The Little French Guesthouse (10 page)

‘Colourful?’ I suggested in alarm.

‘Subtle. What do you think?’

I stared at the mess in the mirror and compared it with Sophie’s wavy, highlighted blonde bob. ‘Fine. Do your worst.’

‘My
worst
?’

‘Just an expression. I’m happy to go with whatever you think.’

Delight lit her face. She rushed off to mix her magic potions and got to work with brush and foils. ‘So, Emmy. I will do my
worst
and you will soon be very chic. Very sexy. Very French.’

I gave a disparaging laugh. ‘Hardly.’

Sophie patted my shoulder. ‘You wait. You will see.’ Her eyes twinkled. ‘You said you are on holiday. With a friend or a boyfriend?’ she asked as she worked.

‘I
was
,’ I muttered. ‘Not any more.’

She frowned. ‘No? What happened?’

‘My boyfriend slept with another woman and left me.’

I gasped before she did. It had just popped right out of my mouth. What was it about hairdressers? They were like psychiatrists – five minutes in their chair and you were telling them all your darkest secrets. Maybe this was why I tried not to visit one too often.

Sophie met my look of horror in the mirror with a reassuring smile. ‘Tell me about it. Tell me everything.’ When I shook my head, she asked, ‘Have you talked to a friend from home?’

‘I phoned my best friend,’ I admitted.

‘What about your
maman
?’

I shuddered. ‘If you’d met her, you wouldn’t ask me that.’

Sophie laughed. ‘Then tell
me
. You can pretend I am your best friend from home and that you are sitting next to her here at the salon, having your hair done together. It will make you feel better,’ she insisted. ‘You know it will.’

I doubted that, but even so, I found myself pouring out the entire tale – well, everything except rolling around with Ryan. I felt I was entitled to keep
that
to myself.

Sophie was right – it did
make me feel better. She provided all the proper girly understanding and sympathy and moral outrage I needed. She gasped in all the right places, let out a French swear word or two when required, and above all, she was wholly sympathetic to the point where, when I’d finished the tale, I burst into tears. Tutting, Sophie passed the tissues, clicked her fingers at her junior to fetch me a cup of tea and waited until the waterfall dried up.

‘I’m
so
sorry,’ I stuttered, mortified.

‘Don’t be. You needed to do that. But you did not have someone to do it with. A phone call is not the same. I am pleased that I could be that person for you.’ When I looked up, she too had a tear in her eye.

The doorbell tinkled as a customer entered. Sophie looked around and greeted her, then turned back to me.

‘Sit for forty minutes for the colours. Here are some magazines.’ She dumped a pile in my lap and winked. ‘If you can’t understand all the words, you can look at the pictures.’

She whisked off to deal with her next customer – a middle-aged woman whose hair already looked perfect – while I pulled myself together and braved the mirror. The sight was not pretty – red eyes, blotchy face, hair wrapped in squares of tin foil sticking out at all angles. I was mortified by my outburst, but it seemed I
had
needed a proper cry, and since Sophie didn’t mind being the one to set me off, perhaps I shouldn’t mind either. And since I was never going to see her again, it didn’t matter that I’d spilled my life story or made a fool of myself.

I flicked through the magazines. Fabulous fashions, fabulous interiors, celebrities I’d never heard of ... I tried reading a paragraph or two and was pleased to get the gist here and there. By the time the junior took me to the sink, I’d regained my equilibrium, and when Sophie waved off her immaculate customer – now even more immaculate – and came back over, I was ready to face the world.

‘Why is your English so good?’ I asked her as she chopped and snipped.

‘I learned it in school, of course, but when I was eighteen, I went travelling around Europe with friends. I met a boy in England – a student – and stayed with him for a few months. Naturally, his French was not very good, so we spoke English all the time.’

‘What happened with him?’

Sophie caught my eye in the mirror. ‘I found him in bed with another student.’

I stared at her in horror. ‘Oh God, Sophie, I’m so sorry!’

She patted my shoulder. ‘It was a long time ago. And my story is just as dramatic as yours, you know. The student he was in bed with was a boy.’

I spun my head around, but she firmly twisted it back into place and carried on cutting.

