his own furrow and Kate’s business – an art gallery in Southwark – had really taken off, was rent out the London house and take a sabbatical, try something new. Kate was about to turn forty. They felt like they’d earned it – a sort of halfway break after twenty years of work.
‘My husband’s an economist,’ Kate had said to the Mayor’s wife. Stephen was fingering the oven towels with disdain. ‘He’s come here to work on a book.’
The Mayor’s wife was standing very straight with her arms flat against her sides. Kate said she didn’t know what she would be doing with her time here and the Mayor’s wife shrugged because it didn’t matter to her what anyone did with their time. It was only after the tour of the house, shaking hands at the door, that Kate said something complimentary about the roses and then made her little announcement. ‘I’m just going to think rather than act!’ she said, but it came out more aggressively than it needed to and it brought about a bit of a silence on the quaint little step.
Kate climbed up the stairs to the bedroom in the attic, which smelt still of the garlic she’d used on last night’s lamb. She stood in front of the mirror and shook her hair out. She replaced the bra she’d been wearing with a sexier one and put on a long black cashmere sweater that was loose around the shoulders. On her legs she wore thick tights and sheepskin boots. She tousled her hair in the mirror, and pinched her lips a bit to make them look red and kissed. She drank the wine and looked at herself from the side. She didn’t mind the way she looked out here. For the first time in a long time there were things she didn’t really mind at all. Like her clothes spilling about the bedroom. And a cigarette smoked out of the bathroom window while staring out at the view of the chateau and the birds lifting off from the roof. And the fact that Stephen hadn’t returned from his drive into the hills yet and wouldn’t, in fact, be there, as they’d talked about, for sex at 4.30 (pick a time, any time, he’d said, laughing) on a Monday afternoon.
They sat in the kitchen where the lights were warm in the eaves. Kate put some candles out. Stephen opened the wine. At the table, they tore the legs from a warm, buttery chicken, and Stephen carved into the breast, releasing the steam from its ivory flesh. Outside the wind was picking up, swinging trestles of ivy across the window . They sucked cloves from a head of sweet garlic, dipped bread in the roasting tin to soak up the oil. Kate sprinkled salt on her greens and ate them with her fingers , picking them up, one by one, curling them luxuriantly into her mouth. Beside them the fire crackled quietly in the grate. They ate and drank. They didn’t say much. There wasn’t any need. Stephen wiped a drip of oil from her chin. Kate sat back and cradled her wine. She thought of the days spread out before her like drifting balloons and took another glug of wine. They held their glasses up.
‘Another triumph,’ said Stephen, leaning over to kiss her. Neither of them saw the white face that was pressed up against the window.
When the doorbell rang, it was Kate who got up to answer it. She opened the door and a burst of cool air came in.
It was late in the evening now; the streetlights flickered on and off in the square. A woman was standing out there holding a tray. She was small and shapely but her jeans and jumper were old and torn and her wild unkempt hair fell to the waist like the hair of a little girl. It looked as if it had never been cut.
‘ Bonsoir ,’ said Kate, warmly.
‘My name is Sylvie Pépin.’
She nudged forward a little and tried to smile with her head down towards the floor. She was childishly shy, and when she came into the light, Kate and Stephen could see that her freckly face was marked with thick cream scar tissue as if someone had gone at her cheeks with a compass , while behind the gold rims of her glasses
‘My husband’s an economist,’ Kate had said to the Mayor’s wife. Stephen was fingering the oven towels with disdain. ‘He’s come here to work on a book.’
The Mayor’s wife was standing very straight with her arms flat against her sides. Kate said she didn’t know what she would be doing with her time here and the Mayor’s wife shrugged because it didn’t matter to her what anyone did with their time. It was only after the tour of the house, shaking hands at the door, that Kate said something complimentary about the roses and then made her little announcement. ‘I’m just going to think rather than act!’ she said, but it came out more aggressively than it needed to and it brought about a bit of a silence on the quaint little step.
Kate climbed up the stairs to the bedroom in the attic, which smelt still of the garlic she’d used on last night’s lamb. She stood in front of the mirror and shook her hair out. She replaced the bra she’d been wearing with a sexier one and put on a long black cashmere sweater that was loose around the shoulders. On her legs she wore thick tights and sheepskin boots. She tousled her hair in the mirror, and pinched her lips a bit to make them look red and kissed. She drank the wine and looked at herself from the side. She didn’t mind the way she looked out here. For the first time in a long time there were things she didn’t really mind at all. Like her clothes spilling about the bedroom. And a cigarette smoked out of the bathroom window while staring out at the view of the chateau and the birds lifting off from the roof. And the fact that Stephen hadn’t returned from his drive into the hills yet and wouldn’t, in fact, be there, as they’d talked about, for sex at 4.30 (pick a time, any time, he’d said, laughing) on a Monday afternoon.
They sat in the kitchen where the lights were warm in the eaves. Kate put some candles out. Stephen opened the wine. At the table, they tore the legs from a warm, buttery chicken, and Stephen carved into the breast, releasing the steam from its ivory flesh. Outside the wind was picking up, swinging trestles of ivy across the window . They sucked cloves from a head of sweet garlic, dipped bread in the roasting tin to soak up the oil. Kate sprinkled salt on her greens and ate them with her fingers , picking them up, one by one, curling them luxuriantly into her mouth. Beside them the fire crackled quietly in the grate. They ate and drank. They didn’t say much. There wasn’t any need. Stephen wiped a drip of oil from her chin. Kate sat back and cradled her wine. She thought of the days spread out before her like drifting balloons and took another glug of wine. They held their glasses up.
‘Another triumph,’ said Stephen, leaning over to kiss her. Neither of them saw the white face that was pressed up against the window.
When the doorbell rang, it was Kate who got up to answer it. She opened the door and a burst of cool air came in.
It was late in the evening now; the streetlights flickered on and off in the square. A woman was standing out there holding a tray. She was small and shapely but her jeans and jumper were old and torn and her wild unkempt hair fell to the waist like the hair of a little girl. It looked as if it had never been cut.
‘ Bonsoir ,’ said Kate, warmly.
‘My name is Sylvie Pépin.’
She nudged forward a little and tried to smile with her head down towards the floor. She was childishly shy, and when she came into the light, Kate and Stephen could see that her freckly face was marked with thick cream scar tissue as if someone had gone at her cheeks with a compass , while behind the gold rims of her glasses