Love In Provence

CHAPTER 6

The following morning, Sunday, there’s a loud farting, belching noise from the road outside the farm. I don’t pay it much attention – there are lots of old tractors about at this time of year. Ralph jumps up from his position in the sun on the floor in the converted barn accommodation where Rhi and I are making beds together. It’s a single-storey building with basic bedrooms, a shared bathroom, and a large open area to one side with simple cooking facilities and seating. Fabien and I did most of the work ourselves two winters ago and I’m so proud of it.

My heart twists thinking about Fabien, his text when he arrived at his first gig last night. He sent a selfie from a festival site, somewhere in the Dordogne. He was hoping he could remember all the chords to the songs, and wasn’t looking forward to a night in a tent. He also hoped he could remember how to put up a tent. A lot has changed in his life since he was camping at festivals, he said, and signed off with kisses.

A lot has changed, I think. Life has a habit of doing that when you’re not expecting it. Just when it seems to be finding its groove, something makes you stop to look back and realize how much has changed. Five years ago I would never have thought this would be my life now, that I’d be divorced from Ollie and living on a lavender farm with a man ten years younger than me, practically a grandmother to two little boys and running a bistro. Things change so quickly, whether you want them to or not.

Working side by side, Rhi and I are lost in our thoughts, hers mostly about Henri, I suspect, and the hole he’s left in her life, and mine about how I knee-jerk insisted on Fabien going off with his old bandmates. How could I have been so stupid? It’s the last thing I want. I was in shock at Henri’s death. And now Fabien’s not here when I really, really need him to tell him I love him and love our life together. That’s what we should be celebrating, not trying to recapture the past but living in the now. Although he kissed me and told me he loved me, there was something poignant in that moment. Just like when Ollie left. It was as if things were changing for good. I’m wishing we could have tonight to talk about Henri, and about us. I want to know he’s happy with me here at the Le Petit Mas de la Lavande. I don’t want him to stay with me if he has any doubts about us or the future. I want him to be happy. If I had to, I’d let him go. I’ll call him later, tell him how I’m feeling, talk it through with him. I’ll feel better once I’ve done that.

Occasionally a tear falls from Rhi onto the clean white bedding and one or other of us sweeps it away.

It’s what Rhi and Henri found in each other that was so special. No long-term promises, just living in the now, no matter who disapproved, like their grown-up children for a start. Rhi’s children came round to the idea of her giving up the business and spending some of her hard-earned money but I don’t think Henri’s ever did. He spoke very little about his children. I don’t think he was in contact with them much. Clearly there was history – hurt and sadness on his part.

There’s another farting sound and this time Ralph is standing at the door to the room we’re in, barking. I go to the open window where the early-morning mist has dispersed, leaving a brilliant blue sky, the sun pushing gloriously upwards. There, coming in through the gateway at the end of the long drive, I see a little turquoise VW camper van, swaying and lurching, clanking, grinding and pushing out plumes of smoke. Just the sight of it makes me want to cough. Rhi joins me in the doorway of the little bedroom looking out onto the yard.

‘Pickers! They’re here!’ I say, panicked by their arrival. Although I’m expecting them, I’m not as organized as usual.

‘You go. I’ll carry on in here,’ says Rhi, picking up the mop and cleaning fluid to give the tiled floor a last going-over.

‘Thank you,’ I say gratefully, totally wrong-footed. Everything would usually be ready in their rooms, towels on the beds, little gifts of cookies, lavender in vases. I would have planned meals for the week too, including the first-night welcome dinner, and have a schedule for the harvest printed, showing where to start picking and more. But between Rhi arriving, Fabien leaving and Henri … I haven’t planned anything. And I still need to chase up the window repairer for the bistro. I hope nothing’s happened to the place over the last couple of nights.

I take a deep breath and step out into the brilliant sunshine, feel its warmth on my skin, comforting as ever, as the vintage camper van crunches and grinds its way to a halt in the middle of the drive.

‘Think the clutch has gone,’ says a woman of about my age with wild curly hair, leaning out of the driver’s window.

