway and shower off salt and sand in fresh cold water before going insearch of dinner and a bed at the little hilltop hotel-restaurant.

    As evening falls and we dine by candlelight on the hotel's terrace, adiorama of fireworks explodes across the Mediterranean sky, lighting upthe entire bay. Their purpose is the honoring of the French declaration ofindependence?here, in France, Quatorze Juillet, the anniversary of thestorming of the Bastille, is the greatest of all national holidays?but in myheart, soothed for the present, I pretend they are for us.

Bright and early the next morning, Michel puts through a call to thevendors in Belgium. He confirms that we will pay the cash advanceMadame has requested if, in return, she and her husband allow us to moveinto the the villa before the final contracts are signed. "Ah, you are eagerto begin restoration works while the weather is hot and dry, n'est-ce pas?"

    Yes, well, that would be true if the cash advance wasn't about to eatup almost every penny we can lay our hands on. The fact is, Michel hasinvited Vanessa and Clarisse, his thirteen-year-old twin daughters, tospend their summer with us. He wants them get to know me a little betterand to share with us the thrill of installing ourselves at the property.They are dying to see the place, he tells me. Besides, we haven't a bean leftto take them elsewhere.

    Madame B. agrees, en principe, but insists that we discuss all negotiationsover lunch in Brussels. Before hanging up, she offers him the choiceof either swift-transferring the money to an account in Switzerland inadvance of our Brussels rendezvous or bringing the agreed sum in cashwith us on the day.

    I am ready to hit the ceiling. I will not hear of one sou from my oneand only insurance policy, plus savings, disappearing into unknown blackmarketaccounts in Switzerland before anything is signed and settled. Whycan't we take a check made out to their wretched Swiss account and handit to them on the day?

    "I suppose she fears it might not be honored."

    "Typical! At that level, no one trusts anybody!"

    I rant and fume until I exhaust myself and Michel's laughter and thosegentle blue eyes temper my hysteria.

    And so it is arranged.

    Two weeks later, the beginning of the French mass exodus fromnorth to south?for a nation of individualists, they certainly behavelike lemmings when it comes to late July and the holiday season is uponthem?we pack my little black VW convertible with old mattresses,bedding and a surplus of kitchenware from my flat in London and setoff for Brussels.

    Our plan is to introduce ourselves to the Belgian owners, create the"right impression" (i.e., that we are able to afford the place), sign thepromesse de vente, hand over our hard-earned money secreted in brownenvelopes in Michel's briefcase (unless he can sweet-talk them intoholding off this part of the arrangement until later) and, directly after"business," drive to Paris, where les filles eagerly await us.

    Michel feels that to turn up outside the vendors' home in a car burstingat the seams with sticks of old furniture might appear a trifle presumptuous.It might prejudice negotiations. So when we arrive in the city,we deposit the laden vehicle in the underground garage at the Hilton andmake our way on foot to the address we have been given by Madame's secretary.I barely register the city streets and almost don't notice our arrivalat the wide leafy avenue that bears the name we are looking for. My headis whirring with what-ifs. What if these people fall upon us and rob us orthey try by other less violent means to cheat us out of our money; how canwe be sure they are not crooks? Even given we escape such fates, there arethe documents we are about to sign ...

Almost before I realize it, we have arrived and are standing, no, we arefrozen, outside imposingly ornate iron gates which rise to the height of anaverage oak tree. "Thank heavens we didn't bring the car," I whisper,clutching Michel's hand. For a good three minutes, we regard the exteriorof what looks to us like a miniature Versailles.

    "Here goes," he replies, squeezing my hand tighter before ringing thebell.

    The gates slide apart and we crunch across gravel and tiles, climb amarble stairway and approach baronial doors. These are opened by a butlerin full uniform. Michel, appearing unflustered, gives our names.

