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Nanou chuckled. ‘That’s all I heard because my phone rang which was very annoying, and I have to prepare lunch. I will ask Ace what is going on when he comes back.’
Despite her amusement at her husband’s glib comment, Nanou felt uneasy at the spectre of Lance becoming a more frequent visitor or worse, a permanent part of their lives. He was definitely up to something though. The moody teenager, who loved being in the limelight and having a world-famous rock star for a father and a beautiful starlet for a mother, had grown into a greedy, fame-hungry young man. Lance had hoped, expected, to follow in his mother’s footsteps and become a soap star, but despite her contacts and money, his lack of talent shone through and his bit-part acting career had slowly fizzled out.
Silvestre must have picked up on her mood because in between mouthfuls of biscuit that scattered over his overalls, he sought to reassure her. ‘Joe will put Lance in his place, don’t worry. And Gus won’t be going anywhere because he’s like a brother to le grand gar. Loyalty means everything to Joe and forty years of friendship isn’t something to be sniffed at. Only someone as shallow as Lance would not understand that.’
Le grand gar.The big guy. That’s what Joe was known as in the music world, and it was the nickname Silvestre had always used for Joe, a term of endearment that didn’t only reflect the stature of their boss, a six-foot-four, wild-haired man who towered over most he met, strong and muscly as an ox. It referred to his nature, too, because he had a good heart and his moral compass was set straight, unlike that of his eldest son.
Nanou watched as her husband drained his cup and stood, wincing when the arthritis in his knees and neck gave him jip. After bestowing a peck on her cheek, he bade her farewell, batting off her reminders to take it easy and not to be late for lunch. As if.
Smiling, she went back to her chopping, celery next, lost in a casserole of thoughts, memories bubbling to the surface, stirring up worries over Silvestre’s health and how her beloved Ace was coping with the arrival of Lance.
She dealt with Silvestre first. The summer months were always kind on his bones but as soon as the weather changed it seeped into his marrow. This, along with years of hard toil, wear and tear made his body ache and creak. At least nowadays, thanks to Joe’s kindness Silvestre could take it easy on a bad winter’s day, rather than struggle on like before. Joe had paid them a good price for their farm, freeing them of worry and giving them a nest egg to pass down to their two children and, hopefully one day, grandchildren. Most of all he’d allowed Silvestre to retain his dignity. Rather than retire at fifty-five, his role as guardian and manager of La Babinais gave her husband a purpose, and her too.
It had all been thanks to her nephew, Christophe, because he’d brought le grand gar into their lives two decades earlier. Joe always said it was the best thing he ever did, letting Christophe, who was one of his roadies, persuade him to head to the coast after a gig in Paris. Joe might have been the leader of the band, the one who wrote the songs and sent the audience wild when he was on stage but in his heart, he was one of the guys. His northern soul always reminded him of who he was, where he had come from and amidst all the trappings of celebrity he remained proud of his working-class roots.
Which was why he was more than happy to pile into the back of a van, albeit much swankier than those from his youth and spend a week on the Atlantic coast, staying with Christophe’s family, surfing, eating fresh seafood and drinking Breton cider. Finistère had captivated him. The all-year-round surfers’ paradise, the rugged coastal landscape, the views across the bay, the Gallic culture, and the friends he’d made in such a short space of time, people who didn’t care who he was.
Joe had wanted to put down roots, not make do with soulless apartments in London and New York, a place Lance could come and stay. So, he snubbed the jet set who resided in the South of France, and instead, bought an old sheep farm set high on a hill.
Everyone in their village of Herval liked Joe. Not that Nanou knew all 783 residents by name, but she’d never heard a bad word about him. Despite being a legend in the rock world he had integrated easily and embraced their way of life, the simpler things, well away from the glare of media intrusion. It suited him, being able to wander into the bar and have a drink with the locals and every now and then, at some fête or other he would give an impromptu acoustic rendition of his greatest hits.
Maybe it was this, and the friendship he shared with her and Silvestre that had helped him overcome his darkest days because no matter how hard he tried to show the world the laid-back version of Joe Jarrett, Nanou knew another side of the man.
Prone to bouts of self-doubt, dark days on the brink of depression when he would be gripped with remorse and insomnia, tormenting himself for days on end, locked inside his mind. After so many years he still shouldered the blame for events that had been beyond his control and there was nothing anyone could say or do to help him. Instead, she and Silvestre, Gus and Ace waited until he emerged, always there to pick him up if he fell and he did, often.
Perhaps it was his deeply spiritual soul that left him vulnerable. Even though he wasn’t religious, he was accepting of others and their beliefs and often wandered down to mass with her where he would sit at the back, watching and listening, soaking it all up. And from the minute he’d seen the ancient stones at Carnac, he was hooked. Brittany had cast its spell. It was the perfect place for soul-searching, looking for answers to the questions that plagued him, like the hacks who regurgitated news headlines that never went away.
He was fascinated by the stars too. Not the ones he’d rubbed shoulders with but those he watched from his rooftop observatory when the skies above France were jet black and clear. NorthStar, the name of his band, was inspired by his home city and the dreams he and his teenage bandmates held of one day hitting the big time.
Joe could also be mysterious. In interviews he’d be happy to talk about music but gave away little about his private life, even in mellow moments during soul-searching chats around a campfire on the beach, he would be guarded, at times introverted and secretive.
Yes, there had been unofficial biographies that loved to dish the dirt, but Joe had steadfastly refused to write his own to set the record straight and instead let fans and hacks dissect his lyrics and life, spinning rumours and folklore to their hearts’ content.
Nanou, like many others, had pondered on the identity of his muse, the woman who inspired his first number one album. During a period of his life that he referred to as ‘my secret summer’, a time and place known only to him, he wrote the album of songs that would catapult him and his band into a world that they’d dreamed about.
As they travelled the length and breadth of the country in their smelly Commer van, playing at gigs and festivals where they barely covered the cost of petrol, none of them had any idea that they were on the cusp of a new life. The story went that after a gig in Leeds, they’d had a falling out, a drink-fuelled punch-up and once they’d wiped their bloody noses, Joe decided to jack it all in and they all went their separate ways. And then, at the end of summer everything changed, and the rest was well documented. NorthStar hit the big time.
The casserole pot was full and as Nanou heaved it upwards and headed towards the stove, her attention was drawn to the roar of a motorbike engine as it entered the yard. Ace was home, so wiping her hands she peered from the window and watched as he dismounted and removed his helmet. His hair, chestnut brown like Jenny’s was, escaped and blew in the wind, long curls whipping around his face that wore a scowl. Seeing him heading her way, Nanou prepared for the whirlwind that was Ace who, from the set of his jaw and purposeful stride was already feeling the turbulence caused as always, by Storm Lance.
