SERGE LOCATED AND FLICKED THE main power switch and the lights came on, which also meant that we had heating. If getting the mains turned on in time for our arrival had been left to me, we would have been without power for days, possibly weeks, but thankfully Serge knew how to deal with EDF, France’s behemoth gas and electricity provider.
But, as I was about to learn, having the lights switched on turned out to be both a blessing and a curse. It meant that we could actually see what we were doing once the weak winter sun had set, early in the afternoon, but it also meant that I was better able to see the state of shabbiness of our new digs. Cracks and stains that had been hidden in the gloom now became apparent. We certainly had our work cut out for us. I opened the shutters and windows to let some of the freezing country air circulate.
The moving guys arrived shortly after us and started unloading things haphazardly in the living room. Although Serge’s furniture had seemed perfectly normal-sized in his cosy one-bedroom Parisian apartment, piled up now it almost looked like doll’s-house furniture. Whole rooms were left empty, and I worried about how we were going to afford to furnish all this extra space.
We unpacked the essentials, with Serge stopping every now and then to spin me around the living room. I wondered if my anxiety was as intense as his excitement. I had my doubts.
At five o’clock that evening, the two moving men shook our hands, wished us good luck, and left us alone. After they’d gone, driving their truck into the fog, the silence and the darkness surrounding us was overwhelming.
I hunted desperately through our boxes, looking for our portable speaker to add a little life to the house. I pumped some Édith Piaf to remind me I was still in France. I love this country, I kept telling myself, but it did little to cheer me.
I dug out the kettle, made a cup of tea, and then wandered the halls and rooms trying to get a feel for how we’d set things up.
The hours slipped by as we cleaned and arranged as best we could. Gradually, as our belongings started to fill the cupboards and bench-tops, I started to relax a little and as soon as I did, the hunger of a hundred men descended over me. I asked Serge if we had anything to eat.
“I have a saucisson in the car,” he said. Of course, he had dried sausage in the car.
“Serge, I’m not meant to eat that during pregnancy,” I said.
“Ah, oui. I forgot. I’ll go get something,” he said, kissing my head. “Have you found the towels? Why don’t you go have a relaxing shower?”
“You’re leaving me here alone?” I asked, suddenly realizing that, for the first time in a long time, I’d have no neighbors nearby, just fields, goats, and empty space. The prospect of being so isolated made me uneasy.
“Just for thirty minutes while I go get some food,” he said.
“Can’t we just get some delivery?” I asked, and he laughed, grabbing his car keys.
“I wasn’t joking,” I called after him, but he’d already slammed the door.
With Serge gone, the house felt even emptier. And despite me turning up the heating, it was still cold. I hunted around for the bathroom boxes and was met with a nasty surprise: Body wash had leaked all over the towels. I sat on the floor and burst into tears. Between the state of the house and my general state of distress and anxiety, heightened by pregnancy hormones, I felt like I’d made the biggest mistake of my life by agreeing to move to the country. The idea of calling my mum and moving home to Australia flew to my mind. But it was around three o’clock in the morning her time, and I didn’t think she’d appreciate such an early-morning call from her pregnant daughter.
I bit my lip, rubbed my eyes, and went to the bathroom. I’d found a hand towel and a foot towel that had survived the great soap spill and made do with them. Inside the brown-tiled shower, I let more tears flow as I attempted to wash the dust and odor from the house off my skin.
After a good twenty minutes, with only a slight concern of running out of hot water, I finally felt warm. I got out and was immediately freezing again. I put on clean clothes, layering on nearly everything I owned. Perhaps the beanie, gloves, and thermal underwear were overkill, but I couldn’t seem to get my body to accept the change in temperature.
Serge met me at the bathroom door as I was emerging. He laughed, looking me up and down.
“You going skiing tonight?” he asked.
“It’s not funny, Serge. The country is freezing.”
“Ma Bella, it’s really no colder than Paris during the day.”
“Seriously?” I asked, shivering.
“Mais oui. In the city, the buildings absorb heat and that makes it feel warmer,” he said. “Also, the pollution contributes to rising temperatures.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Paris isn’t even that polluted.”
“But it’s more polluted than Chinon, n’est-ce pas . . .?”
I looked at him dubiously.
“But enough about the air, come with me,” he said, leading me into the living room.
He’d spread a picnic rug out in the living room and had covered it with baguettes, pre-made salads, cheese, and fruit. He’d also found candles and a little red rose, which he’d dumped in a plastic water bottle. The saucisson did make an appearance, but I could get over that.
I hugged him hard through my many layers of clothing.
“Serge, where did you find all this?”
“Carrefour,” he said.
“The supermarket?” I asked, surprised. He nodded. In Paris, we were spoiled by food stores and delis that stocked ready-made meals, which made throwing together dinner ridiculously easy. I wasn’t used to shopping for this kind of fare at the supermarket, though, and I wondered if the quality would be as good. I was hoping to be pleasantly surprised.
We sat and feasted, and I avoided telling Serge about the knot of dread I was harboring in my stomach. I hoped my eyes weren’t still red from my tears in the shower, because I didn’t want him to know how I was feeling. I’d been hit with a weird mix of emotions and I knew that, if prompted, I wouldn’t be able to articulate them well. I’d promised Serge to give country living a fair trial, and I didn’t want to break down on our very first night at the farmhouse. Besides, he’d gone to such an effort to make everything as nice as possible. It wasn’t his fault that I was madly in love with our former life. Nor was it his fault that the farmhouse would probably never live up to its Parisian predecessor.
Serge pulled out a bottle of sparkling apple juice and two plastic champagne flutes and toasted our “successful” move.