That Woman Next Door

Chapter 4

Chapter 4 Olivia

For reasons I will spend the rest of the weekend analysing, I want to make an impression on this woman. Perhaps my subconscious flagged her as very attractive when she showed up on my doorstep unannounced the other day. Admittedly, right now, it’s not just my subconscious anymore. Marie Dievart is hot in that glamorous, outgoing, chic way I’ve always had a soft spot for because, to me, it’s all so utterly unattainable—both for me to be like that and to ever be with a woman like that.

Granted, I haven’t spoken to another person since I chased her away from my property and it’s about time I fulfilled my weekly quota of chit-chat, but it’s not just that. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have just told her I’m a lesbian. I wouldn’t have made a p***s joke—but I guess there’s a first for everything.

I gulp back some wine, nearly emptying my glass, to settle myself. I came to apologise for my manners the other day, not to ogle my new temporary neighbour. Although, I guess, in the grand scheme of things, and the tiny scheme I’ve devised for my life, there’s nothing wrong with some innocent ogling. I usually only encounter women like Marie on television in glossy shows about high-powered lawyers.

A wide smile plastered on her face, Marie reaches for the bottle. “Refill?” It sounds more like a command than a question so I hold out my glass. I get the distinct impression not many people ever say no to this woman. And she’s a bloody brain surgeon. I should give up all hope of ever impressing the glitzy doctor right about now—it was fun while it lasted.

“Full disclosure.” She leans back and slings one leg over the other. “I’m a lesbian as well. Just so you know.” She rests her intense green gaze on me.

“Really?” I couldn’t sound more uncool if I tried.

She nods slowly as though drawing a conclusion in her head already. This visit has taken a turn I find hard to process.

“Are you in a relationship?” Marie asks.

“No.” It comes out a little abrupt because I’m trying to sound defiant, which is hard to accomplish when you only have one short word to work with.

“Me neither,” she says, turning this conversation into a spectacle of innuendo—and making me very uncomfortable. The silence that follows is unusually deafening to my ears.

She’s the first one to speak again. Maybe I didn’t respond to her statement the way she expected me to—it’s the story of my life. It’s why I live on my own in the middle of nowhere. “So, it’s just you in that house?” Marie asks.

“And Huppert and Deneuve.”

“Of course.” She sucks her bottom lip between her teeth. “You don’t get lonely?”

I shake my head. “I prefer my own company. It’s how I want things to be.”

“Whereas I’ve been going nuts after five days by myself.”

“You’re probably not used to it.”

“You can say that again.”

“You live with someone in Brussels?” Some of the earlier tension has melted away and I feel like I can breathe normally again.

“I don’t, but let’s just say I don’t spend a lot of time alone. I work long hours and I’m never starved for company, if you know what I mean.”

I have no idea what she means, but I nod anyway.

“I welcome any tips for living a life of solitude.” She regards me over the rim of her glass as she drinks.

“You have to want it. People shouldn’t be alone against their will. That’s what makes you lonely.” I tilt my head. “You clearly came here to be on your own, but you don’t really want it yet. It will take some time to get used to. Especially because it’s really quiet here this time of year.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

“There’s a bar in Bonneau, but…” I try to make my shrug casual. “I’m pretty sure it won’t be your scene.”

“Do you sometimes go there?”

I shake my head. “Never.”

“As long as I can enjoy a glass of wine in your lovely company.” She drinks again, then puts her glass down. “I should be just fine.”

I don’t know what to say to that. I don’t know how to say she shouldn’t expect me to come round every other day and share a bottle of wine with her. That’s not how I live my life. I only came here to apologise. And, maybe—but the jury is still out on that—to check if she was really as attractive as I remembered her in my flustered post-run state. Now that I know she is, I definitely won’t be calling round much anymore. I’m staying well away from that kind of temptation. Although, now that I’m here already, I think I’ll stay a while longer.

“But what do you do all day?” Marie asks. “To fill the time? Before I arrived here, I never realised a day could feel so long.” She has opened another bottle of wine. She seems to be able to hold her alcohol well.

I haven’t eaten anything since my run earlier and the wine is starting to go to my head. But I’m still here and I’m not going to stop drinking now.

“I have a routine and plenty of activities,” I say.

“Examples, please?”

“It’s different for me. I live here. This is my life. For you… being here in this house that isn’t your home, away from your regular life, everything will feel different.”

She arches up her eyebrows as if to scold me for dodging her question and stating the obvious.

“I run. I work. I cook. I write. I play the piano. I watch TV. I work in the garden. I read.” Summed up like that, it sounds a little dull, even though that’s the opposite of what my life feels like.

“Maybe you’ll cook for me some day?” Marie says. That’s her reply to what I just said? I thought she was after practical tips, not that I offered many of those. I just drily listed my daily activities, but still.

“Maybe.” I don’t want to make any promises I can’t keep.

“Did you say you write? Or do you mean as part of your work?”

