Page 3 of The French Wife

‘Sure you don’t want another cup of tea?’ she asked.

‘No, thanks. We must have had three or four cups already – we don’t want to have to stop too many times on the way!’

‘Goodbye then,’ Emma said, a little disconcerted at the thought of them leaving so soon. ‘And thank you. You’ve been brilliant.’

‘You going to be alright here on your own?’ Andy asked, pausing, sudden concern in his kind eyes.

‘Of course,’ she said briskly. ‘I’ll have so much to do… I certainly won’t be bored.’

The two men eyed her sceptically. ‘Good luck, then,’ Burt said, swinging into the cab.

Emma stood just outside the courtyard as the lorry drew away, watching the dust settle, listening to the sound of the engine fading into the distance. Then she headed back to the house, with an inexplicable lump in her throat. Andy and Burt had been surprisingly good company and very helpful. She couldn’t help thinking they were her last link with the city that had been her home for many years.

But walking back into the courtyard, passing the gateposts, something caught her eye and she stopped to take a closer look, forgetting all sentimental thoughts about London. She’d not noticed before, but set into the gatepost was a faded nameplate, the carved lettering obscured with dirt. She rubbed off some with the side of her hand and eventually saw the name – Le Châtaignier – etched in Gothic-style script. Her eyes lingered on it for a few seconds. She hadn’t realised the house had a name. She racked her brain, trying to remember what the word meant with her rather rusty French. She had a dim recollection that it might be the name of a tree; a chestnut tree perhaps? That would figure, given the thick forest of chestnuts on the other side of the barn.

Then something else on the gatepost took her eye. The concrete around the nameplate was pockmarked with small, round holes. She frowned, peering closer, running her fingers over the surface. Then she drew back with a sharp intake of breath. These marks in the concrete could only be bullet holes. Bullet holes? In this beautiful, quiet corner of rural France? How could that be? She stared, wondering. Surely, she must be mistaken, there must be another, more plausible, explanation.

She walked towards the front door, puzzling over what she’d seen, and it was then that she noticed a few more of the small, tell-tale holes marking the stones in the porch. Could this be the work of some strange bird or insect? she wondered. The farmhouse was buried deep in the woods and she knew French farmers liked la chasse, or hunting. Perhaps it was something to do with that? Another chill went through her, redolent of the one she’d experienced when she’d seen the dark figure running into the woods the night before. The old house clearly guarded many secrets.

Trying to put the bullet holes out of her mind, she spent the rest of the morning unpacking boxes, taking out essential cooking equipment and stowing it in one of the kitchen cupboards – after having given it a thorough clean and ensuring there were no mouse holes behind it. Then, beginning to feel hunger pangs, she realised she was out of food. It was time to drive into the little local town, St Marie-des-Champs, to buy supplies. There was no supermarket there, but there was a small grocery store and a boulangerie, so she would be able to buy enough food to keep her going for a couple of days. At the same time, she would call into the estate agent’s and ask if he could recommend a local builder. The sooner the renovations were started, the sooner the place would be finished.

Before leaving the house, she went up to her room and pulled on a clean T-shirt and, propping up the full-length mirror that had arrived with her furniture, she took a good look at herself. It wouldn’t do for the locals’ first impression of her to be of a dishevelled woman with dirt on her face and cobwebs in her hair. Her face was streaked with grime, so she went into the bathroom, dampened a flannel and peered into the old mirror above it. The mirror itself was tarnished and mottled with age, and a crack ran down the middle. Once again, Emma wondered about the previous occupants. Whose face had last looked into that mirror?

She had no idea how long the property had been empty before she’d stumbled upon it, but it felt as though it could have been many decades. Someone must have taken the furniture away because it had been completely empty but for the kitchen dresser, the table and cupboards. Who had lived here? What were their names? What were they like? And why had they left? She had barely given them a thought before, but now she was there, she could almost feel their presence in the rambling rooms and corridors, and was curious to find out something about them.

Her skin was looking very pale after three days in the car, so she dabbed some tinted moisturiser on her face, put on a lick of lipstick and some eyeliner, and pulled a brush through her long, dark hair. Then, feeling a little more civilised, she went downstairs and, touching the urn to bid goodbye to Eliza, locked up the house and went outside. The sun was overhead, and the courtyard – a suntrap throughout the day – was already baking hot. Emma hesitated for a moment before getting in the car. Should she leave the key under the décrottoir? Remembering the mysterious intruder from the previous evening, she decided against that, and instead tucked it into the glove compartment of the car.

She was just about to start the engine when her phone buzzed. Glancing at it, she saw it was a text from Jack and her heart sank.

Did the furniture arrive OK? The asshole removal men weren’t very communicative.

It was so short and offensive, she wondered why he’d even bothered getting in touch. Why did it matter to him anyway? And why did he have to be so rude about Andy and Burt? With a sigh, she switched off the phone, slipped it into her bag and started the engine.

The car bumped along the unmade track towards the country road that led the few kilometres along the river valley to St Marie. The text from Jack had unsettled Emma and as she drove, although she’d promised herself she wasn’t going to dwell on it, she couldn’t help her mind running back over the painful events that had led to their break-up.

It was the heartbreaking loss of Eliza that had driven them apart. Emma had wanted to slow down, to step off the treadmill of her career and the high-octane life she and Jack had been living in London, but Jack hadn’t wanted that. In fact, he’d started working even harder than before, burying himself in his work and committing to endless business trips abroad so he didn’t have to face the pain of their loss.

For years before that they’d both been high-fliers. It was what had attracted them to one another, she supposed. Jack had a career in international finance, based in London, travelling the world for his clients; while Emma had built up her interior design business. She’d been very successful, with an exceptional eye for style, coveted for her work. She’d also travelled a lot, taking assignments in mansions and villas for billionaires in fashionable destinations all over the world.

She’d been so busy, so focused, she’d never stopped to think how she was missing out on her daughter’s childhood. She’d barely even taken time off when Eliza was born, hiring a nanny and an au pair to help out, on top of the housekeeper and gardener they already had for their rambling Georgian house in Hampstead overlooking the heath. The only occasions they’d truly spent time together as a family were on holiday. Once they’d taken a long road trip around France, experiencing the country and the food, enjoying Eliza’s unfiltered, enthusiastic reaction to everything she saw and encountered. But it hadn’t lasted. They’d gone home and resumed living their lives just as before.

Sometimes, on the rare occasions Emma had collected Eliza from nursery, she’d sensed the bemusement and even pity of the other mothers at the way she led her life. She’d resented it and never understood it. Not until it was too late. But how she regretted those missed moments now.

That terrible phone call from Eliza’s nanny, Julie, was burned onto Emma’s memory. She’d been in Florida, working on a villa for a wealthy client, when the call had come.

Julie’s voice had been shaky. ‘Emma, I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.’

Shock had washed through her and she sat down heavily. ‘What’s happened?’ she asked, her heart full of dread.

‘It’s Eliza. She’s been rushed into hospital.’

‘Oh my God! What’s wrong with her?’

‘They’re not sure at the moment, but… well, the doctor said it could be meningitis.’

Emma couldn’t speak for a few seconds. The wind had gone out of her, but finally she said, ‘I’m on my way.’

She’d dropped everything and had taken the next flight but by the time she arrived by Eliza’s bedside, her daughter was already in a coma.