I wave a hand, trying to dissipate the smoke coming from the vehicle. Ralph is barking, like it’s a great game, and running around it.

‘Where shall I park? Not sure it’ll move for a while once I cut the engine.’

‘Over there.’ I point to a space a little further on in the corner of the parking area. ‘Do you think you can make it?’

She nods and, with more smoke and grinding and crunching, the van limps and lurches to the spot under the apricot tree where she cuts the engine. Everything goes quiet, apart from the cicadas chirping in the June heat.

‘Sorry I’m early,’ she says, as she gets out of the van and shuts the door with a bang, making herself jump. ‘Just wanted to make sure I actually got here, so I left at first light.’

‘Have you come far? I’m Del, by the way.’ I hold out my hand to shake hers, then notice mine is quivering and whip it away. ‘Sorry, been cleaning.’

‘I’m Jennifer. Jen. I was staying on a campsite not too far away but wanted to leave time in case anything happened with the van. Given the number of times it’s broken down and I’ve been delayed for a day or two, I like to plan ahead and keep moving. I worry that if I stop too long, I won’t get the old girl going again.’ She laughs. ‘I mean the van, not me! Already looking into places to go for the autumn and then it’ll be Christmas.’

Christmas? It’s only June. It’s like this woman is wishing the year away.

‘Well, I’m glad you’ve found us,’ I say. ‘And you’re here to help with the harvest.’ I’m trying to slip into farm-manager mode. ‘It’s going to be a hot few weeks, so make sure you’re armed with sun cream, water and a hat.’

‘I follow the farm on Facebook. I love your posts from here – it’s just like I imagined – so I was delighted when you said you were looking for pickers.’

I look back at the farmhouse, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. I love this place too. ‘Yes, this is the farmhouse. I’ve been here for three years now. And this is the lavender we’re harvesting.’ I point towards the field on the other side of the accommodation and the drying barn. We walk slowly towards the field as if drawn by its colour and scent.

‘This is beautiful,’ she says. As with most people who visit, I see her shoulders drop and relax when she looks out over the field. I do it every morning as the sun rises, heralding a fresh new day.

We stand looking out, just beyond the drying barn, at the deep purple plants, which resemble an intricately embroidered quilt, softly undulating down the hillside, offering comfort and peace. Right now, I could just lie down, shut my eyes and wait for some of that comfort and peace to assail me.

‘How does it work?’ she asks, breaking me from my thoughts.

‘Well, you and the other pickers will be here in the field. We start early in the morning, when the blooms are at their perkiest, to capture all the fragrance. We cut the lavender stems, collect them in bundles and take them to the drying barn just there.’ I point to the weatherworn building, dark but with plenty of holes between the joints. ‘It looks a bit sorry for itself, but it’s perfect for drying the bundles, which need darkness and ventilation. Some people use fans. I just have holes that let in the breeze!’ I smile and so does she, staring out across the field to the town beyond, where we can see the church spire, then the terracotta roofs of the houses and shops around it.

‘And what about oil? Do you make that? How about soap?’

‘Not yet. That’s next. We hope to get a still, maybe for next summer if this harvest does us well. Then we’ll start to do oil, candles, soap and cleaning products. Lavender is so good for so many things … Well, make yourself at home. We’re expecting people to arrive at any time from now until tomorrow, ready for the picking, which should start any day.’ I step forward and break off a head of the lavender. Nearly there, I hear someone say in my head. You’ve got this. And I swear it’s Henri’s voice. I give a little cough and clear my throat.

‘I’m going to have to find out what’s happened to my van and how to fix it.’ Jen looks back at it. ‘Maybe try to order a new clutch online.’

‘That’s impressive,’ I say.

‘Necessary! Giving up your house to be a digital nomad in a 1950s splittie isn’t for the fainthearted. And you’re happy for me to park here and settle in?’

‘Of course. This is where the camper vans usually are. Some people come with tents and set up over there.’ I point. ‘But this has the best views.’

‘It certainly does.’

