‘Oui, bien s?r,’ Claude said, keeping his eyes on the battered wall and starting to fill the gaps with white paste.
‘So,’ she said, handing him a steaming mug a few minutes later, ‘you must be very busy at the farm.’
‘Oui, all the time.’
‘And you don’t mind Frédérique, well, outsourcing things like this?’
‘Sorry, je ne comprends pas – I don’t understand. What is this “hout soursy”?’
‘Je suis désolé. You don’t mind helping Frédérique as well?’
‘Ah, non. We ’elp each other,’ he said with a shrug. ‘We are amis. And he pay for les matériaux.’
‘Oh. Well, that’s kind.’ Lily wondered whether it was her poor French, or the need for Claude to concentrate on his work, but she couldn’t help feel there was a bit of an atmosphere between them. Perhaps it was the incident with Emily. Or maybe he really was very busy and this was a terrible inconvenience.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said then, ‘for Samedi dernier – last Saturday. My friend, she is not usually… so…’
‘Tellement soif? She is thirsty, pour le vin?’ he said, with a raised eyebrow and a smile. ‘It is no problem. Frédérique, ’e explain. Mais, pour moi, for me it is just – ’ow you say – très dr?le. It was funny.’
‘Oh good… I mean, bon,’ she said. ‘I mean I am glad – je suis heureux – that you are not… um… um… vache.’
Claude paused his trowel and gave her a quizzical look. ‘You say that you are glad I am not a cow?’
‘No, no…’
‘Une vache, c’est une “cow” oui? MEUH!’ He lifted his fingers into the shape of horns and pawed the ground slightly, then grinned at her.
Lily laughed. ‘Non,’ she said, ‘not a cow…’
‘Per’aps you mean, you are happy that I am not f?ché – annoyed, non?’ He smiled.
‘Yes, f?ché,’ she said. She felt more relaxed after his cow impression for some reason. Ironically, he seemed more human.
He laughed. ‘I am not a man who make anger very often,’ he said. ‘Life is too short, iz it not?’
She nodded. ‘Definitely.’
‘And your friend,’ he added, his brow furrowed slightly. ‘She is not well, Frédérique m’a dit, ’e say?’
‘Oh, she’s fine now. Er… elle va bien,’ she said.
‘That is good.’ He turned back to the wall and began smoothing the paste with his trowel.
‘And Frédérique – will he be coming later?’ she found herself asking.
He looked at her.
‘To see the work, I mean. Pour voir les travaux?’ she added hurriedly.
He nodded. ‘Per’aps,’ he said. ‘But ’e trust me, uh, so per’aps not.’
He seemed to be wrestling with something, and she hoped for a second that he didn’t think she was suggesting his work wouldn’t be up to scratch.
‘Tu sais,’ he began, ‘You know… Frédérique, ’e is my good friend, non? But you are also my friend, now, I think?’
Lily nodded. ‘Oui,’ she said. It was nice to hear him say that.
‘So,’ he said, ‘as we are friends, I should say zat pour les femmes, Frédérique, he is not always such a good friend, uh?’
‘Oh,’ she said. A memory stirred. Hadn’t Chloe said something similar? But Frédérique, seemed so nice – so open. It was hard to understand what could be so terrible about him.
He nodded. ‘Just, er, be careful… fais attention, uh?’
‘Merci,’ she said, feeling slightly awkward. She’d only just worked out that she might have a little crush – a tiny attraction – for Frédérique. How was it possible that Claude had seen through her already? She could feel her cheeks getting hot. ‘Anyway, I better… um…’ She waved vaguely towards the kitchen, indicating that there was an important job to be getting on with.
He nodded, and returned to his trowel. ‘You will not say to ’im?’ he asked as she turned back to the kitchen.
‘Oh, no. Of course not!’ she said.
‘Merci,’ he said. ‘As I say, ’e is a good friend for me, yes?’
‘Oui,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry.’
An hour later, when she was scrolling on the local selling site hoping to source a decent sofa or two, Claude popped his head around the kitchen door.
‘It is all done,’ he said. ‘You ’ave now a wall in your ’ouse, madame.’
‘Oh, merci beaucoup!’ she said. ‘Thank you so much, Claude.’
‘De rien,’ he said again. ‘And I will tell Frédérique that you wish to talk to him?’
‘Oh, no,’ she said, hurriedly. ‘No, I think it is OK.’
He nodded. ‘? tout à l’heure,’ he said. ‘See you later.’
‘Bye.’
Nervous about placing bids online, she sent a message to the seller of some second-hand furniture in Eymoutiers and hoped the online translator she’d used hadn’t let her down. Then, slipping on her trainers, she packed up a few essentials and took a walk to the beach.
Spending time at the lake with Sam yesterday had made her realise how much she’d already missed out on. To live within a stone’s throw of such a beautiful spot and barely spend a moment there seemed ridiculous. She’d moved in part for the beautiful scenery, but had spent more time than she’d care to admit since arriving staring at four stone walls.
Not that she’d want to spend too many afternoons building sandcastles – something she remembered fondly doing with Ty in years gone by, but that had seemed quite a slog yesterday when she’d been handed a bucket and spade by Derek and given her orders.
‘You don’t have to, you know?’ Sam had laughed when she was turning out her fourth.
‘It’s fine,’ she’d said. And it had been. She hadn’t minded.
But now the idea of spending some time on the beach just reading a book or – if she felt brave – perhaps having a little swim seemed much more appealing.
It was Friday afternoon and the beach was busier than she’d seen it before. Families sat on spread-out blankets, children paddled in the shallows. There were a few swimmers making their way up and down a marked-off area. The bar was busy too – people sat on the wooden terrace chatting with one another, drinking coffee or beer. People smoked. There was a general hum of noise – a background of chatter, with screams and shouts of children played intermittently over the top.
It was nice to see the place come to life a little more, but noticing all these people so obviously gathered in groups made her more aware of her solitude than she’d been last time.
She flapped out a towel and made herself a little base from which to operate – book, water bottle, sunscreen, beach bag - then sat for a minute, feeling the sun play on her skin. Looking around, she noticed several faces she half recognised – the woman from the bricolage, one or two people she’d seen at the supermarket. A man whom she’d spoken to briefly with Frédérique, resplendent in his Speedos.
She’d always been quite self-conscious about being in a swimming costume in front of people she knew. When she’d lived in England, she’d drive twenty miles to a slightly further away swimming pool rather than risk parading in what was basically underwear in front of people she worked with, or might bump into in her professional life.
Now she lived so close to such a gorgeous location, she was going to have to get used to it. Nobody else seemed in the slightest bit self-conscious – whatever their body shape – stopping and exchanging greetings with other beach users, standing and having a chat, or striding into the water with confidence.
After a surreptitious but undignified change under a towel, she emerged triumphantly in her bikini and, for the first time, prepared for a lake swim. She walked down towards the water’s edge, smiling at children making sandcastles, nodding at their parents, feeling generally at one with the world and if not part of things, then at least on the periphery.
The water was warmer than she’d expected, and despite the ‘sea-like’ appearance of the lake, was perfectly still. She walked in to waist height – gasping when the water hit her thighs, then lower stomach – then, first checking she was in the cordoned off swimming area and that nobody was in her way, she plunged forward and began a gentle breaststroke.
Lily had never been much of a swimmer. She loved the idea of swimming, loved being in water. Loved the sensation of moving forward, kicking her legs and gaining momentum. The problem was she wasn’t actually very good at it, which meant that she expended the kind of energy that an accomplished swimmer might expend in an hour just navigating a length.
The water was not her friend.