A Provencal launch party

Preparations for the launch of my second book La Vie en Rosé had been going on for a couple of weeks. The main problem we faced was keeping everything cold. Our tiny fridge couldn’t cope with all the nibbles one of our fellow market traders, Vincent, had offered to prepare, so we drove into the countryside in search of the Fridge Magnet (a man who’d made a fortune renting fridges rather than something you stick on your fridge).

In the Luberon it is practically impossible to build anything at all. If there is an existing footprint then there’s a chance permission will be forthcoming for renovating, but new builds are next to unheard of. Bumping down a dirt track we discovered that the Fridge Magnet must have some pretty powerful political connections. Sprawling before us was an opulent palace of a villa with manicured lawns and high tech security systems. It was more LA than Provence and no more than a year old. We took the loop road round the back to the warehouse.

“I never knew there was so much money in fridges,” said Tanya as we pulled to a halt.

In front of us was an empty building the size of an aircraft hanger, in the centre of which, sitting on a table was a single fridge. A scruffy man looked up from his desk. He was surrounded by so many piles of paper he could have been running a public company. Maybe local custom was to rent rather than buy I thought to myself. It would explain why the warehouse was empty.

“How much is it to rent a fridge?” we asked. In my head I’d figured it would be about €20.

“€200” he said jerking his finger at his solitary stock.

We could buy a fridge for €150, so could anyone else, so how had the Fridge Magnet built his empire? Were there really enough gullible people out there to pay such an extortionate price? We departed with our questions unanswered and the Fridge Magnet went back to his figures.

“Maybe he’s a day trader,“ speculated Tanya.

At 5.30pm on Saturday, half an hour before the party was due to start there was still no fridge and no sign of the food. The mistral had whipped up and sent the tablecloths dancing into the air, peanuts were scattered across the gravel and the number of promised helpers (still all absent) had halved. I phoned Vincent, the caterer, and got an answer machine.

The first guests - punctually English - started to arrive. The musician was still nowhere to be seen and my mood was fast approaching panic. Clearly I haven’t lived in Provence long enough.

Within half and hour our helpers had arrived, miraculously restored to their original number, the musician was playing and Vincent came bumping down the track.

“You said you had nowhere to keep the food cold,” he shrugged, in the local style, as if to suggest his behaviour had been perfectly logical, “so I came late.”