Samantha Brick: How I fell in lust with a Gallic Crocodile Dundee

Samantha Brick: How I fell in lust with a Gallic Crocodile Dundee

• Samantha Brick caused an internet storm saying she was 'too beautiful'
• When her career came crashing down she found a new life with Pascal
• Despite only knowing him a short while, she soon moved to France
  
• When he met her father for the first time he asked for her hand in marriage

By Samantha Brick

PUBLISHED: 19:51 EST, 17 March 2013 | UPDATED: 03:56 EST, 18 March 2013

To my cost, I already knew a little bit about French men’s seduction techniques (St Tropez â€" don’t ask). They treat all women like goddesses, undressing you with their eyes and shamelessly telling you how beautiful you are. So I was definitely on my guard when I met Pascal again. 

It was nearly midnight, and I was sitting with a friend in late April 2007 at a restaurant table in Cazals in South-West France. In strolled the village sex god, who picked up a heavy oak table as though it were a clutch bag and whopped it against our little table for two.

Suddenly, his head was close to mine: dark chocolate-brown eyes, closely cropped black hair with flecks of silver, and one of those French moustaches that took up half his face.

Odd-couple: Avid hunter Pascal and vegetarian Samantha could not be more different

‘Sam! Ow are you?’ Pascal’s glass crashed into mine and I felt the pressure of his arm. A sudden zing of electricity took me by surprise. ‘Ow eez business?’

Oh God, the one question I didn’t want to be asked. After 16 years in the TV industry, my dreams of owning my own TV company had definitively crashed and burned. Indeed, in the months since both my UK and U.S. businesses had failed, I’d had to pay off all my staff, sell almost everything I owned, abandon London and crawl back to Birmingham, where my parents live.

Until less than a week before, they’d had me on suicide watch, so it felt like a small miracle that I was here in France at all, helping out a friend, Miriam, who runs exercise breaks for wealthy women.

Maybe I’d had too much rosé, but I found myself telling Pascal what had happened, though I brushed over the worst moments. When I’d finished, he took my hand. ‘You are très fragile I zink Sam, yes?’ he asked softly.

I nodded, tears springing to my eyes. He waited as I discreetly pulled myself together, then gave my hand a squeeze. Oh God, please don’t let me fall for him, I thought.

Whirlwind affair: Samantha and Pascal fell for each other and got engaged quickly, pictured with Samantha's sister

The next day, I learned a bit more about Pascal Rubenat, who is a carpenter. ‘Did he tell you he has two grown-up children by his first wife?’ said Miriam. ‘And then there’s the child with the recent ex.’ 

Kids! I felt incapable even of looking after myself. Who’d be insane enough to take all that on, I thought, mentally crossing Pascal off my list.

But a couple of days before I was due to return home, he invited us for afternoon drinks at his home â€" a house built of vanilla-coloured stone with espresso-brown shutters framing every window. 

As we sat on the terrace outside, he told us about his relationship with his ex-partner and why it had failed. I don’t know why, but his candour made me feel better about myself. 

Media mogul: Samantha was more suited to a life in the big city than she was in the countryside

Stuff happens to everyone, I thought. For a few moments, the dipping sun flooded the terrace with a golden glow and I felt OK about myself again.

We had one more encounter before I flew home. Gently, he took hold of my shoulders and looked at me intensely. ‘I wish to ’ave met you ten years before â€" then I never, ever let you go.’ He kissed me on both cheeks and was gone. 

After I arrived back in Birmingham the following day, he sent me a text. By then, though, I’d again sunk into depression. All I could think was: I had it all. I lost it all. It was All My Fault. In my gloomy mood, Pascal didn’t stand a chance. I deleted his text. 

But he continued to text and leave voice messages. A curious one-sided relationship appeared to be developing because I never picked up the phone. ‘Je pense à toi,’ he said. ‘I ’ope you are OK. When you come again?’

I was scared stiff to re turn his calls. What would I say? How would I say it in my execrable French? In any case, I told myself, I’m pretty dismal at relationships, with my track record of chasing guys who are emotionally unavailable.

One evening, I talked to my sister Jo about Pascal. ‘The old Sam,’ she reflected, ‘would have gone back to see him by now.’ The upshot was that I agreed to return to France with her for a weekend.

