Chapter 22
It was the eleventh house they had looked at.
They’d been in France a week and so far, all the properties they’d viewed had been disappointing. Stone houses described as ‘habitable’ had been little more than ruins. Gardens had been overgrown and overwhelming. There had been strange annexes and spider webs, mouse droppings or the smell of damp.
On the surface of it, of course, none of this was that important. Pete had reassured Bella that most things could be overcome. ‘There’s a lot of plastering and pointing needed, but you wait till I’ve done it,’ he’d enthused each time. ‘I could transform this place.’
But she hadn’t had the feeling she was looking for. The sense that that ‘somewhere’ would one day become her home.
They’d met the agent at her car just outside her office and she’d insisted on driving them, before ushering them into the back seat of her car.
It had felt odd, childish, for them both to be there and they’d grinned at each other when they’d set off, sharing an unspoken joke.
It was a relief to be smiling – the week had been fraught and full of squabbles.
Bella had begun to doubt whether they’d ever find anything they agreed on.
Neither of them had been to Peyrat before; the little village close to Aubusson was barely a dot on the map. But as they passed the red-edged sign displaying its name, Bella sat up, a flicker of excitement in her chest.
They entered the village, driving past a somehow familiar green of gardens and fields, the light stone of houses.
Some had erected plastic pools for the summer, the water looking blue, cool and inviting.
Others had set out their patio furniture.
Small children played in the garden of a property they passed, and a dog ran out of a driveway and chased the car, barking joyfully before giving up and returning home.
‘This is really cool,’ said Pete, and she nodded in agreement.
And there it was, the house that might one day be their home.
Grey, stone walls, with climbing roses. An iron and glass canopy set over the front door, painted a deep blue.
Enormous windows with cream-coloured wooden shutters.
A garden stretching forth and crying out for an allotment and chickens and maybe even a goat or two – the whole French dream.
The possibility of days and days and days of feeling happy at last.
‘What do you think?’ Pete whispered as they exited the car onto the stone driveway.
‘This is the one.’