She parked up at the side of the road and got out of the car, feeling the kind of sinking sensation you get when reality doesn’t quite meet with your expectations. Still, the interior of the barn might be well stocked and organised for all she knew, she told herself, as she made her way across the outdoor area, careful to avoid the piles of rusty garden tools, makeshift planters and decomposing garden furniture that littered the yard.
Inside, she was met with the smell of mustiness that you get in a charity shop or National Trust property – a sort of polish meets dust meets benign neglect. A memory popped into her head of walking around Wimpole Hall in Cambridgeshire with a then five-year-old Ty. ‘Mummy,’ he’d said, ‘this place smells of old.’
She exchanged bonjours with a bored-looking man at a trestle table who was clearly overseeing the enterprise while scrolling through his phone, then began to inspect some of the second-hand bargains she’d been promised by Sam would help her to plug her furniture gaps for the time being.
She’d been thinking about having some sort of house-warming party once the ink was dry on the contract. Partly to mark the occasion, partly to thank those who’d been around to help – Sam and Claude and Chloé, as well as Dawn and Clive and anyone else they wanted to invite along. It wasn’t as if the renovations were finished – they’d barely started. But she’d slapped a bit of paint around and gradually the house had started to seem more like it was ‘hers’.
She’d need to do a lot more work before she could welcome visitors to any sort of relaxation retreat – at the moment the would-be studio remained untouched. She’d barely ventured into the outbuilding, which was in dire need of some proper attention from an artisan builder to plug the gaps in the pointing and make sure nothing was about to fall down. And she’d have to do something about heating it if she wanted to run retreats in the autumn or winter – perhaps a wood-burner would need to be installed, and electric points, and probably a toilet.
She’d begun to realise that the house would never quite be finished in the way she’d envisaged. But if she rebranded her thinking and considered the quirks of the house as being ‘charming’ rather than annoying; if she sold her accommodation as rural and ‘shabby chic’ rather than luxury, then she was pretty sure she’d be able to keep a few guests happy.
She’d thought she was ready to immerse herself in a project – to transform a house from ramshackle to state-of-the-art and gorgeous. But she’d found the longer she lived in the property, and the more local buildings she’d ventured inside, that it was her who needed to change. She’d detested the straight lines and lack of personality in her UK house, yet her mind had initially wanted to impose the same neatness on a French property.
Instead, now, she’d begun to see the beauty in the house’s flaws – not so much the bits that were falling down, or the need to burn lorry-delivered oil in order to heat her water, which she’d have to do something about. But the wonky walls and rickety stairs; the unusual design of the brick-decked fireplace and the mismatched furniture she’d assembled to use in the kitchen had begun to grow on her. The house had personality, was quirky and fun. And perhaps if she overdid the renovations she’d lose some of that.
In the end the trip to the barn wasn’t a complete disaster. She found a pair of comfy armchairs – wooden framed, the kind her grandmother used to have, but somehow charming. She even discovered a small table with chairs that would definitely make an improvement on the garden table she’d dragged into the kitchen as an interim measure. She managed to communicate with the man behind the till – despite his only speaking French – that she’d like them delivered tomorrow if possible, and given her address and brief directions.
He was friendly, patient with her fledgling French and more than happy to help her out. For €200 all in.
With the bedstead she’d bought on LeBonCoin – a second-hand selling site – now delivered and a mattress on order from a shop in Limoges, these extra additions would feel like the height of luxury after putting up with airbeds and metal chairs, propping her dinner on the edge of a dresser or balancing a plate on her knees. An actual real-life table. Who’d have thought?
Since agreeing to go for a meal with Frédérique, she’d been worrying on and off about how it might go. About what it meant. So it was a relief when the hands of the clock finally crawled to 5 p.m. and she could legitimately begin to get ready rather than thinking about whether she should be going out, whether it was OK that – despite her half-promise to Ty – she hadn’t been able to bring herself to ring Ben.
She turned on the taps and left the bath running and walked into the bedroom, where she’d laid out a couple of outfit choices on the airbed. A black dress seemed too much – it wasn’t as if she was going into Limoges; he’d told her it was a local restaurant – but she wanted to look nice. In the end she selected a light summer dress, in a dusky pink, patterned with tiny white flowers. Not too much, but definitely more date-like than the leggings and jeans that had become her at-home ‘uniform’ while she patched up the house.
Smiling, she drifted back into the bathroom, ready to add a slug of the bubble bath she’d picked up earlier to the tub. Only, when she stuck her hand into the water to test the temperature, she found it was freezing cold. The oil in the tank must have run out.
Now she was left, stubbly legged, slightly sweaty, greasy-haired with a dilemma; to brave a freezing cold arse, or to go on a date looking like a yeti. She chose the former, grimacing as she stepped into the cold water, stood and washed herself as best she could.
At least, she thought, as she towel-dried her hair, she’d probably burned about five hundred calories in the process.
Finally it was 7 p.m. and she paced the living room waiting for a knock at the door. It came.
Frédérique was there, his normally floppy hair brushed back and gelled. It didn’t suit him as well as his usual style, but the sweet effort he’d gone to made her smile. He’d trimmed his beard, and was wearing a white shirt and light blue trousers that showed off his tanned skin. He was holding a flower, clearly plucked from his – or someone else’s – garden and handed it to her.
‘For you, mon amour,’ he said with a little bow.
‘Merci beaucoup!’ she said, smelling the bloom before placing it on a stepladder in the hallway and hoping he wouldn’t mind.
He reached for her hand and she stepped down the path with him, pushing thoughts of Ben and Ty and Emily, plus anyone else who wanted to interfere in her life and her feelings, to the side. It was easy for people to judge from the side-lines. To want everything to go back to normal because it suited them. The only one who had even a tiny bit of a right to feel that way was Ty – she ached for any hurt she might be causing him. But she had every right to happiness, and was going to embrace it fully.
The restaurant was a short drive away, down a seemingly empty country road, which eventually opened out to reveal a stone building set on its own, with a few cars scattered in an enormous parking area behind. A sign – ‘Le Bistro’ – hung in carved wood over the entrance was the only indication that this was anything other than an old farmhouse, half-forgotten in its isolated position.
She climbed out of the car, her heels sinking slightly into the soft ground and, gratefully taking Frédérique’s hand, made her way to the entrance.
Once they were seated at a small mahogany table next to a window, a woman in a white shirt and jeans came over with a menu. They were one of just three couples in the small room, and the venue felt intimate and charming – the sort of place that tourists would never stumble across; authentic and rustic and ridiculously French.
Frédérique looked at the menu, his eyes flitting back and forth, and she waited patiently for it to be passed to her.
But to her surprise, before she’d even been able to glance at the starters, he clicked his fingers in the air – something that seemed rude, but that she assumed was a custom in France – to summon the waitress. Then, in rapid French, he said something about steak and frites and red wine and bread. It was straightforward, but the speed of the language meant she was only able to grasp on to the edges of the meaning. Was he asking what cuts they had? Or for the wine menu?
She waited patiently, then was surprised when the waitress thanked him and walked away with the menu in her hand.
‘Is something the matter?’ she asked, once the waitress was out of earshot.
‘Bah, non?’ Frédérique said, his brow furrowing. ‘Pourquoi – why do you think this?’
‘It’s just… she took the menu. Did she do it by accident? Or is there a different one or something? When do we get to order?’