Page 76 of You Were Always the One

‘Hi. Er, that’s me. Riggs.’ I hold out a hand.

She takes it in her delicate one. ‘I am Sophie. My mother is your landlady. She has asked me to come and check on you. Is everything OK for you?’

‘It’s perfect,’ I say. ‘Just what I need.’

‘That’s good,’ she says. ‘She said you are here for two months.’ She frowns. ‘That is a long time, in such a quiet place.’

‘It’s what I need,’ I tell her. ‘I’m working – I’m a writer. I need quiet and empty spaces for my brain to work properly.’

She looks at me as though I’m slightly mad. ‘So you are here alone.’

I’m slightly taken aback by her assumption. But going on first impressions, what other conclusion would she come to? ‘I am,’ I say. ‘That was the whole point of coming here.’

‘Oh.’ She looks startled. ‘Then I must not disturb you.’

‘You haven’t,’ I say quickly, suddenly realising how rude I sounded. Then, ‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’ I’m already wondering why I’ve invited a stranger into my house – or rather, her mother’s house – when I should be working.

She shrugs in a very French way. ‘Why not?’

She comes in and I make what I hope passes for half-decent coffee by French standards, which we take out onto the terrace. ‘So I’m guessing you probably don’t live around here.’ When she looks surprised, I explain. ‘It was what you said about it being so quiet around here.’

‘Quiet for holidays,’ she says. ‘But not for life. I help my mother with our farm. It is – how do you say? Eco?’

‘Organic?’ I suggest.

‘We call it an eco-farm,’ she says. ‘We do not use chemicals. So of course, we have a lot of weeds, too. We sell our produce at markets every week. It is a good life.’ She pauses. ‘And you? Is writing a good life?’

‘It’s a good question,’ I say ruefully. ‘The answer is, sometimes.’

She sits back, her eyes resting on me. ‘So sometimes it is bad, too.’

‘Quite often, if I’m honest,’ I tell her. ‘That’s why I’ve come here. To find inspiration.’

‘You have run away?’ She raises her eyebrows. ‘From England?’

I ponder the question, frowning slightly. ‘I’m not sure I’d put it like that.’

‘So you are taking a sabbatical.’ She sits back, looking at me. ‘You are an interesting man,’ she says at last. ‘You must come for lunch on Sunday.’

I start to panic. ‘Oh, no. I have this book to write.’

‘You are not in England any more,’ she says firmly. ‘It is the weekend. In France, we do not work.’ She pauses. ‘Twelve o’clock. Do not be late – well, only fifteen minutes. It is not fashionable in France to come after that.’

After she leaves, I decide in the interest of relations with my landlord that on this occasion, I should do as she says. In the meantime, however, I find myself mulling over her question. Have I run away? If so, what from?

My own indecision and other people, I finally decide is the answer. But you can’t outrun what’s in your head, I’m finding. The indecision part has followed me to France and, not sure what to do about it, I park it.

What makes a person who they are? I start to write. Is it genes, or upbringing, or friendship groups? Then I delve a little more deeply. What makes a person lack belief in themselves? I stare in amazement at the sentence, because in a few words, it sums up how I feel. In a nutshell, I’m someone who thinks everyone else is more valid. Who doesn’t believe in himself.

Where the fuck did that come from?

It’s a week during which between bouts of writing, I start to explore this part of France. As Sophie said, it’s quiet, with miles of agricultural land, dominated by stunning views of open skies and mountains. Here, apart from the French manic driving, the pace of life is wonderfully slow.

The edginess of my old life gradually filters away into days that are simple, while in the evenings, I start reading the books I’ve brought with me that I’ve been meaning to read for years and haven’t got around to.

Sunday arrives, with its invitation to Sophie’s farm, and if I’m honest, I’m slightly dreading it. Possibly it’s another manifestation of my inability to commit, or maybe it’s more that I don’t speak a lot of French. But in any case, there’s no getting out of it.

I heed Sophie’s warning about not being late. And it’s a glorious drive along narrow lanes, the sun glinting through the trees. Autumn is later in this part of the world and the leaves are glorious shades. It’s also another scorcher of a day for the time of year, and when I reach their farmhouse, I’m relieved to see a table set under some trees. Making my way around the side of the house, I find what appears to be a back door, open into the kitchen. I knock and an older woman looks up. Seeing me, she smiles as she comes over.