Teaming With the Shrew
Copyright© 2025 by Argon
Chapter 18: Europe Calling
Two weeks later, and with the first payments from CoolStream in the bank, we packed five weeks worth of clothing into four trolley suitcases, loaded Carly into her bucket seat, and headed out to LAX. We actually flew to Barcelona, Spain, which is much closer to Mel’s chateau than Paris, and the drive promised to be scenic.
We checked in at half past twelve, faced the Spanish Inquisition a.k.a. the TSA, and boarded our Delta flight at 1:25 as the first people — business class plus an infant — and stowed our cabin luggage. We were issued a small bassinet for Carly, and prepared a bottle for her for the take-off. Wonder over wonder, the Triple-Seven was pushed back almost on time, and twenty minutes later, Carly experienced her first take-off, suckling on her bottle to relieve the pressure on her ears. We settled in for our almost 14-hour flight.
The less I dwell on flying with a one-year-old child, the better. Suffice to say, we landed five minutes early, at half past 12 local time, a day later, with not much sleep in between. Another hour later — the real Spanish Inquisition was much less anal than our homegrown version — we received the keys to our preordered X5. We mounted Carly’s bucket seat and stowed our luggage, and by 2 o’clock, we were on our merry way.
It was a 3-hour drive, interrupted by two pit stops to keep up the caffeine levels in our systems and once to change a messy diaper. By six o’clock we stopped in the driveway in front of the Chateau Renault, utterly exhausted. Almost immediately, four people emerged from the main house. I recognized Mel and David, of course, and I assumed the other two to be the Ramos siblings, Cecilia and Paco. An old woman followed them more slowly, and Jenn elbowed my side.
“Oh bugger! That’s Jeanne Renault. Oh my God!” she whispered.
“Mel’s grandmother, the actress?” I asked from the corner of my mouth.
“Duh! Of course. Oh my God!”
“So she’s Jeanne Renault. You’re Jennifer Saint David. Breathe easy.”
“I’ll try.”
Now the four younger people welcomed us.
“You made it!” David smiled. “Please meet our good friends, Cecilia and Paco. Guys, those are Jennifer Saint David and Ricky Ryder in the flesh, or rather Richard and Jennifer Borgward. Their daughter’s name is Carly.”
“¡Ola! Nice to meet you two!” Cecilia smiled at us, or rather at Jenn. “Your show is very popular in Spain.”
“Hola, Mel y David nos han hablado mucho de ti,” I answered in my best Californian Spanish.
“Y la IMDB nos ha hablado mucho de ti,” she shot back, giggling.
The older woman reached us now. She looked at lot like the Mel I envisioned some forty years in the future.
“Hello and welcome! I am...”
“Jeanne Renault!” Jenn blurted. “I saw you in the West End, in Les Miserables, ten years ago.”
“And I saw you in Lockout,” I added. “Richard Borgward.”
“I shan’t say in which production I first saw you,” Renault cackled.
“I nevertheless hope that you found my delivery enlightening and stimulating,” I gave back, using my usual riposte.
“Mostly the latter,” she cackled again. Obviously, she was not flustered easily either.
Jenn was beet red over the interplay, but she rallied. “He followed me home one day, and I can’t seem to get rid of him.”
“You shouldn’t, dear! He’s a catch. When Melanie told me that you were visiting, I saw a few episodes of your little show. You have an incredible presence and intensity, my dear; comedic panache, too. Let us talk about your plans in the coming days. An actress with your talent should move to bigger things.”
“Grandmere, let them unpack first,” Mel laughed. “How did Carly hold up?”
“She certainly kept the business class awake,” I answered. “We better get her out of the seat before she melts.”
“Yes, we better. Only take the small things. Alphonse will carry your luggage to your rooms. He and Carole are looking after us.”
The young French couple greeted us next. Carole had to be in her early twenties, a cute, tiny brunette showing a baby bump. Alphonse Tenet was a little older, huge, and sporting extensive ink. Both spoke good English — at least to my ears — and occupied a small cottage close by. They lived rent-free there, and in return, kept the Chateau clean and in repair. Alphonse also had the run of the machine shop where he repaired and restored classic Italian motorcycles for their livelihood while Carole grew herbs and vegetables in a large garden, which she sold at markets. Alphonse was also the son of the vintner who managed the vineyard. They were an odd but happy couple, it seemed.
