Worse… was he even real, or had her mind somehow conjured up a waking fantasy? Or, perhaps, a nightmare? Aye… the sound that now tore the quiet evening apart definitely pushed it into nightmare territory.

  ‘Hé!’ The raw bark of sound was startling enough to make her flinch. ‘C’est quoi ce merdier? Qu’est-ce que vous foutez?’

  The voice was male. And furious. A figure was striding through the olive grove, right past the donkeys as if this man had no fear whatsoever of the large animals.

  Tall. Dark. Fierce. With a look on his face that made Ellie step back a pace. She heard the crunch of glass under her foot as she stepped on the wine glass she had dropped but there was something much louder happening inside her head.

  Words that couldn’t be ignored.

  He knew…

  Somehow, he knew that she shouldn’t be allowed to hold this child. That she couldn’t be trusted to protect him because she hadn’t been able to protect her own.

  No. That was a daft thought, and Ellie needed to cling to reality in what was already an overwhelming situation. This man had never seen her before. He knew nothing about her. They didn’t even speak the same language. He was still shouting at her. In French.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she said desperately. ‘Who are you?’

  He stopped, just on the other side of the fence, and glared at her. His mouth opened, closed, and then opened again.

  ‘You’re English?’ He made it sound like the ultimate insult, much the same way that the bicycle delivery man had managed to do.

  ‘Erm… Scottish, actually.’ Was it possible this tension could be diffused by tapping into centuries worth of rivalry and animosity between Scotland and England?

  He ignored her. ‘What are you doing with my son?’ The French accent was stronger than Noah’s had been, but his words were perfectly clear. ‘Give him to me at once.’

  It was such a relief to hear someone speak her own language that Ellie smiled at him, despite his obvious fury.

  ‘He’s your son? Oh, thank goodness. I had no idea how I was going to find out where he belonged.’ She knew she was babbling as she stepped closer to the fence. It wasn’t just relief at being able to communicate, she was being absolved of having to make decisions when her brain had been totally fried by the shock of what had just happened. ‘I just found him… asleep. Right beside those donkeys… At least I think he was only asleep…’

  Strong arms were wrenching the child from her arms.

  ‘Theo?’

  The little boy woke up again. And stared up at his father. ‘Papa…’

  A stream of incomprehensible French followed, but it was clear that this man was checking to see if his son was uninjured. Ellie could sense the intensity of the scrutiny being given. She could still feel his anger but, curiously, it was at complete odds with how gentle his hands were as he ran them over the small, chubby limbs right down to each little finger and toe.

  He looked very different to the sort of men Ellie was used to seeing. His features were clearer somehow. More defined. Especially that nose. He looked… French but had neither the groomed, sophisticated elegance so often associated with both French men and women nor the kind of rock star, scruffy chic that Noah portrayed. This man was a craggier version of the sophisticated end of the spectrum. A bit more tousled and casual but still with that indefinable sense of style. In the very short amount of time she’d been with him, Ellie had also detected an even stronger whiff of something like aloofness, or even arrogance, that told her she was intruding into a world where she definitely wasn’t welcome.

  Ellie was uncomfortably aware that she must look a right mess with the corkscrew curls of her hair escaping her braid, and her filthy clothes. Good grief… she probably smelt awful, too. She edged back as she heard from the man the expulsion of a breath that was redolent with relief, and she knew exactly how he must be feeling. She was about to ask whether everything was all right and express her own relief when the stranger simply wrapped his arms around his son and turned away. After two paces, however, he turned back.

  ‘Fix your fences,’ he snapped. ‘They are unacceptable.’

  Ellie’s jaw dropped. He was blaming her for his son having been in danger when she had risked her own life to rescue him? Where the hell had he been?

  ‘He wasn’t on my property,’ she told him defensively. ‘He was where you are now.’ Within touching distance of those donkeys, but, again, he didn’t seem to even notice them.

