The Little French Guesthouse (22 page)

The job itself was fine – planning the presentation to the Kellys and getting the team on board, liaising with clients, troubleshooting. I liked the busyness and the challenge, same as ever.

What I didn’t like was fending off curious glances from colleagues – or worse, their frankly impertinent questions about Nathan’s sudden departure.

‘Hi, Emmy. Nice to see you back. So sorry to hear about you and Nathan.’ This from Hazel in the accounts department, on an innocent foray to the ladies’.

‘Thanks.’

‘Have you heard from him in London?’

Is it any of your business?
‘Well, I only got back at the weekend...’

‘Oh, yes. We heard you had to stay to look after a poorly friend. We
thought
it sounded odd.’

Who the hell was this collective “we”? I bristled. ‘Actually, I
was
looking after a poorly friend.’

‘Ah,’ she said, a knowing look sliding out from under her eyelashes. ‘A female friend?’

I held my temper. ‘No. A male friend.’ Her eyes lit up, and I hastened to put her straight. ‘An
elderly
male friend.’ I sent a silent apology through the ether to Rupert for referring to him as elderly, but I knew he would understand that this line of enquiry had to be stopped.

‘So, who’s this woman that got Nathan his new job, then?’

Talk about cutting to the chase. ‘Why, what have you heard on that impressive grapevine of yours?’

‘I know someone who moved to that company a couple of years ago. She rang to tell me another of ours defected to them. Got the job out of the blue, without it even being advertised. Rumour is, the woman who got him the job is a cousin of one of the directors and pulled a few strings. A friend of Nathan’s, is she?’

The mystery woman she’d referred to could only be Gloria. Swallowing down nausea, I spoke mildly. ‘I would hope so, if she went to all that trouble for him.’

I held onto the knowledge that the gossips would soon lose interest in me and that I had a slob session with Kate planned for Friday night.

She texted me on Thursday.
Stinking cold. Sodding air conditioning on flight, probably. Sorry can’t come tomorrow. Don’t want to share! Kate xx

I immediately phoned Nick, declaring my intention to grab a train down to London after work on Friday and crash out at his place for the weekend.

God love my little brother, he didn’t bat an eye. ‘Er – right, fine. I – uh – need to cancel a couple of things.’

‘Oh, don’t cancel anything for me,’ I said knowingly. ‘I can tag along.’

I imagined I could hear him blush. ‘You know damn well you can’t.’

‘Nick, I don’t want to spoil your weekend,’ I whined.

‘Don’t worry, big sis, it’s nothing that won’t improve for the waiting. Absence makes the groin grow fonder and all that.’

I laughed. ‘You’re sure you don’t mind?’

‘You know I don’t. What do you want to do?’

‘Popcorn, mindless action movies, large vats of wine – oh, and some decent food for a change. No ready-meal crap. I’ve had my fill of that here.’

I
left
work dead on time, a sin punishable by death on every day except Fridays, when there was a mass exodus for the door at five o’clock.

By the time I landed at Nick’s flat, which could kindly be described as bijou, I was tired and grumpy. He gave me a sympathetic hug, steered me to the sofa, propped me up with cushions, placed a large glass of Pinot Grigio in my hand, a tray of deli delicacies between us, and switched on a mayhem-ridden movie. Perfect.

While Nick tossed and turned on the sofa, I wallowed in his king-size bed and had the first proper night’s sleep I’d had since arriving back in England.

On Saturday, we took the tube to the National Gallery,
not because it was my favourite art museum – although I was happy to pay it at least, oh, twenty minutes’ respect before I got bored – but because I liked the café there. Nick, grateful that he wasn’t being dragged on a self-pity-fuelled shopping spree, happily tagged along and even paid for the coffee and fancy cakes.

‘Do you like your work, Nick?’ I asked him as we sat basking in the weak sunshine leaking through the windows.

‘Most of the time. Depends where I’m working and what I’m working on.’

Nick did something with computers that was frankly beyond my comprehension, but I gathered he was a genius at it, because he’d already built up a fearsome reputation and operated on a consultancy basis. This netted him twice the money he would have earned working at one firm and allowed him to take as much time off as he required or could afford – with the added bonus of meeting a large number of women as he flitted from place to place like a bachelor butterfly, tasting the flowers on offer but never committing himself to one in particular.

‘Why, don’t you like yours?’ he asked.

‘Of course I do. Only...’ I searched for a way to describe what I felt. ‘You know how you watch an old film because you remember seeing it years ago and you loved it? But when you watch it again, it’s like watching a different film altogether because you’re seeing it with different eyes and it’s lost something, lost that magic somehow?’

Nick nodded and put the last of his cake on my plate. He was such a sweetie. ‘You could pick another movie. A brand new one.’

I polished off the cake. ‘I’m a bit worried about jumping from the frying pan into the fire right now.’

‘That’s understandable. You’ve been through a lot. Maybe you just need more time to get back into things.’

