Chapter 1
ONE
ESCAPE
How long ago had it been, then, since she’d had the initial idea?
Five months? Six? She counts the months, tapping her fingers against the steering wheel as she does so.
Seven and a bit, then. And now, here she is, on the fifteenth of October, peering out at the landscape, scared to step out of the car.
She works at slowing her breathing and sits listening to the click-click-clicking of the cooling engine. So here I am, she thinks. She’s not sure how she feels about that.
In front of her, through the windscreen, is a stunning view over hilltops – the sky starting to redden – while to her right she can see the building that will be her new home for the next six months.
It’s not quite the cosy cabin that sparked the whole thing, because, after all, this is France, not Norway, and the cabin is made of beautiful grey stone rather than wood.
Plus, instead of looking out over a misty lake, the view is of mountains and, in the distance, about twenty miles away, the Mediterranean Sea.
It would have been nicer to be at the actual seaside and she’d tried her best to find somewhere further south, but her finances just wouldn’t run to it.
Because that, of course, is the other big difference here: no one’s paying her to do this.
She’s had to fork out almost five thousand pounds to rent this place for six months – such is the chasm between internet fantasy and real life.
But despite this, amidst all the other emotions of apprehension and yes, fear, she’s feeling proud.
She’d realised seven months ago that she needed this escape, and now, unaided by anyone, here she is. She has actually made it happen.
Of course, as a mother, as a nurse, as a wife, she has made plenty of things happen over the years, but they’ve almost always been done for those around her.
This is the first time she can think of when she has chosen, as an adult, to do something for herself without taking anyone else into consideration.
Even before the car door is fully open, she gasps at the influx of cold air.
It’s freezing up here – something she hadn’t been expecting. After all, this is meant to be the south of France, isn’t it?
At Nice airport a mere forty-five minutes ago, the temperature had been a lovely eighteen degrees, and she’d even broken out in a sweat as she dragged her three suitcases to the car hire station in the warm October sunshine.
Of course, it’s higher here, and the higher you go the cooler it gets – she knows this.
But all the same… She can still see the turquoise Mediterranean in the distance.
If she squints, she can just about see the landing strip of Nice airport jutting out into the sea. How can it be so much cooler here?
Because she can’t quite believe the sensations her body is giving her and wants to be able to tell best friend Jill something concrete, she leans back into the car and turns on the ignition.
According to the dashboard the temperature is seven degrees.
Seven! They didn’t mention that in the Airbnb advert.
She rounds the car and pops the boot, then unzips her biggest suitcase to pull out a purple puffer jacket which she wriggles into as she crosses the scrubby lawn to the front gate.
She finds the key box as specified on the gate pillar and the code she’s been given works, too.
She’s often been accused of catastrophising and it’s true she’d half expected that the code wouldn’t work, or the keys would be missing, or perhaps the house wouldn’t exist at all.
She had even made a mental note of every hotel she’d driven past, just in case.
But here she is, opening the creaky gate, crossing the stepping-stone path to the front door, slipping her key in the lock and – open sesame – stepping inside.
Gosh, she thinks, stunning! Truly as beautiful as the photos in the advert. Closely followed by, Wow. Freezing. Arctic! Even colder in here than outside!
The cabin consists of a huge, high-ceilinged living room with a kitchen along the rear wall.
The south-facing side is all glass, showing off the view of the mountains and the sky, and when she stands on tiptoe she can still see a strip of distant sea.
The decor is Scandi style – a big, grey L-shaped sofa, a curvy wooden-framed armchair and on the left a spiral staircase leading to the mezzanine – her new bedroom.
Sunlight is streaming in making it one of the brightest, most beautiful spaces she’s ever seen, but though the sunlight feels warm where it hits her skin, the air in the room is icy – cold enough that she can see her breath rising in steam-train puffs as she explores.
The bathroom is tiny but beautiful and also shockingly cold.