‘Well, I’ll leave you to it,’ I say. ‘My partner, Fabien, is the one who knows about cars and the like but he’s …’ I search for the words ‘… away at the moment.’ And that’s perfectly reasonable, I tell myself. He’s just away for a bit, until a new guitarist is found. He’s working away from home. It’s all fine. And it’s not like the money won’t be welcome. It will. He said so himself. I know he’ll feel better about earning something, with the brocante bringing in so little at the moment. He needs to pay JB’s wages. Without my wages from the bistro, things would be very tight. So … Del, stop worrying about Fabien. He’s just away for a bit. He’ll be home soon, with no regrets, and life will get back to normal.

‘Is there anything you need or that I can do to help?’ I ask, trying to focus on my guest. ‘Although, as I said, cars and what goes on under a bonnet are not my forte!’

‘I have everything I need in here. My whole life in one place.’ She smiles, although this time it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. ‘Plus I have Google, and a fair bit of experience of this old girl!’ I watch her open the side door, then bring out a small folding table and a chair, a washing-up bowl and a drying rack with her washing on it, settling in, like Stephanie did in her caravan, bit by bit.

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ I say.

‘Got everything I need. I won’t be any bother. Look forward to meeting the others when they arrive tomorrow. I’ve plenty to be going on with.’

I’m not sure what she means, but I leave her to it, relieved to get away. I don’t have any small-talk just now. What could I say? One of our best friends has just died, and I sent my partner off to join the band he used to play with in a moment of madness and grief?

With that, Rhi and I finish off the bedrooms in the barn. Later, as the day starts to cool, I check on the lavender again, Ralph bounding through the rows as the sun sets over the purple fields. I bend to break off another stem and examine it. I hear his voice again: Nearly there. The buds are just starting to flower, so that by the time we pick, some will be fully open and others not quite. This field will be ready first, and the second lot on the other side of the slope. When we finally get a distillery, I’ll keep half of the field for drying and half for turning into oil. But not yet. There’s no spare cash to buy the still or create a workshop for a bottling unit. Who knows? Maybe after Fabien’s stint on the road with the band, a good harvest, and a busy summer at the bistro, things will look better by the autumn and we can think about it then for next year. Something to look forward to!

I pick off another head of lavender, roll it in my palm and hold it to my nose as I walk back to the farmhouse. Nearly there, I hear again, and this time I know he’s right. It’s nearly there. This is where I need to be right now. Here, among the lavender plants. And the lavender needs me. Right now, it feels good to be needed.

Come Monday morning, it’s a rush. Jen spent yesterday lying beneath her camper van raised up on axle stands in the shade of the apricot tree. She’s barely surfaced. I’ve offered her drinks and baguettes, but she hasn’t left the van. This morning she’s searching the internet, apparently for a new clutch.

‘I have to go to the station soon to pick up some others,’ I tell Rhi and Stephanie, who is there with the children, ‘and meet the glazier at Henri’s. The blooms are nearly ready for picking and drying. We’ll need to start tomorrow. Maybe I should get Serge to check them.’ He had taught me about lavender. He had a farm in the area but wanted to retire and had passed on plants, with advice, to me. Fabien had introduced us. ‘God, I wish Fabien was here. I wish Henri was here, too.’ I feel a wobble. ‘He’d know!’

Rhi steps forward. ‘He’d tell you to trust your instinct,’ she says, taking my elbows.

My hands fly to my eyes, which bunch tightly shut. I push my fingers into the sockets to stop any leakage. I can’t crack now. Rhi puts her arms around me, as does Stephanie, then Tomas and finally little Louis. We stand for just a moment and I pull myself together. I remember being in the field yesterday and hearing Henri’s voice.

‘Look at what you’ve achieved here! When you realized you and Ollie were over and, rather than returning home, you stayed with nothing,’ Rhi says. ‘Just the empty shell of a house in a country where you barely spoke the language. With a daft dog for company. Look at how you dug deep then, made a life for yourself, Stephanie and Tomas.’

