9

ZOE

‘You convinced me. Sharing makes sense,’ said Martin, grinning.

It definitely did. After two days of shorter walks, I was feeling better about everything. There was something special about the gîte, too. Maybe it was the sign in French and English: Please no mobile phones to prevent health danger from radio waves. The place hummed with positive energy.

Bernhard and Sarah had gone upstairs, and we were about to follow when the proprietor, Angelique, emerged from behind the kitchen bench with a cake fresh from the oven, smelling of apple and cinnamon and dripping with butter.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said in halting English, ‘but there are eggs. And butter. Is that a problem for you?’

‘Is it often a problem?’ said Martin, in French.

‘Unfortunately, yes. The previous owners were more strict, and some of our guests expect everything to be as it was. No meat, no eggs, understanding English and German and Dutch, and the crazy rules with the phones.’

Angelique and her husband, Emeric, had bought the business as a retirement project, inheriting a live-in program for writers and musicians who cared about healthy eating and sustainable living.

The cake came with a glass of white wine; Gilbert and Bernhard joined us, and Sarah followed—in her short shorts, tank top and low-cut hiking shoes. She gave us a look and disappeared out the door.

Our room was up a tight spiralling staircase in the tower. Through the slit windows, we could see the darkening skies.

‘Shower first?’ I asked, and then we were kissing, his touch and smell an instant reminder of the intimacy I had missed so much. He tasted of apple cake and wine, and after the initial urgency the kisses became slower and gentle, his beard tickling as he opened my shirt and kissed my skin. It had been too long, and even counting the few days—and nights—we’d had together three years ago, we were still new to each other, uncertain and tentative. But, for me at least, there was none of the self-consciousness of the first time we had slept together.

We had at least two hours until dinner to enjoy finding each other again. And all to the sound of beautiful classical music. At first, I thought I was imagining it. Then I realised it was coming from the room beneath us. Martin mumbled ‘Mozart’ as the cello was joined by…another cello, and another. The floor seemed to vibrate with the music. I let myself disappear into the magic of the instruments being bowed and plucked.

Until there was a bang on the door. Shit. I had thought babies got in the way of sex. A twenty-year-old was worse.

‘Ignore it,’ said Martin.

The next bang was a lot louder and this time the room lit up.

We both started laughing. ‘The universe,’ said Martin.

As we ate dinner, we watched the storm play out through a huge window: flashes across the sky and hail so loud it was hard to hear each other at times. We had been out there just a few hours earlier; our daily connection to the land and nature added to the power of the experience.

All the food was vegetarian, the herbs and most of the vegetables home-grown. We were joined by the cellists—a British masterclass—and Martin got into a discussion with them about creativity. Brian seemed to be their spokesperson.

‘Each year we spend a week here. But it’s been a wee bit tricky this time. The new people are sweet, but they don’t have much English, and one of our group is vegan. Plus, he’s got an issue with radio waves. This was the one place…I mean, there are places in England, but we came here because everything was right.’

‘Hope he doesn’t spot this,’ said Martin, after dinner, fixing a router that had apparently been malfunctioning. I watched him working, dealing with a problem instead of complaining about it, spreading some karma. I felt positive being a part of it. It was hard not to look like the cat that got the cream as Martin and I went upstairs to bed—together.