Page 77 of You Were Always the One

‘You must be Riggs.’ She pronounces it Reegs. Then looks at me. ‘Is that how you say it?’

‘Very good,’ I say.

She waves a hand dismissively. ‘Sophie told me it is what you are called. You like the little house?’ she says.

‘I love it,’ I say. I pass her the bottle of wine I brought with me.

‘Trés gentil,’ she says.

I take to mean she appreciates it, catching a glimpse of Sophie across the kitchen. ‘Riggs! You are just in time! Come in!’

It’s the beginning of a lunch that’s a blend of organised and chaotic, though one thing it most definitely is, is punctual. The other guests arrive minutes later, before at twelve thirty exactly, the food is taken out to the table. Freshly baked bread and what I imagine is homegrown salad, with a huge bowl of what looks like a cassoulet.

Under the shade of the tree, it’s like I’ve found my way into a scene of bucolic bliss that could well have come from the pages of a novel. On the long wooden table, a cloth has been spread, while everyone helps themselves from mismatched bowls. There is laughter and gentle chatter; cats that gather under the table. The wine is free-flowing. Luscious, soft, red – of the region, as the best things are, Sophie informs me.

The conversation, or what I can gather of it, is gentle and unchallenging. No one seeks to impress anyone else. Stories are shared, problems discussed. In short, it’s real.

‘I have enjoyed this so much,’ I say to Sophie when I leave. It seems there are unspoken rules about that, too. And I don’t want to outstay my welcome.

‘I am glad you came,’ she says.

‘Merci.’ I kiss her mother on both her weathered cheeks as she beams at me.

On my way home – I understand now, why it’s wise to give French drivers a wide berth – my car wanders, just the tiniest bit, as I think about how I used to spend Sundays. Getting up late, maybe going for a run. Watching TV, maybe going to the pub. And that was my life, but now I’m here, it seems so inconsequential.

But I was passing the time, suddenly I’m realising. Wasting it, instead of living it. And living is something I need to do more of.

That evening, I call my mum.

‘What’s it like there?’ she asks.

‘Lovely,’ I tell her. ‘The house is tiny – which is all I need. It has amazing views. I’ve just been for lunch with my landlady and her family.’ I go on, waxing lyrically about how beautiful everything is.

‘Have you been drinking, Rigby?’ she asks suspiciously.

‘No more than anyone else,’ I say innocently.

The bubble of my selfish, not to mention self-indulgent, existence is broken when out of the blue, I get a call from Emma.

‘What’s wrong?’ My heart starts to race.

‘For fuck’s sake, Rigby. Calm down. Everything’s fine,’ she says. ‘I have another scan coming up. I’m just calling to ask if you want to know the baby’s sex.’

It isn’t something I’ve thought about. ‘I don’t know.’

‘For fuck’s sake,’ she says again. ‘Just for once in your life, can’t you be decisive?’

So I think – for all of a few seconds. ‘Call me old-fashioned, but I don’t think I do. I’d rather be surprised,’ I say. ‘You still haven’t told me if you want me there at the birth.’

She hesitates. ‘I suppose it just seems a bit weird you staring at my vagina when we’re not together any more,’ she says.

‘I’ve seen it…’

‘Shut up,’ she says.

‘I could stay at the head end,’ I say. ‘If you want me to be there, I really would like to be.’

‘OK,’ she says slowly. ‘It still seems a bit odd, but I can deal with that.’