Inside, the chateau was rather Spartanly furnished, with chalked walls, a high ceiling with rafters blackened by age and oaken floorboards. Very classy. Our bedroom on the first floor was similar, with an old armoire, a pinewood frame queen-size bed, matching bed stands and a classic children’s bed that by rights belonged into a museum.
There was a huge, shared bathroom, with a lion foot bathtub complete with handheld shower head and with a terracotta-tiled floor. The John was next door and separate. While three women, one of them a budding pediatrician, looked after Carly, Jenn and I showered together, sitting face to face in the huge tub, and when we were done and dressed in casual summer clothes, we found the others on the south-facing stone terrace, where a supper table had been laid richly.
We had mutton roast, a true symphony of herbs and spices, with fries and a lettuce salad as main dish, and we also got our first taste of the Chateau Renault Vin de Maison, the vineyard’s everyday wine, sold only locally. It was served in earthen liter pitchers with other pitchers filled with cool water for slaking the thirst. I figured that a dinner like this for seven people would easily run up to 800 bucks in L.A., and it wouldn’t be half as good.
When dusk came, large candles were lit, emitting flickering light and mosquito repellent, to keep the pests away. David also pointed at the tall grass lining the terrace as being a Citronella variety with insect-repelling properties. Whether that worked, I don’t know, but I recorded not a single mosquito bite that evening.
Heavy with food and wine, we finally called it a night, fed and changed Carly, and retired to our room. As a grumpy Jenn told me in the next morning, I slept like a rock, not waking up when Carly demanded an after-midnight snack. She also put me on notice that the next night would be my turn. I was tasked with taking care of Carly while Jenn went for her morning routine, and carrying her on my arm, I found the table on the terrace laid for breakfast.
First things first. With Carole’s help, I prepared Carly’s morning bottle and proceeded to feed her — enjoying a large cup of café au lait while at it — and then helped her tottering around on the terrace holding her hands. She was briefly fascinated by a grey-striped cat which was dozing in the morning sun on the low masonry wall surrounding the terrace and utterly ignoring us. When mommy joined us however, the cat and I were old news, and Carly climbed on Jenn’s lap, jabbering in her secret language, allowing me to spread fruit preserve — never call fruit preserve marmalade whilst an Englishwoman is within hearing! — on slices of fresh baguette and enjoying my second cuppa.
Paco showed next and immediately offered to entertain Carly so that we could enjoy breakfast. Of course, Jenn took him up on the offer, and he spent the next ten minutes catering to her every whim, singing silly songs in Spanish and letting her bounce on his knees, much to the amusement of his sister who had joined us too.
Jeanne spelled him when he had exhausted his repertoire, but a little awkwardly. She explained that her son Marc, Mel’s father, had been mostly raised by a nanny since she herself was always busy. She said it a little wistfully.
Another quarter hour later, we were complete after David and Mel made their belated entrance. David had that dazed I just got laid look in his face and Mel’s body language proclaimed not too subtly that it had been a good one.
It was ten before everybody finished breakfast, but we had a good time. An enthusiastic Jenn told Jeanne about the Shrew production in Montreal and our plans for the future, and the old actress nodded approvingly.
“You have a rare talent for comedic pieces, my dear. The idea of a shrewish English Pension owner has potential. Don’t shy away from asking me for a guest appearance. I can give you an acerbic French granny.”
“Ricky books our guest stars. Shyness is not something for which he’s known,” Jenn smiled. “He’ll play my opposite number, a cocky American hotel manager who runs the biggest hotel in the resort.”
“Oh dear, I can see the sparks flying. Great idea, you two. And you, Ricky, have you found your calling as an actor?”
“It’s more fun than my previous job,” I admitted. “I also like the production angle, the chance to make the work satisfying and fun for all involved.”
“That is what I noticed. Your cast had fun,” Jeanne nodded. “Well except that poor young woman who was killed by a roof shingle,” she added. “That was brilliant! She was obnoxious?”
“Nobody could talk sense into her,” I shrugged. “Our writer, Brenda Hellstrøm, came up with the idea to kill her off and be done.”
“Brenda is a genius,” Jenn added. “We’ll try to win her for the new show, too.”
Jeanne also talked about her projects. The woman was eighty-two years old and had no plans to quit. Her upcoming movie would be a drama about the post-WWII persecution of perceived collaborators, a period rife with smear campaigns and hypocrisy, where quite many innocents were also falsely accused, jailed and worse.
