Free The French for Christmas by Fiona Valpy

(thankfully nothing worse!) over both our heads.
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    W hen you’re trying to become a hermit and shut yourself off from the rest of the world, being poleaxed by a winter bug turns out to be an excellent way of getting to know your neighbours.
    I woke on Sunday morning, weak as a rag doll, but no longer running the raging temperature, and managed to get showered and dressed, stagger downstairs to refill the pitcher of water and then collapse onto the sofa. Didier must have banked up the fire before he left the previous night, because there were still enough glowing embers to coax it back into life. So, by the time he came to check on me, I was lying under the woollen throw, before the cheerful blaze in the hearth, gazing at the glorious day outside the window.
    A crisp frost, like the fine dusting of icing sugar on a chocolate torte, covered the ground; the apple tree’s rosy baubles, bright as the colours in a child’s painting, were outlined against the backcloth of perfect blue and, as I lay watching, the robin hopped and fluttered between the branches and the frozen earth beneath. It’s very beautiful, my Not-Christmas tree.
    There was a knock at the door and then Didier called, ‘Hello? It’s only me.’
    I heaved myself a little more upright and smoothed my hair behind my ears. ‘I’m in here.’
    ‘ Bonjour , Madame Brooke. It’s good to see you looking a little better this morning. How are you feeling?’
    ‘Please, call me Evie. I’ve stopped wishing I could curl up and die, thanks. So a lot better than last night.’
    He checked my temperature. ‘Still above normal, but it’s come down a few degrees. The worst should be over now. Have you been able to keep the fluids down?’
    I nodded. ‘Yes, as you can see I’m living dangerously without the bucket this morning. But don’t worry; I think it’s now safe to stand within a yard of me.’
    He smiled. Well, one thing was for sure, I hadn’t hallucinated those blue eyes yesterday. And, even in the clear light of day and without a raging fever, he still did bear an uncanny resemblance to Bradley Cooper.
    ‘What do you feel like for breakfast? Do you think you could manage a little dry toast?’
    I shook my head firmly as my stomach did a somersault at the mention of anything more substantial than water.
    ‘Just some rehydration drink then. Take it slowly. Lots of water and rest today, okay? Don’t go doing anything too energetic like, say, chasing pigs for example!’
    But of course. Mortification dawned as I realised that my gorgeous Bradley-lookalike neighbour must have enjoyed every moment of my less-than-graceful frolicking on the terrace the previous morning. Ah well, at least I could blame my flaming cheeks on my high temperature rather than my confusion… But I was still feeling too sick to care very much for very long.
    The last thing I heard was Didier bringing in another basket of logs and building up the fire. Suddenly exhausted again, I rested my head back onto the pillow, drowsy in the warmth of the sunlit room, and drifted off to sleep.
    And now it’s Monday morning and I’m feeling like a new woman. Albeit one with a slightly dizzy head and wobbly legs, but the headache and nausea have passed, thank the Lord. I fill the kettle and, as it begins to hum to itself, I try to slice a little of the bread—now hard and stale—from the market on Saturday. It was only the day before yesterday, but it seems an age ago that I was sitting in the church listening to the children sing the song of Saint Nicolas.
    The baguette looks too unappetising even for toast. Gingerly, in case it proves too much for my still-delicate constitution, I unwrap the basket of cookies and nibble on the corner of one of the frosted stars. In fact the sweet gingerbread seems, if anything, to settle my stomach—and it’s certainly a lot more appetising than the electrolyte sachets that Didier’s left me—so I retire to the sofa and lie in front of the cheerfully