‘Pas de problème.’
Lily had read many times about how the French were more relaxed, how stress rates in France were far lower than in the UK. One of the reasons she loved the culture here was that so many people seemed friendly and easy-going.
But could he be for real? She couldn’t imagine being completely calm about being set upon by a pack of snarling mini squirrels. Especially if her initial instinct had been to get rid of them in a much less humane way.
But Frédérique’s smile seemed to be genuine. He walked over and peered over her shoulder, looking at her sketches.
‘This iz nice,’ he said, pointing at the kitchen sketch, his arm just inches from her ear in a way that felt strangely intimate. She could smell the antiseptic he must have used to treat his wounds, the faint scent of coffee on his breath and underneath, the aroma of soap and aftershave.
She wondered for a second whether he could smell her in return. After spending a couple of hours on the sun-lounger, she was probably slightly less fragrant than she’d have preferred.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It’s the new kitchen for the house, or at least I hope it will be.’
‘It iz very nice. I like it with the modern placards et bar Américane,’ he said. ‘The cupboard, eh? You ’ave a good eye.’ He slid into a chair next to her unasked. ‘And these are your other plans, yes?’ He picked up her sketches and flicked through them. ‘Zey are, how you say, very stylish.’
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘When you ’ave finished, I think my grandmother will not recognise it, eh?’
‘No, maybe not,’ she said, not quite sure how to answer this without accidentally insulting an elderly woman’s taste in decor. She could hardly say ‘Let’s hope not!’ and laugh her head off, could she? ‘Can I get you a drink or something?’ she said instead. Chloé had said that she could help herself to the room and make use of the coffee maker in the corner if she wished. She was sure that her host wouldn’t mind her getting Frédérique a cup.
‘Fank you, but non, I am fine,’ he said. He looked at her for a moment, his eyes intensely green in the afternoon light. ‘But I want to ask… I ’ear you ’ave a problème,’ he added quietly, ‘in ze town wiv your friend, aujourd’hui uh? Is it all OK for you?’
Lily nodded. ‘I hope we didn’t upset anyone?’
Frédérique made a face and shook his head. ‘Non, I do not think people are very easy to offend, tu comprends? But some people, they find it très funny. They say, look at the English ladies, uh? But I tell them, Madame Buttercup, she is my friend; she does not be’ave like that normalement.’
‘Thank you,’ Lily said.
‘But your friend, eh?’ Frédérique added, raising an eyebrow. ‘She like to ’ow you say, she like a drink a little too much, per’aps? She is a bit crazy?’
‘I know. But… c’est compliqué,’ she said. ‘It’s complicated. She is… un peu malade.’
‘She is sick?’ Frédérique looked concerned. ‘From the drinking?’
‘No. Well, yes. But no, I mean… She’s not sick exactly. It’s more that she’s triste, sad.’
‘She ’as une dépression?’
Another female word, Lily thought. Great. ‘Well, a bit. At the moment,’ she said. ‘She…’ But she couldn’t find the words to explain without betraying Emily’s confidence. And she wasn’t sure whether Frédérique would cope with the mention of a cervix over the breakfast table.
Frédérique nodded sagely. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘You want that I tell people this?’
‘Oh no! Please don’t tell everyone she’s depressed!’
‘I mean,’ he said, leaning forward slightly, his face only inches from hers; eyes earnest, ‘I mean to tell them that she is not well, that it is pas normal for ’er to, how you say, drink the piss?’
‘To get pissed,’ Lily corrected, with a grin. ‘And yes, please. I mean, if people say anything about it.’
‘OK, I tell them,’ he said. ‘But I tell them for you. Because you are my friend, oui?’ He held her gaze for a moment and she found herself looking away, face flushed.
‘Yes. Yes, definitely,’ she said.
Frédérique stood up decisively. ‘And now you can go back to the new ’ouse, without les ravageurs, the little pests!’ he said with a grin.