Chapters (79)
- COVER
- About the Author
- Also by Jo Thomas
- DEDICATION
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- FIFTY-SIX
- FIFTY-SEVEN
- FIFTY-EIGHT
- FIFTY-NINE
- SIXTY
- SIXTY-ONE
- SIXTY-TWO
- Epilogue
- Acknowledgements
- RECIPES
- Lavender shortbread
- Apricot jam sponge cake
- Lavender lamb
- READ MORE
- Prologue
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING
I feel like I’ve been left alone on an island: the last ferry has just sailed. I now have nothing. I rummage in my bag for my phone to call the bank in the UK. But even if they send me a new card, it’ll be days before it arrives. Then I see it: the envelope of cash from the sale of the sit-on lawnmower, which I was supposed to pay into the bank. It had been brand new when we moved here. I got a dog and Ollie got the lawnmower. Once we’d decided to leave, he’d pushed it down to the end of the drive and stuck an ‘À vendre’ sign on it. We sold it for half what we paid for it, a quick sale to a couple with a holiday home in a neighbouring village.
I breathe a sigh of relief. But this is all I have until I can get a new bank card. I need to make it last. I return to the brocante, this time with only half a smile. I put back the silk dressing-gown and the leather-bound book. And the beautiful vase I had planned to fill with flowers, and tell Fabien a white lie to hide my embarrassment at my new financial situation. I say I’ll come back for them when I can get out more cash.
‘Of course,’ he says, seemingly picking up on my change in mood. (Why was my card eaten?) ‘You are welcome to invade any time!’ He grins. He’s happy to take my money, but perhaps doesn’t want me in his country.
I count out the cash for the essentials and hand it to him, glancing at what’s left in the envelope.
‘You can take the other items. Pay me when you can, if you like?’
Tears fill my eyes but I don’t want him to see them.
‘I’ll come back when I can,’ I say, through my tight throat, knowing I won’t.
He reverts to slick professional and promises to deliver the goods after lunch. He knows exactly where Le Petit Mas de la Lavande is, he assures me.
‘Merci,’ I say, hurrying out of the cobbled courtyard and through the big iron gates that I know will be locked as soon as I leave: everyone closes for lunch. I hurry past the restaurant on the market square, where many of the stallholders are enjoying lamb ragout, the smell of Provençal herbs in the air, frites, salad and steaks, with jugs of rosé in the glorious sunshine. Small dogs sit patiently at their owners’ feet, and I wish Ralph was the kind of dog I could take to a restaurant. Cigarette smoke rises with the good-natured chat and I would have loved to have lunch in the restaurant, but I must find out what’s going on with our bank account.