‘She’s right,’ says Stephanie, in her usual no-nonsense way. She’s packing her bag before she takes Tomas to school. She’s already been baking at the unit, ready for the market today. ‘You should listen to Rhi.’

‘Remember when Lou and I came to find you to see if you’d gone crazy?’ Rhi says. ‘And there you were, firmer in your mind than I’d ever known you! You were divorcing Ollie and staying put. Then you started baking with the lavender from the cookbook.’

‘It was the cookbook that saved me. One recipe, one day at a time. And Henri who sorted me out with the market stall.’

‘And then me,’ says Stephanie, waving the lavender cookbook I’d found in Fabien’s brocante when I was trying to source cheap furniture, something to sit on, sleep on and eat with. I couldn’t afford the book, or the dressing-gown I’d seen, but Fabien gave them to me as a moving-in present.

‘It was the lavender that saved us both,’ I say to Stephanie, and once again, I feel a swell of pride for the woman she has become.

‘And now let’s hope it sets us on the right path again, starting today,’ says Rhi, gently.

‘You have a harvest to bring in,’ says Stephanie, less gently. ‘We need the lavender for the baking.’ Without it, she will have to buy in lavender from elsewhere. The whole business is reliant on the farm and the lavender we grow here, which we sell to tourists at the market, to the restaurateurs and cafés who provide baked goods to their customers. Stephanie makes ice cream and sorbet, biscuits and desserts. We need the lavender. I pull myself up as tall as I can.

‘Big-girl pants on!’ I say to Rhi.

‘Absolutely! You can do this! Just tell me how I can help.’

‘And me.’ Stephanie softens.

‘Et moi,’ says Tomas.

Tears prick my eyes as I bend to hug him. This is what I need. I can do this, I hope. Everyone else seems to think I can. I’m not so sure … With Fabien away for I don’t know how long, and without Henri to guide and help … The only thing I can do is give it my best. I told Fabien I could. And I will.

Suddenly the day is busy, collecting pickers from the station and walking them back to the farm, fetching others from the bus stop, and booking a taxi to wait for a delayed flight.

They’re an eclectic bunch, I think, as I hurry from the farm to meet the glazier, who is to price up the new window, and explain to the signwriter the lettering I want to replicate what was already there, in gold, Bistrot Henri. I visibly reel when the glazier tells me the cost of the new window. I have no idea where the insurance documents are. I left those details to Henri. They’ll be in his desk somewhere, I suppose. I should’ve asked. He kept saying he’d sort it all out when he was home next. Everything happened so quickly when he left and I took over the kitchen. His paperwork is a shocking mess. It all needs to be gone through. But the window has to be done. I need it replaced quickly so I can be up and running again. Maybe there won’t be a still for making oil this year. I’m using all of my savings, my safety net, to fix the window. I’ll look out the insurance paperwork once the window is in.

I’m standing on the street outside the bistro, looking down at the quote in my hand. The glazier is packing away his tape measure and making a final note on his iPad.

‘Del!’

I look up the cream-stone-lined cobbled street and see my friend, the local estate agent, walking towards me holding her little daughter Clémentine’s hand.

‘Carine!’ I call. We kiss each other warmly. The little girl asks to be picked up and sits on Carine’s slim hips.

‘How is everything?’ Carine says. ‘How are you?’ she adds, concerned. ‘Fabien said he was going on tour with the band.’ She frowns. ‘Surely it’s not a good time for him to be away.’

I take a deep breath. ‘I told him to go. I thought it was what he wanted. To rejoin the band one last time. It was … What with Henri going, just like that, I thought he should grab the chance.’

She raises her eyebrows and pouts. ‘He loved the band. He hated leaving when he came here to take over the brocante. But he loves the brocante too. I suppose he must miss the music, though. I can feel Henri smiling at the idea of him playing again.’

I nod a lot. ‘That’s what I thought. At first he wouldn’t go. But I told him he had to, for Henri, and …’ I trail off. She raises a perfect questioning eyebrow again. ‘I just thought it would be good for him to check in on himself. Isn’t that what they say, these days?’ I give a little laugh. ‘I worry. Worry about, oh … you know, lots of things. I wish I felt I wasn’t holding him back in some way. Most of Fabien’s friends are only just getting married, having babies. He’s skipped that part and gone straight to being a sort of grandfather.’

