hours, like I had for the past two years, toiling away behind a pile of dusty casebooks in the law library. Franck and I would hardly ever see each other. Once I had done my articling and paid my lawyerly dues in the form of crazy hours, dull work, and no personal life to speak of, I would become a solicitor in one of the City law firms in London. We would have enough money. We would have steady jobs. Those things would protect us. Maybe we would even be content…
I had chosen law after a blissful four years as an undergraduate English and French Literature student for no other reason than I had been schooled to set my sights on a prestigious career , and Medicine was out of the question for a math-phobic hypochondriac like me. I knew after my first week in Oxford that law was far too analytical and rational for my quirky mind. Quitting, however, equalled failure for me; it simply wasn’t an option. Besides, everyone around me - everyone except Franck that is - was as convinced as I was that an Oxford law degree was a sure-fire path to success.
Never once during my two year immersion into the legal world had my soul ever vibrated with excitement like it had over the Marey property. My legal studies were all about safeguarding myself against an uncertain future; the French house was a different kind of dream. It was a leap of faith based on the premise that the future would be fantastic. The dream of owning our paradis perdu had changed me. It had given me a taste of something I had forgotten was there.
“Are you nervous about the call?” Franck tucked my hand into his as we meandered through the vineyards between Villers-la-Faye and the village that was perched on the opposite hilltop, Magny-les-Villers. It had been a difficult, aimless week in the aftermath of the swindle and tomorrow my Oxford tutor would be calling me with the marks on my final examinations.
I picked a green grape off the vine and squeezed it between my fingers until I felt a satisfying pop. I needed a 2:1, also called an Upper Second, to gain my definitive admittance into the Master of Law program at Oxford. The disastrous Criminal Law paper I wrote as my very last exam haunted me. If I got a 2:2, or a Lower Second, my application to the Master’s program, which had already been conditionally approved, would no longer be automatic. I had no clue what I would do in that instance. I had to get an Upper Second. Even though I couldn’t stir up much excitement about returning to our life in Oxford, not getting into the Master’s program would essentially be like hitting a dead end in the maze I had taken my entire life to navigate through.
“So?” Franck prompted. “How are you feeling about it?”
Frustrated. Resigned. A bit hopeless even…but I didn’t feel it would be fair to admit that to Franck.
The flagstones on the kitchen floor at the house in Marey popped into my head. That’s what I wanted. I had fallen in love with those flagstones, with the idea of preserving something more steeped in history than any house back home in Canada. I longed to continue my life in a place where generations of other people had lived before me, having Mémé teach me how to make her mousse au chocolat in the kitchen and diving under the duvet in that uppermost bedroom with Franck after a long winter’s walk through the frosty vineyards…
Franck squeezed my hand. I could tell by the set of his mouth that he was worried about me. Those flagstones were somebody else’s property now, I reminded myself. Besides, I owed it to my parents to continue with law. They had paid for the last two years. I had picked my path. If I did indeed get a 2:1 it would be insanity not to continue down it.
“I’ll be okay,” I answered Franck. He didn’t look convinced. We passed the stone cross that marked the entrance to Magny-les-Villers.
“What are the people who live in Magny called?” I asked Franck. I loved how in France the inhabitants of
I had chosen law after a blissful four years as an undergraduate English and French Literature student for no other reason than I had been schooled to set my sights on a prestigious career , and Medicine was out of the question for a math-phobic hypochondriac like me. I knew after my first week in Oxford that law was far too analytical and rational for my quirky mind. Quitting, however, equalled failure for me; it simply wasn’t an option. Besides, everyone around me - everyone except Franck that is - was as convinced as I was that an Oxford law degree was a sure-fire path to success.
Never once during my two year immersion into the legal world had my soul ever vibrated with excitement like it had over the Marey property. My legal studies were all about safeguarding myself against an uncertain future; the French house was a different kind of dream. It was a leap of faith based on the premise that the future would be fantastic. The dream of owning our paradis perdu had changed me. It had given me a taste of something I had forgotten was there.
“Are you nervous about the call?” Franck tucked my hand into his as we meandered through the vineyards between Villers-la-Faye and the village that was perched on the opposite hilltop, Magny-les-Villers. It had been a difficult, aimless week in the aftermath of the swindle and tomorrow my Oxford tutor would be calling me with the marks on my final examinations.
I picked a green grape off the vine and squeezed it between my fingers until I felt a satisfying pop. I needed a 2:1, also called an Upper Second, to gain my definitive admittance into the Master of Law program at Oxford. The disastrous Criminal Law paper I wrote as my very last exam haunted me. If I got a 2:2, or a Lower Second, my application to the Master’s program, which had already been conditionally approved, would no longer be automatic. I had no clue what I would do in that instance. I had to get an Upper Second. Even though I couldn’t stir up much excitement about returning to our life in Oxford, not getting into the Master’s program would essentially be like hitting a dead end in the maze I had taken my entire life to navigate through.
“So?” Franck prompted. “How are you feeling about it?”
Frustrated. Resigned. A bit hopeless even…but I didn’t feel it would be fair to admit that to Franck.
The flagstones on the kitchen floor at the house in Marey popped into my head. That’s what I wanted. I had fallen in love with those flagstones, with the idea of preserving something more steeped in history than any house back home in Canada. I longed to continue my life in a place where generations of other people had lived before me, having Mémé teach me how to make her mousse au chocolat in the kitchen and diving under the duvet in that uppermost bedroom with Franck after a long winter’s walk through the frosty vineyards…
Franck squeezed my hand. I could tell by the set of his mouth that he was worried about me. Those flagstones were somebody else’s property now, I reminded myself. Besides, I owed it to my parents to continue with law. They had paid for the last two years. I had picked my path. If I did indeed get a 2:1 it would be insanity not to continue down it.
“I’ll be okay,” I answered Franck. He didn’t look convinced. We passed the stone cross that marked the entrance to Magny-les-Villers.
“What are the people who live in Magny called?” I asked Franck. I loved how in France the inhabitants of
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