Jeanne’s film would focus on the fate of a young prostitute who, during the German occupation of France, was recruited by her brutal pimp to work in a brothel which catered to German officers and French collaborators. After the liberation, she was arrested, publicly humiliated and sentenced to prison by a tribunal of self-righteous bigots, more because of her being a loose woman than because of any deeds. She only regained her freedom when a Resistance fighter who had infiltrated the brothel and whom she had warned of a planned Gestapo raid, campaigned for her. In a reversal of circumstances, she was to be awarded a medal, which she angrily scorned. With her friend, the Resistance fighter, she then settled in Guernsey.
“It will be my last big production,” she smiled. “You see, I met the woman myself in the ‘60s when Marc and I vacationed in Guernsey. I encouraged her to write down her story, and she made notes of the events, but she never progressed to writing about it. Her daughter sent me the notes over ten years ago, but it took a while to find a good writer for the script. Now I have to do it, or it will never be done. I’ll direct myself this time.”
“It sounds like a story that needs to be told, given the current climate of bigotry,” I said. “You won’t make many friends with it though.”
The cackle was back. “Oh, yes. Some people will be up in arms, but that is what movie making is all about, right?”
The next ten days were a little bit like living in a bubble, isolated from the world outside. We made excursions to the Mediterranean coast and into the French Pyrenees, but we also strolled a lot on the paths of the property. Somewhere there, on a path between the wine stocks, Carly made her first unassisted steps, something that made the entire household ecstatic. It was with true regret that we broke camp after ten days, but we had only a week until Jean’s wedding, and we wanted to see a bit of the country on the way north.
After one last breakfast, taken at the big dining table inside because of a thunderstorm, we bade our old and new friends good-bye, issuing counter invitations to wherever we would land, and then loaded Carly into her car seat and drove off, heading for the Provence, namely to Avignon, where we had reservations at the le Limas guest house. We had a stop in Nimes on the way, for a lunch of sandwiches and a quick look at the sites, but we arrived in Avignon with plenty of time to settle into our pretty room and to have a Provencale dinner in a restaurant nearby. After that, we watched the sunset from the famous unfinished bridge, the Pont d’ Avignon, one of the city’s landmarks, with Carly fast asleep in the carrier on my back.
We spent the next day viewing the sites Avignon has to offer, like the cathedral and the two(!) palaces of the popes who once resided in Avignon. Better even, we wandered through the narrow streets and alleys, taking in the atmosphere. All in all, Carly was a good sport, and quite happy to bounce around in her carrier on my back.
On the second day, we explored other cities, such as Arles with its antique Roman Theatre, its Roman Arena, and its Vincent van Gogh Museum. About 200 of van Gogh’s paintings — probably worth a few billion dollars these days — were painted in and around Arles, I learned, where he had his most prolific period, sadly ending in his self-mutilation.
From Arles, we took to the road again, heading for the Pont Du Gard, a Roman aqueduct from the first century. It’s an impressive World Heritage Site, and we fairly filled the memories of our smartphones with pictures and short movie clips. Of course, right in the middle of the walkway, Carly decided to fill her diaper to the brim, and we were grateful for the fresh breeze that was blowing the smell away.
After one last night in Avignon, we started the cross-country trip towards Brittany. We divided the 11-hour drive into two stages, the first day to Tours, where we spent the night after some sightseeing, and the second stage to Roscoff, where we arrived in the early afternoon and checked into the hotel Jean had picked for us, the Aux Tamaris, situated right on the waterfront with a great view of the Atlantic Ocean. Jean must have filled their head with an exaggerated impression of our importance, since the staff almost fell over their feet to accommodate our perceived needs and wishes.
The front desk even had pre-arranged for a fully certified daycare worker, who would take care of Carly whenever we would be absent. The young woman, herself in the family way, showed up that evening, to free us up for the bachelor/bachelorette evening at a place named L’Écume des Jours, overlooking the harbor. Jean and Cherry wanted to greet their friends before the big production in the next morning, and we met Brenda and Terry, but also Mel and David, who had already arrived the day before. Floyd was there, too, and the Jorgensens, Alexandra and Eric the Viking.
