LOVE IS IN THE CELLAR: Verne Estate Series, Book 2

4. Leona

For as long as I can remember, Manon Nico and I have always hated each other. And this, from our first day on this earth.

The Nico family moved into the house next to ours when Rita was expecting Manon and my mother was pregnant with me. Obviously, with terms spaced only a month apart, the two neighbours quickly hit it off and became inseparable. Through Manon’s fault, we were both born on the same day.

Certainly, wanting to make himself interesting, Manon still hadn’t given the slightest sign of an imminent arrival on the due date. Tired of waiting for the boy to come out, his father Domenico had been away for a few hours to go to a client in Toulon. It was during his absence that Manon had finally decided to make an appearance. When Rita’s contractions had started, panicking at the idea of being alone, she had accepted my mother’s offer to take her to the maternity ward. We’ll note in passing the error of judgement of the two future mothers who told themselves that it was a good idea...

With the seats moved back as far as possible to accommodate their large bellies, the two friends had gone together to the hospital. A journey of only a few kilometres, but which had a major obstacle: Father Laugier’s tractor.

Between my mother bombarded by pregnancy hormones and the old man still more or less under the influence of a glass of rosé, no one knew who was responsible for the accident. On the other hand, certainly, the collision between the tractor and the red Renault 5 that she was driving at the time had been the trigger for my mother’s labour. Manon and I were therefore born a few hours apart, he in the fire engine came to help our two parents, and me in the maternity ward.

The separation was only short-lived, as the staff put us in the same room for the few days we were to spend there for observation. From the first night of my life, I had to endure his presence. And for the next eighteen years, we grew up a stone’s throw from each other, hating each other with all our hearts.

From our first children’s games, during which he took pleasure in tripping me, to the schoolyard, where he lifted my skirt in front of his hilarious friends, he spared me nothing. I’m not even talking about adolescence: he always seemed to have something to do in his garden as a boy came to pick me up. He was good at derogatory looks or scathing remarks that only I could hear, and which got on my nerves. He seemed to want to get into my head all the time to ruin anything good that could happen to me. The worst part is that our parents who, far from trying to spare us from each other, seemed to do everything to make us spend as much time as possible together. Every time I complained about his behaviour to mine – or his – I was told ready-made sentences like Love your neighbour like yourself!

At eighteen, with our diploma in hand, and without consulting each other, we both left our parents’ home. Bordeaux for him, and Paris for me, finally putting several hundred kilometres between us. I admit that when I saw that he was boarding the same train as me at Draguignan – the same day, of course – I had a moment of terror, thinking that he had perhaps changed his college plans and that he was going to the capital with me. Fortunately, once we got to Marseille our paths parted. It was therefore on the platform of Saint–Charles station, about six years ago, that I saw him the last time.

Since then, I have carefully avoided any encounter with him. My mother unwittingly played the role of an accomplice in this operation. A great gossip, she always kept me informed of the neighbours’ news. And when Rita told her that Manon was back for the weekend, I carefully noted the date in red in my diary, postponing my coming to the South if necessary, so as not to cross him. Moreover, each time I come, I’ve never stayed in the area for long, in case he suddenly wanted to come and taste his mother’s lasagne. The Christmas holidays were always the most difficult. I couldn’t be so cruel to my parents as to deprive them of my presence, and to me to put aside a few days of lazing on the family sofa while eating free chocolates. Fortunately, the winter temperatures were the perfect alibi to stay cloistered; and if ever the neighbours had been invited to help us finish off the remains of the food, all I had to do was pretend indigestion and stay locked in my room and not meet them.

Until today, my plan has worked perfectly, I was quite proud of myself.

I check my outfit in the mirror at the end of my bedroom. I spent hours in this same place when I was younger, observing myself from every angle. I never doubted myself back then. I was the confident girl, comfortable in her skin, popular. It went without saying that I would become a great actress. I believed in myself.

Tonight, I like my reflection: my dress is flattering, my makeup perfect. And yet, deep inside me, the trust is gone. I see a pretty girl in this mirror, but nothing more. I didn’t become the one I pictured to myself in my teenage dreams.

I sigh and grab lipstick. I have an impressive collection. By putting balm on my mouth, I always feel like putting it on my heart. A passion that was passed on to me by Grandma Violette. She used to say that a woman with painted lips shows a certain confidence. I can guarantee that in my case, this is just a facade. But despite this, I never deprive myself of this trick. Rouge Lucky is the name of this stick, hope that is prescient about my stay here.

I smile at my reflection. I’m as primed as if I were going out with my friends in Paris, when in truth, I’m just going to have a barbecue one floor down with people who are, for the most part, my parents’ age.

I haven’t kept in touch with many of my high school friends, and most don’t even live here anymore I believe. The young people will therefore be limited to my sisters, Jameson my brother–in–law, Cora, Madelyn’s best friend, and her friend Leo– my namesake.

And Manon.

I secretly hope he breaks his leg or gets kidnapped. You never know, maybe the magic of lipstick will work?

My cell phone rings on the bedside table. I take a look, it’s my friend Victoria. We got to know each other on a casting a few years ago; since then, she has become the accomplice of my Parisian outings.

“Leo!” she whines so loudly that I move the device away from my ear at least a foot.

“Hi, Vic.”

“So? How’s it going, the return to the South? Are you already tanned?”

I laugh.

“I haven’t even been here twenty-four hours. I didn’t have time to bask in the sun.”

“What did you do then?”

Put my things away, accompanied my mother to the supermarket, prepared a pasta salad for the barbecue...

“I took the time to settle in, I wandered around town a bit.”

“And how many interesting encounters have you made?” she asks with a suggestive voice.

I think back to Jessica and her perfect family, then to Manon and the cart story. I cough.

“None.”

“You haven’t met one or two former lovers who would be delighted with your return?”

“No, not really.”

Far from it. I don’t know how many guys Victoria thinks I dated in high school days, but there weren’t that many. So, the probability that I’ll meet them on my first day...

“Well, at least tell me that you have a great plan to find you a handsome guy tonight! Are you going out?”

I look at my reflection in the mirror.

“Um, yes.”

“Perfect! Promise me you’ll find a nice guy. And I want you to give me a full debrief tomorrow!”

“I didn’t come down south to find myself a guy, Vic,” I protested. “I’m only here for a few months and...”

“I’m not telling you to find a boyfriend,” she cuts me off. “I’m telling you to have a good time. There’s nothing better than a holiday romance. We have a good time and we only keep the good memories.”

“I know that I’m in the South and that it’s summer, but contrary to appearances, I’m not on vacation. I’m here to work in the vineyard of my brother–in–law’s family.”

“So what? They’re not going to need you there around the clock. It’s Saturday night, you have to party!”

I agree with her so she’ll change the subject. We chat for a few more minutes and I hang up.

I look at myself again in the mirror, my phone still in my hand. I try a few expressions on my face. I do this a lot when I’m working on a role. But here I have another idea in mind. I find the one that suits me, and I lift my smartphone while opening the camera. I take a few pictures, I select the best, I apply a filter and presto, posted directly on i********: with the following caption: Ready for an evening of madness!

If only they knew…