A Year at the French Farmhouse(60)
Rage that she’d allowed herself to miss Ben so much, to feel lonely without him, to – she realised now – put off some of the things she wanted to do to the house in the vain hope that they might be able to do them together.
She knew that underneath the anger, the devastation she’d felt was still lingering. But for now, she was determined to embrace the energy that came with being furious. It was still weeks until she’d be able to sign for the house entirely, but Frédérique seemed perfectly relaxed about the idea of her living here. Surely he wouldn’t mind if she started some of the work? After all, it wasn’t as if she was knocking anything down. Simply making improvements.
Having the house project firmly underway would give her something to think about if any other sleepless nights came her way. It would give her something to bang and hammer at when she felt angry. It would harness her creativity and keep her whirring brain occupied.
In short, it would be something to do.
Returning to her bedroom, she slipped on a pair of skinny jeans, a T-shirt and trainers, and pulled her hair back into a rough ponytail. Some of her outgrown layers were only just long enough, and several strands fell forward around her face. But it would do. Then, armed with her list of potential jobs to run past Frédérique, she was about to exit the house when she realised it was only 7 a.m. and suddenly felt completely exhausted. Was it even worth driving into town at this hour?
But then, she resolved, she simply couldn’t stay around here a minute longer with all this on her mind. Besides, she knew that the boulangerie opened in the early hours and possibly the café too. Frédérique wouldn’t yet be installed in his office, but could well be chatting with locals over coffee. If not, she’d read her book, watch and wait for 9 a.m. – and at least see a bit of life around her to get her mind off Ben’s message.
To her surprise, when she’d rung Emily last night, her friend had been sympathetic, but not as outraged on her behalf as she’d expected. ‘Poor Ben,’ she’d said at one point. ‘He must be feeling completely devastated.’
‘It wasn’t exactly a fun message to receive either!’ Lily had said, a little put out.
‘Oh sweetheart, I know. I’m just… I suppose I’m just feeling a bit sentimental about things.’
‘Well don’t,’ Lily had said decisively. ‘You should be completely on my side.’
‘I thought you said there weren’t sides?’
‘There are now.’
When she arrived in Eymoutiers at 7.30 a.m., Lily was surprised to see that the small town was already relatively busy. There was a queue outside the boulangerie; dog-walkers chatted in the town square; lights were on in the two small cafés and people milled around holding bread and talking and seeming in no rush whatsoever to get to wherever they ought to be.
She pulled up in a small side street and squeezed the Nissan into a tiny space between a van and some sort of classic car. Then, climbing out, she wandered over to La Consolante, a pretty café decked either side of the door with hand-painted murals of whimsical women strolling in grassy fields.
One or two of the outdoor tables had been set up, but it was clearly only just opening time. Inside, ten or twelve people were dotted around, most at individual tables or on bar stools in front of the main counter. Other than two men sitting opposite each other, tapping on phones, most seemed to be alone. She pushed open the door and the murmur of conversation suddenly halted as she entered. A few faces turned to look at her; there was the odd nod or acknowledgement, then the conversation resumed.
Perhaps they were all locals, unused to seeing a stranger in their midst? she thought, wondering why her entrance had seemed to garner so much attention. She walked to a small table in the corner, with a menu written on a chalkboard at its centre. She smiled at the waitress as she came over. ‘Café crème, s’il vous pla?t.’ The woman, her black curly hair falling softly to her shoulders, nodded with a slight smile and disappeared behind the counter. The screech of a milk frother could soon be heard, and Lily felt herself relax a little.
Gradually, more people wandered in from the boulangerie, some taking croissants from paper bags and dipping them in their morning coffee, others propping enormous pains on the table while they took their first caffeine hit of the day. A few people on the outside terrace began to smoke, and the smell drifted in every time the door opened. Lily had never smoked, but didn’t mind the vague scent of cigarettes in the air – a smell that transported her back to nights out in her twenties, or – earlier still – watching football matches at the local club with her dad before his illness, munching on salt and vinegar crisps and breathing in what was probably a toxic mix of chemicals, but at the time had seemed grown up and exciting.
Dad had never been very adventurous and she wondered what he’d make of her current situation. He’d probably have thought she was mad, but would have been quietly supportive in his own way. Furious at Ben, too. And Mum would definitely have come over with her to help her out.
Emily barely saw her parents, and Lily understood why. She’d had a difficult childhood and although nothing terrible had happened, she’d never felt completely loved, completely nurtured at home. Not for the first time Lily felt angry that her kind and loving parents had been taken too soon, while others who seemed disinterested in their children appeared not to appreciate what they had.