Page 26 of Happily Never After
He leads me over to the baggage drop terminal and shows me how to scan my boarding pass, print off my luggage labels and attach them to my bags.
‘Oh, you’re on the same flight as me,’ he remarks as he repeats the process with his own boarding pass. ‘Business or pleasure?’
‘Pleasure,’ I tell him. I suppose the truth is somewhere between the two but, if I tell him the truth about going on a writing retreat, that might lead to loads of questions. It sounds silly, but I always feel like a bit of a fraud telling strangers that I’m a writer. ‘What about you?’
‘A bit of both,’ he replies. ‘I’m working on a project from tomorrow, but I’m taking the opportunity to meet up with a friend who lives in Toulouse first. Right, all we need to do now is feed our bags into that machine over there, and we can go through security.’
‘Really?’
‘Yup. If the dark magic is working, they should find their way onto the right plane.’
‘And if it isn’t?’
He grins. ‘Then you’ll probably never see your suitcases again. There isn’t anything valuable in them, I hope?’
‘No, just clothes. All the important things are in here.’ I tap my cabin bag.
‘Great. Shall we?’
Although I’m grateful for Finn’s help, it does present me with a dilemma, which is how to detach myself from him without seeming rude. He looks like the kind of nice guy who would happily shepherd me all the way to the gate, given half a chance, but I’m not sure I’ve got the reserves to make small talk with a stranger for nearly two hours.
‘Thank you so much for your help,’ I say to him as the bags disappear on a conveyor. ‘I’m just going to pop to the loo before security. I’ll see you on the other side, yeah?’
I don’t need the loo at all, but thankfully he appears to take the hint.
‘No problem,’ he says with a smile. ‘Enjoy your trip.’
I watch with relief as he turns away before heading in the direction of the ladies’. As soon as he’s out of sight, I plonk myself on a bench and wait five minutes before following him. I can practically hear Liv laughing at my social awkwardness, but I’m starting to wonder for the umpteenth time whether this is a horrible mistake. If I can’t do two hours with a single stranger, how the hell am I going to manage a group of them for two whole weeks?
The first thing that strikes me as I step out of the airport building in Toulouse is the brightness. Despite it still technically being summer, the last couple of weeks in Margate have been unseasonably cold and damp, and I can practically feel my skin soaking up the sunshine as I hunt through my bag for my sunglasses. It has felt odd, travelling alone after so many years of always having Angus by my side, but I’m pretty proud of how well it’s gone so far. I did see Finn again at the gate, but he didn’t try to engage with me beyond a friendly wave, thankfully, and our seats on the plane were nowhere near each other. He was right at the front so, by the time the people in my row disembarked, he was long gone.
All that’s left now is to find the kiosk the man at the car hire desk told me should be out here somewhere, pick up some keys and navigate my way to the retreat house, where a richly deserved glass of cold white wine will hopefully be waiting for me. I can practically taste it on my tongue as I push my trolley over the hot concrete. I will confess to being a little nervous about the whole hire car thing. I haven’t driven for a while, and this will all be on the wrong side of the road, but Liv and I agreedthat I needed a means of escape in case the retreat proved to be awful, so I swallowed my nerves and booked one. Liv was typically gung-ho about it, pointing out that people hire cars abroad all the time without incident, so it couldn’t possibly be that hard.
By the time I reach the outskirts of Saint-Antonin-Noble-Val, I can’t decide which is more important, the glass of wine or ringing Liv to tell her that, actually, it is that hard. Just getting out of the airport was fraught, as the navigation app kept telling me to switch lanes just as someone was zooming up the side of me, or gleefully informing me I needed to perform a U-turn as soon as possible when there clearly wasn’t anywhere suitable. When I finally made it out onto the main road, the tiny Fiat was buffeted all over the place by huge lorries and my knuckles were soon raw from repeated attempts to change gear with the door handle. The roads did get quieter once I was off the autoroute, but they brought their own challenges, with people pulling out of side roads seemingly without looking and overtaking me on what felt like blind bends. Thankfully, the directions provided by the retreat hosts are very clear and I only make a couple of wrong turns before turning down the track that promises to lead me to L’Ancien Presbytère, my home for the next two weeks.
‘Oh, wow,’ I breathe as the house comes into view. I’ve seen it in the photos, obviously, but they don’t do it justice at all. The tall, arched front door is flanked on either side by lavender bushes, and the exposed stonework positively glows in the late afternoon sunlight. Each dark window is framed by bright blue shutters, hinting at coolness and shade within. The gardens are enclosed by another stone wall and the fields beyond are a riot of sunflowers. As I climb out of the car, all I can hear is the buzz of bees in the lavender and the ripple of water from the fountain in the middle of the courtyard I’ve parked in.
‘You must be Laura. Welcome to L’Ancien Presbytère,’ an English voice says to me as I begin to wrestle my luggage out of the boot. I look up to see a man who doesn’t look that much older than me. He’s deeply tanned, with sandy-coloured hair and a full beard. ‘I’m Hugh, and I’m delighted to meet you. My wife, Cara, would be here to greet you as well but she’s just sorting out an issue with one of the guest bedrooms. Ants are a constant problem at this time of year and, much as we warn guests not to leave food lying around, they don’t always listen. Let me take those.’
He lifts my heavy bags with such ease that you’d think I’d filled them with tissue paper, and strides towards the front door. The coolness as I step into the hallway is welcome after the hot journey, although it takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the comparative darkness.
‘Most of the other guests have arrived already. The final one will be joining us tomorrow,’ Hugh tells me as I follow him towards the staircase. ‘We’ve put afternoon tea and pastries out on the terrace, but you might prefer something stronger. How was your drive?’
‘Interesting,’ I admit. ‘When I booked it, I thought having a hire car would be fun because I could go out and explore, but now I’m not so sure.’
‘Most of our guests use the shuttle service we offer,’ he admits. ‘But this is a beautiful part of France for touring round, so some do prefer to drive themselves so they can explore at their own pace rather than be tied to our excursions. I’d definitely recommend a trip to Cordes-sur-Ciel while you’re here if you get time. It’s a terrible tourist trap, but still worth seeing. Bruniquel is also a very pretty medieval village. This is you.’
He opens a door and stands aside to let me go through. The room is large, with a wrought-iron double bedframe against the far wall. There is also a wardrobe, chest of drawers andsubstantial dressing table. The colours in the rugs covering the bare floorboards complement the bedspread perfectly, lifting the ambience without making it garish. The windows, under one of which sits a wide desk, look out over the gardens, which are a riot of blooms.
‘This is gorgeous,’ I tell him.
‘I’m glad you like it. The place was pretty run down when Cara and I bought it five years ago, but I like to think we’ve brought it up to date sympathetically. It’s been quite a project, but so much more rewarding than the daily grind of living and working in London.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I was a stockbroker and Cara was a chef in a high-end restaurant. We were doing well financially, but we realised we just weren’t having any sort of a life. So, much to the horror of our friends and family, we chucked it all in and moved here. Best decision we ever made. Cara looks after the food side of things for our guests and I do the garden and boring maintenance stuff.’
‘Including dealing with ants,’ I observe with a smile as the sound of the hoover in the distance shuts off.
