On the stage, the lecturer cleared his throat and began to speak. Everything was the same as usual.
Everything was different.
Snapping back to the moment, Lily wound down the window. It was 2 p.m. and the afternoon sun had kicked into overdrive. The air conditioning in the car appeared to be faulty – something she hadn’t thought to check before leaving the car park – and she could feel her armpits, elbows, knee crevices, back and arse begin to develop an uncomfortable sweat.
She’d been driving now for an hour and twenty minutes – something that had seemed easily doable when she’d planned the trip from the comfort of her PC, but that in practice was testing her driving skills more than she could ever have imagined. Driving on the right was OK, but what about roundabouts? One-way roads? Dual carriageways that moulded into a single lane at a moment’s notice? She’d been beeped, given the finger – one man had even wound down the window to yell something at her in French when she’d cut him up at a crossing. ‘Je suis désolé!’ she’d said, close to tears. ‘I can’t help it!’
Finally, she’d escaped the city and begun to drive down the D940 – a long, wide road that had none of the complications of speed bumps, roundabouts or traffic lights – and felt herself relax. That was until a tractor, loaded with so many hay bales it seemed to defy the laws of physics, pulled out in front of her and trundled along at a steady 20 km per hour.
Suddenly, as she slowed, the road behind, which had been reassuringly empty, began to fill with impatient cars, the drivers beeping and gesticulating as she glanced in the rear-view mirror, eager for her to overtake. But with little visibility around the countless corners, over hills or past unknown crossroads she wasn’t able to work up the nerve. Gradually, drivers began to zoom around her, glancing at her as they passed; taking risks, which meant they were either completely reckless, drunk or incredibly important and late.
Eventually, she took a turn onto an even smaller road that seemed to decrease in width the more she drove, then began to climb alarmingly, making the little car’s engine squeal in protest. To her right, a small grass verge gave away to an enormous cliff-like dip, peppered with trees and without a barrier in sight. Without realising, she began to drive more towards the centre of the road to avoid this death-drop, and earned a loud blast of the horn from a careering Land Rover.
Gripping the wheel more tightly, her heart thundering, she tried to reassure herself. Everyone got a bit of road rage when they were stuck behind a slow driver, or whizzed around the corner to find a tiny Nissan cruising down the middle of the road. People weren’t unfriendly here, it was just the circumstances. The near death experiences. She’d get the hang of this weird left-hand drive, right side of road combination after a while and it wouldn’t all be so stressful.
Besides, she’d spend as little time in an actual car as possible, she resolved; she’d buy a woven basket and walk to the market, filling it with fresh, locally sourced produce. She’d eat at the local restaurants and purchase her bread daily from the boulangerie. Perhaps she wouldn’t even need a car at all. This was the storm before the calm.
With just a few more kilometres to go, she breathed in the fresh air and tried to relax. She found that if she ignored the drop of certain death on the right of her, things felt a lot better. According to the GPS, she was nearly at the chambre d’h?tes she’d booked – and just ten further kilometres from the house she would soon call home. Once at the B. & B. she could kick off her shoes, gulp down a cuppa and start her new life.
As if reading her thoughts, the in-car satnav suddenly went black and displayed the words ‘signal lost’.
‘Shit,’ she said, in spite of herself. In spite of the new, stress-free, relaxed version of herself she was trying to be. But how hard could it be to negotiate the last few kilometres? From what she could remember, there was literally one road that led into the tiny village. It shouldn’t be that difficult, even for someone with her sense of direction.
After what seemed like at least five more kilometres she felt less confident. The road weaved back and forth and signposts pointing to tiny hamlets along muddy tracks gave no indication of how far she was from her destination. If Ben had been here, he’d have brought a map, she realised. He always brought a map, no matter how much she insisted that the GPS would guide them wherever they needed to go. She was literally lost without him.
But this was ridiculous. She was a grown woman, quite capable of finding her way without electronic help. Spotting a Land Rover pulled up on the side of the road and a man in a high-viz orange jacket leaning on the bonnet, holding something in his hands, she pulled up to ask directions. It would be good practice for her fledgling French, after all. And surely nothing could be too complicated. A simple aller tout droit (go straight ahead) would be enough to reassure her that she was still on the right route.