‘Apparently, he needed to “experiment”.’ She made quote marks in the air with her scissors and comb. ‘I came back to France with much better English and a much worse opinion of men.’ She bent to whisper in my ear. ‘But I got over it. And so will you, my friend.’

‘It may take a while. I could have understood it if he’d left on his own – but with Gloria! He barely knew her! And it’s upsetting – her being older than him. She’s so artificial, so... made up.’ My voice hitched. ‘Do you think that was the problem? That I didn’t do all that? I wear make-up for work and going out, but on evenings and weekends, I tend to slob around in baggy jogging bottoms and sweatshirts. I didn’t think it mattered – I didn’t think we needed to impress each other any more.’

Sophie gave a cynical snort. ‘And what did Nathan look like at weekends?’

I managed a laugh. ‘Unshaven, with holes in his socks.’

‘Well, then. Why should it be different for you than for him?’

‘He
used
to tell me my bed hair was sexy. That my old pyjamas with the sheep on were cute. But this woman... I never saw her with a hair or an eyelash out of place.’

Sophie tutted. ‘If that was all that bothered him, then he didn’t care enough about you, Emmy. And anyway, I am going to make you look fabulous now – more fabulous than you
already
look – and that will serve him right.’

With that, she turned on a supersonic hairdryer and, through necessity, the conversation ground to a halt.

When she’d finished, I gawped in the mirror at the result. She’d worked wonders with a shorter, choppier cut, and the three different tones of highlights made my newly-tanned face glow.

‘There. You see?’ Sophie surveyed her handiwork with an expert eye. ‘Chic, sexy and
almost
French.’

At the till, my credit card wept a little, but I owed her for so much more than a hairdo.

Sophie scribbled a number on one of her business cards and handed it to me with my receipt. ‘This is my mobile number. Now give me yours.’

When I looked quizzically at her, she reached out and touched my arm. ‘You might feel like some company while you’re here, and I enjoyed yours today. Maybe we could have coffee or a drink sometime.’

‘Oh. I...’ I was about to decline when I realised that I would like to meet this kind, bubbly woman again. ‘That would be lovely. Thank you.’

I gave her my number, realised that meant I would have to actually charge my phone, turn it on and carry it with me, and added the number for
La Cour des Roses
.

She smiled. ‘
À
bientôt
, Emmy. I will phone, I promise.’

I left the salon a new woman. Glancing in the shop windows on my way back to the car, I couldn’t stop smiling, and I drove to the house in a daze of self-admiration, using each junction and traffic light as an excuse to preen in the driver’s mirror – so much so that I nearly missed the turning. With a manoeuvre worthy of a local, I swerved in and parked up with a spray of gravel.

‘Great hair, Emmy,’ Rupert commented the second I walked in.

I grinned. ‘Thanks. Sophie had a cancellation.’

Rupert raised his eyebrows. ‘You’re on first names with the hairdresser?’

‘Why not? She’s lovely. We had quite a chat.’

There was a pause before Rupert nodded. ‘Well, as long as it’s done you good, love.’

I winced. Rupert and Sophie had never met, but I suspected he would rather she didn’t know the blockbuster version of his recent woes. I opened my mouth to say something reassuring, but Madame Dupont bustled through from the hall, pulling on her old cardigan.

When she saw me, her eyes opened wide and she made an expansive gesture. I expected a gabble of unintelligible French, but what I got was a compliment I understood, followed by ‘Where did you have it done?’

With Rupert looking on, an amused expression on his face, I haltingly provided a version of the morning’s events in mangled French.

Nodding, she painstakingly corrected what I’d said and encouraged me to repeat it, smiling broadly when I did so. Then she told me she had no need of a hairdresser because her daughter-in-law did it – which was why she had to wear it in a bun. I think.

‘Your French is getting better, Emmy,’ Rupert commented as Madame Dupont left.

I was going to make a self-deprecating comment, but stopped. He was right. It
was
improving.

A car drew up in the courtyard. As I went out to help the Stewarts with their luggage and we introduced ourselves, I breathed a huge sigh of relief. A quiet, self-effacing couple in their late forties, they couldn’t have been more different from the Hendersons if they’d tried, thank goodness.

