‘Of course,’ he says, seemingly picking up on my change in mood. (Why was my card eaten?) ‘You are welcome to invade any time!’ He grins. He’s happy to take my money, but perhaps doesn’t want me in his country.
I count out the cash for the essentials and hand it to him, glancing at what’s left in the envelope.
‘You can take the other items. Pay me when you can, if you like?’
Tears fill my eyes but I don’t want him to see them.
‘I’ll come back when I can,’ I say, through my tight throat, knowing I won’t.
He reverts to slick professional and promises to deliver the goods after lunch. He knows exactly where Le Petit Mas de la Lavande is, he assures me.
‘Merci,’ I say, hurrying out of the cobbled courtyard and through the big iron gates that I know will be locked as soon as I leave: everyone closes for lunch. I hurry past the restaurant on the market square, where many of the stallholders are enjoying lamb ragout, the smell of Provençal herbs in the air, frites, salad and steaks, with jugs of rosé in the glorious sunshine. Small dogs sit patiently at their owners’ feet, and I wish Ralph was the kind of dog I could take to a restaurant. Cigarette smoke rises with the good-natured chat and I would have loved to have lunch in the restaurant, but I must find out what’s going on with our bank account.
I gather a few tomatoes, olives and cheese from the small supermarket as it closes to go with the baguette I bought earlier. I raise a hand to the lavender seller as he packs up for the day. The whole town seems to smell of lavender as I walk through the narrow streets, past the cream- and terracotta-coloured stone walls and shop fronts. The ‘pub’ in the middle of the square is busy with expats, but I don’t stop. I don’t want to have to explain why I’m here and Ollie isn’t. I hurry towards the road leading out of town and the grassy path along the river, then up the lane towards the house. The water running beside me is clear and calm. The cypresses are set against a bright blue sky. Bluer than I have ever seen before. My spirits begin to lift again as I walk back to Le Petit Mas.
I let myself in with the huge wrought-iron key. It’s as if I’m holding the history of the families who lived here before me. Ollie hated the key and wanted to get a locksmith in to replace it.
I push open the door, and Ralph sees me. He launches himself down the corridor at me, once again nearly knocking me off my feet. His welcome, crazy as it is, makes me laugh.
‘Okay, Ralph, I’m home,’ I say.
I walk into the kitchen where Ralph has knocked over his water bowl and shredded the blanket. My dog comes and stands next to me, panting, wagging his tail, as if relishing the memory of the fun he’s had. I rub his head. But I have to make the call to the bank and find out if there’s a problem with the account. I go out on to the veranda at the side of the house, Ralph bounding around my feet, and stride to the top corner of the field. I breathe in the scent of rosemary and wild thyme, running my hand along the lavender bushes there. Somehow, I’m filled with courage. I make the call.
‘You did what?’
‘I reported the cards stolen. If you’re serious about this, we need to decide who’s getting what,’ says Ollie, in work-mode voice.
‘Ollie, I need money. That is our joint account.’
‘And you are in our joint house,’ he replies.
I look back at Le Petit Mas, a shabby stone-built farmhouse, with sagging, peeling shutters. It was supposed to be my new home but now I can imagine a family returning to it from the market or church and sitting round a big table for lunch.
‘If you’ve finally come to your senses, I can talk to the bank, order your new card and organize a flight home.’
I say nothing.
‘I’ve found us a great apartment on Facebook. Friend of a friend is going away for a grown-up gap year. He was looking for someone to house-sit.’
I think of Ralph in an apartment, someone else’s apartment.
‘I’m sorry, Ollie,’ I say, my thoughts as clear as the blue sky I’m looking at. ‘But I’m not coming back to you. It’s for the best, for both of us.’
‘This is madness!’ Ollie splutters.
‘No, Ollie, it’s the most sensible thing we’ve done in years.’
‘What will you do for money? You need money!’
‘I don’t know … yet.’ I’ll think of something. I hear a car coming up the drive. ‘Ollie, keep the money in the joint account and the savings one. And the shares you got with your redundancy package. I’ll have the house. I’ll sell it, sort out the mortgage on it and keep what’s left. Seem fair enough to you?’
‘What? You’ll keep the house and sell it and I keep the cash in the account, the savings account and the shares?’
‘Yes, that should work out fairly, shouldn’t it?’
I can hear Ollie doing a mental calculation.
‘Fine, but this is madness. You’ll change your mind. It’s just The Change, you know.’
It is a change, but not the one he means.
‘Goodbye, Ollie,’ I say softly, as he bangs down the phone. It’s as if the door on my past life has slammed shut. I cry out in frustration and pain, then lean against the door frame and cry for the marriage that has died, along with any respect and affection I had for Ollie. It’s over. I cry for the family life we never had and the new beginning we tried to start. I cry for my mum. I cry until I can’t cry any more.
SIX
Ralph is running around and barking at a car that’s pulled up on the drive. I push my phone into my back pocket, sniff away the tears, run my hands over my puffy eyes and walk back around the side of the house. I recognize her as soon as she steps out of the car, pushing up her sunglasses to look at the property. It’s the woman from the estate agent’s.
‘Bonjour, Madame,’ she calls, and walks towards me.
‘Bonjour,’ I reply, shaking her hand, then apologizing for Ralph, who is leaping around, barking, delighted to have a new friend to play with.
The estate agent smiles, but keeps her distance from Ralph.
‘Are you okay?’ she says, staring at my swollen, red eyes.
‘Yes, fine! How can I help you?’
‘Your husband said you would drop the key to Le Petit Mas to the shop,’ she says, in a strong Provençal accent.
‘Ah, yes, the key, je m’excuse,’ I say, ‘mais …’
‘It’s no problem,’ she says. ‘I can pick it up from you now. Actually, I have some good news.’ She points to the small car as the doors open and a couple just a bit older than myself step out and scan the house. ‘Monsieur et Madame Jarvis from England are looking for a holiday home in the area.’ Then, more quietly to me, ‘Just like this one! And they are cash buyers.’
‘Cash buyers.’ I nod.
‘It’s … quaint,’ says the woman, with a broad south-of-England accent, not taking off her sunglasses. She’s wearing white jeans and wedge-heeled open-toed espadrilles. ‘Just what we want. Quaint and picture … picture … Cute-looking. And we have friends in the village, a whole group of friends now, actually. A right laugh that crowd are. It’s perfect, innit, Keef? Just out of town, but walkable when you’ve had a few gins!’