A Year at the French Farmhouse

‘Thank you.’ Lily smiled.

‘Oui, merci. ? bient?t!’ Frédérique added as Chloé walked back to her friends. She said something when she arrived and they all glanced at them for a moment.

‘Did Chloé seem OK to you?’ Lily asked.

‘Oui, she is always like zis wiv me,’ he said, making a sad face. ‘I fink she does not like it when I ’ave a drink wiv a woman, eh?’

‘Oh. Why?’

‘Ah, it is nothing. We used to date, many years ago. And she, I think she maybe like me still.’

‘Oh.’ Lily made a face. The last thing she wanted to do was to upset Chloé.

‘It iz OK, she will not ’ate you for speaking wiv me though!’ he said, with a grin. ‘She is juste… it is – how you say? – a bit uncomfortable, awkwardable.’

‘Awkward?’

‘Yes. That is it. We are friends, I think.’

‘OK.’ Lily took a sip from her glass, feeling slightly uneasy. But then if Chloé was an ex of Frédérique’s it was always going to be a bit odd for her to see him on a date. Or something that looked like a date.

She took a deep drink from her glass and wiped her hand over the back of her mouth, only to look up at a pair of amused eyes. ‘What?’ she said.

‘It iz nothing,’ he said. ‘You like the wine, huh?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘Just nervous. It’s difficult, being somewhere new. With new people. Being… I suppose being alone for the first time in ages.’

‘But, Lily,’ he said, taking her hand, ‘you do not ’ave to be alone.’





Two hours later, when they left, Chloé was still there, sipping after-meal coffees with her friends. She looked up as Lily passed, giving her a small, polite wave. But when her eyes rested on Frédérique, Lily saw her expression change and her mouth form a hard, straight line.





24





‘Just breathe,’ he said, nodding his head. ‘Like at the class.’

‘Fuck off,’ she said. ‘You breathe.’

‘OK, OK,’ he said looking over her at the midwife and making a ‘help me’ face.

‘Hubby’s right,’ said the midwife. ‘You need to…’

She trailed off as she caught Lily’s eye. ‘Let me just give you a quick check,’ she said, snapping on a glove. ‘Maybe we’re ready to push…’





Lily was just slipping the first pansy plant from its plastic pot when she heard a shout behind her. ‘Working hard, I see?’

She turned to see Sam, who’d pulled up quietly in her car and wound the window down. In the back of her Fiesta, Lily could see Derek and Claudine both slumped over, asleep in their car seats.

‘Oh, hi!’ she said, slipping the plant back in for a second and wiping the soil from her fingers. ‘Just trying to brighten up the front a bit.’

‘I assume this means the interior is fully renovated?’

‘Of course!’ Lily joked. ‘I’m not trying to avoid doing the hard work at all!’

Sam laughed. ‘We’re just off for the obligatory “get them out of the house they’re driving me mad” excursion,’ she said. ‘Thought I’d pop by to see whether your house is still standing while they’re snoozing.’

‘Thanks.’ Lily grinned. ‘Actually, I’ve had the wall fixed. And slapped some paint on the rest, like you said.’

‘Oh, brilliant. I’d pop in and see, but I daren’t leave these two or they’ll be screaming,’ Sam said. ‘But I’ll stop by next week for a tour if you’re around?’

‘Definitely.’

When Sam had driven off, Lily continued with her planters, enjoying the afternoon sun and making the most of the easy, rhythmic work. She’d actually planned on making a start on the kitchen today – she’d taken delivery of a second-hand dresser this morning and had earmarked the afternoon for cleaning it up and giving it a lick of paint.

But to her surprise, she’d woken up with a hangover. Laying in her makeshift bed, head throbbing, she’d thought back to the evening before. She hadn’t been drunk, but realised that she’d probably put away half a bottle of red. Perhaps that was all it took in your forties?

Either way, the idea of inhaling paint fumes didn’t appeal. Instead, she’d driven to the local supermarket and picked up the pansies, along with a few essentials. It was a reason to get out in the garden, and something she could cope with despite feeling less than on form.