‘And he loves it!’ She puts a hand on my arm to reassure me. ‘You have to stop over-thinking this! He wouldn’t be with you if he didn’t love you. What’s brought this on?’

‘I don’t know. Life just seems to be going so quickly at the moment. I want it to slow down. I want Fabien and me to take some time for each other, just to enjoy life.’

‘You need to get yourself to Beatrice at the chemist. Get some peri-menopausal treatments, start taking collagen.’ She nods sagely. ‘It’ll be your hormones. For sure.’ She looks down at my nails. ‘And get a manicure too.’

I laugh. ‘I have the harvest to bring in. After that I’ll get my nails done. I promise.’

‘Good. And get some treatments from the chemist. They will help.’ She shifts Clémentine effortlessly to the other hip. I love the way this single woman about town has slid into motherhood. Mother and daughter, they’re like something out of a photoshoot for a magazine.

‘I never heard the band,’ I say. ‘He was finished with it by the time we met. He only plays guitar for fun these days, and there’s not much time for that with the businesses. What are they like?’ I ask.

‘They’re great! Well, they were. A really tight group. Mostly jazz, and jazzy versions of newer songs. Jean Paul is on the keyboard, Dante on double bass, Monique on saxophone and vocals, she’s amazing, and Fifi on lead guitar. Fabien plays bass and … how do you say? … mouth organ.’

‘Ah, yes, the harmonica! He loves it, and Tomas loves to hear him play it. He’s been teaching him too.’

‘That’s sweet. Good for you persuading him to go. Especially with …’ She indicates the boarded-up window, and a wave of loss washes over me. ‘With everything going on at the moment, it’s good to keep busy.’ She shifts Clémentine on her hip. ‘What about Rhi? And you? You okay?’

‘Well, I think Rhi is still in shock. She’s staying with me for the harvest. The pickers are here, all except one whose flight has been delayed.’

‘So the harvest will happen.’

My chest tightens. Suddenly everything seems impossible. Things I took for granted. It’ll be an uphill struggle.

She reaches for my hand, understanding how I feel. ‘And tell me, the pickers, are they a nice group?’ she says, as if she’s trying to dissipate my rising anxiety.

‘They seem so. We have Jen from West Wales. She’s a digital nomad.’

‘What’s that?’

‘It means she travels and can work from anywhere, as long as she has good Wi-Fi.’

‘Good job you got yours upgraded at Le Petit Mas.’ She giggles.

‘Then there’s an older couple from England, Graham and Keith. They got the train. They’re on a gap year, apparently.’

‘Isn’t that something young people do between leaving school and going to university?’

‘Yes,’ I agree. ‘They’re Interrailing, like when they were young, or maybe it was just one of them.’ The facts are a bit blurry from the conversation we had on the walk from the station where I met them.

‘Then there’s a young woman, Maria, whose flight is delayed. She’s always wanted to see Europe, according to her emails. She’s flying from Australia with her boyfriend. I’ve given her instructions to get here. They’ll take a cab and I’ve told her their accommodation is ready and waiting for them. And there’s Ed, who I met from the bus stop. He made his own way here from the airport. Not sure where he flew in from.’

‘That’s quite a mix! What are you cooking for their welcome dinner?’ she asks.

‘Oh, God! Dinner! I still haven’t thought about it!’ I clutch my hands to my head. First-night dinner is a tradition. But, somehow, the excitement isn’t there like it usually is. It’s different.

‘What? But you always plan a first-night dinner!’ Carine and I stare at each other, dismayed that I could have dropped such a big ball.

She steps forward and hugs me. ‘It’ll be fine. You’ll think of something. You always do.’

I hug her back, the kind of hug that says so many things yet to be voiced.