When I’d helped them up to their room with their bags, I took them back downstairs to show them the guest lounge and the dining area of the kitchen.

‘There’ll be a welcome meal for you here this evening at seven,’ I told them.

‘How many other guests are there?’ Mr Stewart asked.

‘Just one other couple at the moment. Mr and Mrs Henderson.’ In case they were put off by their fellow guests at dinner, I added, ‘They’re due to leave in a couple of days,’ to give them light at the end of the tunnel.

They were delighted with every aspect of the guesthouse, and I felt inordinately proud on Rupert’s behalf – but when I took them out to the garden, Mrs Stewart sighed. ‘Oh. Oh dear.’

‘Is anything wrong?’ I asked her, alarmed.

Quickly, she shook her head. ‘No. Not at all. It’s just that...’ Her gaze took in the loungers on the patio, the pots of lilies, the neat lawn, the blossom on the small fruit trees. ‘I thought I was keen to visit all the
châteaux
, but now all I want to do is sit here and never budge!’

‘Take a seat if you like. I can bring you a cup of tea?’

Mr Stewart shook his head and smiled. ‘Thanks, but we haven’t had lunch yet. We’d better get off, explore a bit. We can unpack later.’

Rupert and I agreed to convene in the kitchen at four, and he went for a nap while I went to lie in the shade on the patio. The early June sun was pleasantly warm, insects hummed, roses wafted their gorgeous scents my way. Paradise. Closing my eyes in contentment, I started to doze, but as the minutes ticked by, a small storm cloud started brewing in the recesses of my mind, half-thoughts and unformed worries swirling and eddying until I sat up in alarm. My breathing was fast and shallow.

Reality hit me like a thunderbolt. I was due to go home in a few days’ time. I’d been so busy with Rupert and the guests and the work – and Ryan – that I hadn’t thought much about it. Now, it struck me that I would have to navigate to Calais all by myself
and
drive the car onto the ferry without veering off the ramp and plunging spectacularly into the Channel. That could cause me sleepless nights all on its own.

If I managed that, there was the drive back to Birmingham. Facing the empty flat, or worse, Nathan. Filling people in. As for work... How could I walk past Nathan in the corridors, bump into him in the break room? People would find out we weren’t together any more. What would I tell them? More to the point, what would
he
tell them? There would be questions and gossip and people talking behind my back. Resentment towards him bubbled up like acid in my throat. It was bad enough that he’d slept with someone and left me for her, but I
loved
my job, and now he was ruining that, too.

And then there was Rupert. He was still getting used to his medication and although his leg had eased, he wasn’t fully mobile yet. Apart from his little foray to the market yesterday, which had worn him out, I was doing all the shopping and errands and half the chores. Even with Ryan doing the garden and Madame Dupont’s ministrations with bleach and polish, I couldn’t see how he would get by.

As if to prove my point, if not batter me around the head with it, the phone rang and I shot indoors to answer it before it woke him. My prayer that whoever was on the other end of the line spoke English was answered. As I riffled through the diary to answer their enquiry about dates later in the summer, cursing under my breath as an avalanche of loose pieces of paper and receipts fluttered to the floor, I was both gratified and shocked to see how booked-up
La Cour des Roses
was over the coming weeks. I added the caller’s provisional booking for August with mixed feelings. It was great to know this season would be a success for Rupert after everything that had happened, but it could all come clattering down around his ears at this rate.

As I headed back outside, Ryan was lugging his kit through the gate.

A
slow thrill
curled in my stomach, mixing unhappily with nerves and worry to make me feel slightly sick.

‘Hi.’ His eyes went straight to my hair, widening with gratifying approval. ‘Wow! You look amazing.’

‘Thanks.’ I mentally gave him several brownie points for his observational skills. Nathan wouldn’t have noticed for days, maybe weeks.

His brows knitted together as he came closer. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Fine.’ I tried to smile, but it wasn’t one of my better efforts.

‘No, you’re not. Here.’

He led me to the loungers, pushed me down by the shoulders and sat opposite, his face full of concern – not that of a lover, but a friend.

