‘I know just the place – it is close to ’ere and it is my friend who own it,’ said Frédérique. ‘You want that you follow me in your car? Or you can leave it ’ere, eh, if you want to ’ave a bigger drink?’
‘I’ll drive,’ she said. She was conscious that as well as celebrating having signed the papers, it was time that they had a proper talk about everything, and this seemed as good a moment as any.
She followed his 2CV as it hurtled around corners, not wanting to lose sight of it, but equally not confident enough on the ‘death-drop’ road to drive at the same pace. Thankfully, the café/bar he’d earmarked was only a few kilometres away, close to Chloé’s chambre d’h?tes in Faux La Montagne.
She’d passed the entrance before but it had been closed, and thought how small and sweet it looked with its purple painted sign and matching wooden door. Once parked, they walked up the gravelled road and pushed the door open, causing a bell to ring. Inside was a tiny stone-floored room, complete with bar, piano, shelves heaving with books and a single computer on a corner desk offering internet connection for €1 an hour. Local artwork was dotted on the walls, and posters advertised a poetry reading at the end of the month. The room smelt of a mixture of coffee and burnt wood, which reminded her a little of her childhood. They’d had an open fire when she was little and she’d loved to sit by it and warm herself in the evenings, watching cartoons and drinking hot chocolate.
Here, the fire clearly hadn’t been lit recently, but years and years of use and the half-burned log lying in the grate ready for winter gave the room its mild, smoky aroma.
‘Oh, this is sweet,’ she said as she walked in.
‘Oui, j’aime beaucoup cette café,’ Frédérique replied. ‘Mon ami, Marcel, he run it since ten years.’
‘Oh lovely,’ she said, watching as Frédérique strolled up to the bar and jauntily pinged the little bell for service. He was wearing a cream linen suit which could have been plucked straight from the A Good Year film set wardrobe, teamed with sandals – the jury was still out on whether these worked with the overall ensemble – and a light, chequered shirt. The trousers, she noticed, were particularly flattering from behind, accentuating the pert outline of his clearly toned…
‘Lily? You would like champagne too, I think?’ Frédérique’s voice cut through her reverie and she realised she’d gone into a trance-like state.
‘Oh, oui, s’il tu pla?t!’ she said, jumping back to attention.
Frédérique raised an eyebrow then looked back at his friend, who had appeared behind the counter. She hoped it hadn’t been obvious that she’d been staring at Frédérique – or more precisely, his bottom – lost in thought. For a moment, she expected Frédérique to tell the café owner and the elderly couple at one of the tables that they were lovers, as if to explain why she was gaping at his rear end but for once he kept the (mis)information to himself, exchanging brief conversation before beckoning her over.
She’d spent much of last night thinking about their situation. Frédérique was romantic – that was already patently clear. But a bit of a serial romancer, too. And apparently had the tendency to fall out of love as quickly as he fell into it.
At the moment, his falling out of love wasn’t the problem. It was the fact he’d claimed to be in love with her so quickly, putting pressure on what she’d thought would be a casual date or two. She hadn’t wanted to jump into a whole relationship, just have a bit of fun. And now she felt she ought to commit to Frédérique or leave him before either of them got hurt.
But then, should she assume he was going to take whatever their relationship was down the same road he’d taken with others in the past? Or should she allow him a new start – a chance to learn from his past mistakes and enter a relationship with a clean slate? Her own track record wasn’t exactly great – sure, she’d been married for twenty years, but she’d also moved to France and left her husband almost overnight. Nobody’s love life looks great in the rear-view mirror.
Perhaps all she needed to do was communicate – after all, he’d been really vocal about how he felt and what he wanted, but most of the time she’d simply smiled or said nothing. If she explained to him again, and more clearly, that she’d rather take things slowly - just date and see what happened down the line, hopefully he would understand and go at her pace.
The champagne arrived together with two pretty, engraved flutes. It was pink champagne, and looked expensive. ‘Are you sure we should open a whole bottle?’ she asked. ‘We’re both driving for starters.’
