A Year at the French Farmhouse(91)

Before she could work out whether to say anything more Sam reappeared, red-faced from exertion.

‘Sorry about that,’ she said as she slid into her seat. ‘Think he’s getting a bit tired. We’ll have to make a move in a bit.’

‘Oh, OK,’ said Lily. ‘It’s a bit late for little ones, I suppose.’

‘Anyway, who’s this?’ Sam asked, nodding at Frédérique who had been staring so intently at Lily that he jumped, as if only just realising Sam was there.

‘It’s Frédérique,’ Lily said, pleading with her eyes for Sam not to mention their earlier conversation. Sam nodded, briefly, understanding.

‘Oh, Frédérique,’ she said, ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’ She winked at Lily, who dialled up the eye contact a little.

‘It is a pleasure to meet you,’ Frédérique said, raising his glass in greeting.

‘Yes, you too,’ she said, grabbing her own half-drunk glass and lifting it briefly. ‘Lily didn’t think you’d be along tonight?’

‘Ah, yes. But how can I stay away from ’er,’ Frédérique said fondly, ‘when I am so in love?’

‘It’s great,’ Lily interjected quickly. ‘It’s lovely to see him.’

Sam’s look was subtle, brief, but left Lily in no doubt what she thought about that statement. ‘We women spend so much time taking other people’s feelings into account that we forget about our own sometimes,’ she’d said earlier. And she was right. But how did you switch off the impulse to smooth things over when it was part of who you were?

‘Ah,’ she said. ‘How romantic.’

‘Ah, but I try,’ Frédérique said proudly. ‘I am – ’ow you say – I like to do the romantic gestures.’

‘Hey, you know what, Frédérique,’ Sam said with an almost imperceptible wink at Lily. ‘You should see if the band will let you serenade Lily. I think she’d love that.’

‘You fink?’ Frédérique glanced at the lead singer who was lost in the throes of Def Leppard’s ‘Animal’.

‘Oh, no. Don’t…’ Lily said hurriedly. ‘I think Sam is joking.’

‘Mais it is une bonne idée!’ Frédérique said. ‘You love music, yes? And I can sing for you. You would like this, I think.’

‘Oh, no, please don’t.’

‘But my love, it will be an honour, no? I know zis man in le band – ’e will let me ’ave the microphone I am sure.’

‘Please don’t,’ said Lily. ‘Honestly. It would be… lovely but perhaps too much for tonight.’

‘Ah, but she is so modest,’ he said. ‘She fink she is not worth a song? Per’aps you ’ave not been treated so well in the past. But for you, I would sing all the evening.’

‘OK, well, another time, perhaps,’ Lily said, trying to keep the blind panic from her voice.

‘Oui. Another time. If you want.’

‘Well, just make sure I’m there too when you do it,’ Sam said, with a grin. ‘I’d really love to be part of that special moment.’

Lily gently kicked Sam under the table. The last thing she needed was someone giving Frédérique any more ideas. Flowers, she could handle. A public serenade? Well, it might look good in the movies, but she’d probably never recover if it happened in real life.

But just when she was worrying that Frédérique was crowding her too much and trying to work out what to say about it, he reached across the table and took her hand gently in his. The touch of his skin reminded her of their date – the kissing, the fact that her body had fizzed with electricity in his arms. She looked up, their eyes locked and she found her mouth relax into a smile. It had been a trying few days, but it was impossible to ignore that there was something between them.

And she suddenly wondered whether she was the one being over-the-top.

She’d spent the last twenty years with a man who seemingly wouldn’t step out of his comfort zone for her. Who let her walk away when all she wanted him to do was be there for her.

Now she had Frédérique who, although rather demonstrative, was quite patently there. Who turned up, seemed committed, and looked like a Hollywood actor to boot. She’d felt his actions were over the top, excessive. But perhaps she was just used to being treated differently. Perhaps she should be enjoying all the attention, lapping it up rather than pushing it away.

Maybe Frédérique wasn’t the one who was being idiotic.

Maybe it was her.





31





‘Will you stop fussing? It’s only appendicitis,’ he said, trying to smile.

‘What do you mean, “only appendicitis”? They’re going to chop you open!’

‘Do you think you could… well, use different words? For a start it’s just, ahh, keyhole surgery. And secondly, oouch, that is not a relaxing thing to say to me before they wheel me to theatre.’

‘Sorry.’ She rested her head against his shoulder. ‘But you need to promise me you’ll be OK.’

‘Of course!’