A Year at the French Farmhouse(14)

Then, ‘So what do you think you’ll do tomorrow?’ he asked.

‘Tomorrow?’

‘Yes, I mean, you’re a free woman, after all… First proper day off work, as it were.’

‘Ha. Well, knowing me, I’ll probably end up sorting out the wardrobe and doing a bit of weeding,’ she said, rolling her eyes.

‘I thought you ladies of leisure liked to meet up for fancy lunches?’

‘I wish.’ She grinned.

‘Seriously though,’ he said. ‘Are you going to be OK? Have you thought about, I don’t know, applying for jobs, or doing some training or something? You won’t be happy without something to get your teeth into.’

‘Um…’

She hadn’t meant to say anything yet. After all, he still had three potatoes to go before he reached optimum carb overload. But the pressure of waiting and the anticipation of a conversation that might go one dramatic way or another was too much.

‘Actually…’ she said. ‘Actually, I have thought about what I might do next. What… what we might do, if I’m honest.’

‘Oh yes?’ he said, innocently shoving an overlarge roastie into his mouth and looking at her with interest. The potato was clearly surprisingly hot beneath its crispy outer layer and she watched as his eyes widened and he began to chew quickly with his mouth open, letting out steam and little gasps as he tackled the unexpected burning sensation.

She wondered whether he’d be able to deal with the hot potato she was about to lob him too.

‘You know, obviously. You know I’ve always wanted to move to France.’

‘Ob lob blurbin?’ he said, nodding, mouth full of white mush.

‘Well…’

It was now or never. Part of her wished it could be never. But she was stuck. She felt like a teenage daughter about to tell her beloved father she was pregnant, or had had a tattoo or had been excluded from school. There he was, innocently chewing and trying to avoid life-altering burns, and she was about to throw a missile into his world that might change it forever. ‘I’ve… I’ve decided to go for it.’

He swallowed and began to cough slightly, taking a slug of beer that seemed only to make the problem worse. She walked to the sink and got him a glass of water.

‘Thanks,’ he said, taking a gulp. Gradually, his face returned to its usual colour. ‘Sorry, you’ve decided to go for what?’

‘I’m moving to France… Well, I mean… I hope that we are.’

He eyed her warily, then nodded. ‘Oh. I mean, we talked about this, didn’t we? And I love the idea. It’s just I’m worried about the timing. But we can… have you thought any more about that trip to Paris? There’s still time to grab a copy of the paper for today’s token…’

She waited for him to finish, fixing her eyes on his so that he knew she was deadly serious. ‘No, Ben. I think we should do it now.’

‘Now?’

‘Look,’ she said, gently working herself towards the earth-shattering bit of the conversation. ‘Ty’s off to uni, we’ve got some savings, I’ve been made redundant. And you’ve been saying work’s been a bit boring recently…’

‘It hasn’t been that bad…’

‘You said that we’d do it next year,’ she said, her eyes tearing up slightly. ‘So why not this year? Why not now? I just feel…’ she paused, took a shaky breath, her voice cracking a little, ‘that if we don’t do it now, we might never do it. There’s never going to be a right time.’

He looked at her, then placed his fork on his plate and reached out a hand to cover hers. ‘Oh, love. I do understand. I really do. But you’re reeling from the redundancy. It was a shock, right? And I think… I think you’re hurt too, aren’t you? Because those bastards worked you so hard then got rid of you when it suited them…’

‘Well, yes, but…’

‘And you know,’ he said, reddening, ‘I loved the idea of moving to France, you know I did. But when confronted with the – ah – reality…’ He looked at her. ‘I’m just not sure I can do it.’

‘Are you saying, then,’ she said, her voice unsteady, ‘that it’s not just a “wrong timing” thing for this year. But you’ll feel this way,’ she breathed, shakily, ‘next year too?’

His mouth wobbled slightly. ‘I… I’ll be honest, Lily,’ he said. ‘I just don’t know. Maybe… maybe it’s just I don’t feel ready… Maybe… I’ll be ready next year. But…’

‘Maybe you’ll never be ready?’ she inserted into the silence.

He nodded, confirming all her worst fears. It was like a punch to the gut. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘But you promis—’

‘I know,’ he said, sadly. ‘But look, we can um, think about it for a bit, hey? Nothing wrong with having dreams.’

‘I…’

‘Anyway I think, when you’re feeling like this – you know, low from the redundancy and everything – it’s better not to make any rash decis—’

The secret that she’d been keeping since Saturday morning suddenly felt more urgent and enormous than ever. She felt it heave inside her, bursting to be released.