“I, uh…” In hindsight, I shouldn’t have included that particular activity in my list. “Yes, I do some writing on the side.”

“What do you write?” Maybe it’s because I’m the only other person in a five-kilometre radius, but Marie’s interest in me seems heart-warmingly genuine.

“Just some poetry.” I try to sound aloof. “Nothing fancy.”

“Are you published?”

“God, no.” My writing is not something I ever talk about. Never. With anyone. I’m not about to change that now.

“So, you’re saying that there’s nowhere I can read my intriguing new neighbour’s poetry?” She juts out her bottom lip in a faux-sulk.

Intriguing? Is that what I am to her? I’m about to shake my head but even more than being extremely shy about my poetry, I suck at lying. I have zero talent for it—even for the little white lies. I can’t knowingly claim a falsehood. My life would have been so much easier if I had found a way to be better at lying, but the capacity to do so successfully has forever remained elusive to me.

“I do post it online. i********: poetry is an actual thing these days.”

“Instagram.” She nods as though that’s an app only her much younger nieces and nephews—or her children, who knows?—would use. “I’ve never really had time to explore social media. Maybe that’s what I’ll do now that I’m here.”

My cheeks start burning again. The thought of her reading my poetry is unbearable. Another reason to stay away.

“I guess I’ll need your username.” She reaches for her phone. “Actually, maybe we should exchange numbers, in case there’s an emergency.” Again, it sounds more like a command than a suggestion. “You can text me the link to your poetry later.”

Fat chance of that happening. And how do I get out of giving her my number?

She hands me her phone. “Here. Put in your number. I’ll give you a buzz later so you’ll have mine as well.”

There’s no way out except typing in a wrong number, but that’s not something I’m capable of either. It won’t be too much of a nuisance though since I never pick up my phone, unless it’s my mother calling—and even then, I have to think about it.

I give her my number, and a few seconds later my phone beeps from my coat pocket in the hallway. I guess, on some level, it can’t hurt to have a direct line to a hot doctor.

“I look forward to discovering your poetry on i********:,” Marie says. “I’m curious.”

“What are your hobbies?” I ask, keen to change the subject.

“That’s the problem. I don’t really have any hobbies apart from…” A mischievous smile appears on her face.

“What?” I c**k my head.

“Women, I guess.” She catches my gaze but it’s not possible for me to return her confident stare. I have to look away. Wait. What did she just say? Women are her hobby?

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“I like to date. Show my date a good time. Flirt. See where it goes. Not get enough sleep for a woman my age.” She grins. “Spending the night with a woman has always given me more energy than an extra hour of sleep.”

What the hell? Have I been beamed to a different universe in which people actually say outrageous things like this? Did she spike the wine before she poured it? Heat creeps up my neck and settles on my cheeks. “Your hobby is… sleeping with women?”

“I guess. If you wanted, that could very well become one of your hobbies, too, Olivia.” Did she just waggle her eyebrows? Is she coming on to me now? I need to get out of here pronto. But there’s still something I need to tell her. Although I guess I could text her later now that I have her number.

“It couldn’t,” I say drily.

“Not much action around here, I gather.”

“No.” I shuffle to the edge of my seat. What will she think of me if I get up now? Does it even matter? Maybe a little, but I’m not sure I can stay. Maybe Marie finds this amusing—this is her hobby, after all—but I don’t. “I should go. The cats will want their dinner.” I realise how utterly ridiculous that sounds. But that’s what I am—the perfect example of the proverbial cat lady.

“What? No, no, no!” Marie straightens her posture. “Don’t go yet. I’m sorry if I was being too forward. It’s just how I am, but it doesn’t mean anything. I wasn’t…” She gives a quick shake of the head. “Trying anything.”

I’m glad that’s settled then.

“I promise,” Marie continues. “I am enjoying your company so much. Please, stay.” She acts as though I’m leaving her alone to freeze in the Arctic instead of sip the rest of her expensive wine in this deluxe cottage in Brittany.

Despite her desperate plea, I’ve reached my limit. She’s a lot to handle. I’ve become too ill at ease to enjoy staying any longer. I get up and say, “I’ll text you later.” Although what I will send her will not be what she’s expecting. “Thank you for the wine.”

She stands and walks towards me. “Stop by any time.” She briefly touches her hand to my shoulder and my muscles tense.

I head into the hallway to fetch my coat. I say a quick goodbye and practically flee her house. I hurry home, needing the safety of my own space, of my cats meowing at me as though I’ve been gone for days instead of an hour, of not being around someone as direct and brazen as my new temporary neighbour.

As I shut the door behind me and double-lock it, I consider that Marie Dievart won’t last very long here in the middle of winter. It’s too cold, too grey, too boring, and too lonely for someone like her. I can’t see her relishing the beauty of it any time soon.

After I’ve fed my ravenous cats, I send her a text.

Thanks again for the wine. I forgot to ask that you don’t show up on my doorstep out of the blue again. I’m not very good with that. Thanks. Olivia.

February