Page 69 of Sisters Making Mischief
And, of course, I didn’t. My back was jolly painful and the pains radiating down my leg were worse.
‘I think I’d better take you home,’ he said, ‘I don’t think you should be driving, do you?’
‘No, probably not,’ I said, feeling a complete fool.
I rubbed my hands over my face and felt dried mud meaning I probably looked terrible too.
22
I’d never realised that something as simple as walking to the car and getting in could be so difficult.
And, of course, it wasn’t an ordinary car, where possibly I could have slipped down into the seat, it was a truck, where I needed to haul myself up what felt like an impossible distance. And I couldn’t walk without wincing either. So, in the end, I borrowed a spade to lean on as a makeshift walking stick, the handle padded out with my lovely red sweater – so elegant – and Luc supported me on the other side while I hobbled around like some decrepit old tramp. And then he helped me get up into the passenger seat, as though he was loading ballast.
At last, between the two of us I got there, and he swung my legs round so that he could close the door. But then, before he did, he gave me a look that was filled somehow with both humour and sympathy.
‘You poor thing, and you were just trying to do something kind,’ he said and he leaned forward and kissed me.
I thought it quite possible I was going to explode with the shock.
Then he closed the door and went to get into the driver’s seat.
‘Okay?’ he said, looking over at me.
‘Mmm, yes, absolutely,’ I said, my voice a bit croaky.
Inside my heart was thudding at unexpected and ridiculous levels. It was the first time any man had kissed me for years. I started thinking about how long it had been, and then stopped myself, because it really didn’t matter any more.
He drove back, very slowly, avoiding all the worst potholes and divots in the road, because every time we hit one, I would yelp with pain, and he would apologise.
‘Promise me you won’t do this sort of thing again,’ he said. ‘Next time, ask me to help.’
Next time… I didn’t think there would be a next time. Would there? I wasn’t planning on lugging plant pots or heavy furniture or coal sacks any time soon.
I’d been in France for weeks now; I guessed I should really be thinking about going home. I was only allowed to stay until the beginning of April. Surely this was not the time to develop a crush? Or if not that, then an unrealistic attraction?
There were probably a lot of middle-aged women in the area, who would have formed an orderly queue if they thought Luc was out in public at last. The line fromDirty Harrywas going around my brain; a man’s got to know his limitations. Or in my case, a woman.
Back at Potato Farm, Isabel was outside, pegging out some washing and trying to keep Marcel and Antoine from dragging it off the line again, she turned and waved as the truck pulled up.
‘Everything okay?’ she said cheerfully.
‘We have a slight injury,’ Luc said as he came to open my door and help me down again.
I stood with my knees bent trying not to crouch too much.
‘I think I’ve pulled a muscle,’ I said.
There was a lot of fuss and exclamations from my sister at that point, and between them they helped me shuffle into the kitchen where I sat gratefully on a chair. Eugénie was already there, sitting in state at the other end of the table with her usual espresso.
‘You idiot,’ Isabel said, dithering around me, not quite sure what to do, ‘what on earth have you been doing? Where’s your car? And why are you so muddy and damp?’
‘Don’t ask,’ I muttered.
‘And, to be honest, you don’t smell too good either,’ Isabel said.
‘Wet clothes are bad for the soul, and for the lungs,’ Eugénie said, putting her cup down, ‘you always seem to be wet; I have noticed this. Is this something English people like to do?’
‘No, it’s not,’ I said wincing as I tried to get comfortable.