‘I go home on Saturday,’ I blurted. ‘I’m due back at work on Monday.’

‘Could you delay it for a few days? Exceptional circumstances?’

‘No way. Nathan’s due back on Monday, too. We work for the same company.’

‘Ah. So if Nathan turns up on Monday but you don’t, it won’t look good.’

‘No.’

‘And if you turn up but Nathan doesn’t, people will want to know why.’

‘Yes.’

‘And if you both turn up, it’s going to be pretty uncomfortable.’

‘Yes.’

His expression was sympathetic. ‘You’ve no way of knowing what he plans to do?’

‘No. I haven’t tried to contact him. I don’t see why I should. He’s the one who left.’

He nodded. ‘And?’

‘I’m worried about Rupert, Ryan. I don’t think he can cope. He’s not facing up to things.’

‘Rupert will be alright, Emmy. You’ve done a hell of a lot for him.’ He brushed a stray hair from my face. ‘You need to learn to relax more.’

‘I know. I’m not very good at it.’

‘I could help.’ There was a wicked light in his eyes, and when he smiled, my stomach flipped over at the sight of those tiny dimples of his.

‘You could? How?’

‘You know how.’

His lips met mine with a hunger that took my breath away. I allowed myself a few moments, then pulled back.

‘That isn’t going to solve anything,’ I scolded.

‘You can’t think straight because you’re worrying so much, right?’

I nodded.

‘Well, then. Let me clear your mind, Emmy. Let me relax you.’

‘Ryan, we can’t. Rupert’s inside having a nap, and there are guests who could be back any minute.’

‘Who said anything about going inside?’ Ryan tugged me to my feet. ‘Come on. I know a place.’

Breathless with anticipation, I allowed him to lead me around the side of the house to the old orchard, where we weaved between the trees to a dense stand of bushes between the house and the roadside hedge. He ducked under and around until we were in a magical little clearing in the midst of all the greenery.

I gasped. ‘How did you find this?’

‘I know every inch of this garden. And every inch of you.’ He sat on the small patch of grass and pulled me down next to him.

‘I bet this is where you bring all the girls.’

He laughed and shook his head. ‘Nope. Never. This is private property.’

‘But you’ve brought me.’

‘Ah, but you’re not trespassing. You belong here.’

I shivered with something like pleasure at his choice of words. ‘You’re sure nobody can see us?’

‘Positive. For goodness’ sake, stop worrying and start relaxing, or else.’

‘Or else what?’

‘You’ll see.’

And then his mouth was on mine, teasing away any misgivings I might have about
al fresco
lovemaking, and his hands were roaming my body, unzipping and unbuttoning, until I forgot where we were and revelled only in what we were doing.

Afterwards, we lay on the grass in the dappled sunlight, out of breath and sheened with sweat.

‘Relaxed now?’

‘Mmmm.’ Words were a distant thing, too hard to grasp in the afternoon warmth. My bones had melted and I couldn’t move.

‘You still seem a little tense, if you ask me.’

‘Hmmm?’

He stroked my thigh. ‘Perhaps I need to work on you a little more.’

‘Mmmmm.’ If he worked on me any more, I might turn into a molten puddle, but it would take too much effort to resist.

My God, the boy had stamina.

I
arrived
for kitchen duty twenty minutes late and looking like I’d been dragged through a hedge backwards – which wasn’t too far from the truth.

Ryan and I had drifted to sleep, and although it almost gave me a heart attack at the time, I owed a debt of gratitude to the anonymous dog that had squeezed through the hedge to bark outside our secret hideaway. Thankfully, it was an obedient mutt and lolloped back to its owner before we could be discovered, but my heart shot from rhythmically slow to alarmed thudding in a split second as I peered at Ryan’s watch.

‘Shit! I should’ve been in the kitchen ten minutes ago.’

‘Rupert’s not your boss. He won’t mind.’ Ryan rubbed the sleepiness from his eyes and stretched that gorgeous torso.

‘What if he went up to my room to look for me? I hope he hasn’t searched the garden.’ My eyes were wide with panic.

‘Calm down, Emmy. I doubt he’s sent out a search party yet, and he can’t get up the stairs. Tell him you fell asleep in your room.’

