A Year at the French Farmhouse(76)

She waited patiently, then was surprised when the waitress thanked him and walked away with the menu in her hand.

‘Is something the matter?’ she asked, once the waitress was out of earshot.

‘Bah, non?’ Frédérique said, his brow furrowing. ‘Pourquoi – why do you think this?’

‘It’s just… she took the menu. Did she do it by accident? Or is there a different one or something? When do we get to order?’

‘Non, tout va bien!’ he replied. ‘I ’ave ordered you the steak, oui? It is the best.’ He performed a chef’s kiss with a flourish and smiled at her.

Lily felt a bit affronted at his ordering on her behalf. She tried to tell herself that he wanted to treat her, to show her the best the restaurant had to offer. But it was difficult for a moment to smile. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

‘Ah, you are welcome!’ he said, completely missing any change in tone and fixing her in his gaze. The gaze had the desired effect and she was soon melting into his green eyes, all offence forgotten. After all, his motive had clearly been to ensure she had the best meal – there was nothing wrong with that.

The steak arrived more quickly than she could have anticipated and her stomach growled hungrily – luckily not loudly enough for anyone else to hear. The cut was thick, seared and smelled delicious. The frites were chunky and home cut, and they’d added a tiny salad in a bowl with vinaigrette in a nod towards making it healthy.

‘Mm,’ she said, as the waitress placed the laden plate in front of her. ‘Délicieux!’

‘Oui,’ said Frédérique. ‘Zey do the steak to perfection ’ere.’

She picked up her knife and cut into the dark-brown meat, only to find it yield easily beneath the blade. Blood began to seep out of its red interior onto the plate.

She’d tried a steak rare before, but this was something else entirely. Other than its browned crust, the inch-thick chunk of meat was entirely raw. ‘Oh,’ she said.

‘Is something le matter?’

‘Yes… well, no, but I prefer my steak a little more cooked.’ Or actually cooked at all.

Frédérique looked momentarily surprised, but before she could tell him not to make a fuss, clicked for the waitress who appeared instantly at his side. He said something to her in low tones, as if discussing something delicate or troubling. The waitress snorted briefly then, with a glare, snatched Lily’s plate away.

‘Is everything OK?’ Lily asked, sensing the shift in atmosphere.

‘Mais oui!’ he said. ‘She weel cook it more for you!’

A couple of minutes later with a ‘Voilà – bien cuit,’ the woman reappeared and shoved Lily’s plate rather roughly in front of her. The meat on it was steaming from the griddle.

‘Merci,’ Lily said. ‘Et désolé!’ she called after the woman’s retreating back.

‘Are you sure I haven’t done something wrong?’ she said to Frédérique with a grimace.

‘Do not worry about it,’ Frédérique replied, chomping on a chunk of what was basically raw cow arse, ‘they are very precious about their cooking, eh? The chef, ’e is insulted a bit I think?’

‘Oh,’ she said, her heart sinking. ‘Well, I didn’t mean…’

‘It is nothing, we are the customers!’ Frédérique told her, his smile a little spoiled by the small runnel of blood seeping from mouth to beard. ‘We come first, zey say this?’

She nodded, then cut into the steak, which – after an initial millimetre of cooked meat, was still entirely raw.

‘It iz better, yes?’

‘Much better,’ she lied, reaching for her wine and taking an enormous gulp before forcing a bit of raw meat into her mouth. ‘Yummy.’

They began to talk about her plans for running retreats, about Frédérique’s hope that he could introduce a new market day into the local town. They spoke about family – carefully avoiding anything about ex-husbands or divorces – and life in the local area.

The conversation flowed, the wine kept pace and soon Lily was relaxed, happy and tipsy enough to chow through her dinner without too many issues.

After the steak came dessert, paired with a rosé, then coffee and a small shot of something sticky and sweet. She offered to pay, but Frédérique refused. ‘Mais non, you are my guest,’ he said, handing his bank card to the waitress, whose look in Lily’s direction showed that she still hadn’t been forgiven for rejecting the steak.

After this, her memory got a bit blurry. She remembered stumbling back to the car with Frédérique afterwards – who clearly hadn’t filled his own glass as much as hers – laughing as she almost broke her heel on a rogue stone, climbing awkwardly into the passenger seat and beginning the journey back to Broussas, with Frédérique at the wheel.

But when she found herself in a strange room the next morning, she couldn’t really remember much about what had happened after that.





26





The curves in the road towards Broussas were car-sick inducing at the best of times. But this morning Lily definitely couldn’t be described as ‘being at her best’. As the driver signalled to turn into the road leading to her house, Lily asked him to pull over. ‘C’est bon,’ she said. ‘Je veux marcher… I’ll enjoy the walk.’