‘Well, really!’ says the woman, and Ralph barks, as if to endorse my decision. I look at Fabien, who is patting Ralph’s head, and Carine nods, making me feel I’ve done the right thing for me.
‘We have plenty more houses for you to see,’ she tells her clients.
‘But I want this one. Offer her more,’ says the woman.
‘This house is already sold. It has a new life and a new owner,’ says Carine, firmly.
That’s me!
Ralph barks more as the woman stalks towards the car behind Keef. My dog can contain himself no longer and throws himself at her. She’s flapping her hands at him and he’s delighted she wants to play: he covers her white jeans with dusty orange paw marks.
‘Oh, my God!’ she shrieks, and runs to Carine’s tiny car, slamming the door as Keef squeezes himself into the front passenger seat.
‘Welcome,’ says Carine. ‘I like your style. You know what you want … and what you don’t want. A woman after my own heart,’ she says, and I explain that that couldn’t be further from the truth. I have no idea what I’m doing here. ‘Bonne chance,’ she says. ‘Maybe we could have coffee when you’re in town next.’
‘I’d like that,’ I say. ‘Sorry about the waste of time – and the white trousers.’
Carine waves a hand, dismissing it all. ‘It’s no problem. I have a feeling, though, that they may be regular customers, the sort that come out here for the good life, then sell up and move home six months later.’
That was exactly who we were. Were.
‘Only the ones who love it stay.’ She smiles. ‘Au revoir. À la prochaine,’ she says, folding herself into the car, next to a red-faced Keef. She starts the engine and disappears down the drive. I swear she hits every pothole as she goes.
Fabien is still standing there. His little Jack Russell sticks her head out of the cab’s window to see what’s going on. Ralph looks up at her. ‘If I let her out, she’ll disappear,’ Fabien says. The Jack Russell barks and again Ralph sits and pants.
‘This is for you,’ says Fabien, taking something from the front seat of the truck. He holds out the silk dressing-gown to me.
‘Oh, no, really. I have to watch my money, now I’m going to be staying.’
‘It’s for you.’
I take the dressing-gown, but it’s heavier than I’m expecting. It’s wrapped around something.
‘Open it.’
Inside is the leather-bound recipe book with the aged pages. Recipes with lavender.
‘Fabien!’ I exclaim.
‘It is a gift. A moving-in gift!’ He laughs. ‘I can see you are going to be a very good customer in the future.’
I’m touched by the present, but he’s right. He knows a good customer when he sees one. I’m going to need much more now that I’m staying. It’s good business sense and tears are in my eyes: tears of relief, of trepidation about how I’m going to make a living, of joy that one part of my life is over and a new one is beginning.
‘Merci beaucoup, Fabien. Très gentil,’ I say. I open the book and a little bunch of dried lavender falls out. Fabien picks it up, sniffs it and hands it to me. I take it, my fingers brushing his. Something like an electric shock passes through me.
‘I hope we will be friends.’ He smiles, his green eyes alight. My stomach flutters and his charm makes me shy again.
‘I hope so too,’ I say, and gaze down at the book in my hand, running my fingers over it.
And Ralph barks. I think he’s as happy to be at home as I am.
‘Yes, and you,’ Fabien tells Ralph.
‘Thank you for bringing the furniture, Fabien. Would you like something to drink?’
‘Non, merci. I have to return to the shop.’ He gets into the cab where his Jack Russell is waiting patiently. ‘Bienvenue!’ But his earlier words echo in my head: here to invade us. I’m determined to show him I’m here to be a part of local life, not on the outside looking in.
‘I hope you will be very happy.’ He raises a hand, and I watch the truck drive away.
I have a feeling that, when the pain stops, I’m going to be just that, I think as I hold the book and the dressing-gown. I look out over the view, trying to imagine it covered with lavender. A happy, healing place indeed. I breathe in the lavender scent and smile.
SEVEN
The following morning I’m up early. After cleaning the house from top to bottom last night, getting rid of the layer of dust the mistral left, I’d made up my bed, just as I do now, with the floral eiderdown I bought from Fabien. I place the dried lavender on the pillow: last night, it gave me the gentlest of dreams. The birds are singing. The cockerel in the distance and the donkey, a little closer, are heralding another new day.
I get dressed and go downstairs to the kitchen, enjoying the feel of the cold tiles under my bare feet. I’m wearing the wrap-around dress I bought at the brocante and it feels so different from anything I’ve worn before. I run my hands over the soft fabric and like the way it makes me feel. I take a deep breath. Right now, I have to think about what I’m going to do with my life. How I’m going to make a living, now that I’m here to stay. The old recipe book is on the table. I find comfort in laying my hand on it, touched, too, by Fabien’s kindness. It’s been a long time since anyone did something as thoughtful for me. I open the first page. ‘Tuiles de lavande,’ I read, running my finger under the words and saying them aloud. Biscuits with lavender. Perfect! I’m going to make a recipe from the book each day. I’ll show Fabien how grateful I am for his gift and kindness, that I intend to embrace all things French and lavender. I’ll make the biscuits and take them to Fabien as a thank-you present for the book and dressing-gown. My day has a purpose already. It’s Monday, market day! Maybe Fabien will know of any jobs going. In fact, he’s sure to.
I pick up my basket, slip on my shoes. ‘Be good, Ralph!’ I say and, putting the book on a shelf so he can’t damage it, I leave the house, closing the front door behind me, then walk down the drive to go shopping for the ingredients. The smell of pine is in the air as I stroll into town along the grassy riverbank, past the beautiful blue settee under the tree by the river.
‘Bonjour,’ I say to the two men playing chess, and to another sitting on the settee. I wonder again what this place is. It’s like a film set.
‘Bonjour, Madame,’ they reply as I pass, barely looking up. I feel a strange sense of melancholy: perhaps I should ask someone about this place. I’ll ask Carine. Maybe we can have that coffee today.
What was the word for ‘flour’ again? I check Google Translate and run the word, ‘farine’, over and over in my head.
At the end of the path I walk down the lane, past olive trees and tall cypresses. Small brown birds flit among them. I can hear voices from open windows, couples in loud discussion, families. An old woman sits outside her front door dressed in an overall, her stockings wrinkling round her ankles, preparing green beans, and a child rides around on a bike. They all greet me with a nod and I head for the market and the shops.
‘Farine’, I remember, and reach for a bag. Now, what sort of sugar? I look at the row in front of me. I don’t know any of the brands. Well, perhaps sugar is just sugar. I take the pack with flowers on it. I decide to buy the butter from the cheese stall I passed outside, with what looked like a homemade slab behind the glass.