Page 30 of Sisters Making Mischief
‘Of course, but then I’ve had a long time to settle in. And we are friends withle maire– the mayor. Nothing gets done without his approval. The weather here is not that different from England, but the food is better, the local people are friendlier – or perhaps nosier. There aren’t many secrets in a place like this.’
‘Back home I hardly know my neighbours,’ I said thoughtfully, ‘and we moved into our house thirty years ago. I mean, how does someone like well, Luc, for example get on?’
Isabel chuckled. ‘I knew it. I knew you would bring him up. He’s a source of much interest around here. A handsome doctor from Paris moves into an isolated farmhouse and starts to renovate it. A lot of people would like to know more about him. There have been all sorts of rumours flying around. He was devastated after the death of his wife in a plane crash, he’s been in prison for malpractice, he was struck off for drug offences…’
‘Perhaps he just retired and wanted a fresh start somewhere?’ I suggested.
Isabel shook her head. ‘Much too boring. Anyway, now he has actually appeared and been sociable, Felix is going to invite him to dinner one evening soon, so perhaps you can find out. Use those irresistible womanly wiles to discover the truth!’
‘I don’t think I have any irresistible womanly wiles these days,’ I said, ‘not at my age.’
‘Nonsense. Of course you have. Every woman has a bit of Marilyn in her, whether it’s Monroe or Manson is the problem. But I’ll bet you fifty euros that you will discover what broughthim here. So how are you feeling these days? Have you thought about, you know, dating?’
There it was again, Isabel’s ability to turn the conversation on its head.
‘No I haven’t!’ I said.
‘Well perhaps you should. Felix said if anything happened to him I was to find someone else.’
‘Easy for him to say. Do you know how hard it is for a woman in her sixties to find a man without terrible habits, dodgy health, or boring hobbies? I once went to a quiz night with some friends and got stuck with a man who talked non-stop about photographing weasels. And he asked me at the end of the evening if I would like to see his hide.’
Isabel giggled. ‘Oh, I say! Do you think he was flirting?’
‘I told him I was allergic to weasels, and that was the end of the conversation.’
‘And no news of Stephen?’
‘I don’t ask, and I don’t think Sara or John see much of him. They met the new wife, they said she had a voice like a foghorn and pushes Stephen around. Perhaps he likes it?’
He had moved on with his life, there was no doubt about that. So why hadn’t I? I was beginning to see I was stuck in no man’s land, between my old life and my future. I should stop thinking of myself as a sixty-three-year-old divorcee and start thinking of myself as a single woman. I needed to be more decisive, allow myself to find a new path, and yes, perhaps find new friends or a new companion to help me out of the rut in which I had been living.
Just as the church clock was striking five, we returned to the Sports Bar where the lights were shining out into the dusk. For a simple little establishment, it looked very inviting, and obviously others thought so too. The bar was busy with people having drinks after work. There was a young couple sitting at the ironwork tables outside, huddled in their coats and scarves, smoking, the distinctive smell drifting up into the evening, reminding me so strongly of my younger days when everyone seemed to smoke, and it was even seen as cool. How long ago it all seemed.
There was something so poignant seeing them there, they can’t have been more than teenagers. Perhaps they were at the start of a new relationship, excited to be out together. She was pretty and giggling, flicking her hair, fluttering her eyelashes at him. She was making a big fuss about being cold, snuggling her little face seductively into her scarf, pretending to be a delicate little girl when really, she held all the cards in their relationship and more than that, she knew it. He looked unsure and yet proud. Perhaps she was his first serious girlfriend. How hard it must be, being young like that nowadays, not sure about anything and yet having to pretend to be confident, streetwise. Not knowing for one second how the world, how life would treat them.
Who knew what the future would send them? How the utter confidence and carelessness of youth seemed to turn to the hesitation and invisibility of old age in a matter of moments. How liking could turn to love, how love could turn so easily to doubt.
For a mad moment I wanted to tell them, to warn them to enjoy every moment of being young and carefree and invulnerable. But my generation hadn’t listened, and probably neither would theirs.
I suddenly shivered, realising that so many years were behind me, and who knew how many were ahead. I supposed I could be classed as ‘old’ and in the years since I’d divorced, I’d started to accept that. But that evening, at that moment, watching a young girl and her boyfriend laughing together in the cold evening, it didn’t feel like it. It felt as though the world was still turning. That I could still be a part of it. Not as I had been, but as I was. It was up to me.
I looked through the windows of the Sports Bar, which were starting to cloud with condensation from the warmth within, and felt a silly flicker of something because I wondered if Luc was still in there, drinking apple brandy with Felix perhaps, talking about Gaston and the problems with workmen turning up on time. I remembered the paperwork Isabel had mentioned, the planning permissions, the legal fees and taxes. How sad that he, just like me, was dealing with living alone. Did he mind that? Was he as reclusive and full of secrets as everyone in this well-informed town seemed to think?
Just for a moment I wondered what his life was like. Where did he sleep? Did he have running water and heating? Well, he had been there for a couple of years, he must have achieved something during that time.
I realised Isabel was watching me as these thoughts went around my head.
‘What are you thinking about? Your face is a picture.’
‘Nothing,’ I said, forcing a smile, ‘I’m just tired, it’s been a long day. I think I need an early night.’
11
I woke the following morning just after eight o’clock. The high and stately sleigh bed might have been old and the mattress slightly uneven, but I think I slept better than I had for years. The sheets were embroidered with white thread and were probably some of Isabel’s vintage treasures, the cotton smooth and soft after years of washing and drying outdoors in the French sunshine. No practical duvet here. There were faded blue blankets and a quilted bedspread, which held the faint scent of lavender. Perfect pillows and a little gilt clock lay on the bedside table next to a ceramic pin tray decorated with May blossom. I’d thought I had been good at making my guests comfortable, but this was on another level.
Perhaps it was those things that led to an uninterrupted night’s sleep, or perhaps it was the effect of the apple brandy, or the deep peace of the old attic where the walls were so thick that no sound really penetrated.
I turned my head to look at the window and through a gap in the curtains I could see the sun had risen, and the sky was the delicious misty blue of a winter morning. Perhaps I should get up? Then I caught sight of the tea tray Isabel had given me, andinstead – after a quick trip to the bathroom – I made a cup of tea, pulled back the curtains and got back into bed.
