Chapter 10
I stare at a blank screen for a whole hour and a half.
Well not literally, of course, that would be maniacal.
Instead, I sit at the breakfast bar and look at a blank Word document on my laptop, the cursor flickering to an invisible beat.
I glance at my phone and then Instagram scrolling magically sucks up twenty minutes.
I stare back at the Word document vaguely frustrated it hasn’t miraculously become populated with something profound and worthwhile.
I sigh, go back to Instagram and the cycle continues.
It’s Sunday morning, a day I had usually reserved for writing.
It was easy to do back home. It wasn’t like I ever had any wild weekend plans that took precedence.
Mum would wake me up at eight with a coffee and bowl of Fruit ’n Fibre.
I would eat it in bed and brainstorm what I wanted to say and then I’d migrate to Dad’s study where I’d start to write.
I hadn’t told my parents about the blog in those early days when I was lucky if a post earned a few hundred likes, mainly because I had started it in the hour on a Thursday that I was meant to be in therapy.
Mum had actually stumbled across it herself; there was a small article dedicated to grief in her Women I need the accountability of someone watching.
I type out a title – The return. I bold it. I italicise it. I underline it. I change it to a different font. And then I close my laptop and replace it with the diary, the scrawling record of my deteriorating mental state.
I write the date, close my eyes and try to clear my head.
The nib touches the paper and then it happens.
The words start flowing verbatim from my brain, a stream of consciousness so removed from what I present to the world that it’s like having a conversation with an entirely different person.
I like her. She is angry. No. She is furious.
Florian’s name is mentioned twelve times, which means that as much as I pretend that yesterday’s meeting was a closure of sorts, it has done the opposite and that he has riled me more than I would ever care to consciously admit. Archie’s there too, somewhere in the middle.
When I reach the end of the page, I slam the book shut.
At six, I leave the apartment in favour of the first night market of the year, which is pretty much Monpazier’s equivalent of Glastonbury. The soiree is the one event of the week where the elderly ladies will take their hair out of their fresh set and silk scarves.
There is an unmistakeable buzz in the air of life returning.
The sun sits low on the horizon, not quite day but not quite night either.
The streetlights start to click on as I trace the short walk back to the centre.
The steps are easier now; every memory doesn’t sit quite as heavily as it had done a few days ago.
I hear the party long before I can see it.
At first, it’s the sound of an accordion, a rhythmic guitar and violin, and then the voices come in.
The singing is entirely in French, slightly drowned out by the instruments desperately fighting to stay in tune.
Then there’s the conversations, the laughing, the passionate arguing, children squealing and chairs scraping on the cobblestones.
It is as if the place has expanded, unfolded.
There are people in every corner, huddled around a hog roast, mingling under the market hall, drifting from stall to stall laden with plastic cartons of chips and mussels and paella.
Scattered around are rows of trestle tables and benches, all dressed with tablecloths, mismatched tableware and half-drunk bottles of wine.
And I realise I’m smiling.
I walk the perimeter, floating through memories of all of the summers that Ettie and I would take a night off from the café.
We’d put on clothes that we hadn’t worked in and – armed with our own wine, cigarettes and tablecloth – would choose our table for the evening.
We’d chat with friends and get drunk enough that, just for one night, this was the best place to be in the entire world.
Eventually I see The American, perched on a table in the very centre of the covered market.
She isn’t alone; instead she is surrounded by people laughing, jostling for her attention.
They are all united in the way that they are not French.
Working here, you learned to spot it, could differentiate between a tourist and an expat.
Monpazier has always had a thriving little expat community, mainly retirees who organise social evenings and movie screenings to ensure that everyone would get through the winter socially unscathed.
I had thought about going to one once, until I told Ettie and he had looked so disgusted with the thought, I decided otherwise.
I get closer to The American. Her cackling becomes more defined and then I notice the unmistakable redness in her cheeks from what looks like the second bottle of wine.
‘Having fun?’ I ask.
‘Ava!’ She greets me enthusiastically. ‘Sit down, here, move over!’ She beckons me to a seat next to her and then clicks her finger at a face I don’t recognise, an older gentleman with a red cravat. He pretends to be irritated but passes over a large glass with a wink.
‘Merci,’ I smile.
‘You’re very welcome. We’ve heard lots about you,’ the man replies with a soft Welsh accent. I know my own cheeks have reddened now.
‘I’m scared that most of it’s true.’
‘She likes you. Doris is a good judge of character.’
‘Doris?’ I look at The American who doesn’t look like a Doris one bit. In fact, I don’t know what she looks like because I don’t know her name, and now it feels rude to ask.
‘It’s my little pet name for her,’ the man says in a stage whisper. ‘The poor man’s Doris Day.’
I let out a snigger. ‘Dare I ask the story behind that one?’
‘You daren’t.’ The American interrupts and shoots flirtatious daggers at the man and thwacks him over the head with a black lace fan for good measure.
I don’t know why she has one on her, it’s barely fifteen degrees Celsius; I am coming to the conclusion that theatrics form a heavy role in her outfits.
‘Honestly, Crispy, you’re intent on making sure I have no friends left up here, aren’t you? ’
‘I don’t mind if you have friends, my dear, just that I’m your favourite.
’ The man called Crispy pouts over the table at her and she melts a little.
I want to ask about his name but he grabs my arm and pulls me closer to him before I get chance.
‘We’ve been friends for so long, at this point it’s becoming a hostage situation.
’ I snort and I notice how his eyes glisten, partly from the lights and partly from the alcohol.
‘But I’m glad you’ve managed to join us, Ava, nice to add a bit of youth to our expat troupe. ’
‘Oh, I’m not an expat.’
‘You’re not?’ He looks surprised. ‘Thought Doris said you were an English girl out here.’
‘I am, but not to live. Just to visit.’
‘She’s a smart girl, unlike us.’ The American leans over with the bottle and tops up the wine that is evaporating. ‘Wouldn’t want you to end up drinking yourself into an early grave like we are.’
‘Early grave? Doris, you’ve been coffin-dodging since the last millennium.’
She hits him with a fan again. This time I can hear it whistle before it’s brought down on his shoulder. His wince isn’t at all a performance.
‘What’s good to eat?’ I ask the table, desperate to change the subject.
‘Not sure. We haven’t had the pleasure yet.’
‘Let’s change that.’ I get to my feet and reach for my purse.
‘What are you going to get us?’
‘Carbs,’ I say quickly, and before I can take requests, vault it over to the stall with the shortest line, which happily is a steaming vat of paella.
It is only when I get to the front and Florian is there to take my order that I realise my mistake. Small bloody towns.
‘Hi.’ Florian wipes his fringe from his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘Nice to see you.’
‘You too,’ I lie. Whilst it looks like everyone who lives in a ten-mile radius of Monpazier is here tonight, I had tricked myself into believing that he may have become some sort of social hermit too, avoiding any signs of life. Instead, he has taken it upon himself to help.
‘What can I get you?’ He gestures to the cauldron of rice and meat in front of him.
‘Three paellas and… do you do bread?’ I ask hopefully.
His face screws up. ‘With paella?’
I throw my hand in the air. ‘Don’t worry.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Actually, do you have water?’
‘Yeah, sure.’ He pulls out a small bottle and I shake my head.
‘More, like five of those?’
‘Having a party?’
‘Something like that.’
He dishes out the food into steaming containers and then hands them over until we come to an impasse. I don’t have enough hands.