A Year at the French Farmhouse(54)

At least being back at the house might mean a better night’s sleep, Lily told herself now. Despite having failed to buy anything to replace the two airbeds in the upper rooms, she was looking forward to at least being able to spread out a bit in bed again, even if her bottom would be grazing the floor at the same time. And, of course, there would be no rodent riots above her head in the wee small hours.

Earlier, over yet another pastry filled breakfast at Chloé’s, she’d introduced Emily to Dawn and Clive who’d promptly invited her to their party too. ‘It won’t be anything much,’ Dawn had reassured her. ‘Just a few mates and a few beers, you know? Come along and meet the gang!’

‘Thanks,’ Emily had said, with a smile.

But the minute the couple had left the breakfast room, her face had changed. ‘Meet the gang!’ Emily said. ‘You’re not going to go, are you?’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, they’re old enough to be your parents, for a start.’

‘Not that I have any parents,’ Lily had reminded her.

‘Sorry. But you know what I mean.’

‘Anyway, I hate to break it to you, Emily, but they’re only about ten years our senior,’ she’d added. ‘Old enough to be siblings; aunt and uncle at a push. But not parents, I’m afraid.’

‘I wish you’d stop that.’

‘What?’

‘All that maths. It’s bad for the brain. I stopped counting once I reached thirty-five and I’m much happier for it.’ Emily had winked.

‘Still, doesn’t stop you celebrating your birthday each year though?’

‘That’s different.’ Emily had grinned. Then, ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I just thought they seemed a bit… you know.’

‘What?’

‘Well, a bit “expatty”. You know, when Clive bent to tie his shoelace, I’m pretty sure I saw a glimpse of Union Jack boxers.’

‘Expatty? Is that even a word?’

‘It is now.’ Emily had grinned. ‘Look, I just mean, they seem like they’re a type.’

Lily had been silent for a moment. ‘I know what you mean,’ she’d said. ‘But I’ve come to realise the idea of properly integrating with my smattering of evening class French, well, it isn’t going to happen right away. And it wouldn’t hurt to have a few friendly faces in my camp. They seem nice. And I suppose, when it comes down to it, I’m an expat too, whatever that is…’

‘Posh immigrant.’

‘Ha. Well, less of the posh.’

‘Sorry. You’re probably right. I’d go mad if I didn’t have anyone I could talk to properly.’

‘Exactly. I can’t integrate with people if all I can do is ask directions to the tourist information centre.’

‘Or buy a train ticket to Paris.’

‘Or order coffee and a croissant.’

‘Exactly. I mean, I’m going to get more lessons like, yesterday. But I’ve realised – even if I study day and night – I’m pretty sure it’s going to take longer than I’d thought.’

‘Although Monsieur Crowe has a pretty good command of English.’

‘Monsieur Crowe?’

‘Russell to you,’ her friend had told her with a wink. ‘Or Frédérique.’

‘Oh Em, will you stop!’ she’d said, feeling her face go red. Ever since Emily had pointed out the likeness between Frédérique and the heartthrob from her favourite movie she couldn’t shake off the image. Now she was in danger of either flinging herself into Frédérique’s arms and calling him Max or asking to see his vineyard next time she saw him.

‘Shall we sort the beds while we’re waiting?’ she said now to Emily, picking up the rather pathetic foot-pump that she’d bought from the supermarket.

Luckily both beds needed repumping – something that was ordinarily a chore, but got both their minds off the imminent call. When they finally finished – legs aching – it was time. ‘I’m so fucking nervous,’ Emily said just before she dialled.

‘I know you are, love,’ Lily said, putting an arm round her. ‘But it’s better to know.’

‘I know. Sorry if I’ve been a bit over the top. It’s the nerves.’

‘Over the top? You? Never.’ Lily smiled.

Emily put the phone to her ear. ‘Do you mind if I?’ she said, gesturing to the next room.

‘Sure.’

To give her friend some space, Lily stepped out of the front door into the garden, but, restless with anxiety, found herself walking down the road that led past the campsite to the beachside lake. Although she’d driven by and given it a quick look when she’d first arrived, she hadn’t since taken the time to explore it properly, and never on foot.

The morning still had a nip in the air, but the sun was breaking through, gently shining on the road ahead of her. After passing the entrance to the campsite, set in between a canopy of trees, the road started to open out, and soon she’d reached the wooden walkway that led to the lakeside sand.

Other than a couple walking their dog a little along the beach and a couple of campervans parked in the small car park, she was completely alone. The lake stretched out to the distance and, had she not known, she could easily have imagined that she was on an island, surrounded by the bluest of seas. Later, she knew, the car park would begin to fill as holidaymakers and locals made the most of the chance to swim, take out one of the canoes for hire, or sit at the ramshackle beach hut and order white wine and a crêpe or barquette de frites. But for now, at this hour, it was all hers.