She watched as the woman rummaged in the bag, finally pulling out what appeared to be a glass bottle filled with cloudy urine. ‘Jus de pomme,’ the woman said, grinning and nodding enthusiastically.
‘Oh, lovely. Did you… is that yours?’ Lily said, holding up the too-brown liquid.
The woman looked at her in confusion and Lily felt embarrassed to have fallen into the all-too-British trap of assuming that everyone could understand your language if you spoke loudly and slowly enough. ‘Vous l’avez fait?’ she said. You made this?
The woman nodded, then returned to the plastic bag, this time producing something that looked at first glance like an old white rag, but actually – to Lily’s horror – turned out to be a chicken, fully feathered, muddy footed and completely and utterly lifeless. Its head hung limply to one side, eye open, regarding Lily with a fixed stare.
‘Pour le pot!’ Hermione said, brandishing it towards Lily’s face. The chicken dangled, silently, just inches from Lily’s nose. Hermione mimed putting it into a saucepan, then did a chef’s kiss on her fingers. ‘C’est délicieux.’
‘Oh, thank you… but I’m not sure…’ said Lily, resisting the urge to back away. ‘I mean, merci beaucoup, mais…’ She paused. What was she going to say? That she didn’t eat meat? Because that was absolutely not true. She could chow down a Sunday roast with the best of them, and never said no to a chicken korma.
What she objected to, it seemed, was having a dead, unplucked bird wobbling in her face. But why? Because it made her feel squeamish? Because she couldn’t bear to eat it because it actually looked like a living creature? She was so divorced from what she ate, all packed neatly into supermarket plastic, that when confronted with reality she felt complete revulsion. This chicken, God rest its tiny soul, had probably had a better life than half the shrink-wrapped organic chicken breasts she picked up from the chilled aisle. She looked deep into its eye, and couldn’t help but feel judged.
With few neighbours nearby, it was important to get off to a good start with this one. Her heart thundering, she gingerly took hold of the chicken’s soft, feathered neck. Hermione released her grip and the full weight of the bird swung in Lily’s hold. Trying not to gag, Lily laid it quickly on the kitchen counter. Almost unbearably it was still warm – her neighbour must have snapped its neck on the way over. ‘Merci, Madame.’ She smiled. ‘Vous êtes tres gentille.’ You’re very kind.
‘C’est vraiment frais!’ the woman said.
‘You can say that again.’
The woman stood and smiled at her for a moment.
‘Um, voulez-vous un café?’ Lily asked.
‘Non, merci,’ said her neighbour, still standing there.
‘Un thé peut-être?’ Maybe you want a tea?
‘Non.’ The woman abruptly turned to go. ‘? plus tard!’ See you later. She lifted her hand in a wave without looking round and disappeared back into the foliage.
‘OK, a… oui, à plus tard,’ Lily replied, feeling slightly sick. Hopefully the woman wasn’t going to come over for dinner and help her polish off the poor chicken. She was quite willing to accept that when it came to meat eating she was a hypocrite, but admitting you had a problem and actually plucking a chicken were two very different things.
Just as she was wondering whether she could get away with sweeping the bird into a bin bag and depositing it in the street-side bin without being spotted and causing terrible offence, there was a knock at the front door.
Tentatively, hoping it wouldn’t be yet another neighbour waving a dead animal or a jar of pee in her face, she moved forward to open it.
Outside, she was greeted by the smiling face of Chloé, who stood – miraculously immaculate in a white trouser suit and red scarf, despite having somehow negotiated the weed-infested path – with a gift bag.
‘Bonjour,’ said her former host, holding the bag. ‘Félicitations!’
‘Merci beaucoup,’ Lily said, her face breaking into a genuine smile at seeing someone familiar. ‘Come in.’
‘Thank you,’ Chloé said, stepping into the hallway, her eyes scanning the dusty floor, faded wallpaper and hanging wires. ‘I cannot stay, but I want to bring you thees gift, for your moving in – ’ow you say, ’ouse ’eating, yes?’
Lily didn’t correct her, partly because she would have felt like a hypocrite – Chloé’s English put her French to shame – but also because she quite enjoyed the little nuances and mispronunciations Chloé came out with. Plus, she loved the idea of calling it a house heating rather than housewarming. Especially as this particular house didn’t seem to have any decent heating at all.