She thought back to the night before. Frédérique had been a gentleman – insisting he paid for the drinks and nibbles, ferrying her back home and making no attempt to come in for coffee. They’d got on well, despite the odd language hiccup, and she’d been surprised how much they had in common. He loved drawing – ‘it iz an ’obby’ he’d said, and was so interested when she told him about her work in graphic design.

She’d told him, too, about her idea to run relaxation retreats, once her renovations were finished, and he’d loved the idea. ‘But it will be such a success for you!’ he’d exclaimed. ‘I can feel it, uh?’

In fact, the only downside of the evening – other than the slightly strange encounter with Chloé – had been the fact that she wasn’t sure whether she was on a date at all for most of it.

Luckily, though, that had also been cleared up. Just as he was about to leave, Frédérique had given her a hug then, pulling back, held his gaze on her face. Instinctively, she’d tilted her lips up to meet his and he’d kissed her softly – with enough intensity and tongue to leave her in no doubt that they’d made a leap out of the friend zone.

She touched her lips now, unconsciously, remembering how gentle his kiss had felt, how fresh and soapy his aftershave had been. How his beard had felt soft against her skin. His arms, tight around her back.

She was reliving the moment when her phone pinged.

So – how’d it go. Spill!





Good, thanks.





And… was it a date? Call me!





Yes. But don’t worry. Nothing happened.





She didn’t add how much she’d wanted it to.

She repotted the last of her plants and picked up the watering can – not the relic that she’d clambered on the day she’d first met Frédérique, but a new one purchased from the bricolage. It was made of metal, painted blue, and once filled was heavier than she’d imagined in the shop. Using both hands, she tilted it towards the planters and flooded each with probably too much water. Then, straightening up, she made her way back into the house to wash her hands and make a coffee.

She’d never been very good at keeping her mind off her problems – Just think about something else! her mum had used to say. But Lily found it impossible. Her mind kept drifting back to Emily; she knew her friend would either worry or be offended if she left it any longer before calling and talking to her properly.

In an attempt to keep herself busy and delay the post-date post-mortem that no doubt Em was desperate to conduct, she picked up her phone and dialled Ty instead. It had been a few days since they’d spoken, and it would be nice to catch up.

‘Hi, Mum,’ he said, after a few rings.

‘Hey, Ty,’ she said, feeling both happy that he’d answered and sad that she was so far away from him. She reminded herself that he was an adult now – he wouldn’t have been at home with her for much longer even if she had stayed in the UK. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Ah, OK,’ he said. ‘You know.’

‘Well, I don’t… really. Did you get your room in halls sorted?’

‘Yeah, it’s all right.’

‘Seen any of the gang? Gone to the pub or anything?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And how is everyone?’

‘You know.’

‘Right… Well, I’m doing OK here too.’ She wasn’t offended that he hadn’t asked; phone calls weren’t her son’s strength. ‘Getting some of the house fixed up.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘And…’ She wondered, for a moment, whether she should say anything. But then she had nothing to be ashamed of. ‘I’m thinking of going on a date.’ She couldn’t quite bring herself to tell him she’d already done it; somehow it felt easier to introduce it this way.

‘What?’

‘Yes. A lovely French gentleman has asked me to go out with him. And I might say yes.’

Her heart began to thud. She realised for the first time how much she needed Ty’s … well, not his support or blessing but just to know that he wasn’t completely aghast at the idea.

‘But, Mum,’ he said, ‘what about Dad?’

‘Ty, you know me and your dad… well, we’re not together any more.’ She felt a pang of anxiety as she spoke the words aloud. ‘We… I mean, I’m here, he’s there… I know it’s difficult… but…’

‘What? You’ve actually split up with Dad?’ he said, an edge to his voice now.

‘No, Ty. Dad split up with me. He sent… well, put it this way, he doesn’t want to be in touch with me any more. And it’s hard – I know, it’s hard for me too. But I can’t sit and mope forever.’

There was silence on the line.

‘Ty?’

‘Yeah. Sorry. I mean, I get it. I do. But I think you should talk to Dad.’

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