BooksBarbecue
Back Escape to the French Farmhouse
Chapters (79)
  1. COVER
  2. About the Author
  3. Also by Jo Thomas
  4. DEDICATION
  5. ONE
  6. TWO
  7. THREE
  8. FOUR
  9. FIVE
  10. SIX
  11. SEVEN
  12. EIGHT
  13. NINE
  14. TEN
  15. ELEVEN
  16. TWELVE
  17. THIRTEEN
  18. FOURTEEN
  19. FIFTEEN
  20. SIXTEEN
  21. SEVENTEEN
  22. EIGHTEEN
  23. NINETEEN
  24. TWENTY
  25. TWENTY-ONE
  26. TWENTY-TWO
  27. TWENTY-THREE
  28. TWENTY-FOUR
  29. TWENTY-FIVE
  30. TWENTY-SIX
  31. TWENTY-SEVEN
  32. TWENTY-EIGHT
  33. TWENTY-NINE
  34. THIRTY
  35. THIRTY-ONE
  36. THIRTY-TWO
  37. THIRTY-THREE
  38. THIRTY-FOUR
  39. THIRTY-FIVE
  40. THIRTY-SIX
  41. THIRTY-SEVEN
  42. THIRTY-EIGHT
  43. THIRTY-NINE
  44. FORTY
  45. FORTY-ONE
  46. FORTY-TWO
  47. FORTY-THREE
  48. FORTY-FOUR
  49. FORTY-FIVE
  50. FORTY-SIX
  51. FORTY-SEVEN
  52. FORTY-EIGHT
  53. FORTY-NINE
  54. FIFTY
  55. FIFTY-ONE
  56. FIFTY-TWO
  57. FIFTY-THREE
  58. FIFTY-FOUR
  59. FIFTY-FIVE
  60. FIFTY-SIX
  61. FIFTY-SEVEN
  62. FIFTY-EIGHT
  63. FIFTY-NINE
  64. SIXTY
  65. SIXTY-ONE
  66. SIXTY-TWO
  67. Epilogue
  68. Acknowledgements
  69. RECIPES
  70. Lavender shortbread
  71. Apricot jam sponge cake
  72. Lavender lamb
  73. READ MORE
  74. Prologue
  75. ONE
  76. TWO
  77. THREE
  78. FOUR
  79. THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING

As I focus on what I’m doing I’m thinking less about Ollie and our life together. The memories that have kept me awake at night are of the good times, before we drifted apart. I’m not missing my mum so much as realizing that cooking makes me feel close to her. I can feel her with me, in the kitchen.

I step outside into the sunshine and on to the terrace overlooking the field and pick a few sprigs of lavender. I have no idea how much I’m supposed to use or whether I can use it fresh – but nothing ventured, nothing gained. I go back to the kitchen and run my fingers down the lavender stems and the little flowers fall off. I scoop them up and sprinkle them into the dough, much as I would if I was using rosemary. I’m cautious with the lavender. I have no idea how it will taste.

I roll out the dough with a jam jar full of baking beans that was in the box of utensils and other kitchen bits and pieces, then reach for one of the cups I bought and use it to cut out neat circles. When I try to lift them off the work surface they stick, and I have to start again. Phfffff! This time I roll it on the greaseproof paper I bought to line pans. Having cut out the circles, I lift the paper straight on to a baking sheet. Da-nah!

I turn to the rumbling oven and open the stiff door. Inside, it’s spotless from when I blitzed the house before we were due to move out just three days ago. It seems a lifetime ago. I slide the baking tray into the oven. Dust off my hands. Put a timer on my phone, then step back on to the terrace and look out over the valley.

I need to work, but what can I do? I’d love to ask around for shop work. But my French isn’t good enough. How can I work with the public when I’m still trying to string basic sentences together? Back home I loved my job in the department store. I joined as holiday relief, and stayed. My two best friends moved on. Rhi left to train as a hairdresser so she could set up in business on her own after her husband left her with two young children, and Lou struggled to work again after she lost her husband to a heart attack. We’ve stayed close, meeting up when we can.

I pick a few more sprigs of lavender from the hedge outside the back door, hold it to my nose and inhale. It fills my senses. I can smell the tuiles cooking, and imagine Fabien’s face when I hand them to him.