A Year at the French Farmhouse(77)
It was partially true, partially a complete and utter lie. Although the walk wouldn’t be completely unwelcome, she was more worried that navigating the bumpy road in the back of a taxi might wreak havoc on her stomach, which was already grumbling worryingly after its overdose of vin rouge, raw meat and whatever they’d had for dessert. The last thing she wanted to do was vomit in the back of a cab – not only because it was pretty disgusting, but because the driver was a local guy, one of only two taxi drivers around.
As it was, she was already a bit embarrassed at the fact she’d called a taxi to pick her up from Frédérique’s house. She’d woken at 8 a.m., to find a note telling her he’d had to go to work, but to help herself to coffee. He’d put the card for the taxi firm next to the note, and €20 for her fare, which she hadn’t taken.
It was kind of him not to wake her, but in some ways she wished she’d seen him this morning – if only to reassure herself that the magic that she’d felt the night before hadn’t just been caused by having too much wine. As she’d drunk her coffee, memories had began to flood back and she’d relived the last couple of hours of their date, piecing everything together. Frédérique driving them back along windy dark roads, laughing when she’d been convinced that a log on the verge had been a deer about to spring in front of the car.
Then she’d come back to his, sat on the sofa while he’d made them both a nightcap. They’d talked a little more, before he’d leaned in for a kiss – a deep, passionate embrace that had left her fizzing on the inside. But then, as she’d laid back and pulled him towards her, he’d broken off and told her it might be time they went to bed – separately. ‘I fink it will be better for us when per’aps you have not had quite so much to drink?’ he’d said. At the time, she’d felt a bit put out, but this morning she felt grateful that they hadn’t rushed into anything. Instead, he’d shown her to a guest room, where she’d crashed – fully clothed – on top of the feather duvet.
After drinking the rest of her coffee and resisting the urge to explore some of the closed-off rooms, she’d called the number of the taxi firm and given Frédérique’s address, which had luckily been written on a couple of letters that were sitting unopened on the kitchen counter.
As soon as she’d hung up, she’d regretted it though; she should have arranged for the taxi to meet her on the corner – somewhere anonymous. Now, whatever had or hadn’t happened between them last night was going to be public knowledge and she wasn’t sure she was ready to be the subject of speculation – after all, the talk of Emily’s escapades had only just died down.
Once she stepped onto her road from the taxi, she also wished she’d remembered about the heels she’d chosen to wear the night before. Because walking the kilometre to her front door was going to be quite a challenge on the uneven surface. Rather than risk a broken ankle, she removed her shoes and held them in her hand by the straps; but walking was still uncomfortable at best. She wondered what she’d look like to anyone glancing out of their window – would they be able to tell she’d been out all night? Or could she just be going for a morning stroll in a rather flimsy summer dress?
By the time the roof of her house came into view, she’d started to wish she’d actually worried less about the taxi driver’s sensibilities and more about the effect of the stony, bumpy road on her bare feet. She’d trodden on at least three sharp stones, her feet were aching and dirty and to her horror she’d stepped on something cold and slimy on route, only to find that she’d flattened an enormous slug, lying black and sticky on the edge of the pavement.
As soon as she arrived home, she resolved, she was going to have the bath to end all baths – even if she had to boil a thousand kettles to warm it to the right temperature. She wasn’t sure whether she’d damaged the slug, or whether she’d simply made it slightly flatter with her tread, but whatever was on her foot, she longed to scrub it off, before also attempting to wash away the horrible feeling of being hungover. Next time they went out, she resolved, she’d stick to one glass, whatever stomach-churning delights were on the menu.
She hoped so much that there would be a next time.
Finally, her house came properly into view and she was on the home stretch. Just a couple of hundred metres and she’d be able to let herself in the front door, strip last night from her body, pop a couple of paracetamol, scrub herself clean then see if she couldn’t get an hour or so’s nap.
Then she stopped, feeling the blood drain from her face as she took in the sight of a figure standing close to her front gate. Someone who looked incongruous in his surroundings, but achingly familiar, even from this distance. But it couldn’t be, could it?
Since moving in, she’d come to like the occasional knock at the door – the way people popped around on their way to the lake, or dropped in to help out with something. She’d even enjoyed a coffee with her next-door neighbour last week – although her thick accent had been hard to understand, it had been a pleasant enough experience that had left her determined to pick up the pace with her online French lessons and find a local class as soon as possible.
But this wasn’t her neighbour, or Claude, or Frédérique, or any of the people she’d encountered in her time on French soil. It was someone else entirely, someone from a completely different world.