A Year at the French Farmhouse(92)

‘Because,’ she said, ‘if you’re not, I seriously, seriously won’t ever recover.’

‘I tell you what. If I do die, I’ll haunt you for eternity, how’s that?’

‘You joke,’ she said, ‘but I’m holding you to that, Ben Butterworth.’





She woke up early, the sunlight shining on her pillow interrupting a dream in which she was being pursued through a crowd by a man who, in turn, would have the face of Ben, then Frédérique, then Russell Crowe (circa 2006). Her heart was pounding, and her T-shirt clung to her in what she’d have once described as ‘all the right places’.

Last night when the concert had ended, she’d been disappointed when Frédérique had waved her and Sam off, and instead of making any sort of move, had begun chatting to a couple of friends. She’d assumed he’d at least ask if he could spend the night, so had been wrestling silently for the last half-hour about whether this would be a good idea or not.

She’d started off deciding that he definitely couldn’t stay yet. But over the course of the next few songs, feeling Frédérique’s touch and glancing at him from time to time, had decided that maybe – just maybe – she’d accept his advances.

So when he’d kissed her gently then wandered off to his friends without even giving it a try, she’d felt rejected. Which conversely made her want him even more. Had he known this? Was it a strategy? Or should she simply be more upfront about what she wanted, get things straight in her mind, before asking for space then feeling put out when she was given it?

This morning she was a little more grateful that nothing had happened. She’d woken up with Ben on her mind. Even though they’d been apart for weeks now, she still expected to see him when she drifted out of sleep each morning. Each morning, she still felt a little lost when she found he wasn’t there. If she’d woken up today to find a replacement, she wasn’t sure if she’d have felt OK about it – not yet.

She looked at the clock, it was eight o’clock, but would only be seven in the UK. But Ben was an early riser – he’d always set his alarm for six on workdays. She could call him now and catch him before work. Just to check up on him. She’d promised Tyler she’d do that.

She had an hour before Claude was due to come over and cut the grass, this time with a slightly less industrial-looking mower. She’d meant to get herself sorted with a gardener or a ride-on mower by this point, but the grass had got its act together before she had. If she left it any longer, it would begin to resemble the jungled overgrowth she’d found when she first arrived.

The phone rang twice before Ben picked up with what seemed like a fairly cheery ‘hello’ for this time on a working morning.

‘Hi, Ben. It’s just me.’

‘Hi, Lily.’

‘I just thought I’d catch you, see how you are?’

‘Thanks. I’m… well, I’m getting there, I suppose. How are you?’

‘Yeah, not too bad,’ she said, deciding not to fill him in on the events of the past few days. It wasn’t worth it; nothing had happened that he needed to know about.

‘Em said you’ve been on a date,’ he said, clearing his throat slightly. ‘Did it… was it good?’

‘Em said?’

‘Yeah, she’s been over a bit. Helping… you know. I mean, she only told me because… I suppose I pressed her on it a bit.’

‘Oh.’

‘You don’t have to talk about it. It’s just… well, you know.’

‘It wasn’t really a date,’ she said. ‘Just… you know, an informal thing.’

‘Right.’

‘Nothing happened if that’s what you’re worried about,’ she felt compelled to add.

‘Oh, OK. Well, good. I mean, well you know.’

‘Right.’ Part of her was fuming, another part quite pleased that he was at least bothered.

‘Because… I mean, I know it’s not the right time to talk about it, is it? But you know… I never stopped loving you, Lily.’

She felt her chest tighten. ‘I know you didn’t. I know if I hadn’t left we’d still be together. But, Ben, you made it clear that you didn’t love me enough.’

‘Because I wouldn’t come with you?’

‘Well, yes. Because you knew I wanted—’

‘Lily, stop…’ he said. ‘You’re right. I don’t know why I said that. It’s not your fault… I know the – well – the break-up was my doing.’

Was this some sort of reverse psychology trick? ‘Right,’ she said.

‘I’m serious. I’ve been seeing a counsellor – a lot, actually – and I’m trying to be more honest about my feelings. To not be, eh, afraid to talk about them, you know? Because the kind of thing I went through… my… my anxiety I mean; it grows when you don’t expose it to the light.’

‘Well, that’s good. That you’re seeing a counsellor.’

‘And I’ve realised a few things… since starting to talk about it properly. And I need to say… I want to say that it wasn’t just my anxiety that caused all this.’