A Year at the French Farmhouse(51)

‘Is that a joke?’ Lily had said. ‘You know as well as I do that I’m a complete and utter mess half the time.’

‘No, for once, sweetheart, I am not joking. You are one formidable woman.’

‘Oh.’

‘Well, how much strength does it take to walk away from your husband, move to another country and start some sort of brand-new life?’

‘Try not to confuse strength with being completely and utterly mad.’

‘Ha. Well, there is that.’

‘Anyway, OK, let’s change the subject,’ Lily said now, pushing an interiors magazine across the table. ‘I was thinking dove grey for the hallway – what do you reckon?’

‘It’s a bit… well, grey.’

‘Well, grey does tend to come up a bit on the grey side.’

‘It’s quite a loir colour, isn’t it?’

‘That,’ said Lily, crossing her pen through the colour swatch, ‘is a very good point.’

‘Well, look. How about we go for a walk, or something. Up at the lake? Check out how that French mayor guy is doing ridding your house of vermin on the way?’

‘Sounds like a plan.’

‘Great. I’ll go and de-hangover in the shower, and then…?’

‘Perfect,’ Lily said.

Emily left the breakfast room, her feet tapping on the hall tiles then coming to an abrupt halt.

‘Bonjour, Madame,’ came a familiar voice.

‘Bonjour,’ Lily heard Emily reply.

Then there was the sound of two sets of footsteps, one heading away, the other drawing nearer. The door swung more fully open to reveal Frédérique, his face and hands peppered with small red wounds.

‘’ello?’ he said. ‘Ah, Madame Buttercup!’ His smile was wide, despite his evidently sore face.

‘Oh my god,’ Lily said, turning to him and forgetting to even try to speak French. ‘What happened to you?’

‘These little ‘mignon’ loir, they are not so sweet when you try to catch them, uh?’ he said, with a shrug as if it didn’t matter he’d clearly been set upon by a family of rodents. ‘And then when you try also to release them, he is even more angry, I think.’

‘I’m so sorry!’ Lily stood up, hand over her mouth. ‘I didn’t realise they could be so… well, vicious.’

‘De rien, you are welcome,’ he said. ‘You can sit, eh? I have put some treatment on zem and I will live, they say.’

‘Well, that’s good to hear,’ Lily said, sinking back into her chair, still feeling guilty. Should she have let him use the poison after all? Or just been a bit more relaxed about her loft-invaders, like Dawn seemed to be? After all, she hadn’t even noticed them until the night of the fall.

Still, it was done now, and she looked at him gratefully. ‘Well, thank you,’ she said. ‘It is appreciated.’

‘Pas de problème.’

Lily had read many times about how the French were more relaxed, how stress rates in France were far lower than in the UK. One of the reasons she loved the culture here was that so many people seemed friendly and easy-going.

But could he be for real? She couldn’t imagine being completely calm about being set upon by a pack of snarling mini squirrels. Especially if her initial instinct had been to get rid of them in a much less humane way.

But Frédérique’s smile seemed to be genuine. He walked over and peered over her shoulder, looking at her sketches.

‘This iz nice,’ he said, pointing at the kitchen sketch, his arm just inches from her ear in a way that felt strangely intimate. She could smell the antiseptic he must have used to treat his wounds, the faint scent of coffee on his breath and underneath, the aroma of soap and aftershave.

She wondered for a second whether he could smell her in return. After spending a couple of hours on the sun-lounger, she was probably slightly less fragrant than she’d have preferred.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It’s the new kitchen for the house, or at least I hope it will be.’

‘It iz very nice. I like it with the modern placards et bar Américane,’ he said. ‘The cupboard, eh? You ’ave a good eye.’ He slid into a chair next to her unasked. ‘And these are your other plans, yes?’ He picked up her sketches and flicked through them. ‘Zey are, how you say, very stylish.’

‘Thank you,’ she said.

‘When you ’ave finished, I think my grandmother will not recognise it, eh?’

‘No, maybe not,’ she said, not quite sure how to answer this without accidentally insulting an elderly woman’s taste in decor. She could hardly say ‘Let’s hope not!’ and laugh her head off, could she? ‘Can I get you a drink or something?’ she said instead. Chloé had said that she could help herself to the room and make use of the coffee maker in the corner if she wished. She was sure that her host wouldn’t mind her getting Frédérique a cup.

‘Fank you, but non, I am fine,’ he said. He looked at her for a moment, his eyes intensely green in the afternoon light. ‘But I want to ask… I ’ear you ’ave a problème,’ he added quietly, ‘in ze town wiv your friend, aujourd’hui uh? Is it all OK for you?’