Chapter 2
E verything seems to happen very quickly.
We speak to Maddie and Jake over toast and tea in the morning, the eggs and bacon I was going to cook all but forgotten as Pete helps me explain that, as much as we love each other, we want different things in life.
He wants to stay put and buy a La-Z-Boy chair, and I want to go and explore opportunities in France.
We explain to their shocked faces that no one else is involved.
‘Mum and I still care very much about each other, which is why we want each other to be happy,’ he says.
‘But you’re Mum and Dad!’ ripostes Maddie.
‘Yes, but we’re also Jules and Pete,’ he says, surprising me by explaining so well. ‘And now, more than ever, we have to find out what makes us happy and go for it.’
‘And you’re going now, are you?’ asks Jake.
‘I am,’ I say. ‘No time like the present. I’m going to do it while I’m still feeling brave enough.
Otherwise I’ll get cold feet.’ I smile, nervous as a kitten.
‘I’ve packed. Your dad’s loaded the car for me.
We booked the Eurotunnel online. And I’ll be staying in Kent this evening.
I’ve booked an Airbnb. Really close to the tunnel port.
I’ll be driving onto the train and driving off in France.
And Dad’s sorted out my satnav, loaded my journey, so I shouldn’t get lost.’
It’s all happened in such a rush. But now I’ve said it out loud, I just want to get going.
I don’t want to lose my nerve. But I can hardly believe what I’m saying, let alone explain it.
It’s just something I have an urge to do, to take my chance while I can.
But now I’m suddenly gripped by fear. What if this is just a stupid wobble?
What if I get there and want to come home?
And just as I’ve thought it, Pete says, ‘And if Mum wants to come home at any time, that’s what she’ll do.
This is her home, as well as yours, for as long as you and she need it. ’
I couldn’t be more grateful for everything Pete has done for me and given me in our twenty-five years together.
And right now, whether he really wants it or not, he’s giving me the best present of all, understanding why I need to go, and why we’re not Jules and Pete any more.
I’m just Jules. That feels very scary – and exhilarating.
I hug them one by one as we stand by the car, packed with pillows and a duvet that Pete insists I’ll need when I finally move into my own place, even though I’ll be staying in B&B for a while, and the French have supermarkets where I can buy stuff.
I take them anyway because it’s thoughtful of him and he insists.
I promise to let them know how I’m getting on during the journey and to message when I arrive.
And not to talk to strangers! We manage a teary laugh and then, with a final wave, a slam of the car door and a toot on the horn, I’m off.
Just me, just Jules, driving away from everything and everyone I’ve known and loved, with hugs, love and blessings from them all.
Tears fill my eyes, so just down the road I pull into a layby and let them fall to clear my vision.
I could just turn back and say it was a mistake and I’m too scared to go.
Then a message pings through on my phone.
It’s Annie: This is amazing. I’m so proud of you! Live your life! You only have one!
I sit and look at the message on the screen, and take a deep breath.
I send a quick one to the family WhatsApp group to make them smile: Got to the end of the road!
On my way! And get smiley faces back. Even from Pete, who rarely uses more than one word at a time: Safe journey.
Good luck x . And now, although it will take time for this new ‘normal’ to settle in, I know it’s the right thing to do.
My purpose returns to me. I put the car into gear and set off, back to where I need to be right now.
Excitement begins to grow. I have sunglasses on, the window open, Dolly Parton playing, and I’m heading south.
It feels strange. Strange, but thrilling. I feel alive.
After an overnight stay in an anonymous hotel somewhere near Folkestone, where only a month ago we’d been to start our holiday, I’m here on my own.
It’s 1 April, and I’m making the Eurotunnel crossing.
This is so surreal it almost feels like a joke.
I remind myself it’s not. It’s very much real.
And a very long way from where I was in life this time last year, wondering if I had a future at all.
On the train I check my messages.
A WhatsApp from Maddie says: Proud of you, Mum. YOLO ! Jake’s coming round to the idea. It’s just going to take a little time for it to sink in. He’s worried in case you get ill. But I’ve told him they have doctors in France too. And, as Dad says, you can always come home. #CoolMum! xxx
I smile and send her a picture from inside the train. On my way! Xx
When I arrive in France, I file off the train with the other passengers and I know the first thing I want to do, but I have to focus hard on driving on the other side of the road.
I take it slow and steady. I stop in the first small town I come to and, as if Fate had a hand in it, I’m opposite a boulangerie .
I park in the square and head towards where the scent of baking bread is coming from.
Next door is a coffee shop, with seats outside.
I look at the rows of baguettes and, under the glass of the counter, curls of croissants, puffed up and glazed.
‘ Une baguette, s’il vous pla?t ,’ I say to the woman behind the counter.
‘ Bonjour, Madame ,’ she says, and I realise I’ve made my first faux-pas by not saying ‘good morning’ first.
‘ Pardon. Bonjour, Madame .’ I order the baguette and a croissant, and pay. I step out of the shop and find a table and chairs outside the adjoining café, where I order ‘ Un café au lait, s’il vous pla?t .’
The smell of the baguette and croissant is too much for me to bear. My stomach rumbles, my mouth waters.
As I wait for the coffee, I hold the warm baguette in one hand and tear off the end. It cracks and little shards of the hard, glazed exterior drop to the ground. Inside, the bread is white, light and airy, warm and welcoming as its comforting smell rises.
I put the piece of bread into my mouth. At first, again, there’s the crack and crunch of the exterior …
not soft like the ‘French’ bread you get in British supermarkets.
