Page 15 of Love In Provence
‘Well, you can’t say this was what was promised on the website.’
‘I’m sure it’ll be lovely,’ says Ed, the Englishman, bravely attempting it.
‘More wine, anyone?’ says one of the gay couple, picking up the jug and pouring it into people’s glasses.
The meal, if you can call it that, is awkward and silent as I attempt to scrape the meat from the bottom of the pan.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I haven’t organized a dessert. I would usually.’
‘No problem,’ they all say, standing quickly, ready to leave as soon as politely possible.
‘I’ve got a Twix in my van,’ says Jen. ‘Happy to share.’
‘I’ve still got those crisps,’ says Maria.
‘Think I could do with another glass of wine to wash away the taste,’ says her partner.
‘I have maple cookies,’ says Keith.
‘Right, well, thanks for the meal,’ says Ed, standing. ‘I’ll turn in.’
‘Yes, and us,’ says Graham, also standing. He’s very tall. His husband is very short. Graham is thin and neatly dressed. Keith is wearing a Hawaiian shirt that strains over his round belly.
‘And me,’ says Jen, sounding concerned.
With that, they take their plates to the kitchen, then wish me a good night and go to their accommodation.
And suddenly it’s just me, sitting on the terrace, looking at Ralph. ‘Well, I think we can safely say that was an utter disaster,’ I tell him. I wish Fabien were here. It would have gone so much better. And Henri. Why the bloody hell did he have to leave us like this?
I pour another glass of wine, then abandon it and decide to go to bed. So much for trusting my instincts. I clearly can’t. I change my mind about the wine and drink it anyway.
In bed, my phone lights up with a message from Fabien.How’s things? How was welcome dinner? X
Could be better, I manage to reply.How’s things with you?
Good. Great even. How is Rhi?He adds a sad emoji.
Not good. She left dinner early. Went to bed. But I don’t think she’s sleeping. I can hear her moving around.
Then I start to type. Delete it. Think. And start to type again. I’m going to have to tell him.I can’t do this on my own, Fabien. I’m going to cancel the harvest.
He replies straight away:You can’t. You have to do it. Keep going. People are depending on you. You know that’s what Henri would say. The harvest is the one thing we can all rely on right now. You’ve got this.Before I can type back, he sends another message:I have to go. Off for a catch-up with the band xx
I really haven’t got this. And what does he mean, the harvest is the one thing we can rely on?
I hold the phone to my lips, wishing he was here to ask him.
I don’t know if I can do it.But there’s no reply, he’s clearly put his phone away. And there in the dark, to the sound of the cicadas outside, I’m ready to cry until there are no tears left, the pillow wet. I don’t know if they’re for Henri, or for Fabien, who is a million miles away right now. But they don’t come. And that’s how I spend most of the night, staring at the ceiling, wishing the wretched tears would fall.
7
The next morning I have no idea if I slept at all. I’m awake with the birds. My pillow is dry as are my tired, sore eyes. And I have a banging headache. But I can smell the lavender. I slide out from under the light covers and walk to the window in the blast of air from the fan and push open the shutters, just as I do every morning. The warm, scented air fills my lungs and my soul. I think about Rhi, and Stephanie, both hurting right now, and Fabien too, missing such a big person from their lives. I look at the lavender and the early-morning mist weaving its way through it. It helped me through a difficult time once before, I remember, breathing in its heady fragrance. Let’s hope it doesn’t let me down now.
I have a farm full of pickers, waiting to pick. Fabien is right. I can’t let everyone down. It’s the last thingHenri would want too. These people deserve an explanation about last night.
I get dressed in an old T-shirt and shorts, working clothes for the day ahead, and go down to the kitchen. I pour a large glass of water, take two painkillers and swallow them. I turn on the coffee machine, then grab my purse and run down the long drive to meet the bakery truck.
I buy an armful of baguettes and a large bag of freshly baked croissants. The bakery-van owner, Adèle, talks about Henri and how much a part of the community he was. She asks me to let her know when the funeral will be. ‘We must live every day to the full,’ she says to me, ‘but also be prepared for life to be turned upside down.’
