French Kisses (2 page)

Chapter 2: Summer in England

Rachel’s life post-Michael had developed a routine in which she worked everyday in the studio, creating her prints and greetings cards. When she was involved in a new design, she was inclined to lose track of time so she had an old-fashioned alarm clock in the studio that buzzed and clanked when it was time to do important stuff like lock up the chickens or feed the kids.

In the morning, she accompanied Charlie and Alice to the main square where they were collected by the village bus and taken into town to school. They were grown-up enough not to need a chaperone, but Rachel enjoyed the walk. Mid-afternoon, she downed tools and went to meet them or they ambled back themselves, sometimes calling in on friends in the village. The shrill ring of the alarm clock now showed her that it was home time.

“It’s time to go and fetch the offspring, pusskins. Want to come?”

Rachel took off her apron and dashed downstairs. The cats sometimes liked a walk and would follow at a distance then sit on the church wall to wait for her to return.

Rachel knew she was lucky: despite all the changes and the new developments that had happened in the nearly two decades since they had pitched up, Pelette hadn’t really altered. There was a core of local people who knew her well.

They had watched Rachel and Michael arrive, restore their house and have the children. When Michael took off with Amelie, the villagers had quietly and discreetly come together to look after Rachel and the children.

She couldn’t say what had changed, but she felt protected and knew that Alice and Charlie would never come to harm in the area. It was partly the fact that everyone knew everyone, but it was more than that: her children had been the first to be born in the old Seurat farmhouse for many years and that made them special.

Now the kids were gradually settling back to school after the long summer holidays. This year, like every year since they were born, Rachel had taken them to England for four weeks to visit their relatives in Devon and Yorkshire.

When the children were little, she and Michael would watch and worry about them. They were eccentric
– English kids who chattered away together in French – but after a while they would be bounding around the Dales or across Exmoor with their cousins, picking up the local accents.

After the split, she had dreaded the trip back. What would people think of her? Surely they would wonder what she had or hadn’t done to make her husband look for love elsewhere. In fact, family and friends
– including Michael’s friends – had been sympathetic and understanding.

One of his oldest mates had sidled up to her rather drunkenly at a barbecue and said Michael was a stupid sod to leave her. She managed to extract herself before his wife came over and dragged him back to the chicken thighs.

That was in Harrogate, near the ex in-laws’ place. What she really loved and looked forward to most was being back in Devon at her childhood home.

One evening after a long day exploring rock pools and sunning themselves at the beach, she had left Alice and Charlie with their grandfather, Harold, and hiked up to the cliff top. The tangy sea air was the one element she really missed from her home. She felt the pull of it every time she visited: there was a strong, physical connection with the ocean that she guessed only people born on an island ever developed. A love of the sea was one of many
things that she shared with her parents.

When her mother, Jean, had passed away Rachel had tried to persuade her father to live with them in France, but he had refused. She was disappointed, but she understood.

Taking her hand, Harold had spoken to her gently. “I’m too old and set in my ways, sweet pea. The move would probably finish me off, anyway.”

“Don’t say that, Dad,” said Rachel, a lump in her throat. “I’m too young to be an orphan.”

Harold had laughed. “As long as I take my daily totter along the sea front, I’ll be fine for a few years yet.”

She had cried when the family returned to France, leaving Harold alone in the house. Her brother Henry lived in America and visited as often as he could, but they both wondered how Harold would cope on his own after decades of marriage. They needn’t have worried: a handsome man, he was soon scooped up by Connie, a merry widow from London and had never looked back.

Rachel smiled to herself, remembering that evening in Devon, when the pair had agreed to skip their Tai Chi class and look after Charlie and Alice so that she could go for a walk and enjoy her brief time back in England.

She hadn’t kept up with many people, but she had arranged to call in at her friend Mary’s house for tea after her walk. They had been at secondary school together and had kept in touch even during the years when Rachel was completely absorbed in Michael and their new life together. Mary was the person Rachel felt closest to from the old days. Over strong tea and Jaffa Cakes, she had brought her friend up to date with Michael’s romance and her own life with the kids.

Rachel thought that she had made her experience as an artist in rural France sound rather fun and exciting, and had been surprised by her friend’s reaction.

“It sounds a bit lonely, Rach,” Mary had said with a frown.

“I’m not lonely. I’m just, well, busy.”

“You could come back and live here, you know?”

Rachel shook her head. “No, I couldn’t. Not anymore. The kids are more French than English. And there’s the house, my friends and my work . . .”

“Kids are adaptable and you could easily get some studio space in town.” Mary smiled. “But I understand.” She got up and walked over to the kitchen window where a band of drizzle was starting to blow in off the sea. “Who would exchange all that lovely French sunshine for this?”

“Oh, we have our fair share of bad weather, don’t you worry. Some of the storms are real humdingers.” Rachel stood and joined her friend by the sink, putting an arm around her shoulder. “But it is my home.”

Mary patted her on the hip. “I know. So, do you fancy a quick drink at the
King’s Head for old-times’ sake or are you expected back at Harold’s?”

“Nope, I’ve got the night off. Dad has promised the kids fish finger sandwiches for tea so I said I might give that a miss and see what you were up to.”

“Great. Two large Chardonnays and that fine English delicacy, scampi and chips coming up.”

“Yum, my favourite!”

A few hours later, when she had tottered tipsily back to the house, Rachel had found everything quiet and assumed that everyone had gone to bed. Instead she discovered the entire household plus a couple of local kids playing darts in the kitchen.