‘But if he’s in the kitchen, he’ll see me come in from the garden.’

‘Tell him you fell asleep in the chicken run.’ He grinned.

‘It’s not funny, Ryan.’

‘Okay.’ He forced a serious expression. ‘Tell him you went for a walk and went further than you meant to.’

‘That’s good. Will he buy that?’

‘Well, since you’re covered in grass and leaves, it’ll have to be a country pursuit of some sort.’

I rolled my eyes. ‘Brush me down. And hurry up.’

‘Yes, Miss.’

He brushed me down so intimately that I started getting all hot and bothered again.

‘Stop that!’

‘But you told me to.’

‘Not like that! Oh, for goodness’ sake. How’s my hair?’

He combed it through with his fingers, pulling a leaf from the back. ‘If you can’t get to a hairbrush before he sees you, you’ll have to tell him a stiff breeze sprang up while you were out.’

I slipped my sandals back on. ‘Right. See you.’

‘Emmy.’

‘Yes?’

‘I had a great time.’

‘Me too.’

R
upert took
my bumbling explanations with his usual pinch of salt. ‘Well, the walk must have done you good, Emmy. Brought a flush to your cheeks.’

I flushed even deeper. ‘The sun’s hotter than it looks.’

He glanced through the window. ‘Ryan’s out in the garden.’

I managed an expression approximating surprise. ‘Oh, is he?’

‘Hmm. Odd. I went to look for you on the patio earlier and Ryan’s gear was there, as if he’d just dumped it. Couldn’t see him anywhere.’

I gulped. ‘Maybe he was at the bottom of the garden. Or around the side. Or up a tree.’ I pulled on an apron and changed the subject. ‘I took another booking for you earlier. Five days mid-August. They wanted a full week, but it wouldn’t fit in.’

‘Thanks.’

I thought about the cascading crap in the diary and my organisational hackles rose. ‘Why do you insist on keeping that dreadful diary?’

Rupert looked up from his pastry in surprise. ‘I can’t run the place without a diary, can I?’

I shot him a look. ‘Obviously. But a manual diary’s such a pain in the arse. Entries rubbed out and crossed out until nobody can make head or tail of it. Bits of paper blowing all over the hall every time you open the damned thing. I don’t understand how you haven’t double-booked or accidentally turned someone away before now.’

‘The diary was Gloria’s baby. She dealt with the bookings.’

‘Hmmph,’ I murmured noncommittally. No doubt she chose this above more manual tasks which might involve chipping her nail varnish.

‘Why, what would you suggest?’ he asked.

‘How about a spreadsheet?’

Rupert laughed. ‘Gloria was a complete technophobe. Hated computers.’ His brow furrowed. ‘Although she mastered the art of Internet shopping successfully.’

‘Yes, well, Gloria isn’t here any more, is she?’ I said sourly, then clapped my hand over my mouth. ‘Sorry.’

Rupert patted my shoulder, leaving floury fingerprints on my T-shirt. ‘You’re only stating a fact.’ He deftly separated an egg and swirled the yolk into his pastry, working it in with nimble fingers.

I mused as I chopped. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t thought of using a spreadsheet yourself. I bet you do all your accounts on spreadsheets, Mister Financial Whizz.’

‘True. But Gloria liked it the way it was and we muddled by. I admit a spreadsheet would be easier to follow. Trouble is, I’d end up scribbling notes to myself and not updating it.’

I conceded this was highly likely, knowing him. ‘Why not leave your laptop next to the phone in the hall as a plus-point for your guests – instant Internet access for looking up
château
opening times or local restaurant menus? If you need to work on stuff in private, you could take it into your den as long as you remember to bring it back out again.’

Rupert blanched. ‘And what’s to stop people looking at all my private documents and financial dealings?’

‘Password your files.’

‘You don’t like that diary, do you?’

‘No. It’s archaic and dangerous for business.’

‘Okay. You can borrow the laptop and set it up for me.’

‘Good. Are you going to do anything about the website?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I wondered whether you were thinking about updating it.’

‘Why, do you think it needs updating?’

