A Year at the French Farmhouse(75)

Instead, now, she’d begun to see the beauty in the house’s flaws – not so much the bits that were falling down, or the need to burn lorry-delivered oil in order to heat her water, which she’d have to do something about. But the wonky walls and rickety stairs; the unusual design of the brick-decked fireplace and the mismatched furniture she’d assembled to use in the kitchen had begun to grow on her. The house had personality, was quirky and fun. And perhaps if she overdid the renovations she’d lose some of that.

In the end the trip to the barn wasn’t a complete disaster. She found a pair of comfy armchairs – wooden framed, the kind her grandmother used to have, but somehow charming. She even discovered a small table with chairs that would definitely make an improvement on the garden table she’d dragged into the kitchen as an interim measure. She managed to communicate with the man behind the till – despite his only speaking French – that she’d like them delivered tomorrow if possible, and given her address and brief directions.

He was friendly, patient with her fledgling French and more than happy to help her out. For €200 all in.

With the bedstead she’d bought on LeBonCoin – a second-hand selling site – now delivered and a mattress on order from a shop in Limoges, these extra additions would feel like the height of luxury after putting up with airbeds and metal chairs, propping her dinner on the edge of a dresser or balancing a plate on her knees. An actual real-life table. Who’d have thought?





Since agreeing to go for a meal with Frédérique, she’d been worrying on and off about how it might go. About what it meant. So it was a relief when the hands of the clock finally crawled to 5 p.m. and she could legitimately begin to get ready rather than thinking about whether she should be going out, whether it was OK that – despite her half-promise to Ty – she hadn’t been able to bring herself to ring Ben.

She turned on the taps and left the bath running and walked into the bedroom, where she’d laid out a couple of outfit choices on the airbed. A black dress seemed too much – it wasn’t as if she was going into Limoges; he’d told her it was a local restaurant – but she wanted to look nice. In the end she selected a light summer dress, in a dusky pink, patterned with tiny white flowers. Not too much, but definitely more date-like than the leggings and jeans that had become her at-home ‘uniform’ while she patched up the house.

Smiling, she drifted back into the bathroom, ready to add a slug of the bubble bath she’d picked up earlier to the tub. Only, when she stuck her hand into the water to test the temperature, she found it was freezing cold. The oil in the tank must have run out.

Now she was left, stubbly legged, slightly sweaty, greasy-haired with a dilemma; to brave a freezing cold arse, or to go on a date looking like a yeti. She chose the former, grimacing as she stepped into the cold water, stood and washed herself as best she could.

At least, she thought, as she towel-dried her hair, she’d probably burned about five hundred calories in the process.





Finally it was 7 p.m. and she paced the living room waiting for a knock at the door. It came.

Frédérique was there, his normally floppy hair brushed back and gelled. It didn’t suit him as well as his usual style, but the sweet effort he’d gone to made her smile. He’d trimmed his beard, and was wearing a white shirt and light blue trousers that showed off his tanned skin. He was holding a flower, clearly plucked from his – or someone else’s – garden and handed it to her.

‘For you, mon amour,’ he said with a little bow.

‘Merci beaucoup!’ she said, smelling the bloom before placing it on a stepladder in the hallway and hoping he wouldn’t mind.

He reached for her hand and she stepped down the path with him, pushing thoughts of Ben and Ty and Emily, plus anyone else who wanted to interfere in her life and her feelings, to the side. It was easy for people to judge from the side-lines. To want everything to go back to normal because it suited them. The only one who had even a tiny bit of a right to feel that way was Ty – she ached for any hurt she might be causing him. But she had every right to happiness, and was going to embrace it fully.

The restaurant was a short drive away, down a seemingly empty country road, which eventually opened out to reveal a stone building set on its own, with a few cars scattered in an enormous parking area behind. A sign – ‘Le Bistro’ – hung in carved wood over the entrance was the only indication that this was anything other than an old farmhouse, half-forgotten in its isolated position.

She climbed out of the car, her heels sinking slightly into the soft ground and, gratefully taking Frédérique’s hand, made her way to the entrance.

Once they were seated at a small mahogany table next to a window, a woman in a white shirt and jeans came over with a menu. They were one of just three couples in the small room, and the venue felt intimate and charming – the sort of place that tourists would never stumble across; authentic and rustic and ridiculously French.

Frédérique looked at the menu, his eyes flitting back and forth, and she waited patiently for it to be passed to her.

But to her surprise, before she’d even been able to glance at the starters, he clicked his fingers in the air – something that seemed rude, but that she assumed was a custom in France – to summon the waitress. Then, in rapid French, he said something about steak and frites and red wine and bread. It was straightforward, but the speed of the language meant she was only able to grasp on to the edges of the meaning. Was he asking what cuts they had? Or for the wine menu?