    Nodding a dehumanized greeting, the butler tells us in a thick Belgianaccent, "Madame will be with you shortly." I, with my already imperfectFrench, have difficulty understanding even that simple sentence. I sigh atthe prospect of the impending negotiations. Then, with a polite but indifferentnod, he leads us across a fabulous black-and-white marble hallwayablaze with sprays of livid red gladioli and into a capacious salon which hedescribes as "Madame's writing room."

    "I'm in the wrong film, wearing the wrong costume," I mutter as weperch in two ornate gilt Louis-something chairs.

    As soon as the door closes and we are alone, I rise and cross to thefloor-to-ceiling windows which look out upon substantial, perfectly manicuredgardens. I count half a dozen gardeners digging and planting a crisscrossarrangement of magnificent flowerbeds. An antique Italian marblefountain stands in the center of a crossroads of graveled walkways, a chefd'oeuvre of gushing crystal-clear water. I gaze contentedly upon this spectacleuntil the door opens behind me and a terrifying, tightly coiffured,tight-lipped woman wearing a thick coating of orange face powder enters:Madame B. She is accompanied by another, marginally younger woman,twitching like a nervous bird, whom she introduces as Yvette Pastor, herprivate secretary. Madame B. apologizes for the absence of her husband,who, she explains, is malade. She strides briskly into the hall, requesting usto follow. My heart sinks. I picture our carefree summer plans disappearingfaster than Belgian chocolates.

    We are seated around an oval walnut table large enough to seat twentyguests with ease. A magnum of Cristal champagne arrives on a silver platter.A message is sent from Madame via the butler to Monsieur, biddinghim, in no uncertain terms, to get up and come downstairs instantly; thereare papers to be signed. I resist my desire to protest.

    Business commences. I barely comprehend a phrase and stare in blindpanic as six pages filled with dense legal French are shoved across the tablefor my perusal?a copy of the binding documents I am about to put myname to.

    A little while later, the door opens and a frail old man appears,trembling and pale. He is dressed in elegant sportswear and wears heavy,expensive jewelry on his, mottled hands and wrists which are delicate asparchment. He apologizes profusely for his malady. We shake our headssympathetically, at a loss for words. He looks as though he might drop to themarble floor at any second. Madame commands the butler to pour Monsieura glass of champagne. Monsieur declines. Madame insists. Le pauvre Monsieurassents and toasts our good health and the prosperity of our future lives atAppassionata. "You have much work to do in the garden," he says.

    "Foolish to discuss the growth of the land," she reprimands. Monsieurdemures, accepts Madame's fountain pen and signs his shaky, illegibleautograph.

    Then it is my turn. I down the last mouthful from my crystal fluteand, with sticky hands and beating heart, obediently scribble my initialsor name wherever Madame points her manicured fingers. I glance atMichel and smile weakly. I am praying to God he knows what he is doing,because I don't, and he is handing over our envelopes.

    Business completed, Michel rises. He leans to offer a bisou to MadameB., who proffers her cheek, clearly enchanted by his charm and thrilled byhis astute business acumen. Watching the pair of them negotiate has beenrather like watching two fencing champions in combat. Monsieur and Idid not utter a word. In fact, at the very first opportunity, he offered hisapologies and retired back upstairs to his room.

    "Mais, non, you cannot leave now! We must lunch!" Madame says to us.

    We have already consumed almost a magnum of champagne amongthe five of us?Yvette, always present, seated in a chair to the rear ofMadame, has tippled immoderately on our future happiness?and wehave a three-hour drive ahead of us, but without a word between us,we sense that to refuse would be judged a rebuff and might cloud futurebusiness relations.

    We nod, attempting enthusiasm. "Pourquoi pas?"

    "Très bien. I suggest zee 'ilton." She excuses herself and orders us towait out front.

    "Well?" I ask Michel in a fraught whisper when Madame has leftthe room.

    "Well, what?"

    "Did we get the permission or not?"

    "Chérie, did you not understand what was being said?"

    "Not every word," I reply weakly.

    Michel grins. "We have signed and sealed permission to occupythe villa for the summer, in fact from this moment on until it isofficially ours."

    "Really!"

    "Yes, well, at a price."

