A Year at the French Farmhouse(99)

By the time she’d bought the house in France, they’d drifted apart a little. She’d arrived in France on a wave of anger and self-righteousness that had given her a kind of energy and strength to move forward.

But recently she’d started to think about the whole of their relationship, not just the recent weeks. The day they met in the lecture hall, the moment she’d discovered she was pregnant, their wedding day when they’d fallen into bed too exhausted to consummate anything. Their nights out, meals out, days out – always with moments of laughter and the kind of silliness you only really get with someone you’ve known since you were young and relatively carefree.

They’d evolved around each other like jigsaw pieces, and she could feel the jagged edges left exposed where they’d pulled away from each other. She couldn’t imagine finding anyone who fitted her so exactly, because she’d grown to fit Ben and he’d grown to fit her. Perhaps nobody would ever fill the space he’d left.

The shock – and it had been a traumatic, proper, pass-me-some-smelling-salts-no-make-that-a-bottle-of-your-strongest-brandy shock – of discovering that he really would let her walk away had been brutal. But somehow her anger had overridden it at first.

Now the anger had gone and she was left with a feeling of grief. And she knew it was going to take more time and energy to heal than she’d realised at first.

There was nothing she could do about it though, or rather there was something, but it was too much to ask – give up her dream, move back to England, pretend the last part of her life hadn’t happened; live with the knowledge that Ben was the reason she’d had to let go of the dream she’d thought they’d shared. The die had been cast and she was here, starting a new life in a new place. She couldn’t afford to give in to the feeling of loneliness – either by throwing herself at the nearest twinkly-eyed Frenchman, or collapsing on the floor in a sobbing heap. Not if she wanted to build any kind of future for herself.

Instead, she resolved, she’d buy snacks. Lots of snacks.

‘Are you sure that isn’t too many snacks?’ Sam said doubtfully as they heaved the overflowing trolley to the till. ‘Isn’t Chloé bringing some quiches as well?’

Chloé had insisted she bring something when Lily had invited her to the party. ‘But I must!’ she’d said. ‘You are my friend, non?’

‘Yes, but I… I mean this is meant to be a party thanking you,’ said Lily. ‘Thanking everyone. You shouldn’t have to work.’

‘Pah, it is not work to make a quiche, huh? Especially when it iz for a friend.’

‘It’ll be fine,’ Lily said. ‘I’m not a hundred per cent sure who is coming – Dawn and Clive said they’d put the word out, whatever that means. But I can always keep some back for another time. I have a teenage son, remember.’

‘Good point,’ Sam said as she began to stack packets onto the conveyer belt. ‘Perhaps we should get a few more bags.’

Lily smiled. She was lucky to have found a friend like Sam – who seemed to be on her wavelength and knew how to cheer her up, even if she didn’t know she was doing it. In fact, what with Frédérique and Chloé and all the other people she had made connections with, she was beginning to feel she’d really landed on her feet here.

Last night, Lily had sent text messages around to everyone she’d met so far.

Party, Saturday, 2 p.m. everyone welcome.





She’d had a host of replies, almost straightaway, including one from the translator, Chris, whom she’d forgotten was still in her ‘French contacts’ file. He’d seemed very keen and she’d thought – why not? The more the merrier.

She’d spoken separately to Frédérique, not wanting to send something so impersonal out to him. He’d seemed delighted to hear from her. ‘Lily, yes, of course I am coming to your wonderful party,’ he’d said. ‘I would not miss it for the world.’

‘Oh, thank you,’ she’d said.

‘And you would like me to bring some things?’

‘No, no. It’s all organised.’

‘Some music per’aps?’ he’d said, undeterred. ‘I ’ave la machine à karaoké?’

‘Well, OK, why not,’ she’d said. ‘Might be fun.’

‘And per’aps I bring some of my ’ome-made wine? I make it from ze plants in my jardin?’

‘Sounds delicious.’

When scrolling through her wider contacts to make sure she hadn’t missed one, she’d paused on the word ‘Mum’. Somehow, she’d been unable to delete her mother’s number from the phone. She’d even transferred it when she’d bought a new one. It was something about the finality of it; something about the act of deleting a number that at least promised to link her to the woman she’d loved most in the world.

‘I wish I could talk to you, Mum,’ she’d said.

Mum had always been the one she’d called when the chips were down. She and Ben had been two pillars of strength in her life. Without them, she was wobbling, unsupported. She’d fought the urge to send a text to the obsolete phone. If the number had been reassigned and a stranger answered, it would probably break her.