“What about me?”
“What are you going to do after all this?”
“I need to start a new job search,” I reply despondently. “Like,yesterday.”
“Are you in that much of a rush to get back to working at an agency full-time?”
“I don’t want to. I don’t even reallyhaveto find a permanent position right away—I could probably get by until spring with what I’ve saved up and with what you guys are paying me—but I’m not one to fly by the seat of my pants.”
He pauses. “What if you didn’t have to go back to the UK? Didn’t you always dream of running your own company? Ifyou’ve got some money to tide you over, couldn’t you stay here and give it a shot? Maybe do some freelance work to subsidize it?”
My natural instinct is to shake my head and dismiss the possibility—I need a safe, secure job that’s going to pay my rent and allow me to sleep at night.
But what job is safe and secure? Do I really want to go back and work at another big, soulless agency? I was exhausted when I came here.
I feel like a different person now. And although I’ve felt a bit down over the last week, it’s not been because of work—work’s been amazing. I’m sleeping better, eating well, my skin is glowing, and the bags are long gone from my eyes. Being here is exactly what I needed.
Who’s waiting for me back in London? Tasha and Ryan are happy on their own. Mum’s abroad. I’d miss my friends, but it’s not as though we see loads of each other. What do I actually have to rush home to?
“We should have talked about this at dinner,” Jackson says as he watches my mind tick over.
“You were too busy discussing the cost of bottles,” I tease.
“Andyouwere too busy checking your phone,” he replies.
Touché.
I involuntarily press my fingertips to my warm cheeks and stare up at him. His smile does not reach his eyes.
“Let’s go and see Mellie. And then I need to text Étienne.”
He gives me a curt nod and we venture out into the path of tourists.
After watching Mellie working from afar only a few minutes ago and feeling overcome with emotion, I want to get my fix of her, but she has so many friends and customers popping by her stall that she really doesn’t have time for me.
In the end I text Étienne, give Mellie a kiss on her cheek, and tell her that we’re going for a drink. “Do you need some help packing up later?”
“Nope, it’s a well-oiled machine, as I keep telling you,” she says. “Go and have fun.”
We wait near the bandstand. It’s getting on to 9 p.m. and the light is fading fast, but everything still looks so vibrant. I cast my eyes over the scene, see the golden light spilling from stalls filled with regional produce: artisanal biscuits, local honey and chestnut goods, olives, cheeses and cured meats, plants and candles and brightly colored bottles of herbal and lithotherapy products. My eyes wander to the group of twentysomethings playing live music in the bandstand, led by a gorgeous singer in a red dress. I glance up at the tall trees and notice that the lit-up leaves are even more vividly green than they are in the daytime.
I drink everything in and feel a surge of happiness mixed with hope and optimism and the realization that I do not need to go home.
Icouldstay here. I could run freelance projects, be a digital nomad, live the dream. I could work with small or local businesses, take an online course to improve my French and maybe speak to some of the family-run companies who’ve underestimated their ability to scale up. If people are willing to pay five pounds for a bag of artisanal crisps, how much would they shell out for gorgeous candied chestnuts or a jar of delicious chestnut cream? I have plenty of experience of working with food and drink; this is viable. This is how I could crack the work-life balance.
My phone buzzes, jolting me from my daydream.
It’s a message from Étienne:What are you thinking?
I frown at my phone, and then I glance up and scan the crowd. I spot him on the other side of the bandstand, wearing a whiteT-shirt. His forearms are propped on the railing, his hands dangling loosely over the side. His dark hair curls down across his forehead and his eyes are hooded as he watches me with a secretive-looking smile on his face. He appears very relaxed, as though he’s been there awhile.
Either that or he’s had a few.
I give him an amused look as I pocket my phone and tap Jackson’s arm. Étienne lazily watches our approach as we walk around the bandstand. Only when we’re two feet apart does he straighten up.
“Bonsoir,”he drawls.
He doesn’t kiss me. I don’t know why I’m not surprised.
