A Year at the French Farmhouse(72)

She touched her lips now, unconsciously, remembering how gentle his kiss had felt, how fresh and soapy his aftershave had been. How his beard had felt soft against her skin. His arms, tight around her back.

She was reliving the moment when her phone pinged.

So – how’d it go. Spill!





Good, thanks.





And… was it a date? Call me!





Yes. But don’t worry. Nothing happened.





She didn’t add how much she’d wanted it to.

She repotted the last of her plants and picked up the watering can – not the relic that she’d clambered on the day she’d first met Frédérique, but a new one purchased from the bricolage. It was made of metal, painted blue, and once filled was heavier than she’d imagined in the shop. Using both hands, she tilted it towards the planters and flooded each with probably too much water. Then, straightening up, she made her way back into the house to wash her hands and make a coffee.

She’d never been very good at keeping her mind off her problems – Just think about something else! her mum had used to say. But Lily found it impossible. Her mind kept drifting back to Emily; she knew her friend would either worry or be offended if she left it any longer before calling and talking to her properly.

In an attempt to keep herself busy and delay the post-date post-mortem that no doubt Em was desperate to conduct, she picked up her phone and dialled Ty instead. It had been a few days since they’d spoken, and it would be nice to catch up.

‘Hi, Mum,’ he said, after a few rings.

‘Hey, Ty,’ she said, feeling both happy that he’d answered and sad that she was so far away from him. She reminded herself that he was an adult now – he wouldn’t have been at home with her for much longer even if she had stayed in the UK. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Ah, OK,’ he said. ‘You know.’

‘Well, I don’t… really. Did you get your room in halls sorted?’

‘Yeah, it’s all right.’

‘Seen any of the gang? Gone to the pub or anything?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And how is everyone?’

‘You know.’

‘Right… Well, I’m doing OK here too.’ She wasn’t offended that he hadn’t asked; phone calls weren’t her son’s strength. ‘Getting some of the house fixed up.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘And…’ She wondered, for a moment, whether she should say anything. But then she had nothing to be ashamed of. ‘I’m thinking of going on a date.’ She couldn’t quite bring herself to tell him she’d already done it; somehow it felt easier to introduce it this way.

‘What?’

‘Yes. A lovely French gentleman has asked me to go out with him. And I might say yes.’

Her heart began to thud. She realised for the first time how much she needed Ty’s … well, not his support or blessing but just to know that he wasn’t completely aghast at the idea.

‘But, Mum,’ he said, ‘what about Dad?’

‘Ty, you know me and your dad… well, we’re not together any more.’ She felt a pang of anxiety as she spoke the words aloud. ‘We… I mean, I’m here, he’s there… I know it’s difficult… but…’

‘What? You’ve actually split up with Dad?’ he said, an edge to his voice now.

‘No, Ty. Dad split up with me. He sent… well, put it this way, he doesn’t want to be in touch with me any more. And it’s hard – I know, it’s hard for me too. But I can’t sit and mope forever.’

There was silence on the line.

‘Ty?’

‘Yeah. Sorry. I mean, I get it. I do. But I think you should talk to Dad.’

‘But…’

‘I know you said he said not to. But I think you should, Mum.’

‘I just don’t think…’

‘He misses you, you know. I mean, loads, right?’

‘Oh Ty. I’m sure he…’

‘And he’s in a right state. The house is a shithole.’

‘Ty!’

‘Sorry. It’s very messy,’ he said. ‘He needs you, I think.’

‘Oh, Ty… it sounds like he needs a cleaner.’

‘Nah, it’s not that… he’s just… He’s sad, I guess.’

She wished now that she hadn’t brought the subject up. ‘OK, Ty. I’ll, well, I’ll see what I can do.’

This seemed to satisfy him. ‘Thanks.’

In a way she was proud of him – an eighteen-year-old trying to save his parents’ marriage. But at the same time she was angry at Ben, for not filling Ty in on all the details and leaving him to assume she was the ‘bad guy’ in all this.

Angry, she dialled the one person who she knew would say the right thing.

‘Hello, stranger,’ Emily said, a smile in her voice.

‘Hey, you.’

‘So?’

‘So, what?’

‘So spill. About the date?’

‘It was. Well, it was really lovely,’ she said, feeling herself begin to blush.