Meanwhile, my beautiful house in London was sold, leaving me with £100,000 after the mortgage had been paid off. It was just enough to pay off all my debts.

Having sold some belongings on eBay, I finally flew to France with Jo. We stayed with Miriam and naturally we discussed my budding romance. 

The more Miriam told me about my French admirer, however, the more I wondered if we had anything in common. Pascal loves motorbikes and the rock band ZZ Top: I detest both. I’m a vegetarian: Pascal’s a hunter who kills animals

When I saw him again, he was in head-to-toe camouflage: T-shirt, trousers, jacket and a hat. While Pascal â€" who was with his youngest son, Antonio â€" nervously greeted me, Jo stifled the urge to laugh.

Head over heels: Samantha Brick fell for Pascal despite her reservations

We accepted an invitation to dinner at his home. And during the evening, when we were briefly alone, he took me without warning into his arms.

Pascal may be big and gruff, but his kisses were soft and light. Nestled in his arms, I realised I was utterly smitten.

On my final night in France, I agreed to stay at Pascal’s house (though Miriam sourly dismissed the invitation as ‘a fling’ for one night only).

That evening, as we sipped champagne, he stroked my face, before softly placing kisses on my neck, my cheeks, my eyelids. We talked for hours, and I told him my whole sorry story.

His response was simple: ‘Je te protège tout le temps.’ I’ll always protect you.

The following morning, we were both fizzing with happiness. The first thing he asked me was how soon I could return to France.

New life: Following the loss of her TV company Samantha quickly found herself with a whole new life

I was back in a fortnight, and Pascal met me at Bergerac airport. As he scooped me in his arms, oblivious to the stares of everyone around us, I felt like a self-conscious teenager.

‘Are you ’appy, Sam?’ he asked me later, at a restaurant. I glanced around me. This man, this country and these people were utterly foreign to me, I realised â€" but I was indeed blissfully happy.

Could we make it as a real couple, though? The next time I flew over, I came for a week â€" which meant that while Pascal was working, I was in charge of cooking, cleaning and looking after Antonio, who stays with his father one week in two. 

For the first time ever, I was charged with gutting and cooking a chicken for lunch. Problem: after years in the expense-account world of TV, I knew how to reserve a sought-after table at The Wolseley, but, somewhere along the way, I’d forgotten to learn to cook. 

I squeez ed my eyes shut and nervously ferreted about inside the bird, before flinging its innards into the sink. More than once I dashed for the loo, to retch into the toilet bowl. 

Finally, the bird was on the stove.

It was at this point that Pascal arrived home. The air turned a French shade of blue when he realised I had absolutely no idea what I was doing.

‘Eet won’t be ready for hours!’ he complained. He inspected the bird closely. ‘You no put oil on eet?’
Merde! I hadn’t thought of oil. 

He stared at me as though I were some sort of unpleasant smell. ‘Ow eez eet you ’ave 36 years and you can’t cook?’ he hollered.

My culinary labours were declared une catastrophe. 

At the end of lunch (frozen cheeseburgers), Pascal whacked my bottom and roared: ‘Merci, Madame Congélateur!’ (Thank you, Mrs Freezer.) Both he and Antonio co llapsed in fits of laughter.

On the final night of my stay, we all went to a restaurant again. Picture the scene: Pascal and I gazing into each other’s eyes, the rosé perfectly chilled, Antonio playing quietly with his Nintendo.

Suddenly, Pascal asked me: ‘You want live wiz us?’

Domestic goddess: Pascal was shocked to find that his new girlfriend was not able to cook at the age of 36

I know I should have said I’d think about it, but lust was coursing through my veins and my heart was thumping in my chest. ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ I said. I could barely believe that I’d agreed to move to France to live with a virtual stranger â€" at least in terms of the time we’d spent in each other’s company, which added up to less than a month. 

Most of my friends assumed I’d be back in London in 12 months’ time, holding court in Soho House, and even I couldn’t help fretting about the fact that Pascal and I were so achingly different. He was resolutely un homme des bois â€" a man of the woods â€" whereas I’d only ever known a city lifestyle. 