Another blast from the past was Brigitte de la Hugueot, now retired and a mommy, but a leading French porn lady in the 1980s and ‘90s with whom Jean had worked a few times in his young years. Her daughter was with her, and oh boy! Blonde hair, pouty lips, and a body ... Down, Ricky! Jean definitely had not fathered that girl! I had never worked with her mother, but I knew her from an awards ceremony early in my New York days. She gave me a friendly smile and greeted Jenn with obvious delight. The daughter was rather shy and blushed when she shook hands with us.
Further along the table were three Liverpudlian pipe-fitters and their wives or girlfriends, Cherry’s brothers, who felt ill at ease in an eatery without a darts board and stout ale on tap. They all suffered bruises to the backs of their heads for staring too much at Brigitte’s daughter Aurelly, making Cherry giggle unashamedly.
We had great fun that evening, swapping stories from our work and lives, and the longer the evening wore on, the more young Aurelly thawed. Finally, Jean was already settling the tab, she approached Jenn.
“Madame Borgward? May I ask you something?” she asked in pretty good English.
“Yes, dear, of course,” a Jenn made pliable by good wine answered genially.
“Uncle Jean says that you plan a new show?”
“Yes, dear. Why? Are you an actress?”
“Yes, Madame. I am still new, and I only worked as an extra so far, but I am studying at the Ecole Lucien Gabadiere. It is an acting school, the second in Paris. I learn the classic repertoire, even comedies. We also do classes in the English classics, in English of course.”
“That sounds impressive. So you’d like to do TV work?”
The girl bobbed her head. “Yes, very much. I watched all the episodes of Utilities Included, and I love the way your ensemble works, and Uncle Jean says that everybody behaved. I would love to be part of something similar.”
Jenn looked at me, and I shrugged. If she was halfway decent in her delivery and with the way she looked, we wouldn’t have to worry about ratings. Brenda had joined us and listened in.
“She’s the breakfast server! She’ll be named Zoe, and she’ll wrap the male boarders around her fingers, even when providing subpar service. Hi, Aurelly, I’m Brenda. I worked as writer at UI.”
“French maid stereotype?” Aurelly asked dubiously.
“Uh-un, middle-aged-men stereotype. The Zoe character only makes use of it to get away with as little work as possible. How old are you anyway?”
“I’m eighteen.”
“Perfect. Now, I cannot see Zoe in a French maid costume; I see her more as a New Age or Goth girl, a strong contrast for Jenn’s stick-in-the-mud character. I’ll have to think of a reason why Jenn’s character employs Zoe, and why she can’t fire her. Anyway, you’d have a say in your character development. It’s how we did it, and it’s how we’ll do it.”
“Wow, you’re on board already,” I asked Brenda.
“Count me in. I’ll do a year as a network writer, to learn more things, but I like your show’s premise, and I like working with you guys. You’re the closest thing I have to a family.”
“Hey, you’re my kid sister, remember?” I said gently.
“Always, and Jenn is my cool cousin.”
“Where does Uncle Jean fit in?” Aurelly asked.
“He’s the beloved, if ugly, family dog,” Brenda giggled.
“And Jane?”
“She’s the Cherry on top,” I blurted, and even Brenda laughed.
The wedding the next morning was held in the small mairie, or city hall, by the — you may guess it — mayor. The worthy man waxed a bit about a son of Roscoff being a Hollywood TV producer and marrying an international stand-up comedy star, making the couple blush, but then he married them according to the civil code with quick efficiency.
Even I, in my capacity as actor and producer, and Jenn, as a theatre and TV star, had to write our names into the Book of Honor, not to mention Mme Olsen, the living and breathing Oscar winning actress and daughter of the unforgotten Marc Renault. Well, if it made the mayor happy, we would not spoil the party for him. Even a local newspaper reporter showed to report the celebrity wedding. I’m not kidding.
The wedding dinner was held at Jean’s parent’s house, fittingly located on the Rue des Corsaires, the Road of the Pirates. Our babysitter, — her name was Evalona, a supposedly Breton name — looked after Carly for the day, allowing us to be part of the raucous celebrations. It turned out that Jean came by his looks by way of genetics, and he wasn’t even the ugliest family member, but they were all huge and boisterous, and nice.
The Bressons must have gutted their house of all furniture and fittings, since their decently sized dining/living room held a huge dining table, an overdose of stackable chairs, and nothing else. Slightly over thirty people crammed themselves into the remaining space. The small Hollywood faction was grouped together, of course, together with the Liverpudlians.
“Thanks for looking after our Jane,” Mister ... Master? ... Margoulis, the eldest of the pipe-fitters, said earnestly.
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