  He was still glaring at her. ‘You are the new owner of that house?’

  ‘Erm… yes… I just moved in today.’

  ‘This is your property, then. Your fence. Your fence on the other side, too, where it joins my property, and that is in the same state of shameful repair.’

  Oh, help… this wasn’t the best way to be meeting her first neighbour, was it? Ellie could understand why he might be so angry.

  ‘I’m sorry… I didn’t know.’

  ‘Donc… now you do.’

  He turned away again and kept going, but Ellie was still processing what he’d said and she could feel a new, sinking sensation in her stomach.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she called.

  He either didn’t hear or was choosing to ignore her, but she had to try again.

  ‘The donkeys,’ she shouted. ‘They’re yours, yes?’

  He still didn’t pause, but she could hear his response floating back through the olive trees.

  ‘Of course not. They are also yours.’ The hand that appeared in the air gave a very Gallic gesture of exasperation. ‘Now you can finally start taking care of them yourself. J’en ai marre.’

  He vanished into the lengthening shadows on the far side of the olive grove.

  Very slowly, Ellie shifted her gaze to something closer.

  Disconcertingly close now. As if underlining the information that had just been delivered, the donkeys had moved closer while she’d been watching the man and child retreat. They were almost within touching distance on the other side of that inadequate fence. Standing very still again, as if they were all in the middle of a game of Fairy Footsteps, a game she remembered from her primary school playground that involved sneaking up behind the back of whoever was ‘in’ and trying not to get caught moving as that person turned around. They were staring at her, their ears pricked forwards.

  It had to be her imagination, but Ellie had the distinct impression that they were both amused by her new predicament. Smiling, even.

  The potential malevolence of smirking donkeys, along with the echoes of that angry male voice, followed Ellie back into the house, but the ache in her chest that was making it difficult to breathe was due to the muscle memory of holding that small boy in her arms, and she was afraid that that ache was going to escalate into the kind of pain she’d actually hoped was becoming part of the past.

  But there were other things to worry about now.

  Like what she was supposed to do about the two wild donkeys that had apparently come with this house.

  And the fact that it was dark. What did those bats do once night fell? Wake up and fly around the house? Bite people and give them rabies?

  Ellie’s first instinct was to call her mother. Or one of her sisters. She picked up her phone, but her fingers fumbled the swipe and the screen remained blank. She still felt shaky, she realised. And if she heard a comforting voice, she would probably burst into tears, and she could just imagine the flurry of calls or texts that would ping between members of her family after that. If Fi hadn’t already been informed of developments, she’d be dragged into the situation now, and Ellie could almost hear snatches of the conversations.

  I knew she wouldn’t be able to cope.

  It’s hardly a surprise, is it? She’s barely been coping for months and now she’s alone in a foreign country.

  Who would have thought there’d be a wee bairn next door, though? Poor Ellie… that’s just cruel.

  But what are we going to do?

  I suppose I’ll have to organise a ticket for her to get home. Oh… I wonder if I can get a refund on that bike?

  I really thought that this might be the answer…

  Well, it isn’t, is it? Look at the mess she’s in already. She’s too scared to even go upstairs because of the cot and the bats and now she’s had a stooshie with a neighbour.

  What’s the big deal with a couple of donkeys, anyway? If she wasn’t so pathetic, she’d pull herself together and get on with it.

  Don’t be so mean. She can’t help it…

  Ellie scowled at her phone and then dropped it onto the kitchen bench beside the half empty bottle of rosé. Maybe she was pathetic, but she didn’t need people talking about it behind her back. Even imaginary conversations. She didn’t want her mother lying awake tonight and fretting about her, either. She’d probably talk to one of the doctors at the medical centre she worked in about getting her an appointment with someone who could dish out antidepressants.

  She didn’t want to go home with a cloud of failure hanging over her.

  She didn’t want to ask for her job at the care home back when she’d only just resigned. Or to go back to her flat to help with the clean up when so many unhappy memories had seeped into the walls there.

