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

‘The estate agents must be very rich,’ he says. He’s looking at Carine and making a joke. She sticks out her tongue at him.

I can’t believe how much I enjoy cooking again. I haven’t baked in years. Not since Ollie decided we needed a fitness regime to improve our chances of getting pregnant. ‘No takeaways, no alcohol, no cakes’ became no carbs, protein shakes and nights at the gym for him. I used to love cooking for him. On the first occasion I made a Portuguese pork and clams dish, followed by pineapple upside-down sponge with custard. He told me there and then he loved me and planned to marry me. I laughed. I laughed a lot in those days, and I loved to make others smile. Mostly that was through cooking. I liked nothing more than having friends round on a Saturday night after work for a pot of chilli and chocolate pudding, or for Sunday lunch, beef with all the trimmings, and Yorkshire puddings that got a gasp when I brought them to the table. One day, I thought, I’d be feeding our own family around the table. But when that didn’t happen, the meals around the table stopped. Even eating together became a chore as Ollie would insist on tiny portions, saying he wasn’t hungry. It was as if I’d cooked a meal just to annoy him.

Ollie has sent several sharp text messages this week, which I’ve received intermittently when I’ve walked to town for provisions. In the last one he said he’s given up trying to ‘talk sense into me’. I haven’t felt so happy or excited in a long time. Or maybe excited and nervous. I have a market stall to prepare for: I’ll be back behind a counter, selling to people, where I’m happy. And I’ll turn my home into a chambre d’hôte, just as soon as I can afford paint and furniture. I have a plan. I’m just not sure it’s going to work. But it has to. I have to make a living. If I can’t, my new life will be over when it’s barely begun. Tomorrow, market day, I’ll find out.

ELEVEN

I breathe in deeply as the early-morning mist rolls around the valley and up the hill towards the house. I’m taking a moment to settle my nerves. It’s barely light. I have been up baking from, well, the middle of the night. I have packed all the biscuits and shortbread into boxes Fabien got for me from the greengrocer on the main street, and I make a note to shop there by way of saying thank you and to take her some apricot jam. And I think of Fabien’s grandmother, with a sunny orange face and her apricot trees.