‘See, you think I’m joking. But before you know it you and the local cattle may have formed a moo-tiful friendship.’
‘That’s awful.’
‘Yes, I apologise.’
‘I feel as if you’ve let yourself down.’
‘I am deeply ashamed.’
Lily had decided to book a small hire car for the first month to get her started, so after collecting her case and making her way through passport control – which had taken just twenty minutes – she headed to the car hire building. Her on-board suitcase was modern, light and had wheels. But the enormous case she’d placed in the hold was old, unwieldy and bursting at the seams. Rolling one while carrying the other proved no mean feat, but she developed a kind of roll-limp and drag motion that got her to the tiny administrative building with a picture of a car above the door just across the pedestrian crossing.
There was one customer ahead of her in the queue who already had his keys and papers, but seemed deep in conversation with the assistant. They gabbled together in such fast French that it was impossible for her to eavesdrop. She caught the words, soleil (sun), plage (beach) and what may or may not have been haricots verts.
Come on! she wanted to say. Allez, for god’s sake. She wanted to get in the car, whizz to her B. & B., get the kettle on and make herself the mother of all cups of tea. She tapped her foot and glanced behind her at the three people now waiting in line.
But instead of looking at watches or sighing loudly, they all appeared to be waiting patiently, seemingly not in a hurry at all.
Finally, the man finished his tale of beans on the beach or whatever he’d been gassing on about and it was Lily’s turn. The woman at the desk shuffled some paperwork, looked up and smiled. ‘Bonjour, Madame,’ she said.
‘Bonjour,’ Lily replied. Then, glancing at the back of her hand where she’d written the word ‘voiture’ (car) just in case, added. ‘Je voudrais louer un voiture.’
‘Pardon?’
She’d double-checked the French beforehand to make sure she’d got it right, so tried again, ‘Je voudrais louer un voiture, s’il vous pla?t.’
The woman looked confused. ‘You are English, yes?’ she said. ‘You can speak English if you like.’
‘Thank you,’ said Lily, deflated. ‘I want to hire a car.’
‘Ah, une voiture,’ the woman pronounced carefully. To Lily’s ears, it sounded exactly the same as when she’d said it seconds ago.
‘Un voiture,’ Lily repeated, trying to perfect her pronunciation.
‘Yes, but une,’ replied the woman. ‘It’s feminine.’
Lily had never completely understood the French language’s propensity to give everything from toasters to toilets a sex. ‘Why does it matter what sex my car is?’ she wanted to say. ‘I just want to drive it, –not shag it.’ Instead, she nodded. ‘Une voiture,’ she said, pronouncing it correctly.
‘Oui, that’s it!’ The woman nodded. ‘May I ’ave your name?’
‘Lily Butterworth.’
Finally, after about half an hour spent spelling out her name, signing something and paying some sort of deposit that hadn’t been mentioned on the website, Lily slipped into a small Nissan Micra – left-hand-drive – and pressed the ‘start’ button. And she was away, following the satnav instructions, feeling completely out of her depth in a left-hand drive car on the right-hand side of the road, and heading towards the tiny village of Faux la Montagne.
‘This is it, car,’ she told the Nissan. ‘I’ve really done it now.’
7
Lily looked up as the cute guy sank into the seat next to her. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Crowded today.’
‘It’s OK,’ she replied, although in reality there were a few other spare chairs, none of which had anyone’s bag on it. She propped her bag against her knees and drew out her notepad.
‘Not sure what else they can have to say about Hamlet,’ he whispered as their lecturer walked into the hall.
‘I know,’ she said, although she’d actually been enjoying the series of lectures; peeling back the layers of an age-old story, revealing truths that still applied to their lives today. She looked at him properly for the first time. Light tan skin, neat brown hair, spiked with gel. Blue or green eyes – hard to tell in this light. He smelled good too – like pencil sharpenings and fresh air and shampoo.
He glanced back, catching her off-guard and she quickly looked down at her notebook. ‘I’m Ben, by the way,’ he said.