Page 23 of The Bordeaux Book Club
Their cost of living had plummeted on moving to France – giving them plenty of breathing space. Groceries had been just as expensive – if not more – but the house they’d bought with its five bedrooms and well-converted interior had cost a fraction of the price of their London apartment. They’d had plenty in savings when they’d come across – enough to ease the passage and give them at least a year or more to figure everything out comfortably.
Stephen had had a hankering to renovate a property for years. The apartment they’d lived in, close to Canary Wharf, had been perfect – smooth walls, windows that showcased the city, a kitchen that was so modern, it had taken Grace about a month before she’d dared to use the oven. But he’d often moan that it was ‘too modern’ and even ‘too perfect.’ And when he’d told her about his French dream, he’d explained how he felt transforming a property with his bare hands would fulfil a part of him that had lain dormant for so long. ‘Dad was an architect,’ he’d said. ‘Mum still paints – and you know, she could have made it big if she’d known how to market herself. And there’s me, slaving away in an office all day. All that creativity, wasted.’
Back then, Grace had looked into his enthusiastic face and whispered, ‘Why not?’ They were in their forties – still young enough to have the energy for a change. They’d hoped for a baby – still did, despite the odds being stacked against them. But it wasn’t happening right now, so why not make the most of the fact they were ‘child-free’? They didn’t have responsibilities, and they did have skills and energy. She’d never considered moving abroad, but his enthusiasm had carried them both forward.
She closed her eyes momentarily, picturing the day when she’d come back from tutoring – proudly having secured her first pupil in France – to find him sitting at the kitchen table. It had been autumn and the room was gloomy. At first, she hadn’t even seen him sitting there, so when she turned on the light,she’d let out a little scream. Then laughed: ‘Stephen!’ she’d said. ‘You’ll be the death of me.’
Then he’d told her to sit down.
She’d known instantly that something was wrong and her mind had rushed to the possibility of him being ill, or that someone had died. Heart thundering, she’d dropped her bag and sat down in front of him. ‘What?’ she’d said. ‘What is it, love?’
‘I’ve had enough,’ he’d said, and at first she’d assumed he meant of her.
‘Why?’
‘This place,’ he’d gestured to the half-painted kitchen. ‘It’s killing me, Grace.’
She’d often thought back to his choice of words.It’s killing me.What he’d really meant, she’d concluded over the years, was that it was too much like hard work. He hadn’t been willing to think outside the box, to consider a different way of living over here, with her. He’d simply wanted to throw in the towel when he realised that tiling and painting and all the things he’d assumed he’d be an instant pro at were more difficult than he’d thought.
‘What do you mean?’ she’d asked at the time.
‘I want to move back,’ he’d said.
She’d taken a moment before responding. ‘We’ve hardly given it any time! Come on, you’re just…’
But he’d shaken his head. ‘I’ve got a job interview, Friday,’ he’d said. ‘I’m flying back tomorrow. If I get it, they want me to start right away.’
It had felt a little like a punch to the stomach. The casualness of it. And how long had he been feeling like this without telling her? She’d noticed that he hadn’t touched a paintbrush for a couple of weeks, but had assumed he was just taking his time, thinking. And she’d concluded that they hadn’t come here torush, to create a perfect home and simply live in it like before; that renovations like theirs took time and care.
But all along it had been something very different.
‘But what about us?’ she’d said.
He’d reached his hand over then to cover hers. She’d let it sit there, not sure whether to pull hers away from him. ‘Of course, I want you to come back with me, love,’ he’d said, completely confident that he could turn her life upside down on a whim, then change his mind and that she’d simply follow.
‘But,’ she’d said, her voice prickling with thinly disguised anger, ‘what about whatImight want?’
His eyebrows had shot up. ‘Look, love. I know, I’m being impulsive, I guess. You know me!’ he’d grinned – seemingly quite pleased with himself. ‘So it hasn’t worked out. So what? We can go back to London, start again. You’d get a job easily… you?—’
‘Stephen,’ she’d said firmly. ‘I gave up a job I loved for this. I said goodbye to colleagues, friends, kids…’
‘I know, and I appreciate?—’
‘I’ve started to make inroads here, set up a tutoring business!’
He’d scoffed then. ‘What,onepupil? I think they’ll probably survive.’
That was when she’d withdrawn her hand. ‘It’s not that, Stephen. I’ve… well, I want to give this life a chance. I think you should too. It’s been, what, six months? And you’ve discovered you’re no good at installing kitchens. So what? We own this beautiful house, in a beautiful place, and if you give it a little more time, you’ll find…’
‘This job,’ he’d said, reaching again for her hand but removing his from the table when she failed to meet him halfway, ‘is the opportunity of a lifetime!’
‘And what would you call this?’ she’d said, gesturing around their half-painted stone kitchen, the garden outside that stretched almost to the horizon.
He’d paused. ‘I think…’ he said, ‘I think it might have been a midlife crisis.’
She’d shaken her head slowly.
‘What?’ he said.
