‘Lily. You know I love you.’
‘Yes?’
‘But seriously, are you filling me in on your B. & B. host’s life story. Because this is an international call.’
‘It’s included in my contract, though. It’s free.’
‘Still…’
‘Well, yes. I suppose… It’s just she’s so interesting.’
‘But about the house?’ Emily said, impatiently. ‘When are you going to see this place? I want pictures! Details!’
‘I’m going to drive and see it in a moment, actually. It’s just… I feel a bit, well, nervous.’
‘Excited nervous?’
‘Terrified nervous.’
‘I get that, sweetie. It’s a big thing. But remember you’re not obligated to…’
‘I know, I know. But also I sort of am. In some ways.’
Emily sighed. ‘Lily Jemima Butterworth, what are we going to do with you?’
Driving once again along the tiny main street, a rudimentary map drawn in biro on a piece of paper sitting on the passenger seat in case she went out of signal with her GPS again, Lily found herself smiling. Emily might be a bit intense at times, but she was such a good friend. Without that call – that friendly but firm push in the right direction – she wasn’t sure she’d have been able to muster up the courage to negotiate the roads again, let alone go and see the house in the flesh today.
Now she was bumping along tree-lined roads, marvelling at the view and breathing in the pine-scented air that buffeted her skin through the half-open car window. Any nerves she’d felt had been released by her chat with Chloé and her phone call with Emily. She was going to enjoy her life here, she told herself. She was going to make it work. And with a bit of effort, she could become a completely new person to boot. The sort of person who wore linen trousers and lipstick, and while she wouldn’t smoke, the sort of woman who’d look pretty cool if she did.
The roadway began to narrow again as she neared Broussas, and other than the odd abandoned stone house or roadside café, there were few landmarks to break up the endless green of the evergreen trees, ferns and shrubs that lined the route. Occasionally she’d meet a car – sometimes with a windsurfer or dinghy strapped to the roof – or a camper van on a corner and they’d stop and negotiate around each other before continuing on their way. Each and every time, she was convinced she was going to lose a wing mirror, or plunge into the roadside ditch. Each and every time, the other driver seemed to have no such concerns and rushed around her, their wing mirror a whisker away from hers. It was terrifying. But she’d get used to it, she told herself. Driving on new roads was always a little fraught.
Finally, she passed a little black and white sign announcing the name of the village that was to become her new home. Broussas. Feeling her heart pound, she carried on, eyes taking in every detail. There were two houses immediately on her right – both newish builds painted in a peach colour a world away from the stone buildings that had otherwise dotted the route. She rounded a corner, wondering what she’d find next, but to her surprise, instead of more houses or some sort of village centre or a church or a shop, she found another sign announcing that she was now leaving the hamlet.
Surprised, she drove on until she found a sizeable muddy lay-by, turned around and headed back. She must have missed something. Sure enough, in a gap between the two houses there was the start of an even smaller road with a sign that said ‘lac de Vassivière’, the lake that was apparently walking distance from her new property. She turned and bumped down the road, passing more buildings as she approached the lake in earnest. A small pottery shop, a restaurant that seemed to be closed, a sign for a campsite and finally another two houses, partially hidden by the trees.
Instantly, she knew. The overgrown garden, the stone walls, the cherry tree – albeit now in leaf rather than blossom. The blue shutters, some open, some firmly closed. And to confirm it all, a handwritten sign that read ‘Vendu’ – sold. This was it. This was her new home.
She pulled up outside,, bumping up the kerb slightly to ensure any other cars would be able to pass her and make their way to the lake. Then she got out of the driver’s seat and looked at the property that had led her to leave her husband, and the country she’d grown up in to take a chance on a completely new start.
It was beautiful. Traditional stone walls, pointed with a beige mortar, a front garden that, while in desperate need of a trim, boasted roses, blackberry bushes, elderflower berries and what might or might not be grape vines towards the back. The front garden was walled, and a tiny metal gate – slightly open on its hinges – revealed a little path to the front door, almost entirely obscured by the foliage. Measured against some of the houses she had seen en route, it was small, but compared to the identikit houses on her estate at home, it was enormous – two storeys plus an attic that, according to the spec, was ripe for conversion. The advertised 3,000 square metre garden at the back was barely visible, and the little she could see was thick with brambles.