I shrugged, as though it was neither here nor there to me. ‘Maybe. A little.’

Rupert laughed. ‘You’re not good at hiding your hand, are you, Emmy? What’s the matter with it?’

‘When did you last give it an overhaul?’

‘I haven’t. Wouldn’t know where to start. Got a fellow to design it for me when we first got going, but nothing’s altered much – he showed me how to change the prices, and that’s all I needed.’

‘But the place
has
changed, Rupert. You’re probably not aware of it, being here all the time, but I noticed straight away when Nathan and I arrived. The photos were different to the reality.’ When his face fell, I hastened to reassure him. ‘Not in a bad way. The gardens and buildings have matured. Why not take advantage of that? If nothing else, I think you should change the photos, take some shots at different times of year.’

Rupert considered. ‘Fair point. What else?’

‘You haven’t got an availabilities page.’

‘People phone or e-mail.’

‘Yes, but an availabilities page would be an instant answer for them.’ I wagged a finger at him. ‘But you’d have to be religious about keeping it up-to-date.’

‘I’ll think about it. And?’

Unable to bring myself to say what I really wanted to, I started to bluster. ‘Well, the font and layout are a bit old-fashioned.’

‘There’s something else eating at you. Out with it.’

I took a deep breath. ‘I think you ought to consider removing all reference to Gloria.’

‘Ah.’

‘That is, if you think she’s not coming back.’ I softened my tone. ‘It’s misleading for people when they come, and if they ask about her, it’ll be awkward for you.’

In an attempt to cheer him up, I told him about Jenny mistaking me for Gloria, at which he laughed uproariously.

I glared at him in reproach. ‘It’s not funny, Rupert.’

‘Yes it is, and you know it. Would you know how to do all this, Miss Marketing?’

I looked at him in surprise. ‘If you gave me access, I could probably figure it out. It might depend how it was originally set up, but...’

‘Good. The chap I used before has moved back to England. Can’t be bothered to find anyone else. I’ll pay you, of course.’

‘It isn’t that.’

‘What, then?’

‘Well, assuming I can get to grips with it, a tweak is one thing, but a complete overhaul takes time. With everything that’s going on around here, I don’t think I could manage it.’

‘I understand. Tell you what,’ he said in that decisive tone I’d learned to dread. ‘Why don’t you just rid us of Gloria and then do the rest when you get back home? I could e-mail you photos. It’d give you something to do at the weekends instead of moping.’

I sighed, beaten. ‘Okay. That sounds good.’ Actually, it sounded like hard work on top of catching up with my proper
paid
work, but it served me right for opening my big mouth. Still, there would be something decidedly therapeutic about erasing Gloria from
La Cour des Roses
.

With the preparation for dinner done, we sat down for a well-earned cuppa.

‘Did you ask Madame Dupont about getting help in?’ I asked him.

He looked sheepish. ‘No. Forgot.’

‘For goodness’ sake, Rupert, get it done. I go home on Saturday!’

His shoulders slumped and I felt guilty for haranguing him, but it wasn’t just for his own good. I needed peace of mind, too. Since Nathan and Gloria had left, I’d put my heart and soul into making sure Rupert didn’t suffer because of their actions. I couldn’t leave without knowing he’d be okay.

‘You’re right.’ He sighed. ‘It won’t be like having you around, though. You always know what’s needed and how to do it, and you put up with all my moods. Can’t see how some local girl would match up to that.’

His forlorn expression made me laugh. ‘You mean you won’t have a live-in slave at your beck and call twenty-four hours a day for you to bark orders at.’

‘Well, if you must put it like that.’ His smile faded. ‘Couldn’t you stay another week, Emmy? I might be better by then, and if not, it would give me more time to put something in place. Might do you good, too. I know you’ve had a crap time of it and you’ve been working like a dog, but it’s settled down now. You could relax, recharge your batteries. It’s not going to be easy for you, heading back to face up to it all.’

I studied him. Did he know how much I dreaded going back? Not that he’d have to be a qualified psychiatrist to work it out. Well, it didn’t matter. The return ferry was booked for Saturday, and I was expected back at work on Monday.

‘I can’t, Rupert.’