‘Mais oui, we can ’ave a little glass,’ Frédérique said, ‘and we will leave the rest for Marcel et ’is amis to drink in our honour later, eh?’
‘Oh, that’s a good idea,’ she said, smiling at Marcel, who looked to be about eighty years old with the kind of weathered face normally associated with a life at sea.
‘D’accord?’ he asked and, as Frédérique gave him a nod, twisted his gnarled fingers on the outside of the cork to pull it free. Frédérique raised his flute ready to catch the first frothy outpouring and save them from being showered with bubbles.
It took an embarrassing amount of time, and rather a lot of huffing and puffing from Marcel for the cork to start moving slightly in the neck of the bottle. ‘Mince!’ he said, as sweat began to form on his brow.
Lily and Frédérique both waited patiently with the kind of fixed smiles people get when they’re pretending that a situation isn’t at all awkward.
‘Ah merde!’ Marcel cried eventually as half a cork came away in his hand.
‘Oh dear,’ Lily said. ‘Never mind. Let’s…’
‘Je peux t’aider?’ offered Frédérique. Can I help you?
‘Non,’ Marcel answered, his brow furrowed. He placed the fizzing bottle on the floor and drove the corkscrew into it. Then, holding the bottle steady between his feet, he began to heave at the remnant of cork.
Watching his trembling body flex with effort against the stubborn cork, Lily unconsciously nudged her chair backwards to be further back from whatever terrible accident or explosion might be imminent. Her eyes locked with Frédérique’s – equally alarmed – eyes across the table. And then the urge to giggle came over her. She looked away, shoulders shaking with the effort of holding it in, noticing that Frédérique also covered his mouth with his hand.
‘Mais s'il tu pla?t, laissez-moi,’ he began. Please let me…
But before he could finish his sentence something suddenly gave and Marcel flew backwards, champagne cork still wedged in his corkscrew, and performed a near backwards somersault, knocking over the heavy bottle - which fizzed and spilled onto the wooden floor - before landing in a heap.
Lily quickly grabbed the bottle as Frédérique rushed to help his friend, who’d managed to clamber to his feet, his cheeks red. He said something to Frédérique in a low, angry tone before limping off to the back room.
Frédérique grabbed a cloth towel from behind the bar and lay it on the wasted pool of champagne. There was still half a bottle. He looked at Lily. ‘I think, per’aps he ’as too much pride, eh?’ he said, with a twinkle.
‘Is he OK?’
‘Oui, oui, just a little bruised in ’is mind, I fink,’ he reassured her. ‘We men, we like to be strong, uh? We don’t like to find out our plafonds, our limits.’
Lily nodded. ‘Poor guy.’
‘Ah, but ’e will be fine,’ said Frédérique, filling her glass. ‘And, of course, we must still celebrate. We celebrate for the ’ouse, and for…’
Here it comes, she thought. He’s going to say something over the top and romantic.
‘… and for surviving this terrible catastrophe!’ he finished with a wink. ‘We could have been killed, eh! We must celebrate we still ’ave life!’
She laughed. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t sure we’d get out of that one intact.’
They sat and sipped champagne and watched Marcel limping slightly behind the bar, muttering to himself in inaudible French. Lily told Frédérique about the house-warming party, and the fact that she felt she was closer to hosting some retreat guests than she’d thought. ‘I know I’ll need to do some work on the barn eventually,’ she said. ‘But if I start out small and get all the paperwork sorted I think I could have something in place by the spring.’
‘This sounds amazing!’ Frédérique enthused. ‘I can ’elp you, if you like, with the paperwork. It can be difficult, uh?’
‘Oh, merci,’ she said, clinking glasses with him. ‘I’d really appreciate that.’
‘But of course!’ he said. ‘Of course I will ’elp. After all we are lov—’
She instinctively reached across and placed a finger on his mouth. ‘About that,’ she said. Because if she didn’t have the conversation soon, things were going to get out of hand.
‘Oui?’ he said, his lips released. ‘There is a problème per’aps?’
‘Peut-être, maybe,’ she said. ‘But maybe just a problem avec le langue.’