A Year at the French Farmhouse(95)

‘He’s congratulating you,’ he said. ‘On your French.’

‘Oh. Merci,’ she said, blushing.

‘Félicitations, Madame Buttercup,’ Frédérique said once they were outside.

‘It’s Madame Butterworth,’ said Chris, his brow furrowed. ‘Isn’t it?’

‘Ah yes! I know this now. But, for me, she is as beautiful as a buttercup, non?’

‘Oh,’ Chris said. ‘Yes, of course.’ He seemed embarrassed.

‘It is OK, Monsieur, she does not mind. We are lovers,’ Frédérique said with a reassuring pat on Chris’s shoulder.

‘Well, not exactly,’ began Lily, but Chris was so red that she wasn’t sure what to say next. ‘Look, thank you for your help. I wouldn’t have managed without you.’

‘No problem,’ he said, shaking her hand briefly before hot-footing it to his Renault.

‘Well, this is a wonderful day!’ Frédérique said, turning to her. ‘My grandmother will be very ’appy, and I am very ’appy that the ’ouse is now yours and you will be living ’ere.’

‘Thank you. Pass on my best to your grandmother,’ she said.

‘And I can now buy you a drink?’ he continued. ‘Per’aps champagne?’ He put his hand on her arm and she felt the familiar tingle.

‘OK.’ she smiled. ‘Why not?’

‘I know just the place – it is close to ’ere and it is my friend who own it,’ said Frédérique. ‘You want that you follow me in your car? Or you can leave it ’ere, eh, if you want to ’ave a bigger drink?’

‘I’ll drive,’ she said. She was conscious that as well as celebrating having signed the papers, it was time that they had a proper talk about everything, and this seemed as good a moment as any.

She followed his 2CV as it hurtled around corners, not wanting to lose sight of it, but equally not confident enough on the ‘death-drop’ road to drive at the same pace. Thankfully, the café/bar he’d earmarked was only a few kilometres away, close to Chloé’s chambre d’h?tes in Faux La Montagne.

She’d passed the entrance before but it had been closed, and thought how small and sweet it looked with its purple painted sign and matching wooden door. Once parked, they walked up the gravelled road and pushed the door open, causing a bell to ring. Inside was a tiny stone-floored room, complete with bar, piano, shelves heaving with books and a single computer on a corner desk offering internet connection for €1 an hour. Local artwork was dotted on the walls, and posters advertised a poetry reading at the end of the month. The room smelt of a mixture of coffee and burnt wood, which reminded her a little of her childhood. They’d had an open fire when she was little and she’d loved to sit by it and warm herself in the evenings, watching cartoons and drinking hot chocolate.

Here, the fire clearly hadn’t been lit recently, but years and years of use and the half-burned log lying in the grate ready for winter gave the room its mild, smoky aroma.

‘Oh, this is sweet,’ she said as she walked in.

‘Oui, j’aime beaucoup cette café,’ Frédérique replied. ‘Mon ami, Marcel, he run it since ten years.’

‘Oh lovely,’ she said, watching as Frédérique strolled up to the bar and jauntily pinged the little bell for service. He was wearing a cream linen suit which could have been plucked straight from the A Good Year film set wardrobe, teamed with sandals – the jury was still out on whether these worked with the overall ensemble – and a light, chequered shirt. The trousers, she noticed, were particularly flattering from behind, accentuating the pert outline of his clearly toned…

‘Lily? You would like champagne too, I think?’ Frédérique’s voice cut through her reverie and she realised she’d gone into a trance-like state.

‘Oh, oui, s’il tu pla?t!’ she said, jumping back to attention.

Frédérique raised an eyebrow then looked back at his friend, who had appeared behind the counter. She hoped it hadn’t been obvious that she’d been staring at Frédérique – or more precisely, his bottom – lost in thought. For a moment, she expected Frédérique to tell the café owner and the elderly couple at one of the tables that they were lovers, as if to explain why she was gaping at his rear end but for once he kept the (mis)information to himself, exchanging brief conversation before beckoning her over.

She’d spent much of last night thinking about their situation. Frédérique was romantic – that was already patently clear. But a bit of a serial romancer, too. And apparently had the tendency to fall out of love as quickly as he fell into it.

At the moment, his falling out of love wasn’t the problem. It was the fact he’d claimed to be in love with her so quickly, putting pressure on what she’d thought would be a casual date or two. She hadn’t wanted to jump into a whole relationship, just have a bit of fun. And now she felt she ought to commit to Frédérique or leave him before either of them got hurt.

But then, should she assume he was going to take whatever their relationship was down the same road he’d taken with others in the past? Or should she allow him a new start – a chance to learn from his past mistakes and enter a relationship with a clean slate? Her own track record wasn’t exactly great – sure, she’d been married for twenty years, but she’d also moved to France and left her husband almost overnight. Nobody’s love life looks great in the rear-view mirror.