At the traffic lights she caught the eye of the man in front in his rear-view mirror, his eyebrows knitted into a scowl. People passed on the streets as she waited for the green light, their faces intent on smartphones, their expressions distant. A woman with a buggy laden with so many shopping bags it almost tipped every time she rested, fought her way past. The scenery, while familiar, was grey and man-made and set against a backdrop of miserable sky.
Nothing much had changed in the town over the past twenty years. Sure, she had happy memories of living here, working here. She remembered delicious meals in jam-packed restaurants, drinks in bars after work. Good times.
Yet stepping back, she saw her working life for what it had been: endless pounding on a corporate treadmill: reaching for more, working harder, trying all the time to keep up with others in a race that meant nothing.
It was definitely time for a change.
By the time she pulled into her driveway, she was feeling more determined. She’d sit down with Ben and make a plan.
‘Let’s do it!’ she’d say, dramatically. ‘It’s only a year early – let’s just take the plunge! Vive la France!’
She’d been dreaming about cross channel living for at least a decade before they’d even met. She’d spent summers in Limousin and Dordogne as a child, bumping along in Dad’s VW campervan, trundling from campsite to campsite, and had fallen in love with the leisurely pace of life, the fresh air, the views, the culture. ‘One day,’ she’d said to Ben, shortly after they’d got together, ‘let’s move to France and have an adventure.’
If she was honest, she was a little tired of waiting for the move anyway. Every time she’d sat with Ben and discussed it, the goalposts had seemed to move. They’d originally said they’d see Ty through his GCSEs, then his sixth form exams; now they were waiting to see Ty settled at uni. She’d been on board – for the most part – with Ben’s suggestions but it had still hurt to continually put her dream on the backburner.
Last time, to make up for the delay Ben had bought her a French silk scarf for her birthday, together with a book entitled France: Your Guide to Moving, and a hamper containing Brie, Camembert, escargots and wine. ‘If Lily can’t make it to France just yet, then I’ll bring France to her,’ he’d said, giving her a kiss.
It wasn’t exactly living the dream, she’d thought: munching snails at the kitchen table in Basildon. But she’d smiled and kissed him, because he’d made the effort, been thoughtful. Plus, the year before he’d bought her a saucepan set (and she’d never forget the miracle juicer he’d produced for her fortieth that came with a free ‘slimmer thighs’ recipe book). This, at least, had been growth.
Now, pulling into the driveway, she sat for a moment and looked at the house that had been theirs for the past fifteen years.
It had served them well; had been a great family home. Newly built when they’d moved in, small but perfectly formed, their semi was part of a row of identikit houses on an estate that was neatly built and well maintained. The red bricks had faded slightly, but it still had the appearance of something shiny and modern. The double glazing had kept them warm, the garage – too small for anything but the tiniest of cars – had provided the ideal space for Ty’s drum kit during his rock star wannabe phase.
It was practical. It had been a safe choice. But wasn’t a patch on the French farmhouse she’d dreamed of living in for so long.
Over the years, she’d spent hours scrolling through French property listings on the internet, flicking through French Property News; lusting after stone cottages in the corners of tiny hamlets; renovation projects with potential to make your own mark. She’d drooled over stories of people moving over and living the dream: snapping up properties – mortgage free – for a song and making a forever home to be proud of.
Don’t think of it as a dead end. Try to think of it as an opportunity. The last thing she wanted to do was agree with Mark, whose whole reason for existence was going from firm to firm and ‘trimming the fat’. But perhaps, just on this, he’d been right.
Feeling her heart-rate increase, she stepped out of the car into the spring air. It was only five o’clock, but already there was a touch of early evening chill. The sky was a bland wash of grey and white, the sun hidden and glowing weakly beneath layers of cloud. She breathed deeply, trying to steady herself. But she could feel something beginning to take hold – excitement, a feeling that actually, just possibly, her life was about to change.
