By the time she pulled into her driveway, she was feeling more determined. She’d sit down with Ben and make a plan.
‘Let’s do it!’ she’d say, dramatically. ‘It’s only a year early – let’s just take the plunge! Vive la France!’
She’d been dreaming about cross channel living for at least a decade before they’d even met. She’d spent summers in Limousin and Dordogne as a child, bumping along in Dad’s VW campervan, trundling from campsite to campsite, and had fallen in love with the leisurely pace of life, the fresh air, the views, the culture. ‘One day,’ she’d said to Ben, shortly after they’d got together, ‘let’s move to France and have an adventure.’
If she was honest, she was a little tired of waiting for the move anyway. Every time she’d sat with Ben and discussed it, the goalposts had seemed to move. They’d originally said they’d see Ty through his GCSEs, then his sixth form exams; now they were waiting to see Ty settled at uni. She’d been on board – for the most part – with Ben’s suggestions but it had still hurt to continually put her dream on the backburner.
Last time, to make up for the delay Ben had bought her a French silk scarf for her birthday, together with a book entitled France: Your Guide to Moving, and a hamper containing Brie, Camembert, escargots and wine. ‘If Lily can’t make it to France just yet, then I’ll bring France to her,’ he’d said, giving her a kiss.
It wasn’t exactly living the dream, she’d thought: munching snails at the kitchen table in Basildon. But she’d smiled and kissed him, because he’d made the effort, been thoughtful. Plus, the year before he’d bought her a saucepan set (and she’d never forget the miracle juicer he’d produced for her fortieth that came with a free ‘slimmer thighs’ recipe book). This, at least, had been growth.
Now, pulling into the driveway, she sat for a moment and looked at the house that had been theirs for the past fifteen years.
It had served them well; had been a great family home. Newly built when they’d moved in, small but perfectly formed, their semi was part of a row of identikit houses on an estate that was neatly built and well maintained. The red bricks had faded slightly, but it still had the appearance of something shiny and modern. The double glazing had kept them warm, the garage – too small for anything but the tiniest of cars – had provided the ideal space for Ty’s drum kit during his rock star wannabe phase.
It was practical. It had been a safe choice. But wasn’t a patch on the French farmhouse she’d dreamed of living in for so long.
Over the years, she’d spent hours scrolling through French property listings on the internet, flicking through French Property News; lusting after stone cottages in the corners of tiny hamlets; renovation projects with potential to make your own mark. She’d drooled over stories of people moving over and living the dream: snapping up properties – mortgage free – for a song and making a forever home to be proud of.
Don’t think of it as a dead end. Try to think of it as an opportunity. The last thing she wanted to do was agree with Mark, whose whole reason for existence was going from firm to firm and ‘trimming the fat’. But perhaps, just on this, he’d been right.
Feeling her heart-rate increase, she stepped out of the car into the spring air. It was only five o’clock, but already there was a touch of early evening chill. The sky was a bland wash of grey and white, the sun hidden and glowing weakly beneath layers of cloud. She breathed deeply, trying to steady herself. But she could feel something beginning to take hold – excitement, a feeling that actually, just possibly, her life was about to change.
Ben worked from home on a Friday. He’d be busy at his desk, not expecting her back for an hour or so. She’d wrap her arms around him, tell him the news, then open his eyes to the possibilities that lay before them. ‘Ty will be fine; we can fly back and forth. And even keep the house in England for now,’ she’d say. Surely he couldn’t say no to that? Perhaps, at last, this was going to be ‘their’ time.
The house was quiet as she let herself in. Ty’s coat was missing – he’d be out playing Fortnite with friends or at the gym. She crept upstairs to Ben’s office – letting out a small cough before disturbing him; the last thing she wanted to do was shock him into a heart attack just when their lives were opening up.
But as she pushed his office door open, with a lively, preparatory ‘Bonjour!’ she saw that the room was empty. A jumper hung on the back of his swivel chair; his computer screensaver bounced across a black screen. Piles of paperwork were neatly stacked. He’d finished balancing other people’s books for the week.