‘I’m sorry I’m late, the plane—’
‘In France, this is early.’ She wafts away my apology with a hand.‘Shall we?’ She gestures to the door, and I nod, stepping over the threshold.
Behind the bottle-green door, there is a communal hallway that hasn’t been touched since the eighties. It is dank and large, with greying tiles on the floor and chipboard paper on the walls. It smells stale. The American appears to notice this too. I wonder if she’ll ignore it but she looks at me and raises an eyebrow.
‘Stick with me. I promise you it’s nicer inside.’ She leads me up a grandiose-looking staircase that has seen better days. The ascent is slow; she has to pause at every landing, pretending to inspect some socket or dado railing and I politely wait with her, grateful for the thirty seconds or so to get my bearings. By the fourth flight, the pretence disappears entirely.
‘I don’t do this very often,’ she pants, ‘I normally get one of the boys down at the immobilier to show the renters but it’s a national holiday today – apparently the one last week wasn’t enough. Honestly, it’s a miracle the French ever get anything done. Still…’ She smiles softly at me. ‘Part of the charm.’
After three more treacherous flights of stairs, we reach a small landing with a singular skylight letting in a crack of the early afternoon light.
‘Most of the people who enquire about this place can’t make it past the second floor.’ She fumbles for the key.
‘Well,’ I shrug my shoulders and try a smile myself. ‘I wouldn’t say no to a stairlift.’
She cackles. It is a loud and sudden noise that makes me jump. ‘Well, that’s just cheating.’
The door opens gently and light floods the landing. She steps in first, holding the door back as I follow her.
Nothing matches – even the windows appear to have been added in different centuries – but considering it is in the attic, it is surprisingly cool and airy. The ceiling is vaulted with white-washed beams that snake their way through the space. I notice the sofa first, large and white, covered partly by a crimson blanket and punctuated with scatter cushions. There is a low square coffee table, already laden with a few magazines and coasters, to the left of the sofa is an armchair pointing towards the bookshelf and between them, the only place where the roof is high enough to cater for it, is a floor lamp that has already been turned on, illuminating some of the books that litter the shelves.
‘There’s no TV.’ It’s not an apology. More of a statement.
‘That’s okay,’ I shrug. ‘Don’t really watch much anyway.’
‘The kitchen has everything you’ll need though.’ She gestures to her right, where a mismatch of wood and tile greets me where the roof is at its lowest. There is a breakfast bar with two stools and the cooking space consists of an oven, fridge and a counter for prepping. It is tiled almost entirely with perfect white squares illustrated with hand painted food items. I spot a courgette, a prawn, a pepper, a questionable peach.
‘All my friend’s doing, I’m afraid.’ The American notices my inspection. I look at her; she is smiling wistfully at the splashback.
‘It’s beautiful, all of it, it’s just lovely.’
‘She was an artist. I tried to get her to move to something a bit more “age-appropriate” later on but she wouldn’t hear of it. Said the stairs kept her young.’
‘I like the sound of her.’ The American glows at the comment until something passes over her face and she stiffens.
‘Now don’t get me wrong,’ she starts, wagging a finger in my direction. ‘It’s not perfect, things creak and break and you’ll need to run the taps for a few minutes before the water’s clear, but it’s cosy and clean and rather modern in comparison to some other places around here.’ I look around at the wooden beams, the yellow shaker cabinets and tiled splashbacks. It is not modern, not in the slightest, but I know what she really means is that there’s no gingham curtains, or an avocado bathroom suite.
On the other side of the apartment, where the roof pitches down more than the other, is a dining table set up for four, flanked by two more waist-high bookshelves.
‘The bedroom and bathroom are through there.’ She points to a door. ‘I might stay here for a moment, prepare myself for the descent.’ She thumps herself onto the sofa with a soft groan.
The bathroom is sparse but clean enough, with a diamond-shaped window letting in enough light that I can catch a look at myself in the mirror. I wish I couldn’t. The day has clearly caught up with me.
The other door opens into a bedroom that is flooded with light. The bed, an entirely unnecessary double, sits in the middle of the room against the wall with a bureau to one side and a small side table to the right. There are two full-length windows flanking a set of doors veiled only with a thin gauze curtain. I try the door. It’s stiff but a few pulls do the job and I am thrown out into a courtyard that has been built into the roof of the neighbouring building. It must only be a few metres wide and the same in length, but there is enough room to house a bistro table, an umbrella and a couple of pot plants that are bathing in the weak afternoon light.
‘Everything up to standard?’ The American asks as I close the door behind me. She is perched on the edge of the sofa, her ankles knitted together.
I nod.
‘Perfect, I will leave you to it then.’ She struggles to her feet. I resist the urge to help, it feels patronising, and she looks like a woman who wouldn’t take too kindly to that. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking,’ she starts as she straightens out her sleeves, untangling her kimono tassels. ‘What brings you to Monpazier? The email was vague, something about work but that crowd normally go to Bordeaux. I’m sure there’s more opportunities for a good time there?’
Normally I might have felt riled at the question, put her down as nothing more than a nosy landlord trying to figure out if I’m going to wreck the place, but she looks genuinely interested.
‘It’s complicated.’ I shrug. It isn’t a lie. It is bloody complicated. ‘I’m not here for long, just need to… tie up some loose ends.’ I end up performing some half-hearted jazz hands, as if the story had some punchline that wasn’t my ex-husband dying.
‘You have friends here?’
‘No.’ I shake my head quickly. ‘Not really. Just me.’