It is completely different inside too: soft, salty and beautifully risen.
I chew and let the contrast of the two textures, the crunchy coating and fluffy interior, dance on my tongue before I swallow.
This is why I’m back. The simple pleasures.
A young woman brings me my coffee and wishes me ‘ Bon appétit .’ The steam from the coffee rises and blends with the aroma of the freshly baked bread.
I tear off another piece of baguette, and bite, then sip the coffee.
A message pings on the family WhatsApp group.
It’s from Maddie again, hoping I’m okay.
I tell her I am and I’m in France, stopping for a break and a baguette before driving on to the south of Brittany, to where Dad and I holidayed.
I reassure her again that we both love her and her brother, and will always be there for them, when they want us to be.
And then I send her a snap of my baguette and coffee.
Looks great. We’re home. Hope you loved my DJ ing at the party! Jake responds.
I did! Xx . Then I add, Go for your dreams , with a smiley face, and he sends me a smiley face with hearts. Everyone should be encouraged to go for their dreams, I tell myself, and hold the phone to my lips, as a wave of homesickness washes over me.
I remember the house Pete and I bought when the children were small, the house we had always planned to extend with my small savings pot.
But when Maddie and Jake moved out to lead their own lives, we didn’t need a bigger house.
It suited us well, and it’ll carry on suiting Pete – close to the golf course, not far to town, the doctor and the out-of-town supermarket.
And, of course, the garden centre for coffee.
He’s happy there. It’s his world. But I couldn’t stay there, like him, just waiting for grandchildren to come along.
You too , says Jake. It’s time you did something for you, rather than spending your time worrying about us!
I send him a smiley face with hearts this time and, not for the first time over the past few hours, brush away proud, happy but sad tears, registering the passing of time.
It goes so quickly. One minute I was making Easter bonnets and driving to after-school clubs, looking after them when they were ill in the night, and the next, life had become very quiet after they’d left home.
They were the ones coming in to sit with me when I was ill in the night.
And now time has marched on again, and it’s up to us to keep up with it.
Just follow your heart , I say.
Maybe I will , he says. Maybe it’s time we made the leap and went for it in Spain!
I reply: You won’t know unless you give it a try. You can always go home if it doesn’t work. But at least you’ll have tried.
He sends me a thumbs-up emoji.
I finish the coffee and take the rest of the baguette back to the car. I’m fired up to complete my journey to Brittany and the little village I left behind.
‘You are back?’ says the old man, Monsieur Martin, peering at me through his thick glasses, a cigarette hanging from his lower lip. He is wearing nothing but a vest, with braces holding up his trousers, and is clearly drinking pastis , judging from the smell on his breath.
‘I am,’ I say, to the owner of the only hotel in town.
‘But you just left?’ he says, frowning. ‘You forgot something?’
‘Yes, I suppose I did,’ I reply, thinking that if I told him I’d forgotten me , it might take more explaining than is really needed right now.
‘But I would like to rent the room again, please.’ The one Pete and I had stayed in to celebrate the end of my treatment – a friend of a friend at the golf club had recommended it, for a peaceful, rural escape, with good walking and cheap wine.
It was where I may have left a bit of me … And certainly my dreams.
‘How long for?’ he asks, sucking at his cigarette and apparently wondering if he has space in his reservation diary, which I’m pretty sure he does.
This is not the sort of hotel people are flocking to.
The town is small, quiet and, right now, exactly where I want to be, next to the village with an abandoned mill that I hope will have my name on it one day …
‘For as long as it takes,’ I say, ‘at the same rate we stayed when we were here before.’
‘As long as it takes?’ He shrugs. ‘As long as it takes to do what?’
‘To find out who owns the old mill in the Village du Grand Lac.’
‘ Le moulin ? The old mill.’ He looks confused. ‘But why? Everybody can use the lake. Why do you want to know who owns it?’
‘Because … I want to buy it.’
‘The mill? But it’s … old!’
A smile spreads across my face. I’m saying what I’ve been thinking since we got home just under a month ago. While I was planning and organising the party that Pete wanted for our anniversary, all I’ve thought about is standing beside the mill and that I didn’t want to leave.
Monsieur Martin turns down the corners of his mouth and I fear for the cigarette. Somehow, against the odds, it hangs on determinedly. And why not?
‘So, I’d like to rent the room, if I can, until I’m ready to move.’
He opens the door to the mid-terrace townhouse wider, eyeing me suspiciously. He peers out of the door, left and then right. ‘Your ’usband?’
I shake my head. ‘It’s just me,’ I say, and make a decision for the new me, tomorrow’s me. I revert back to my full name. Not the one Pete called me by, not Jules. ‘I’m Juliet,’ I say, and start to give my surname, my married name, but then say, ‘Just Juliet.’
He turns to his wife, sitting in the front room at the table there.
She nods. ‘Okay, Just Juliet,’ he says. ‘ Oui , the room is available.’ He begins to list his rules in fast French, just like he did when Pete and I checked in last month.
Before everything changed. Before the anniversary party.
Before I felt I needed to find me … here in a small town, in France, in a little chambre d’h?te in the middle of the French countryside with a cockerel to wake me every morning.
It didn’t make Pete smile. He wanted to leave … or wring its neck.
‘And no guests,’ he adds, handing me the key.
‘I promise, no guests.’ I smile. ‘It’s just me from now on.’ I move my belongings in, eager to get back to the old mill, find the for-sale sign and ring the telephone number.