  The only thing Ellie really wanted right now was the escape that sleep could bring. It would only take one more glass of wine and she’d be out like a light if she curled up on the sofa again. But she did need a blanket – something that she could pull over her head if the bats came visiting. She eyed the staircase. There were blankets in the bedrooms.

  It took even more courage to get up that staircase than it had to approach the donkeys to rescue that child. Ellie remembered the fierce expression on her new neighbour’s face as she hesitated. That dose of contempt when he’d realised she wasn’t French. If he could see her now, he’d think she was pathetic as well as being a scruffy and unwelcome foreigner.

  Did she care what he thought of her?

  Not at all.

  But maybe it was time she should start caring what she thought of herself again.

  Ellie took a deep breath, lifted her chin and started climbing. She hurriedly slammed the door shut on the bedroom where the bats – and that cot – were and went into the other room to pull the cover and a pillow from the bed. Her heart was still thumping when she got back downstairs, but there was something else cutting through the disaster that her evening had turned into.

  It was pride, she realised. It might have been a small thing, but she had done it, so she wasn’t entirely pathetic. And the bats were trapped behind the door, so she wouldn’t have nightmares about waking up to find them tangled in her hair.

  The kaleidoscope of her day had images chasing themselves through her head, too fast to catch and keep, as she lay down a short time later and pulled the light cover over herself. Endless pots of hot water, including the last one that she had used to wash herself as best she could and rinse out her underwear. Dirt and dust. Hearing someone actually say oh, là là and the promise of freedom that gleamed like the paintwork on that bicycle. The taste of the fresh baguette and the sweet softness of the sunset. The intensity of that man’s glare and the shape of that small body in her arms.

  The precious feel of a living child…

  Oddly, as Ellie drifted into sleep, she realised that the ache hadn’t become any worse after all.

  It hadn’t even made her cry.

  4

  The hours flew past the next day.

  A courier had arrived in the morning with the suitcase that Laura had dispatched and, not long after that, Mike the plumber had turned up. Having assumed that any tradesmen Noah might dispatch would be French, it was pleasantly astonishing to find that Mike was English. A huge, genial Londoner, he had made the daunting task of making this house more habitable suddenly seem a whole lot easier.

  ‘You’ll have hot water by tonight, love,’ he promised, after a quick tour of the issues in the house. ‘And we’ll get those pipes running a bit better. I don’t do glass, but I can get the bats out, put a board over that window and find you a glazier. We’ll need to get someone else to check the electrics, but I’ll see what I can do about that broken hinge on the shutter while I’m here.’

  ‘That’s great. Thank you so much.’

  ‘No worries. Any chance of a cuppa before I get started?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Mike looked around in the living area as Ellie busied herself in the kitchen making a pot of tea. When he touched a wall, shards of plaster crumbled and rained onto the floor. ‘This needs to be fixed as well. It will all need to be stripped off and replastered.’

  ‘I could probably do that,’ Ellie said. ‘If I can find where to go and get supplies.’

  ‘Any bricolage shop would have them.’

  ‘Bricolage?’

  ‘Hardware shop, love. DIY and house and garden supplies. Paint, tools, commercial cleaning stuff.’ Mike was smiling. ‘My favourite shops. Like Aladdin’s caves, they are. There’s a good one as you go into Vence from this direction.’

  ‘Good to know. Do you take milk?’

  ‘Yeah. And three sugars, ta.’

  Ellie handed him the mug of tea. ‘I might go and have a look at the bricolage later. I probably need a special cleaner for the tiles on this floor.’

  Mike looked down. He tapped a tile with the toe of his boot. ‘These are called tomettes,’ he told Ellie. ‘Traditional but not so popular now. You could replace them. Or cover them with vinyl or laminated wood.’

  ‘No!’ Ellie was surprised at her vehemence. ‘I really like these tiles.’

