By the time I parked the car, we'd driven past vineyards, past château after château. Pomerol, Grands Crus, Grands Crus Classés, one after the other.
Familiar from our wine fridge at home in Sai Kung, even though we'd never been.
Baby one on her phone, next to baby three in the back seats.
Baby two at home at her desk.
En route to Saint-Émilion, we'd viewed a small mansion on the Dordogne at Libourne.
The listing impressive,
the photos inviting,
like a boutique hotel.
We found potential.
Lots of potential.
Baby one refused to get out of the car.
Baby three kept asking: "Which is going to be my room? Can I choose?"
He followed the owner. I followed him.
She guided us around the house and garden.
He smiled, he listened, he nodded,
asked questions.
I rolled my eyes at him.
His face said, "I got this. Be nice!"
By the time we were tripping over bumpy cobblestones,
popping into galleries,
bumping shoulders with strangers,
hearing American accents waft through the streets,
he was limping along behind his women,
three weeks away from his hip replacement in Göttingen.
Baby three pulled him into a collective art gallery: "Dada, look, cherry blossoms, my favourite."
He flicked through identical grey canvases dabbed with pink,
the size of postcards, and said:
"My favourites too, baby, but not at EUR seventy."
She said, "How much is seventy euros?"
He said, "Imagine gummy bears. Ten packets, plus ten, ten, ten, ten, ten, ten packets of gummy bears."
He steps into a corner store.
Men's wear.
Examines summer shawls to replace the grey one he lost the previous month in Luxembourg.
He exits.
I ask:
"Nothing for you?
The 'grue' one?"
He says: "It's nice, but 60% viscose, only 40 cotton, made in PRC."
I said: "Have you booked lunch?"
He said: "Yes, I got us a table on the Fork, 50% off food, French, 15 minutes' drive."
I said: "But wouldn't you rather eat here with the views and wines?"
We kept walking, looking for a place to eat.
We found
Croque-madame,
Croque-monsieur,
Pasta,
Pizza,
Risottos,
Crêpes.
I said, "I'm sure they have wine at the French place you booked. Let's go."
By the time we returned home,
he had limped back to the car. I'd sent baby three to hurry him along twice.
We were already buckled up.
He stopped to photograph the classic Jaguar parked behind us.
Black sheet metal,
curved like a woman's hips,
chrome polished.
When we finally retrieved his macbook from the boot,
placed it in his lap,
I sped off,
the car beeping incessantly,
him trying to keep his computer from flying,
putting on his seatbelt.
By the time I paid the bill, we'd eaten at a French bistro on the terrace of an aviation school,
a little Cessna taxiing by as we placed our order.
He and I sitting side by side, my left thigh pressed against his right leg,
swapping mains halfway as always.
My youngest across from me, our first opposite her father.
Entrecôte.
Fries,
for them.
Fish for me.
Crème brûlée.
The house red smelled delicious,
tasted like turpentine.
He said: "The steaks were good."
I said: "Yes, after I seasoned it for you."
Before crossing the Garonne from the right to the left bank, we drove past a house we had viewed two days earlier.
Baby one wouldn't even look up.
He said: "I don't know. That plot of land in front looks like prime development potential, even if it's currently zoned as agricultural land."
By the time I made seaweed-wrapped salmon onigiri for dinner, he and Chat had looked up the area's zoning.
He said: "I don't know. I sent an email to the agent asking them for evidence to prove their claim that nothing will be built on that land."
I said: "How can they? You already know the answer! They're not a top-shelf outfit."