Ben worked from home on a Friday. He’d be busy at his desk, not expecting her back for an hour or so. She’d wrap her arms around him, tell him the news, then open his eyes to the possibilities that lay before them. ‘Ty will be fine; we can fly back and forth. And even keep the house in England for now,’ she’d say. Surely he couldn’t say no to that? Perhaps, at last, this was going to be ‘their’ time.
The house was quiet as she let herself in. Ty’s coat was missing – he’d be out playing Fortnite with friends or at the gym. She crept upstairs to Ben’s office – letting out a small cough before disturbing him; the last thing she wanted to do was shock him into a heart attack just when their lives were opening up.
But as she pushed his office door open, with a lively, preparatory ‘Bonjour!’ she saw that the room was empty. A jumper hung on the back of his swivel chair; his computer screensaver bounced across a black screen. Piles of paperwork were neatly stacked. He’d finished balancing other people’s books for the week.
‘Ben?’ she called, walking down to the kitchen, almost tripping over a trail of laundry that Ty had helpfully flung in approximately the direction of the dirty washing basket. She bent and picked up the errant clothes on autopilot, grimacing as she felt something sticky on her hand. Moments later, she almost tripped over her son’s discarded backpack at the top of the stairs and tumbled to an untimely death.
By the time she got to the kitchen, she felt less as if she needed an adventure and more as if she needed a full hose down and a Valium. ‘Ben?’ she called again, with slightly more edge to her voice.
But a coffee cup next to the kettle was the only sign of life.
She pulled her phone out of her pocket and quickly scrolled to his number in her contacts. It rang several times before he picked up. ‘Hello, love!’ Ben said, cheerfully. ‘You on your way home?’
‘I’m already here, where are you?’
‘Oh. Well, I got most of my stuff done then Baz asked me for a pub lunch.’
‘It’s five o’clock.’
‘Bloody hell, is it?’ He was slurring his words slightly. ‘Well, we’re in the middle of some pool. You can pop down and join us if you want?’
It wasn’t a real offer.
‘No, it’s OK. I just hoped… I suppose I hoped you’d be here so… well, I’ve got something to tell you.’
‘I can come home… if you want?’ he said, then, ‘Just a minute! Sorry, that was Baz. It’s my turn. Do you want me to…?’
‘Yes!’ she wanted to say. ‘Come home immediately!’ But instead: ‘No, I’ll see you later,’ she replied.
She tried to settle down with a coffee, but found it hard to concentrate. She could hardly wait for the moment when Ben would step through the door and she could surprise him with her news. That they no longer had to live out their days as a middle-aged cliché. Her redundancy money would replace any savings they’d hoped to accrue. Ty was a confident boy; plus he’d seemed so much more grown-up recently that she doubted he’d need them at all once he moved into halls. The stars had finally aligned.
She closed her eyes. In her mind, Ben would be overjoyed – released from his own stressful work and able to embrace something brand new. He’d pick her up in his arms and swing her around as he had before and they’d get the house on the market as soon as possible.
‘Everything is about to change,’ she said to herself.
Later, she’d look back on those words and wonder: If she’d been able to see the future in all its brilliant, frightening, chaotic and unexpected glory, would she have been excited? Or completely and utterly terrified?
It was hard to know what to do with herself while waiting, so in the end she did what she always did in a crisis – picked up the phone and dialled Emily.
2
Lily lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, phone clamped to her ear. She noticed a hairline crack in the plaster, dust on the lampshade. ‘So, what do you think?’ she asked.
‘I think,’ said Emily, ‘it sounds amazing… And you reckon Ben will be up for it?’
‘You think he might not be, because of Ty?’
‘Well, yeah. I mean, that was his reason for the delay before, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ Lily said, rolling onto her front. ‘But you know what? I think Ty’s grown up so much in the last six months. He seems so different – I’m sure Ben’s noticed it too. I really don’t think he’s going to need his parents hanging about.’
‘Good point.’ Emily was silent for a moment. Then: ‘Wow, so you’re actually going to be doing it,’ she said, her voice quieter than usual.