  ‘But some of them are broken. And they’re old-fashioned and… so dirty. It’d be a lot of work to clean them.’

  ‘I can do it.’ Ellie felt suddenly protective of the floor covering. ‘I think they’d look amazing when they’re all cleaned up.’

  ‘It’s your house, love.’ Mike shook his head and drained his mug. ‘I’d better get my tool bag and get on with sorting out this water heating.’

  Ellie watched him walk back out to his van. Yes. This was her house – for now, anyway. And she was going to make it as beautiful as she possibly could. She fetched a dustpan and brush and stooped to sweep up the plaster fragments Mike had loosened.

  Had it been his criticism that had done it? The suggestion that La Maisonette was old-fashioned and in need of so much work?

  She’d certainly felt the need to defend this poor, neglected little house despite her own misgivings. Maybe she was also defending herself for having taken up the challenge.

  Whatever it was, it had given her exactly what had been missing when she’d come back to this house alone.

  A feeling of connection.

  Cleaning the bathroom after Mike had left a few hours later took a very long time. Long enough for the water in the reconnected tank to have heated and provide the most enjoyable bath Ellie had ever experienced. Having the prospect of fresh clothing to put on afterwards seemed like another luxury, and, wrapped in one of her new supermarket towels with another providing a turban to cover her wet hair, she started unpacking the suitcase.

  Finding that some of the available space had been used to pack a selection of her old art supplies, like sketchbooks, pencils and paint, was a less than pleasant surprise. Who’d thought that was a good idea? After one attempt, months ago, nobody had tried again to suggest that reconnecting with an old passion might be therapeutic, and this seemed like an even less subtle push. They simply didn’t understand, did they? How could anyone have any inclination to be creative when their heart had been ripped out and their soul left to bleed to death? Ellie left the art supplies in the suitcase, zipping it shut firmly after pulling out the clothing.

  There were, fortunately, also some nice surprises in what Laura had chosen to pack for her, probably because the last time Ellie had needed summer clothing she hadn’t been able to fit into anything she owned, thanks to her post-pregnancy shape. Maybe that was why she selected a pretty summer dress that she had forgotten she even owned, because it had been relegated to the back of her wardrobe for so long. The blue, daisy-spangled fabric of the calf-length skirt swirled around her bare legs as Ellie stepped out into the evening sunshine to comb the tangles from her damp hair, and it made her remember dressing up as a child in one of her mother’s old dresses – the way she had suddenly felt grown up and feminine.

  The follow-on thought, that it was a shame she hadn’t been wearing this dress last night, made her pause for a moment, her comb only halfway down the length of her hair. She pulled a little harder through the next tangle, but the sharp tug didn’t quite erase the disturbing image of that angry Frenchman from her mind. Those dark eyes. The tousled hair.

  Those gentle hands as he checked out his small son…

  It was only then that Ellie remembered the glass she had stepped on and broken last night when her furious neighbour had been storming towards her.

  She needed to pick up those pieces. Finding a container for the shards, she went through the lemon orchard towards the fence.

  Had the donkeys been expecting her? They weren’t standing under the olive tree this time. They were standing right beside that droopy wire fence, their huge heads hanging over the top.

  Ellie’s heart rate picked up, but her steps slowed and then stopped.

  She stared at the donkeys. Tufts of grey hair stuck out at odd angles, making them look totally unkempt, especially where it hung over their eyes. She could see stripes of dark brown on their shoulders that matched the short manes and straggly tails, but it was their ears that really caught her attention. The dark rims made them look even bigger and they were filled with pale fluff that looked invitingly soft. Their muzzles were pale as well, as if they’d dipped those massive heads too far into a bucket of cream.

  They didn’t seem to mind the attention they were receiving. They stood there silently, at peace with the world, and, oddly, Ellie could feel that sense of peace enclosing herself as well. Becoming part of the whole scene, with the solid stone retaining walls dividing the slope of the garden behind her, the scent of lemons and the soft evening light.