Back at Le Petit Mas, it’s quiet. Everyone is settling in and taking in their new surroundings. It’s hot. People are in their sleeping quarters, perhaps having naps after their journey. I put down my bags in the kitchen where Ralph is lying on the cool, tiled floor. I check my phone for messages and find one from Fabien, letting me know about the festival and where they’re moving on to next. I send kisses and love, happy that he’s happy, spending time with his old friends in the band. Then I check the weather forecast on my phone. It’s hot and getting hotter over the next week. We’ll have to pick early in the mornings while it’s still cool. At least there’s no rain in sight.

Then I unpack the shopping. I look at the ingredients on the work surface and, once again, my brain turns to mush, like wet newspaper.

‘Beef thingy!’ I say out loud, trying to shake the fuzz that’s descended. ‘This is ridiculous,’ I say, more quietly, to myself. ‘Beef daube. Come on! You make it every week!’

It’s always beef daube for the welcome dinner. Just as Henri taught me. Feeds a crowd, filling and restorative for those who have had long journeys.

I put my head in my hands. Just start, Del! But I can’t. I’m just staring at the ingredients in front of me. And I should have put it on hours ago. What was I thinking? Clearly nothing! I have to do something. I can’t remember how I usually make this. I go to Google and follow a recipe from a well-known site there. It’s not the same, nowhere near, but at least it’s something. I mix the ingredients together and put it into the oven, then head upstairs for a short nap, closing the shutters, turning on the fan, and fall into the heaviest sleep.

I wake feeling totally bleary. My brain’s a fug. I’m disoriented. Like I’ve climbed out of a deep pit and am trying to work out where I am. I’m in my bedroom. It’s late afternoon. Fabien is away and Henri is dead. Then I smell it … I throw back the thin sheet I’ve been sleeping under, rush downstairs, open the oven door and pull out the casserole. The lid clatters to the floor.

‘Ouch! Bollocks!’ I shove my burned hand under cold water. Smoke is pumping from the oven and the pot and the smell of burning fills the air. And then the smoke alarm goes off.

I wave a tea-towel vigorously with one hand, as Ralph barks and the alarm beeps at me, telling me what I already know. I’ve ruined dinner. It’s a disaster. My other hand is wrapped in a second, damp, tea-towel. I pull over a chair, climb onto it and wave again at the smoke alarm. Eventually it stops. I sigh and climb down, my whole body feeling like a lead weight.

I look at the clock on the wall, another of Fabien’s brocante finds. It’s nearly six. The pickers will be arriving on the terrace any minute. I told them to come for drinks at six, dinner at seven. And now I don’t have the makings of dinner at all.

‘Think, Del! Think!’ I say out loud, annoyed with myself.

Rhi comes into the kitchen. She’s clearly been out walking – there’s lavender in her hand – and her eyes are red.

‘You okay? You’re hurt!’ She rushes to get some ice from the freezer, puts it into the tea-towel and hands it back to me. ‘What happened?’

I nod to the dried-up burned offering on the side, creating an imprint of its own on the wooden surface.

‘You burned it?’ She looks confused, then changes tack. ‘Everyone can have an off day. There’s a lot to think about,’ she continues. ‘We’re all in shock still. It’s not just me.’

‘Yes,’ I say, trying to work out what I can rustle up to cook. But it’s like wading through mud in wellies.

‘What can I do to help?’ Rhi asks. I hear doors closing from the stable block and voices coming towards the house.

‘Um, give everyone a drink. I told them to meet up on the terrace at six. Make sure there’s wine and beer …’ I say distractedly, still unsure of where to start with dinner.

‘It’ll be fine. We can do this together. As Henri would say,’ she says, and at the sound of voices arriving on the terrace she hurries out to serve drinks.

‘Blimey, something smells burned! Hope that’s not dinner!’ I hear a young Australian male voice. That must be Marco.

Followed by a shush.

‘He’s not wrong. That doesn’t smell good!’ says another, more English, voice. I screw up my eyes, wishing the tears would just come and fall. But they don’t.

I look at the mess in the casserole.

Rhi comes back in from offering drinks. I’m still staring into the pot.