But first things first. The time had come to introduce Pascal and Antonio to my parents, who are divorced but happily remarried to other people. 

All too soon, it became wincingly obvious that Pascal’s entrée into Britain’s second city would be akin to the arrival of Crocodile Dundee in New York.

First off, there was the kerfuffle with booking the airline tickets. Having had the internet for only a few months, Pascal viewed the purchase with grave suspicion, and a palaver of meteoric proportions ensued when I insisted on using his credit card.

Happy family: Samantha and Pascal on their wedding day in France with her new stepson

‘But what if someone else try to use my card?’ he fretted all evening. 

His packing, too, wasn’t without drama. ‘You can’t bring that!’ I exclaimed in horror when I clocked one of his hunting guns nestled in among his camouflage attire.

‘I must ’ave somezing to protect you and Antonio,’ he replied in all seriousness. ‘I ’ate zee city. Too much people!’
‘You’ll end up in a British prison, Pascal,’ I reasoned, ‘and how can you protect us then?’

In the end, we agreed on a compromise and he packed his favourite knife â€" a seven-inch blade that he polished and slid lovingly into a bespoke leather case.

The snob in me was mightily relieved there was no one to meet us on arrival. We certainly attracted attention. Pascal strutted through immigration in a large Harrison Ford-style brown leather hat, cocked to one side, just so. 

He was also wearing a hooded camouflage jacket, tight Levi jeans and his battered cowboy boots.

When we got out of the cab in my sister Fiona’s well-to-do neighbourhood where we were to have lunch, Pascal stood in the middle of the road, lit up a Gitanes and pointed purposefully at the large Victorian terrace homes. 

‘It’s all ’ouse, ’ouse, ’ouse,’ he declared, eyeing them with Gallic contempt. Both he and Antonio then marched up and down the road, gravely shaking their heads.

Supportive: Pascal stood up for his wife after she caused controversy last year

‘All zee cars, too, Papa!’ Antonio exclaimed. ‘Car, car, car, all on zee road.’

At this point, Fiona rushed out, no doubt to pull us in before any curtain-twitchers clocked that she was acquainted with the shady-looking foreigner eyeing up their properties. 

This time it was my turn to stare. What in God’s name was she wearing? I took in a blue-and-white striped Breton top, a jaunty red scarf and â€" pièce de résistance â€" a beret. She may as well have draped a string of onions round her neck and whacked a baguette under her arm.

‘Bonjour Pascal et Antonio,’ she cried. ‘Bienvenue en Birmingham!’

Fortunately, within minutes of entering, everyone was effortlessly chatting away â€" though there was an awkward moment when Pascal slapped his terrifying knife onto the dining table. In France, he uses it not only for carpentry but for every meal. 

The next day, my French visitors ploughed through a five-course meal prepared by Mother, who was predictably seduced by a flood of Gallic compliments. 

And then we had to face Dad.Now, all that my father knows of France is what he reads in The Sun and hears on talkSPORT. A dim view is putting it mildly.

Content: Samantha admitted that despite knowing Pascal only a short while, she was blissfully happy with him in France

So Pascal, after a briefing from me, had brought a peace offering: a large bottle of malt whisky.

This proved to be a wise choice. Dad immediately steered Pascal and the bottle into the kitchen and closed the door. 

Fifteen minutes later, they both emerged, looking distinctly shiny-cheeked and with huge grins on their faces. 

‘I’ve got some good news,’ Dad boomed. ‘Pascal has asked me if he can have Samantha’s hand in marriage.’ 

There was a pause while both men took another swig from their glasses. ‘I’ve said yes,’ Dad concluded proudly.

I stared open-mouthed as they continued to congratulate each other. I had thought there was very little left in the world that could genuinely shock me. It seemed I was wrong.

They’d just spent the last quarter of an hour discussing my future. Without me present!

With some effort, I managed to suppress my militant inner feminist â€" not to mention my lingering doubts. 

So that’s settled, then, I thought: I’m getting married.

ADAPTED from Head Over Heels In France by Samantha Brick, to be published by Summersdale on April 1 @ £8.99. © 2013 Samantha Brick. To order a copy for £8.49 (incl p&p), call 0844 472 4157.