A Year at the French Farmhouse(17)
She couldn’t let herself think about last night, when Ben had tried for the last time to persuade her not to go. ‘Don’t I mean anything to you?’ he’d asked, eyes pooling with unaccustomed tears. ‘Stay! Please.’
She’d cried too. ‘Ben – I have to do this,’ she’d said. She tried to add: Please come with me. It won’t be the same without you! But the words had stuck in her throat.
Ty had been surprisingly understanding about it all when she’d broached the subject with him a week ago. ‘Will I be able to bring my mates out?’ he’d asked.
‘When things are sorted with the house, of course! And you’re welcome any time. Plus, I’ll be back. It’s only an hour and a half flight.’
He’d nodded. ‘Bit weird about Dad though,’ he’d said.
‘I know,’ she’d said, brushing his hair with her hand. ‘Sorry, Ty.’ Then, ‘Maybe he’ll come and join me in the end.’
He’d grunted and shrugged in a kind of teenage acceptance. ‘It’s OK. Dad’s a big boy, I guess.’
She’d kissed the top of Ben’s head as she’d left him that morning, when he was fast asleep and looked heartbreakingly funny and rumpled. After their late night where nothing had been achieved except the sharing and perpetuating of misery, she’d decided to resist the urge to wake him and try just once more to get him to join her.
‘Don’t you see,’ she’d said last night. ‘I have stayed for you. I’ve put off this dream for years, for you, for Ty, for the family. I’ve loved you enough to stay over and over again the whole time we’ve been together. And you promised that we would do this. It might seem unimportant to you, but believing we’d do this one day was the thought that kept me going through everything.’
It hadn’t worked. He loved her, she really believed that. He just didn’t love her enough. And even though there was nothing wrong with their relationship, realising that her husband’s love was in fact, conditional rather than the opposite, had made it a little easier to walk away.
Even so, although she’d known it was pointless, she’d kept finding herself glancing at the road behind as her taxi had made its way to Stansted this morning, hoping to see him in pursuit in his Volvo estate. Then, when strolling half-heartedly around duty-free waiting for her flight to be called, had found it almost impossible to tear her eye from the passport queue – perhaps she’d see his messy brown hair over the top of the crowd and discover that, after all, he had decided she was worth the risk and prove that, in fact, love did conquer all – even worries about security, mortgage payments and work commitments. The ultimate airport movie moment.
But feeling the upward motion and hearing the ting of the seat belt sign, she knew now without doubt – and somehow for the first time – he really wasn’t coming. That it really had been goodbye rather than au revoir. Part of her wanted to roar with frustration, another to curl up in a ball and weep and weep. She wanted to stop the flight, to rush back to him. Yet she wanted to move forward too. How many more years would he have let her wait before he’d admitted he was never really on-board with the plans she’d thought were theirs rather than hers?
She felt a sob well up in her throat and held it back. Then, to avoid ugly crying in front of a plane full of strangers, she put in her headphones and selected the ‘guilty pleasure’ playlist on her phone – a list filled with some of her out-of-date and slightly embarrassing favourite tunes: Elton John and WetWetWet, a bit of Bryan Adams and James Taylor and a smattering of songs she’d enjoyed while at uni.
Then she settled back in her seat, closed her eyes and tried to picture what it would be like to wander round her new home for the very first time. The online pictures had shown a traditional stone farmhouse with an overgrown garden. Powder blue shutters at the windows. A cherry tree in the back. A slightly neglected, uninhabited property just waiting for someone to adopt it and love it and bring it back to life.
She’d been to Limousin a several times with her parents, although never to the edge of Creuse where the hamlet she’d soon call home was situated. The weather wasn’t scorching like in the south but temperatures in May would be a balmy 25 degrees on average – just the perfect weather for doing anything and everything she wanted without needing to constantly seek out the shade.
Quietly, a small smile playing on her lips, she flicked to ‘Here Comes the Sun’ in her playlist. As the familiar tune flooded her senses, she imagined herself opening the front door, exploring the downstairs properly. Marvelling over carved wood and tiled floors. Flinging open the shutters in attic rooms to let the light pour in. Over time, clearing the garden and renovating an old wrought iron table she imagined might be nestling under the brambles. Sitting in a floral dress and sipping Beaujolais as the sun slipped behind distant fields and stained the evening sky orange.
Another day, she’d discover a hatch to a forgotten cellar filled with dusty, delicious and perfectly preserved bottles of wine. She’d create a studio in the barn, removing a stone wall side and replacing it with glass so guests could take in the countryside views while taking classes or relaxing. The studio would be bathed in light, its interior washed white; she’d invite reiki practitioners and yoga gurus and relaxation specialists and treat her guests to the type of luxurious break that would have them coming back time and time again.