The cheapskates could have put some heating on, she thinks with a roll of the eyes and a dismissive shake of her head.
She spins on one foot, scanning the walls for radiators, boilers, thermostats – basically anything she can switch on that might improve the situation, but other than a trendy cylindrical wood burner in the middle of the room, there are no obvious signs of alternative heating options.
She’d known there would be a wood burner – it had been mentioned in the advert – but she’d pictured it as a luxury extra for special cosy nights in, rather than her only source of heat.
The view is so breathtaking she feels drawn towards the window, but halfway across the room a postcard propped on top of the wood burner catches her eye.
You are welcome to Caussols, she reads, once she has flipped it over. The pan is ready to burning and there is basic nourishment in the frigo. Enjoy your stay and any demands, demand.
My French might be better than your English, she thinks, even as she acknowledges that this isn’t remotely true. She’d promised herself she’d work on her French before coming here, but she simply hasn’t got around to it.
She crouches down and peers in through the curved glass window of the stove. A pyramid of kindling constructed around a fire lighter is waiting, ready to go. She opens the door, strikes a match and holds it until a thin blue flame starts to flicker.
As she waits for the fire to get going she walks around the space again and tries to imagine herself living here, then as the realisation takes hold, tries instead to convince herself that she is living here now.
She rubs her hands together and blows through pursed lips to marvel at the spectacle of her breath, hanging in the air like tiny, home-made clouds.
Maybe there’s underfloor heating, she thinks hopefully.
But as she can’t see any kind of switch, maybe not.
She’ll send the owner a message, but right now she needs to keep moving, so after a quick glance at the bed upstairs (king size, comfortable, clean), she heads back outside.
By the time she has dragged her cases across the crazy paving, the wood burner is starting to take the edge off and she has generated enough body heat beneath her puffer jacket for the place to feel bearable – just.
One by one, she opens her suitcases and hangs her clothes in the wardrobe behind the staircase.
That done, as the sun plunges behind a rocky outcrop to the west and the temperature outside drops to glacial (confirmed during her first cigarette break), she checks the contents of the fridge where she finds eggs, cheese and milk (albeit in single-portion quantities).
There are packs of pasta and coffee in the cupboard, too, along with a tin of tuna which, because she’s semi-veggie, she’ll probably never eat.
Eggy, cheesy pasta will do fine, she decides, for now.
She can tackle the excitement of a French supermarket by daylight.
She picks up her phone to call the owner but hesitates about whether to try to speak French or be rude and go for it in English.
On reflection, she chickens out entirely and sends a text message – a message that she knows the app will translate.
She informs them that she has arrived and thanks them for the food.
She mentions the cold and asks if there is any kind of supplementary heating.
The reply comes back almost immediately.
Another, You are welcome to Caussols, which makes her smirk, followed by, Don’t worry the wood-pan is excellent, which she decides really means ‘no’.
Cheapskates! she thinks again. Imagine renting a place for 1,000 euros a month and worrying about the electricity bill.
She’ll buy a little blow heater at the supermarket. That’ll show them…
She considers, momentarily, texting best friend Jill, but when she picks up her phone to do so and sees that she doesn’t have a single message she’s overcome by a pique of resentment, closely followed by a ripple of melancholy.
Because how the hell has she got to a point in her life where no one, not her kids, nor her husband, nor even best friend Jill, has thought to inquire how she’s doing, whether she arrived safely, let alone worry about her, on her lonesome, out here in France?
Jill will most likely be tipsy by now. Wendy can picture her perfectly, singing along to The Voice before dozing off in front of the telly next to husband Frank.
As for her own family, well… It’s not for no reason she’s here, is it?
It’s precisely to get away from them – or rather, if she’s being honest, to avoid being confronted by the fact of their absence.
But it’s not just that either. She isn’t only running away. She’s here to think about it all, calmly, quietly. She’s here to take stock of her life and she has given herself six months to work out what’s gone wrong and what it all means.