La petite anglaise

This is a true story. All names have been changed.

La petite anglaise. The little Englishwoman. Truth is, I’m not exactly petite. Or feminine. Or elegant. I’m a tall, big-boned, big-footed Englishwoman of hardy peasant stock, prone to bouts of clumsiness, both physical and verbal. But that’s what they called me, la petite anglaise, during the dreamy summer of 1991 when I worked in a hotel, high up in the French Alps. I was 20 years old, good at French and, despite my big-boned clumsiness, reasonably attractive and reasonably slim, considering the number of croissants I wolfed down every morning with a large bowl of strong coffee. Attractive enough at least to catch the eye of Stéphane, the 19-year-old sous-chef. Tall and wiry with a mop of dark hair, he was a clown in the kitchen, always teasing me and the other girls and playing pranks on us. I knew he had a girlfriend back home in Lyon, but that certainly didn’t stop him flirting. It was only a bit of fun, after all. A summer fling before I returned to university in the cold, autumnal North of England. I hadn’t had a boyfriend for a while and I’d been having the time of my life that year in France – travelling, making friends, drinking and partying like there was no tomorrow, far from the reproving looks of my family back home.

Every morning, I dragged myself out of bed at 7am, bleary-eyed, to mop the floors and clean the guests’ rooms. Definitely not my favourite part of the job. I preferred serving in the restaurant – so far, I hadn’t dropped anything, thank God – as this gave me the chance to joke with the kitchen staff and flirt with Stéphane. Most afternoons, a bunch of us would head down to the local lake to sunbathe and swim for a couple of hours before returning to prepare the evening meal. After dinner, we usually hung out in each other’s rooms, drinking, smoking and talking, like one big happy family.

This particular afternoon, however, only Stéphane and I were at the lake. We stretched out on our towels on the sandy shingle, soaking up the sun, chatting and laughing, rubbing sun lotion into each other’s backs. Unlike some of the svelte, pouty French girls lounging around at the lake, I kept my bikini top firmly in place, wondering what on earth Stéphane saw in me. Perhaps it was just the appeal of something different, my cute accent when I spoke French, or perhaps I was just conveniently available. Well, I could say the same about him. We raced each other into the lake, surrounded by majestic, snow-capped mountains, splashing and playing in the shallows like small children. I then swam out as far as I could, right to the middle of the lake but, not being a strong swimmer, he returned to the shore. As I collapsed, exhausted, on the towel next to him, he approached his lips to my ear, whispering, “Ce soir, oui?”. I nodded, a small smile playing on my lips. We had an assignation at last.

All too soon, it was time to head back. The car park was jam packed with vehicles, but we quickly located Stéphane’s distinctive red 2CV and jumped into our respective seats. He put the key in the ignition and his foot on the gas. But the engine spluttered to a halt. He tried again. The same thing happened. “Merde!” he swore. It wouldn’t start at all. He turned to me – “You start the car and I’ll push from behind, okay?” he asked impatiently.

“But Stéphane,” I protested, “I can’t drive. I’ve never driven a car.”

“Really?” He was incredulous. “It’s easy. Just put your foot on the clutch, start the engine, then release the clutch.” He showed me what to do. “Easy.”

Embarrassed by my ignorance and desperate to please him, I slid across into the driver’s seat. However, he wasn’t aware of the true depths of my incompetence. He hadn’t showed me where the brake was. “Go!” he shouted from behind me. I started the engine, placing my foot gently on the clutch. Stéphane pushed hard. The car rolled forward. I took my foot off the clutch. It kept rolling forward. I flapped my hands in the air. I really had no idea what to do with the steering wheel or indeed any other part of the car, which was now veering unsteadily across the car park.

“Brake! Put on the brake!” he shouted. I froze. Where the hell was the brake? Stéphane ran round to the front of the car, reached through the window and swiftly lifted up the handbrake. But not before the 2CV had rolled neatly into the back of a nearby parked car, leaving a sizeable dent.

He stared at me in blank incomprehension. “What were you doing? Why didn’t you put the brake on?” he spluttered.

I waved my hands around dumbly. “Sorry, I… I panicked. I forgot where it was. Sorry,” I stumbled. He shook his head in disbelief.

Unfortunately for us, also shaking their heads in disbelief were the owners of the now damaged car, who had just returned from the lake and had witnessed the whole sorry fiasco. Stéphane hurried over to them and, with his characteristic charm, managed to explain away the incident, most likely putting it down to the fact that I was a foreigner. I stayed rooted to my seat, red-faced, pretending I couldn’t understand a word of their awkward conversation.

Eventually, he returned, having exchanged insurance details with the other car owner, and we drove in silence back to the hotel. Acutely embarrassed, I attempted to apologise and explain, offering to pay for the damage, but he waved away my offer. In fact, he very soon saw the funny side of it, much to my relief.

But the incident had made us late for work. As we sheepishly entered the kitchen together, heads turned suspiciously. “Where have you been?” asked the irascible head chef, Fernando.

“Oh, at the lake,” bluffed Stéphane.

“Sorry, we forgot the time,” I offered lamely, but at that moment the hotel manager, Olivier, marched into the kitchen.

“You’re late!” he snapped. “Dinner needs to be served within half an hour! Hurry up!”

I could see Stéphane’s mind whirring. To my utter amazement, he suddenly launched into a convoluted explanation of an entirely fictional, highly dramatic incident at the lake, telling the assembled company that he had swum out too far and got into trouble and that I, the brave, young petite anglaise, had saved his life by bringing him safely back to shore. Fernando’s bushy moustache bristled with scepticism, but Olivier reacted with delight and amazement.

“Well, that’s wonderful!” he exclaimed. “We are so grateful to you. So brave!” I merely stood and smiled, more red-faced than ever. Stéphane winked at me conspiratorially.

We busied ourselves preparing and serving the evening meal for the guests, as the dining room was filling up quickly. I was clearing away the plates from the first course when, much to my astonishment, the hotel manager strode into the middle of the dining room and clapped his hands, causing everyone to fall silent.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he beamed, “I wish to make an announcement. You are very lucky to be enjoying your meal this evening as, this afternoon, one of our chefs nearly drowned in the lake and was only saved by the quick thinking and bravery of our lovely little waitress, la petite anglaise.” He pointed me out with a swish of his hand. “She is very modest, too modest indeed, but I would like to present her with an award for her bravery. Come here, please.” He beckoned to me, with an oily smile.

By this time, Stéphane had appeared at the door of the dining room. He stood there, applauding along with everyone else, barely able to contain his mirth as, blushing with mortification, I walked up to the hotel manager and allowed him to pin a special badge on my uniform, his fingers lightly brushing against my chest as he did so. I smiled happily at everyone, playing down my bravery, acknowledging their praise.

Later that evening, upstairs in the staff quarters, Stéphane whooped and hollered with amusement at the whole incident, apparently unconcerned about my uselessness, the damage to the other car or the compensation he would have to pay. He didn’t care one bit. He was simply and utterly delighted that he had duped the hotel manager, all the guests, and possibly even the head chef, with a story that was entirely the product of his imagination.

Well then. I suppose you’re now wondering whether I and the handsome, young, slightly crazy sous-chef did in fact end up sleeping in the same room that night. But that, as they say, is another story.