A Year at the French Farmhouse(26)

‘Ah, be careful weeth that one, uh?’ Chloé had said. ‘I ’ave known ’im a long time.’

‘Careful with Frédérique? Why?’

‘You will see,’ Chloé had said darkly, sipping her red wine.

‘But isn’t he the mayor?’

‘Ha. He thinks he is the king, non?’

Lily hadn’t mentioned the watering can incident, or the fact she’d been caught peeking through the windows. Chloé would never do something like that. She was far too elegant, too put-together. Lily had found herself trying to copy some of her mannerisms, correcting her posture when she was in Chloé’s presence. She’d even slipped on her smartest trousers and blouse this morning in an attempt to summon her inner chic.

‘Do you want me to come to ’elp you today?’ Chloé asked now. ‘For your rendez-vous wiv the lawyer?’

‘Oh, thank you. No, I’ll be fine.’ She wasn’t sure whether turning up with Chloé, who clearly had some sort of grudge against Frédérique, would be a good idea. Plus, the notaire had insisted she employ a translator as part of the transaction; so she’d be fine with the nitty-gritty.

Chloé shrugged. ‘As you want.’ She looked a little put out.

‘I mean, it’s really kind of you to offer. I’m sorry. I don’t want you to think… I mean, it’s so generous of you to… and I know my French isn’t… well, great…’ Lily trailed off, noticing that Chloé was looking at her, an eyebrow raised in amusement.

Lily couldn’t operate her eyebrows individually. She resolved to start practising in the mirror. She tucked her wayward hair behind her ears and vowed, too, that she would find a local hairdresser in the next few days to cut it into a neater style. ‘What’s funny?’ she asked at last.

‘You Engleesh and your “I’m sorrys”,’ said Chloé with a smile. ‘You do not ’ave to apologise to me. If you do not need my ’elp, it iz fine.’

‘You’re right. I’m sorry…’ She felt herself blush. ‘I mean…’

‘It iz OK,’ Chloé said. ‘You do not ’ave to be sorry for being sorry, uh!’ She smiled.

Lily suppressed the urge to apologise again, with some difficulty, and sipped from her coffee instead, this time ready when the thick, bitter liquid hit her mouth and managing to keep a neutral expression.





Half an hour later, she was in the car, a rudimentary map on the passenger seat and her GPS loaded with the notaire’s address. Only she was beginning to wonder whether she’d programmed it correctly. She seemed to be heading deeper and deeper into nowhere, and unless the notaire was actually a cow, or worked from a barn, she wasn’t sure he could possibly have an office in such a rural and uninhabited location.

Just as she was about to give up – and her GPS had once again lost signal – the road opened up slightly and a cluster of stone houses appeared to her right. They curved around a small grassy area that looked a little like the shape on the map that Chloé had drawn. But Lily couldn’t see anything that resembled an office among the ramshackle buildings, and, with no visible signposts, had no idea exactly where she was.

But relieved at least to see signs of human life rather than just bovine, she pulled up, determined to either find the place, ask for directions or simply turn back and give up. She clambered out of the car gratefully, feeling the cool morning air against her sweaty skin. Sadly, rather than being fresh, the air smelled strongly of cow, which was hardly surprising given that the field to her left was full of brown Limousin cattle, who walked up to the flimsy wire fence with interest and regarded her sadly over their wet, pink noses. ‘Do you know where the notaire is?’ she asked them and they looked at her solemnly.

Then she jumped, hearing laughter behind her.

Turning, she found Frédérique, who had appeared seemingly out of nowhere. For a moment, she didn’t recognise him. He was dressed smartly in tailored trousers and a short-sleeved shirt, revealing – to her surprise – pretty impressive biceps previously invisible under his shapeless overalls. His brown hair was brushed and had clearly benefited from a little gel, and his beard seemed tidier than it had yesterday – perhaps he’d trimmed it? He flashed his annoyingly infectious smile at her again and, again, she found herself grinning in return.

‘Oh! Hello!’ she said. ‘I mean, bonjour, I didn’t… vous êtes un surprise!’

‘C’est une surprise,’ he corrected. ‘Surprises, they are feminine.’

Seeing as he’d made her jump out of her skin twice in two days, and was unequivocally male, she wanted to dispute this. But she knew better than to argue with the strict rules of French grammar.

‘Oh, une surprise,’ she said. Then, ‘What?’ she asked as she saw his eyes still twinkling with amusement.

‘It iz nothing. Just… en France we do not ask le cows for the directions,’ he said, with amusement. ‘Zey are not so good weeth the map reading, huh?’

‘Very funny,’ she said, feeling completely out of her depth. She wondered what this man – head of the police, top official of the local town – must think of her. First trespassing and now speaking to a herd of cattle. ‘I was just…’ She trailed off, unable to explain exactly what she had been doing. ‘Is this the right place,’ she said instead, ‘for the notaire?’