“It’s good for hand-to-eye coordination,” her father had said when she’d expressed concern as the sharp objects whizzed across the room and pinged off walls.

“And I insisted that they all wear cycle helmets to protect their heads,” added Connie, who was safely positioned by the door.

Knowing when she was beaten, Rachel shook her head, laughing. “Well, there’s not much I can say to that. Goodnight all.”

Now, sitting under a plane tree in Pelette waiting for the bus to arrive from Dreste, Rachel smiled at the recollection. She knew that her children didn’t yet appreciate how lucky they were to have friends and family in two countries. She had enjoyed her time in England more than she had expected to this year. Michael’s relatives had been kind, agreeing with her that it was important for the children not to lose touch with their cousins just because their parents had split up.

A creak and rattle indicated that the bus was about to crest the steep, narrow street and make its way into the square. It drew to a halt opposite where she sat. Rachel was always fascinated as she watched the youngsters get off
– the girls looked so much more glamorous than she and her friends had been at that age. She’d never had the big hair and perfect skin that these girls had. Alice was turning into a young woman and was worryingly gorgeous. Charlie was only two years younger but was still a boy. As she saw him slouch towards her, Rachel was overwhelmed with love for her children.

The three of them walked home together, the cats joining them when they reached the church and running alongside.

Back at the house she prepared supper then went into the studio to carry on with some birthday cards she was designing. The rhythm of work always helped her to think. She wasn’t quite sure how things were going to turn out, but she was determined that her little family would be okay. And was she lonely, as Mary had suggested? Of course not. In any case, she was far too busy with her prints and the kids to think about finding a new man.

She’d had offers, of course. As soon as Michael had left her, she had been surprised when all kinds of unsuitable men
– men who had been friends of theirs for years – rushed around to offer help, and sometimes more. The fact that every available male in the local area turned up at her door was just one more reason for her to be angry with Michael.

Things hadn’t been going too well between them for some time; they didn’t
not get on, things had just become a bit boring. Rachel had secretly imagined that she might make her own bid for freedom when the children were older, though she doubted whether she would ever really have done it. She loved her husband and it seemed to her that marriage was bound to be unexciting sometimes, so she was furious when Michael decided to jump ship. Whenever she thought about it, all the frustration came rushing back.

* * *

Rachel had been clearing out one of the sheds at the side of the house to use for storage and was dusty, tired and thirsty. The children were out with friends so she was on her own. Michael had gone into the village and came back with only half the things she had asked him for, looking rather sheepish. That’s when he’d broken the news: he hadn’t been to the village, he’d gone into Dreste to see Amelie and – Rachel guessed – to make sure that the girl really did want him.

That moment was frozen in time and Rachel could remember every detail: the chickens preening in the dust that swirled around the courtyard, the church bell striking 3pm, the sound of children splashing around in a neighbour’s swimming pool.

She had stood there, open-mouthed, not making sense of the words that washed over her. Then Michael had put on his reasonable voice, the one he used to clinch a property deal. The one that made her cringe.

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” Rachel’s brain couldn’t take it in for a minute. “That you’re leaving?”

Michael nodded, looking sorrowful. “Of course I still love you and the children . . .”

“But you love that girl more than us.”

Michael had paced around the terrace, rubbing the top of his bald head as he tended to when he was upset.

“Rach, this isn’t easy for me either.”

“Pah!” Rachel almost spat the word at him. “Not easy for you? How dare you say that! You’re walzing out of my life with Miss Tippy-Toes leaving me with two kids and this bloody great house to manage on my own. With no money.”

Michael raised his hands in a gesture of submission and looked pained.

“I’m sorry sweetheart . . .”

“Don’t bloody well ‘sweetheart’ me!”

“Rachel, you’ll be fine. We’ll sort out the money – I won’t let you starve.” He had stopped pacing and was looking from the sun-baked terrace towards the kitchen, where Rachel had put a pile of new prints that she planned to get framed.

“With the maintenance and the money from your work, you’ll be fine.” He smiled weakly. “And I’ll pay you rent to use the garage, of course.”

That had been the final straw.

“I don’t want you anywhere near the garage. You can keep that geriatric vehicle of yours in Dreste. Or better still, take it to the wrecker’s yard where it belongs.”

For the first time, Michael looked shocked. He shook his head and looked pained.

“How can you say that about Di-Di?”

Rachel felt the teeniest sense of remorse bubbling under the fury as she pictured the old mustard-yellow car, a 2CV Dyane that had been pretty ancient when they had acquired her and the house from their canny neighbour all those years ago. He, Monsieur Seurat, had looked about 90 then but was still going strong, unlike the car. Despite the fact that Di-Di had a tendency to conk out at inopportune moments and that they now had a proper car, they had clung on to her.

“I’ve got things to do here,” said Rachel, fearful that she was about to cry over a darned metal box.

Michael nodded, and looked relieved to have an excuse to leave. “I’ll go now, but perhaps we can talk again tomorrow. You know that you can call me anytime.”

The look he got made him beat a hasty retreat.

“Okay, I’m off.”

And with that he turned, got into Di-Di and drove off, the engine stuttering and farting as it went.

The details of the next few days and weeks were a blur. After some initial tears, the children had been remarkable sanguine about it. All their friends’ parents seemed to be divorced. Amelie had taught Alice ballet, so it was not as if she was a complete stranger to them. Her parents were clearly embarrassed by their daughter turning into a home-breaker and went out of their way to be generous to their newly acquired grandchildren.