I open the fridge for inspiration. It doesn’t come.

‘I’m starving.’ I hear Marco’s voice again. ‘Hoping for some proper French nosh.’

‘I’ve got some crisps in my backpack,’ someone else says. Maybe Maria, his partner.

I look back at the stew and wonder if I can rehydrate it with wine, maybe some tinned tomatoes. I try it and put on rice to steam. Rhi pours me a glass of wine and I drink it quickly. She refills it, and I drink that too.

‘Best top them up outside, so they don’t notice,’ I say, as I chip at the daube. It’s almost beyond resuscitation. I stare into space, just glued to the spot. ‘Come on, Henri. Trust my instinct – isn’t that what everyone keeps saying? I’m trying here!’

It’s gone eight by the time I put some overcooked stodgy rice and my attempt at rehydrating the daube on the table to everyone’s dismayed faces.

The young Australian frowns as I serve up plates of gloop. ‘We were promised home-cooked meals! Who made this? It looks cooked to death!’ he says, glaring at me.

‘Sorry, there’s been a—’ With that Rhi flees the table, a few glasses of wine and a bucketful of grief swilling around inside her.

‘Actually, I’ll just have rice,’ says Maria, glaring at her partner.

‘Well, you can’t say this was what was promised on the website.’

‘I’m sure it’ll be lovely,’ says Ed, the Englishman, bravely attempting it.

‘More wine, anyone?’ says one of the gay couple, picking up the jug and pouring it into people’s glasses.

The meal, if you can call it that, is awkward and silent as I attempt to scrape the meat from the bottom of the pan.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I haven’t organized a dessert. I would usually.’

‘No problem,’ they all say, standing quickly, ready to leave as soon as politely possible.

‘I’ve got a Twix in my van,’ says Jen. ‘Happy to share.’

‘I’ve still got those crisps,’ says Maria.

‘Think I could do with another glass of wine to wash away the taste,’ says her partner.

‘I have maple cookies,’ says Keith.

‘Right, well, thanks for the meal,’ says Ed, standing. ‘I’ll turn in.’

‘Yes, and us,’ says Graham, also standing. He’s very tall. His husband is very short. Graham is thin and neatly dressed. Keith is wearing a Hawaiian shirt that strains over his round belly.

‘And me,’ says Jen, sounding concerned.

With that, they take their plates to the kitchen, then wish me a good night and go to their accommodation.

And suddenly it’s just me, sitting on the terrace, looking at Ralph. ‘Well, I think we can safely say that was an utter disaster,’ I tell him. I wish Fabien were here. It would have gone so much better. And Henri. Why the bloody hell did he have to leave us like this?

I pour another glass of wine, then abandon it and decide to go to bed. So much for trusting my instincts. I clearly can’t. I change my mind about the wine and drink it anyway.

In bed, my phone lights up with a message from Fabien. How’s things? How was welcome dinner? X

Could be better, I manage to reply. How’s things with you?

Good. Great even. How is Rhi?He adds a sad emoji.

Not good. She left dinner early. Went to bed. But I don’t think she’s sleeping. I can hear her moving around.

Then I start to type. Delete it. Think. And start to type again. I’m going to have to tell him. I can’t do this on my own, Fabien. I’m going to cancel the harvest.

He replies straight away: You can’t. You have to do it. Keep going. People are depending on you. You know that’s what Henri would say. The harvest is the one thing we can all rely on right now. You’ve got this. Before I can type back, he sends another message: I have to go. Off for a catch-up with the band xx

I really haven’t got this. And what does he mean, the harvest is the one thing we can rely on?

I hold the phone to my lips, wishing he was here to ask him.

I don’t know if I can do it.But there’s no reply, he’s clearly put his phone away. And there in the dark, to the sound of the cicadas outside, I’m ready to cry until there are no tears left, the pillow wet. I don’t know if they’re for Henri, or for Fabien, who is a million miles away right now. But they don’t come. And that’s how I spend most of the night, staring at the ceiling, wishing the wretched tears would fall.