Page 47 of The Secret House of Honey and Hope

By the end of the song, we’re all singing some of the lines out loud and laughing. It’s as if we’ve all known one another for years, not a couple of days. As if there’s nothing to worry about except getting the steps right and swinging when my dance partner swings me.

Too soon, the song ends, andHal lets go of my hand, tips an imaginary Stetson hat over his brow. “Ma’am,” he thanks me in a passable American accent.

We break apart but the music continues.

If we had a better relationship, I might have asked him where he learned to line-dance.

Pierre must be thinking along similar lines. “You don’t look like a Country and Western kind of man,” she says to him a little later when we’re all on our knees cleaning the floor of dust and getting ready for painting.

“What does a Country and Western man look like?”He glances up from cleaning a paint roller. “Clint Eastwood, cigar hanging from the corner of my mouth, and a horse between my legs?”

The words are too suggestive for me; my imagination runs out of control.

“What do you think, Elodie?” Pierre asks, forcing me to school my thoughts and fight down a blush.

“When I was fifteen, my parents spent a year in Boston.” I grasp at the first thing that comes to my mind. “And everyone there hated Country music. Even university students advertising for roommates would specifically say,No country music fans.”

“What?” Her eyes widen with surprise, and I realise how my words sounded.

Tactless.

As if I’m disparaging Hal’s taste.

My mind scrolls down a list of nicer things to say, anything to fix this, but it’s hard to talk with your foot in your mouth.

“True,” Gabriel comes to my rescue. “I spent a month in the San Francisco Bay area, and they seemed to have the same prejudice. It’s a shame because they’re dismissing some really good music.”

Hal shows no sign of having taken offence or even noticed the verbal stink-bomb. “Might be something to do with the whole North South divide,” he says, digging into his bag of supplies for an old paint-splattered T-shirt. Then, reaching behind his neck to grab a handful of his jumper, he pulls it over his head.

I, of course, turn away as soon as the men start changing.

“I’m no expert on Country music,” Hal says, his voice momentarily muffled by his shirt. “But I know the old classics.”

“It’ll make a wonderful accompaniment to the DIY,” I say. “Can you make us a longer playlist of this while Pierre and I mix the paints?” I offer him the phone.

Not sure if he believes me but he does put together a really nice playlist. Over the next couple of hours, we paint half the floor to addictive tunes likeMustang RidgeandAchy Breaky Heart.

Pierre, who is a genius, mixes several colours to achieve exactly the shade of the stone I wanted. Hal and Gabriel work in easy companionship, chatting about tools the way men do. He seems relaxed and unselfconscious, down in a half crouch, one knee lower than the other. Every now and then, he wipes his forehead with the back of his wrist, pushing the hair off his face.

We finish at seven o’clock, by which time my arms and legs ache, in fact even my eyelashes ache. Pierre offers to go to the village for fish and chips, but I refuse. Surely the least I can do is feed them.

“You’re not going to cook after a long day of hard labour,” Gabriel argues.

“I’ll make something quick,” I insist, my mind trying to think what we might have in the fridge.

Hal rises to his considerable height, all long legs in narrow jeans and ankle boots. He’s going to leave; I can see it in the way he dusts his hands over his knees and looks around for his clean jumper which he folded out of the way earlier.

“I’d better go home and leave you to it.”

There must be something I can say to keep him from leaving.

“Wait, after everything you’ve done, you can’t just leave like an unpaid builder.” My idiot brain must be as achy as my arms and legs and can’t think of something better to say.

“No, no.” Gabriel and Pierre turn around and speak at the same time. “We need to speak to you both about something important, remember. This might be the best time.”

“About what?” he asks.

“Let’s make some tea and food then we can tell you.” Pierre cleans her hands with some alcohol wipes. “Now don’t take this as a sign we’re dividing jobs into traditional male and female roles, but the tools belong to Hal so it should be him who puts them away and I’m not letting Elodie cook alone.”

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