LOVE IS IN THE MAIL

7. CORA

It's one of those grey and cold days that make you want to stay warm under your duvet. However, no time to hang around, because we have a party to prepare for! Tonight is New Year's Eve, and in the Tuffin family, we don’t take things lightly, like every time we celebrate something, as a rule. Of course, the list of tasks that have been assigned to me is quite short, but I’ll not let my parents take care of everything. This is why I am at 10 a.m. in the village square, facing the winter storms to reach the simply named Café de la Place.

Our village of Locron is, in the eyes of its most chauvinistic inhabitants (90% of them), quite unique. For the visitor who arrives, he’ll notice that it has many classic characteristics of the villages of the Var region. Starting with the square where I find myself, which bears the name of a former President of the Republic. One can admire there (although the word is a little exaggerated) a fountain in its centre of an almost rectangular shape, paid for by donations from the villagers at the end of the nineteenth century. At that time, it must have been the pride of the inhabitants and the fortune of a sculptor of the region. Now, it is used to feed the debates of the city council each time it’s necessary to repair the water piping system which is old and to decide whether to deny access to tourists in search of freshness on hot days. According to Jean, the director and sole employee of the tourist office, throwing a coin into its pool would guarantee visitors to return one day to Locron. Me, I believe that those who do have found a good way to get rid of the pennies cluttering their wallets. Although my village is charming, it is far from rivalling the city of Rome with the largest number of churches in the world and its Trevi fountain much more grandiose and famous than ours.

Speaking of religious buildings, the Collegiate Church of St. Matthew is also in the square, bordering the east side of it. With its bell tower which punctuates the hours and its imposing white stone facade, it seems to watch over the village and its activities. At its exact opposite is the town hall, smaller in size but proudly displaying the blue and white red flags of our Republic. You can access the square from the south side and its Avenue de la Liberation, and heading back north via Rue de la Liberté. As you will have understood, in Locron, our taste for independence is loud and clear (like many villages in France). Various small businesses have developed over time on the lower part of the square and the surrounding streets. There is a bakery, a mini-market, a pharmacy, a hairdressing salon and even a wine merchant specializing in the sale of wines from the ten wine estates in our town.

But on the other side of the square is one of the most important places in the life of our village— and I hardly exaggerate when I say this—: the Café de la Place. Owned by the Tuffin family for three decades now, it was previously owned by a former member of the city council who struggled not to drink the profits—and for the fact that it’s used as the location for the traditional wreath-laying ceremonies on Remembrance Day.

My parents' cafe is the scene of major community events. We have a drink there after the village council meetings, some get lost on the way between the town hall and the church for weddings, and we pay our rounds for births or funerals. It’s also one of the best places to learn local gossip. With its sunny terrace, locals settle there in winter to enjoy the weak rays of the sun, and tourists in summer come to seek a little coolness in the shade of parasols, with a beer or a glass of local rosé. And this evening, as every year, it will be the place of festivities for a large number of inhabitants of the town, on the occasion of New Year's Eve.

I head over to the cafe door and get ready to push it when it opens wide in front of me. I enter and discover that my doorman for the moment is none other than Mark.

“You knew I was coming,” I said, delighted to see that our twin connection is working wonderfully.

"I saw you cross the square," he replies, ending my charming theory.

“Cora!” exclaims my mother. “We weren't expecting you so soon!”

She is standing on a stool hanging a golden garland proclaiming "Happy New Year" on one of the beams in the room. I explain the reason for my presence:

“Hello, Mom, I thought I could come and help you a bit.”

“As you can see, we have the situation well in hand,” she declares. “You can take the opportunity to dress yourself up for tonight. I'm going to have my hair done at Gina's later, do you want me to call her to ask her if she still has room? I ran into Mrs Poliakov a while ago, who was just leaving her house. She gave her a magnificent bun with glitter hairspray, it looked superb and very festive!”

“I’m okay, Mom,” I said, imagining myself with one of Gina's ugly hairdos on my head, which would be the last thing I would like to celebrate the New Year.

Not to mention the fact that there will be someone to immortalize this moment with photos. If one day I have children, or failing that nephews and nieces, I don't want them to laugh at each other when they discover the pictures of the evening while squealing between two giggles: "That’s what was fashionable in 2019!” At least they'll confine themselves to wondering why their grandmother gets a temporary dye done every year to match her New Year's Eve dress. By the way, I have a question about this:

“What's your outfit for tonight, Mom?”

“A metallic purple jumpsuit!” she answers proudly.

Well, that should be fun! No wonder my mom and Gina get along so well.

“Tell me what I can do to give you a hand!”

She indicates with a gesture that my help is useless.

“Mom, let Cora do something,” said my brother.

I don't know if I'm more annoyed by the fact that my mother rejects my proposal or because Mark feels obliged to plead my case. She now turns to us with the bored look she adopts whenever my brother and I join forces. Which often happens, I admit.

