Page 6 of The Bordeaux Book Club

The camera flashed. Leah, leaning against the wall with the rest of them, wondered if they’d look more like a police line-up than a book club; most of their expressions were startled and unprepared.

‘Thanks so much for coming,’ Grace said. ‘So, shall we say first Friday in March to start? Here? Say about seven-ish? I’ll lay on a bit of a spread. And of course, some wine…’

With various mumbles in the affirmative, Monica, Alfie and George stepped onto the wooden porch with its hanging baskets and enormous, terracotta pots before being swallowed up into the early February night.

‘Do you want me to…?’ Leah asked, hanging back, aware that their mugs and plates were still scattered in Grace’s immaculate living room.

‘No, not a problem,’ Grace said firmly. ‘You get back to that husband of yours.’ She said the word ‘husband’ with a slight inflection of distaste. ‘Up early tomorrow – getting the rotavator out, didn’t you say?’

‘Yes,’ Leah said, smiling, pleased that Grace had remembered.

She wrapped her coat around her as she stepped from the warmth of Grace’s home to the bitter cold of the winter air. Her breath clouded in front of her as she made it quickly to her Renault Scenic and wrenched open the door. Inside, she rubbed her hands together vigorously before sliding in the key card and pressing start.

She felt the flood of relief she did after most social gatherings – for her, they were a bit like exercise. She knew that they were good for her, and that the more she did, the better she’d get atthem, but it was nice to disappear back into her head for a bit and not have to worry about what other people were thinking.

As she pulled away, she wondered whether Nathan had managed to knock together any semblance of dinner.

Grace remained on the freezing porch, dressed only in the blouse and pleated skirt she’d worn inside, waving until they all disappeared into the night.

2

Half an hour later, Leah bumped the Scenic along her driveway, almost running over one of the neighbour’s cats, which skittered in her wake. She switched off the car and listened for the automatic handbrake to click into place. Then opened the door and stepped into the cold.

Inside, she could hear Nathan clattering around in the kitchen. At least she assumed it was Nathan rather than Scarlett who, at fourteen, wouldn’t be seen dead listening to Nathan’s ‘noughties playlist’ – all the tunes that had entertained them both during their younger years. As she listened, a new intro began, and she recognised the strains of the Pussycat Dolls. Yep. Definitely Nathan.

‘Hello,’ she said automatically as she stepped into the tiled hallway and hung her coat on the peg above the radiator. But of course nobody replied. Nathan was getting his groove on whilst (hopefully) putting something together for their dinner, and Scarlett… Well, getting a nicety out of Scarlett would be startling these days. Her daughter spent most of her time in her bedroom, chatting to her friends on WhatsApp or TikTok, or begging for a lift and disappearing to her best friend Mathilde’s house.

‘Hi,’ Leah said again pushing open the door of the kitchen, her nostrils flaring as she tried to ascertain the source of the smell. Soup of some kind?

Her husband stood at the Aga with his back to her. He was wearing his habitual muddy jeans and wellies, with a washed-out, chequered shirt and apron, whilst moving his hips and jiggling to the words ‘hot like me’ as he stirred an enormous, stainless-steel saucepan on the hob. Smiling, she moved up behind him and wrapped her hands around his waist, only to have him jump a mile and turn, wooden spoon brandished like a weapon.

‘Oh, God! It’s only you,’ he said, thankfully lowering the spoon once he realised. Leah wondered briefly what death by wooden spoon might feel like. How many days would it take? Would it make a difference if he was cooking something hot or stirring a dessert? Her musing was cut off when she saw his features turn from surprise to what looked like annoyance.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Didn’t mean to startle you.’

‘Well, a hello might have been nice,’ he turned around and put the wooden spoon back in the saucepan, turning down the heat a little. The steam had warmed and reset his usually well-gelled hair and it flopped forward over his forehead boyishly.

‘Are you OK?’ Leah checked her watch. It wasn’t yet 8p.m., so about the time she said she’d be. Not that Nathan was a stickler for timing or anything. But he seemed disgruntled.

‘What doyouthink?’ he said, looking at her pointedly, one eyebrow raised.

Leah resisted the urge to smooth the tousled brow back into place. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘you’ve lost me’.

‘Oh, come on.’ He was serious, she realised. She tried to think of anything she might have done to upset him.

‘Nathan, stop being weird. If I’ve done something wrong, just tell me,’ she said, trying to keep her tone light. Whatwith Scarlett’s constant moods, she could do without another smouldering grump in the house.

He turned, his features unreadable. ‘Let’s just say, I’m makingcarrotsoup,’ he said, the eyebrow travelling back up his forehead again.

‘Well, that’s lovely,’ she said, still confused. ‘I mean, yum. Yay soup! Um…’ she trailed off.

‘Carrotsoup,’ he said again.

She wondered, briefly, how far an incredulous eyebrow could travel. If the incredulity level was high enough, could it begin to travel to the top of the head? Where would it stop? She focused on the hairy caterpillar interestedly. ‘I like carrot soup,’ she said.

‘I bet you do,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I bet you do.’

She put her bag down and sat on one of their bar stools – sourced from the localdechetterie, after they’d fashioned the breakfast bar using an enormous piece of oak that they’d found in the stone barn attached to the property. She leaned her elbows on the worn wood, waxed by them both for days last year and still gratifyingly smooth.

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