A Year at the French Farmhouse(3)

Now, pulling into the driveway, she sat for a moment and looked at the house that had been theirs for the past fifteen years.

It had served them well; had been a great family home. Newly built when they’d moved in, small but perfectly formed, their semi was part of a row of identikit houses on an estate that was neatly built and well maintained. The red bricks had faded slightly, but it still had the appearance of something shiny and modern. The double glazing had kept them warm, the garage – too small for anything but the tiniest of cars – had provided the ideal space for Ty’s drum kit during his rock star wannabe phase.

It was practical. It had been a safe choice. But wasn’t a patch on the French farmhouse she’d dreamed of living in for so long.

Over the years, she’d spent hours scrolling through French property listings on the internet, flicking through French Property News; lusting after stone cottages in the corners of tiny hamlets; renovation projects with potential to make your own mark. She’d drooled over stories of people moving over and living the dream: snapping up properties – mortgage free – for a song and making a forever home to be proud of.

Don’t think of it as a dead end. Try to think of it as an opportunity. The last thing she wanted to do was agree with Mark, whose whole reason for existence was going from firm to firm and ‘trimming the fat’. But perhaps, just on this, he’d been right.

Feeling her heart-rate increase, she stepped out of the car into the spring air. It was only five o’clock, but already there was a touch of early evening chill. The sky was a bland wash of grey and white, the sun hidden and glowing weakly beneath layers of cloud. She breathed deeply, trying to steady herself. But she could feel something beginning to take hold – excitement, a feeling that actually, just possibly, her life was about to change.

Ben worked from home on a Friday. He’d be busy at his desk, not expecting her back for an hour or so. She’d wrap her arms around him, tell him the news, then open his eyes to the possibilities that lay before them. ‘Ty will be fine; we can fly back and forth. And even keep the house in England for now,’ she’d say. Surely he couldn’t say no to that? Perhaps, at last, this was going to be ‘their’ time.

The house was quiet as she let herself in. Ty’s coat was missing – he’d be out playing Fortnite with friends or at the gym. She crept upstairs to Ben’s office – letting out a small cough before disturbing him; the last thing she wanted to do was shock him into a heart attack just when their lives were opening up.

But as she pushed his office door open, with a lively, preparatory ‘Bonjour!’ she saw that the room was empty. A jumper hung on the back of his swivel chair; his computer screensaver bounced across a black screen. Piles of paperwork were neatly stacked. He’d finished balancing other people’s books for the week.

‘Ben?’ she called, walking down to the kitchen, almost tripping over a trail of laundry that Ty had helpfully flung in approximately the direction of the dirty washing basket. She bent and picked up the errant clothes on autopilot, grimacing as she felt something sticky on her hand. Moments later, she almost tripped over her son’s discarded backpack at the top of the stairs and tumbled to an untimely death.

By the time she got to the kitchen, she felt less as if she needed an adventure and more as if she needed a full hose down and a Valium. ‘Ben?’ she called again, with slightly more edge to her voice.

But a coffee cup next to the kettle was the only sign of life.

She pulled her phone out of her pocket and quickly scrolled to his number in her contacts. It rang several times before he picked up. ‘Hello, love!’ Ben said, cheerfully. ‘You on your way home?’

‘I’m already here, where are you?’

‘Oh. Well, I got most of my stuff done then Baz asked me for a pub lunch.’

‘It’s five o’clock.’

‘Bloody hell, is it?’ He was slurring his words slightly. ‘Well, we’re in the middle of some pool. You can pop down and join us if you want?’

It wasn’t a real offer.

‘No, it’s OK. I just hoped… I suppose I hoped you’d be here so… well, I’ve got something to tell you.’

‘I can come home… if you want?’ he said, then, ‘Just a minute! Sorry, that was Baz. It’s my turn. Do you want me to…?’

‘Yes!’ she wanted to say. ‘Come home immediately!’ But instead: ‘No, I’ll see you later,’ she replied.

She tried to settle down with a coffee, but found it hard to concentrate. She could hardly wait for the moment when Ben would step through the door and she could surprise him with her news. That they no longer had to live out their days as a middle-aged cliché. Her redundancy money would replace any savings they’d hoped to accrue. Ty was a confident boy; plus he’d seemed so much more grown-up recently that she doubted he’d need them at all once he moved into halls. The stars had finally aligned.

She closed her eyes. In her mind, Ben would be overjoyed – released from his own stressful work and able to embrace something brand new. He’d pick her up in his arms and swing her around as he had before and they’d get the house on the market as soon as possible.

‘Everything is about to change,’ she said to herself.

Later, she’d look back on those words and wonder: If she’d been able to see the future in all its brilliant, frightening, chaotic and unexpected glory, would she have been excited? Or completely and utterly terrified?