A Year at the French Farmhouse(40)

Emily’s eyebrow raised once again.

‘What?’ Lily asked.

‘Nothing.’

‘You’re doing the eyebrow thing.’

‘Oh, bloody hell. I need to train myself to keep them still like a normal person. Talk about wearing your heart on your sleeve. Mine’s on my bloody forehead.’

‘Yep. And you’ve obviously got something to say…’ Lily said. She tried not to let her impatience show – not wanting to fight with her friend – but it wasn’t easy.

‘OK,’ Emily said, sitting forward, her forearms on her thighs, hands clasped together, like an interrogative interviewer. ‘I just feel there has to be a point when you decide you’ve given that man enough chances. You’ve got to give him an ultimatum.’

‘But…’

‘I know. You love him. And he loves you. But are you a hundred per cent sure that he knows how much you still want him to join you?’

‘Of course he does – he must do!’

‘But, sweetheart… have you actually laid it on the line – said it openly?’ Emily said kindly.

‘Well, not exactly…’

‘Oh, Lily.’

‘I know. I suppose I’m just clinging on to the hope that he’ll kind of wake up,’ she said, feeling her face get hot. ‘That he’ll come and we’ll be together because he wants to – not because I begged him to.’

‘There’s no shame in begging, you know,’ Emily said, eyebrow arched. ‘It can work wonders…’

‘I know… Well, I know what you mean. It’s just… I can’t explain it…’

‘You have every right to tell him what you want. Tell him it’s now or never.’

‘Ah, I don’t know, Emily. I suppose I’m deluded. I just haven’t given up on it all working out yet without, well, without me forcing anything.’

‘Good! You shouldn’t. But you also need to be realistic. You know?’

‘I know. Just, maybe not just yet.’

‘Well in the meantime if a gorgeous French bloke decides to make a move, maybe you should consider it. Whether it’s Claude or the mysterious Frédérique,’ Emily said, using a French accent.

To her surprise, Lily felt her face flush even more hotly.

‘Ooh,’ said Emily, not one to miss a trick. ‘Lily loves Frédérique!’

‘Stop it!’ Lily retorted.

‘I’m only joking, but out of interest, if you had to choose out of the two.’

‘Of Frédérique and Claude?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, neither, obviously.’

‘But who’s more your type?’ Emily pushed. ‘Go on. I quite fancy Claude, there – see, it’s just a game. I’d never do anything, obviously. But wow, if Chris dumped me I’d hunt him down immediately. So… hypothetically…’

‘Hypothetically,’ Lily said, carefully. ‘I’d choose Frédérique.’ Her cheeks were burning so brightly she wondered whether the house needed air conditioning rather than heating. ‘But that’s all it is – hypothetical.’

The conversation moved on to dinner at Chloé’s and paint colours and where they might get second-hand furniture to make the house more habitable.

But when Lily was making tea later, Emily having dragged her chair back into the garden, and rolled up her trousers in an attempt to attract some sun to her pale skin, Lily couldn’t help dwelling on the question a little more. It was OK to be a little attracted to someone else, especially in her situation. But she couldn’t shake off the feeling that she ought to keep Frédérique at arm’s length.

At least for now.





14





‘Yes,’ he said on the phone. Then, ‘I understand. OK.’

Next to him, Lily strained to hear what was being said, but it was impossible.

He hung the phone up, quietly, and looked at her.

‘Well?’ she said, almost bursting. ‘What is it? Has it fallen through? Do we have to wait? Don’t tell me the sellers have pulled out again?’

‘Lily Butterworth,’ he said. ‘We got it.’

‘We got the house?’ she almost screamed.

‘We are the proud owners of number 32.’ He grinned as she launched herself into his arms.





‘What are you smiling about?’ Emily’s words broke through her day-dream and she snapped back to reality.

‘Oh, nothing,’ she said. ‘Just thinking.’

They rounded the final corner, crossed the bridge over the lake and turned onto the main road through Faux la Montagne. The evening was cool, but it was light and there was no threat of rain. The Nissan bumped up the now familiar road, passing the café with its purple sign. The lights were on and as they passed Emily glimpsed people inside.

Seconds later, they were pulling up outside La Petite Maison.

‘Oh god, I feel like I’m intruding,’ said Emily dramatically.

‘Don’t be silly. Chloé’s happy you’re coming – and she’s got plenty of pot-au-feu apparently.’