‘It’s an excuse for a gathering. We do some weeding, plant up a couple of things and then there’s a lunch at the Salle des Fêtes after. It’s fun, quite social. I thought it might be good for you. Unless you have plans?’
I think of my incredibly empty schedule and consider making up an excuse but there isn’t much point. He’s probably guessed that if my only companionship in this place is with a bunch of geriatrics then I can’t really turn down the opportunity for some social contact.
‘Fine.’ I shrug.
‘You’ll come?’
‘What have I got to lose?’
‘A nail at worst.’
‘The car park, Sunday at ten.’ I nod at him, confirmation that I intend to stick to my word.
I am halfway through the door when he calls to my back, ‘It’s not him you know. The sculpture. It’s not Ettie.’
‘Oh I know,’ I nod reassuringly. ‘It’s you.’ And I leave him to his turret.
Chapter 12
Imake the mistakeof arriving on time. I should have learned by now that ‘French time’ dictates that you should arrive at least fifteen minutes later than when you are told and I had overestimated the walk. The car park where Florian had instructed us to meet is entirely empty and I will not make the second mistake of being the first one there. Instead, I perch on a wooden bench that looks over the valley and take the diary out of my bag.
The last entry was from after the exhibition. I had scribbled down everything I could have said to Madame Grenaud – all the things that came into my head when sleep wouldn’t – and then Florian had inserted himself onto the page; but unlike the last time his name made an appearance, there was less anger, more relief. I try a few more lines, try to pull my focus away from my brother-in-law and onto something safer, the fact I am about to garden for pleasure, how good fresh air really feels, the promise of human contact.
I notice that the car park has started to fill, small groups forming. I wait until I see an old red Citroën CV pull in before I make my way down to join them.
‘Hey,’ I say to Florian’s back as he tries to wrestle a wheelbarrow out of the boot.
He jolts, clearly not expecting the greeting, but when he turns around I enjoy watching the grin appear on his face.
‘You came.’ He brushes the dirt from his top and leans forward to greet me. The well-groomed artist has been replaced with the Florian I had expected, his suit swapped for some well-worn jeans, a long-sleeved grey top and a fleece.
‘You sound surprised.’
‘I thought you might have come up with some very plausible excuse.’
‘Well turns out there really isn’t much to do here,’ I shrug. ‘Besides, maybe it’s the fact I’m bored or that I’m thirty but it kind of sounded fun.’
‘You’ve changed.’ He smirks.
‘You really don’t know me well enough to make a full assessment of my capacity for change. Now can I help?’ I point to the wheelbarrow and Florian nods, the grin softening into a contented smile.
‘Sure.’
About twenty people begin to cluster around a pile of gardening equipment before a buxom middle-aged woman blows a whistle and everyone forms a circle around her.
She speaks enthusiastically, and loudly, in French. I catch more words now, the dusty connections resurrecting.
She points to people, gesturing to different directions, reaches into the pile of equipment and thrusts trowels and rakes and spades into people’s hands.
And then she looks at me.
‘Bonjour?’ She raises her eyebrows; clearly she hasn’t noticed me before now.
Florian steps forward. ‘Ava,’ he says. And then I translate the words,Etienne’s wife. I watch as the realisation passes over everyone’s faces. I recognise a couple. Customers of the café, acquaintances of Etienne, I had probably said hello to them in passing whilst cleaning down the tables and heading back up to the apartment to wait for Ettie to finish.
‘Bienvenue, Ava,’ the leader of the gardeners greets me, and then she shouts ‘Allez!’ deafeningly loudly and the crowd begins to disperse.
I go to follow Florian who is starting towards a scrub patch of dirt at the bottom of the car park with some other men.
