That Woman Next Door

Chapter 2

Chapter 2 Olivia

My feet hit the treadmill in such a satisfying way today. This is why I run, I think, while my fists pump the air in a rhythmic motion. To feel like I’m flying. To feel strong. To feel like I can do anything. I increase the speed so I can go a little faster, so I can empty my tank. Even though I’ve already run more than seven kilometres, my feet can still easily keep up.

My treadmill sits in front of a window with a view out over the fields at the back of my house. I only ever see animals. Mostly birds and cows. Or my cats, who like to wait for me to open the door for them instead of squeezing through the cat flap—they’re princesses like that.

What the—? Something much larger than Deneuve and Huppert’s furry bodies darkens the window. My already elevated heart rate shoots up a notch. What the hell is happening? I press the red emergency button on the treadmill to make it stop. Who on earth is this person with the audacity to trespass on my property and walk around my house? I’m not expecting any deliveries today. I prefer to group them as much as I can and have them delivered to the supermarket in town, where I can pick them up at my own convenience instead of having my day disturbed by someone showing up at my door.

A woman wrapped in one of those long puffy coats stares at me through the window. She waves as though I’m supposed to know her. I don’t recognise her from the village and I’m certain I’m not related to her—not that any member of my family would show up at my house in the middle of any given Wednesday afternoon.

I wipe the sweat from my forehead. I feel cornered. My first instinct is to leave the room and hide upstairs. She doesn’t look like she’s in distress, although I guess her car could have broken down, her mobile phone might have died, and my house might have been the first one she came across. Maybe she does need help. I take a deep, shuddering breath to pull myself together.

The woman tilts her head. She’s probably wondering why I haven’t opened the door yet. I suppose I no longer have a choice—as if I ever had one. I drape a towel over my shoulders because I’m dripping with sweat. That’s an excellent run ruined. I’m supposed to be in the delightful throes of runner’s high right about now, but thanks to this intruder, I’ve been robbed of the highlight of my day.

I open the door and greet her with an unwelcoming glare. I’m not the type to give strangers a hearty welcome. A fact that’s been held against me many times, yet I haven’t changed.

“Bonjour,” she says. “I’m so sorry to interrupt your run.” She hardly comes across as very apologetic. She looks Parisian with her expensive haircut and cashmere pashmina, but her accent is different. “I arrived at the house around the corner yesterday and I noticed signs of life here.”

“Yes?” This is not making any sense to me at all. The only other house in a five-kilometre radius is a holiday home owned by some rich Belgians who visit a few times over the summer. I’ve never had any dealings with them and none of them have previously bothered me before.

“I just wanted to introduce myself.” The woman extends her hand. “Marie Dievart. Enchantée.”

“Hello.” I give her hand the quickest shake I can. My palms are still sweaty. My body is cooling off too quickly standing in the door like this. None of this is ideal. Least of all this woman who wants something from me that I’m unable to figure out. “Olivia.” As I wipe my sweaty hand on my leggings, a visible shiver runs up my spine. I pull the towel around my shoulders ostentatiously.

“You’ll catch a cold if you don’t cover up,” Marie Dievart says matter-of-factly.

Duh! All I want is to close the door in her face. Wait? Is she expecting me to invite her inside my house?

“Don’t worry. I’m a doctor,” she says, as if that makes any difference.

“Look, I’m sorry, but I need to shower.”

“Oh, okay.” She studies me with an unnerving intensity. “Would you like to come round to my house later for coffee or a glass of wine?”

“What?” Why would she even think that’s what I want? “Who are you again and what are you doing here?”

“I’m so sorry, Olivia.” She has a very personable manner. She looks like she wants to grab my hand again but has decided against it last-minute—thank goodness. “I’ll be staying at my family’s holiday home for a few months, so I figured that would make us neighbours. I thought it only polite to introduce myself formally.”

“A few months? In the middle of winter?” I shiver again. My sweat-drenched top is ice cold against my skin.

Marie nods. “I need the time away from… my life,” she says.

“Okay, well, have a good stay.” I attempt to close the door hoping she’ll get the hint.

“You don’t want to have that glass of wine? I have an amazing Nuits-Saint-Georges waiting to be uncorked.”

A wine snob on top of an abrasive trespasser. I shake my head. “No, but thanks for asking.”

I’m about to close the door on this woman entirely, but she regards me so intently, it’s as though she wants to undo my wish to shut her out just by looking at me. Her eyes are a peculiar kind of green. Her cheekbones are alpine. Oh, I get it. She’s one of those women who is so attractive they’re used to always getting exactly what they want. She probably can’t fathom that I’m not interested in sharing a posh bottle of wine with her.

“I’d hate to have to drink it alone.” Her voice is sweet as honey.

“Shouldn’t have come here on your own then.” I feel something furry rub against my legs. Huppert slips outside and then just sits there, attracting attention—her favourite activity apart from sleeping.

“What a cutie.” Marie crouches down to make Huppert’s acquaintance.

If only Deneuve had decided to come to my rescue. She wouldn’t have any of this. She probably would have swatted Marie Dievart’s perfectly manicured hand away if she’d tried to pet her. But not Huppert, who can’t get enough of the attention. She’s purring, for heaven’s sake. “What’s your name then?” the woman asks my cat, as though she can reply to that question with anything other than a meow.

I need to cut this short. If I stay exposed much longer, I’ll be out with a cold for days, or even worse, bronchitis. Heaven forbid I need to see a doctor. I wouldn’t want to have to call on my new neighbour, while she was the one who made me sick in the first place. That would be too ironic.

“I’ll leave you to it then,” I say, trying to add a polite smile. I can’t help but, very briefly, wonder what I look like to this stranger, with my sweat-drenched clothes and my hair matted against my head. She must be very lonely to be inviting the likes of me to her place.

“Okay. Sure.” She looks like she’s about to admit defeat. She turns to walk away, but before I can close the door properly, she turns to me, and asks, “Is this how everyone here is? Is it a Breton thing, this unwelcoming attitude? Just so I know what to expect for the rest of my stay.”

“You’re asking the wrong person.” As I say it, I’m aware of how utterly rude I’m sounding—and being.

“Clearly.” She does walk away now.

I guess that, once again, I failed to make a new friend. I couldn't care less.