“Well, just go and buy the bread,” she sighs.

“I'm coming with you,” Mark says.

“I don't need you to,” I replied.

He gives me a look that means, "Don't argue, please." Mine says, "Okay, you're looking for a good excuse to escape this place.” He confirms with a wink.

And here is a great example of twin communication! Well... I think that's what happened, right?

Mark puts on his coat and we go out into the square. The bakery is just across the street. It's a pretty store with a cream-coloured frontage on which the words “Boulangerie-Pâtisserie” are displayed in an elegant font. The journey isn’t long and yet, arriving in the middle of the square, I see that my brother is in a more than gloomy mood.

“What's going on, Mark?”

He kicks an imaginary pebble, his hands buried in the pockets of his jeans. His jaw is contracted and his blue eyes are avoiding me.

“Nothing.”

An answer which means that, on the contrary, there is something.

“Mark, don't lie to me.”

“Otherwise what?” he explodes. “Are you going to lecture me too on the fact that I'm a good-for-nothing that you can't trust?”

Wow!

“I don't know what I did to you to make you decide to talk to me like that, but I have confirmation that something is wrong now.”

“You’re a pain, Cora.”

He pushes open the bakery door, ringing a small chime. He holds this one for me and I’m immediately enveloped by a delicious smell of hot bread and pastries. We patiently stand in line behind an old man who asks the baker to describe each cake in the window for him, to finally leave with a baguette. My brother's mood still seems gloomy, even if he cheers up slightly when Romy the baker greets us with a thunderous welcome:

“Hello, the Tuffin twins!”

Anyway, when I say he cheers up, I'm exaggerating a bit. He just mutters a hello. But that's enough to light up the face of the baker who is part of the long list of young ladies in the village who would die for a minute of the attention of the local bad boy. I regularly wonder if my brother is aware of being the walking fantasy of these singles in need of males, or if he pretends to ignore them to keep them all the better at a distance (which in my opinion produces the opposite effect).

Romy leaves for the back room and returns a few seconds later with a bag full of bread that she automatically sticks in my brother's arms. As she’s rather nice and it isn’t Mark who is likely to start chatting, I feel obliged to make a little conversation.

“Are you coming to celebrate the New Year with us tonight, Romy?”

“Oh! I wouldn't miss it for the world! We'll be there with the girls.”

The expression "the girls" implies her two acolytes, members of the clan of bachelorettes, Loraine and Elena. They are all a little younger than Mark and me, about two years. They were in class with Leona, Madelyn's sister, although she always made a point of not hanging out with them. Lest their bad luck with men rub off on her perhaps? Although I doubt that was a criterion for recruiting her girlfriends at elementary school age.

“See you tonight, then!” I say before following in the footsteps of my brother who despite his load holds the door for me once again.

We walk a few meters and as I see that his mood still hasn’t changed, I decided to insist. You might as well burst the abscess.

“So what's the problem, Mark?”

“You mean, other than that you’re the most persistent sister when you want to know something?”

He pretends to be annoyed, but I see a slight smile on his lips.

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Come on, tell me, it’s the parents again?”

He sighs and finally admits:

“I tried talking to Dad this morning. But as usual, he sent me off. No matter how hard I try, I have the feeling that it’s useless. I work like four, I don't count my hours, but no, I'm still a good-for-nothing.”

“Did he really tell you that?”

I’m aware that my father has trouble recognizing the qualities of my brother, but to speak to him with such words...

“No, not in those terms. But I don't know what to do to prove to him that I can be successful.”

“Did you think about my idea of giving him a presentation?”

“Yes… but do you think it's going to make a difference?”

“Worth a try, don't you think? At worst, what do we lose, other than a little time?”

“I already think that I’m running out of time. This morning, Jenny criticized me again for never being home.”

I understand my brother's brooding mood a little better. A confrontation with our father, plus his girlfriend, the morning wasn’t easy.

“Well, today is not your day!”

“I feel like it's never my day,” he mumbles.

“Okay, maybe it wasn't your year, let's say. That's good, we're changing it tonight! So, in the good resolutions, we add the fact of working on this presentation for Dad, what do you think?”

“Are resolutions not the things that we decide to do but that we forget by January 10?”

I squint and threaten him.

“Don’t you dare give up anything related to this project, Mark Tuffin, otherwise I'll kick your ass myself in the square in front of everyone.”

He raises an eyebrow and says:

“I would like to know how you are going to do that!”

“Don’t make fun of me. My revenge will be terrible.”

“I'm shaking. I still remember the time you punctured my soccer ball because I cut your Barbie's hair.”

Mark bends down to me and places a kiss on the top of my head.

“You’re the best sister in the world, Coco.”

“I don't know who this girl with the ridiculous nickname is, but I accept the compliment anyway.”

I hate it when he calls me that, but since I managed to put a smile on his face again, I'm not going to insist. Well, until next time...