A Year at the French Farmhouse(61)

Even her brother, David, who was still alive and kicking and doing very well in finance, lived so far away that she barely saw him from one year to the next. They spoke occasionally on the phone, but he was someone who never quite seemed comfortable on the end of the line. She ought probably to update him about her split; he’d want to know – he wasn’t completely useless. But she wasn’t really ready to relate it all to someone from scratch. It was too new, too raw. She’d email him soon.

Her coffee arrived, placed before her on the little coaster set out for the purpose.

‘Merci, Madame,’ she said to the waitress.

‘De rien,’ the woman replied. Then, in broken English: ‘You don’t want anything else?’

‘No, that’s great. There’s sugar there, so…’

‘Not ready for le vin yet, this morning?’

‘Wine? Oh. No, thank you.’

It seemed like an odd thing to offer, although she had heard rumours that a few of the locals liked a little morning snifter. Surely it wasn’t common practice though? She lifted the coffee and breathed in the rich scent before blowing gently on the top and taking a sip. It was good, and she earmarked the café for future visits. Just the right amount of milk, a professional swirl on the foam, two sugars and – bonus – a tiny wrapped square of 70 per cent chocolate on her saucer.

She was just peeling the corner of her miniature treat, when the door opened and a slightly smarter version of the Frédérique she was accustomed to walked in. He was wearing light, linen trousers and a pale blue shirt, had combed his hair and – if she wasn’t mistaken – even given his beard a trim since they’d last spoken. He carried his suit jacket over his shoulder like a model in a catalogue, and seemed very aware that he was looking his absolute best. She tried not to think about Max Skinner or idyllic French holidays in inherited mansions but to remind herself Frédérique was simply someone she was buying a house from, not a rom-com love interest.

The woman behind the counter beamed at him when he approached and exchanged bisous. Then he collected a tiny espresso and looked around for a table, stopping when he caught Lily’s eye and flashing her a smile.

‘Madame Buttercup! Eh, Lily!’ he said, walking over to her as if they were old friends. ‘Do you mind if I…?’ He gestured to the seat opposite her.

Once again, a few of the customers turned to look.

‘No, that’s fine,’ she said, feeling herself flush.

‘And your friend, she is not coming?’

‘She’s gone back to England.’

‘Oh, but this is a shame. So you are all alone?’

Usually this phrase wouldn’t bother her, but after the finality of Ben’s messages yesterday, the word ‘alone’ stung a little. ‘Well, yes, I suppose I am… for now,’ she said and tried to smile.

‘Ah, but then you are not alone, not here. There are friends to be made,’ he said, gesturing around.

From behind the counter, she caught the woman who’d served her looking at her with a slightly stern stare.

‘Well, hopefully,’ she said. Then, leaning forward. ‘Is… are people normally so… I don’t know, interested when someone new comes in?’

‘’ow do you mean?’

‘Well,’ she said, trying to keep her voice down. ‘I don’t know if this is a café more for local people. But when I came in, it was as if… I don’t know, everyone stopped and looked.’

Frédérique took a sip of his coffee with a grin. ‘I fink you will find zat you are becoming quite une célébrité ’ere.’

‘Me? What, because I’m a woman, moving over and starting a business on my own?’ she said, feeling quite affronted.

‘Non, Madame,’ he said, looking at her kindly. ‘Because you ’ave made quite an impression at the marché, eh?’

‘Oh.’ The Emily incident. ‘You think people remember…’

‘Not much ’appen ’ere,’ he said with a shrug. ‘You ’ave made some entertainment, eh?’

The waitress’s question suddenly made sense. She said, ‘The waitress—’

‘Oui, Sophie,’ he interrupted.

‘Yes, well, she offered me some wine. Was she being…?’ She didn’t know how to fill in the gap. Was it a joke at her expense? Was it a mean jibe? Was it normal?

‘Ah, please not to mind Sophie. She is a little strange, I fink. With new people. But she will be OK.’

‘Oh.’ Lily dropped her gaze, not wanting Frédérique to see that it bothered her. ‘So she was being… it was a joke?’

‘Well, per’aps. She ’ave…’ow you say – she always cherche la petite bête.’

‘She looks for a monster?’ Lily said, brow furrowed.

‘She like to find something to be angry for,’ he said. ‘She like to pick for the nits.’

‘Oh.’

‘But don’t worry, she is OK. Give her time.’

‘Right.’ Lily sipped her coffee, feeling a little nervous. Behind the counter, she could see Sophie glancing in her direction. She tried to shake off the feeling of being unwelcome. She was sitting with the mayor; things really couldn’t be that bad. ‘Look, I was hoping to see you, Frédérique.’