    "What price?"

    "Sssh. Chérie, don't yell. If we fail to complete, no matter for whateverreason, they keep everything."

    "What! Every penny we have given them today??"

    "And anything, everything, we spend on the place. We can't claim afranc back."

    "Oh my God! Whatever made you agree to that?"

    "Chérie, the deadline for completion is next April. So there's nothingto worry about."

    "Next April. That's almost a year. Yes, we'll have bought the place longbefore then." I sigh, relieved.

    Outside in the gardens, Madame inquires after our car. For a secondwe are both flummoxed, recalling guiltily my little Golf packed to therafters with furniture for "our" house, awaiting us in the undergroundgarage of "zee 'ilton." Michel, sanguine as always in such moments, comesto the rescue. "We parked a little distance from here, chère Madame, forfear of losing our way in the city."

    Madame nods comprehendingly and then examines me from head tofoot as though she is measuring me, which is precisely what she is doing."C'est bon," she decides, commanding a passing gardener to fetch her carfrom its garage. "It is a sports car, but you can squeeze in the back. It's notfar; you are slim." Moments later, to our speechless amazement, as thegarage doors unfold, a gleaming lipstick-red 500SL Mercedes creepstoward us. I had been expecting something a trifle more sedate.

    "My weakness," she confesses like a child. "You see, I was born verypoor."

    "We pile into the car, which, with Madame at the wheel, shoots off likea rocket.

    During lunch at the Hilton, we learn that she is the richest woman inBelgium. "Poor Pierre," she tells us, "does not care for money or materialpossessions. All he wants is to potter about in the garden. He adores flowersand plants. It is very difficult for me. I do not know what to do withhim. We have known each other since we were twelve. We began a businessand have worked very hard, and now we are rich, but he prefers tostay in bed. He cannot handle all the responsibilities our money hasbrought us. I travel everywhere with Yvette, my secretary. Pierre does notwant to go anywhere other than our summer house. It is très tragique." AsI watch her, Madame B. begins to resemble a bloodhound. Her expressionis drooping, her eyes look lost and uncomprehending. The terrifyingwoman we first encountered has disappeared. But the mood does not lastlong. Soon she is beckoning for the bill, which she insists on paying?thankheavens!?and then offers to walk us to our car.

    Michel and I exchange complicitous glances.

    At this late stage, we cannot possibly own up to the fact that our littlebuggy packed with two moth-eaten mattresses is parked not a hundredmeters from her Mercedes in the garage right beneath our feet. Instead, weroam around a few back streets feeling stupid and dishonest and seeing ourridiculous charade for the time waster that it is, but insisting that we justcannot recall where we parked.

    Eventually, Madame B. gives up, hails a cab to deliver her the threestreets back to the Hilton and wishes us bonne chance! Our parting is good-natured,almost affectionate. "See you at the notaire's office. I will fax youthe address," she says. "I look forward to it." And she flutters her eyes atMichel like Betty Boop.

    By the time we arrive in Paris, it is late. Michel's daughters are disgruntled.They have been awaiting the arrival of Papa all afternoon. Thegirls and I have met only a few times, and I am probably more affected bytheir mood than Michel, who, oblivious to any whining, runs to and fromthe car cramming bags into any space he can lodge them, telling everyoneto get a move on or we won't reach the south before the holidays are over."What about Pamela?" asks Clarisse.

    I turn my head in surprise. Who is Pamela?

    Clarisse points to the gate, and there, panting and waddling towardus, is a startlingly obese German shepherd. The addition of Pamela unbalancesthe carefully considered equilibrium of my already dangerouslyoverloaded Golf, and worse, elle fait les petits pets all the way from Paris toCannes. And they are lethal! Embracing a new family is one thing, but bythe time we reach Aix-en-Provence, I am seriously asking myself, can Ilove this smelly dog?

Continues...
Excerpted from The Olive Farmby Carol Drinkwater Copyright © 2002 by Carol Drinkwater. Excerpted by permission.
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