I discreetly run my fingers through my hair, shaking out the soft curls.
He spots the paint pot and points. ‘So, you’ve got a real vision for this place?’
‘I do, yes! Would you like to look around?’ I say. ‘See what I’ve planned?’
‘That would be great!’
I stand back to let him in. And, bizarrely, I feel like a young woman with something close to attraction to this man. Maddie’s words come back to me, encouraging me to meet someone new, like Pete seems to be doing, spending time with Mandy. I shutthe thought down quickly. I can feel colour in my cheeks and a tightness in my throat. Something about the way Claude looks at me as he steps into the big room makes me feel like the years are rolling slowly back. This is a new me, in a new life. I’m just making friends. But it feels quite exciting. I give a little cough and clear my throat.
‘This is the main room. I’m about to start painting,’ I say. ‘I want it all clean and fresh. I’ll get rid of the traces of whatever has been going on here while it’s been empty.’
He seems interested, which makes me feel good. I’m delighted to be sharing my ideas and dreams for this place.
‘Let me show you upstairs.’ I lead the way to the staircase in the big main room and upstairs to the large attic space overlooking the lake. I think that this was once used to store the grain. ‘There is so much potential to do rooms up here, if I divided this space up. Achambre d’hôtemaybe. And thesalon de thédownstairs and outside.’ He follows me to the big open room. Clean, swept and the floor washed, but still with scribbles on the walls.
‘And you are doing this on your own?’ he asks.
I turn to face him. The sun on his face is making him look even more handsome. ‘Yes, I am,’ I say, lifting my chin a little. I find myself caught in his gaze and looking back at him, not immediately whipping my eyes away. I don’t know when I last found a man attractive. It hasn’t crossed my mind in years that I might find someone I fancied or, even more unlikely, that the feeling might be mutual. It’s like a whole new world opening up before me and it feels very strange, but good – more than good, in fact.
It’s as if I’ve just boarded a rollercoaster at the fairground and am about to start the ride of my life, thrilling and exciting. Me, Juliet, at forty-eight. I’m standing in a sunshine-filled room in France, with this man smiling at me as if something special ishappening. We stare at each other, small dust particles dancing like fairies in the shaft of light shining through the open window. I look away first. I’m not sure how these things work. He’s attractive, yes, but I have no idea how people go about starting the ball rolling. The closest I’ve been to a date in years is Sunday-morning coffee at the garden centre.
‘Let’s go down,’ I say quickly, waving at the stairs.
‘Of course. I’d be delighted.’ I can feel him watching me as I head downstairs from the large, cavernous attic space, back to the main room of the mill. Although we’ve met only once before, he’s here, interested in the mill, my plans, and possibly, dare I think, me. And it really is a very long time since I’ve been looked at like that. I give a little shiver, despite the sunshine outside.
‘This is the kitchen. It’s all kitted out. Just a bit old, neglected. But all the parts are working.’ I’m rambling. ‘And this is …’ I pull back the curtain.
‘Ah,’ he chuckles, ‘the bedroom.’
‘Oh, yes, sorry.’ I pull the curtain back to my small living quarters, the little living area with the wood-burning stove, and the wooden steps up to the mezzanine and my bedroom area. ‘I didn’t …’Stop talking, Juliet.‘It needs painting too. Lots of old markings on the wall, from the past. Messages of love, unreciprocated by the look of it. There’s a broken heart, and a name … Bijounette, on the wall here in the bedroom. It needs freshening, brightening up …’Stop talking, Juliet!‘Just some tender loving care, really.’Stop!
He’s staring at me with an amused smile.Don’t look at his lips.I’m suddenly hot. What is wrong with me? I’m acting like an infatuated schoolgirl.
‘Would you,’ I clear my throat, ‘like some coffee?’
‘Merci. That would be excellent,’ he says. ‘And I brought you a baguette. I didn’t know if you had had time to get out and I wantyou to like my bread enough to buy it for yoursalon de thé.’ He points to a baguette he’s placed on the counter.
‘Thank you. I hadn’t planned on serving baguettes. It will be mostly cakes, sausage rolls, that kind of thing,’ I say.
‘But a baguette, it is the sign of being in France,non? You are not in theUKnow. You are here in France. You need to be a little more French. Not so nervous. Enjoy what we have.’
He’s right. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? To enjoy what France has to offer. I chew my bottom lip.
He turns back to the big room, taking it all in.
‘Oui,’ I say. I’m not feeling like the teenage girl now, more of a woman who has lived life and knows what she wants. A confidence I have never experienced before. A need to feel wanted and to be desired. ‘I’ll make coffee. Have a look around.’ I hold out a hand to the room, then turn back to the kitchen work surfaces and put on the kettle. I catch a glimpse of Claude as I pull out small coffee cups and saucers from the shelf under the worktop.
His hands are behind his back as he paces around the room. I find myself snatching glances at him and, to my delight, he’s doing the same to me. I have a strange giddy feeling inside me. But it’s pleasant. I like it. Like a holiday that’s just begun with endless possibilities for relaxation and laughter.
‘You’ve done a lot already. I hardly recognise it. This place holds lots of memories.’
‘So I’m told,’ I say, thinking of Laurent’s words, pushing the irritation of his visit to the back of my mind, determined not to give him head space.
‘We used to come here as teenagers.’ He runs his hand along the clean wall. ‘This was where we would hang out … come to the lake, when the mill was quiet. And now, it looks like it’s got a whole new lease of life.’ He flashes me another of his smiles andmy stomach does the flip I remember from years ago, but which seems refreshingly new.
When I first went on holiday with my friends, I developed a huge crush on the barman at the resort in Spain for the way he looked at me. By the time our coach was pulling away from the hotel, the next was pulling in and Juan was making his move on another young woman who fell for his charms. His promises to stay in touch and visit were as fanciful as he was fanciable. It was soon after that I met Pete. Safe and reliable Pete. And that’s just what he’s been. We had seen each other at school, but only became acquainted when we were pushed together by friends. And it’s been a wonderful twenty-five years of marriage. Dependable. We made all the right moves along the way, hit all the right notes. Marriage, house, kids, sliding into early retirement. I just wasn’t ready for that bit. Right now I need some excitement, to feel alive. It’s like I’ve been eating vanilla ice cream all these years and suddenly discovered salted caramel. Different, exciting, more layered.
‘I’m planning to keep the walls plain,’ I say, with rising conviction for my vision, ‘but with lots of bunting, greenery and cushions.’ I spoon coffee into the cafetière.