‘Maybe, but...’ I tried to put my finger on what was wrong. ‘I always thought I fitted in pretty well there. But since I got back from France, I feel like an outsider all of a sudden. I don’t know whether it’s to do with Nathan leaving the way he did, or people resenting the extra week’s holiday I took. Marketing’s okay, but people from accounts barely nod at me in passing, as though it’s all my fault that Nathan did what he did.’

Nick gave me a sympathetic look. ‘You’re gossip of the month. They’ll move onto someone else soon.’

‘I’m sure you’re right. But...’

Images floated into my mind. Jonathan embracing me and praising me to high heaven at the café the first time we met. Brenda and Richard, so friendly with me and my parents at the restaurant. Madame Dupont’s kindly acceptance of my plight and acknowledgement of my hard work. Sophie’s bubbly friendship. Rupert’s kitchen full of laughter and joshing banter and goodwill.

‘But?’ Nick prompted.

‘You know, I met a few people while I was at the guesthouse. Rupert’s friends and acquaintances.’

‘So?’

‘Well, I can’t understand how people I only met once or twice in France could be so warm and friendly and well-meaning, and yet people I’ve worked with for years can give me the cold shoulder and talk about me behind my back like this.’ My voice hitched a little.

Nick cocked his head to one side as he thought about it. ‘Maybe that has less to do with them and more to do with you.’

‘What do you mean? Are you saying this is all my fault now?’

‘Not at all. I’m saying they’ve probably always been that way, but you haven’t really noticed because you were so caught up in your work or with Nathan or it wasn’t directed at you.’ He paused. ‘You can ride it out, Emmy, but there’s nothing to stop you seeing what’s out there. You’re good at your job. I’m sure you could find another – preferably somewhere where they appreciate you more and treat you to the occasional pay rise. And it’s not as though you’re tied down by Nathan now.’

‘I’ll think about it. But I’ve been at that place ever since I left university, and I’ve worked damned hard to get to where I am. That’s a lot of time and energy devoted to one job. I’m not sure I’m ready to throw it all away yet.’

Nick shook his head. ‘You’re looking at it from the wrong angle, Emmy. You devoted your time and energy to developing your
career
, not necessarily that particular job. If they can’t offer you promotion, then maybe it’s time to find somewhere that can.’

I rolled my eyes. ‘It’s not an easy job market out there.’

‘How about doing what I do?’ He held up a hand when I snorted. ‘I don’t mean
exactly
what I do – obviously – but you could try going freelance. There must be loads of places that need skills like yours on a temporary basis. You’d only need to market your talents properly – which, since you’re in marketing in the first place, shouldn’t be that hard to do, when you think about it.’

‘Hmm. It’s not exactly secure, is it? Living from one contract to the next. However Nathan and I wrap things up, I’ll still have rent or a mortgage to pay. Bills. Running a car. Living expenses.’

‘I manage alright.’

I swiped at him. ‘Yes, but you’re a genius and people fall over themselves to employ you.’

Nick reached across to ruffle my hair. ‘Poor, predictable Emmy. Isn’t it time you took a chance for a change?’

I thought about Rupert’s half-baked offer of a half-baked job, and his half-baked ideas for my half-baked business – but I suspected that wasn’t quite the high-flying freelancing lifestyle Nick had in mind.

S
unday morning saw
heavy rain driving against the windows, so Nick and I curled up on the sofa with a large cafetière of coffee and a brick-sized pile of Sunday papers. Solicitous of my precarious state, he’d volunteered to get drenched going to the newsagent, a gesture which made me feel much loved.

As we lounged amidst the paper pigsty, I felt an unexpected wave of regret. This was how Nathan and I had spent our Sundays. Staring unseeingly at the article I’d been reading, I willed away tears before Nick looked up from the sports section.

Too late. ‘What’s up?’

My chin wobbled. ‘I was thinking about Nathan.’

‘And?’

‘This is how we spent our Sundays together.’ I imagined Nathan sitting in the armchair – imagined feeling cosy and comfortable with him, a companionable silence. I closed my eyes, wallowing in self-pity.

Nick came over to put his arm around my shoulders. ‘Do I detect rose-tinted specs this morning?’

Scrubbing away the tears with the back of my hand, I looked across at Nick’s empty chair. Now, in my mind’s eye, Nathan was oblivious to my presence, lost in the financial pages, murmuring at the odd thing I read out without looking up, not remotely interested in what I had to say. That Sunday ritual, so perfect for the first couple of years, had slowly deteriorated into an excuse to lose ourselves in our own worlds on the one day of the week when we had enough time to pay attention to each other.

I sighed. ‘Maybe.’

A
rriving back home
late Sunday afternoon, I fired up the laptop and checked my e-mails.

Good – one from Rupert. I’d e-mailed him that first weekend to let him know I was home and to thank him for the beautiful necklace. He’d replied to say he was glad I’d got myself back in one piece, but then nothing further.

My intuition told me he was being kind, keeping his distance to give me a chance to settle back into my old life, but after a week, I’d begun to worry whether he was coping. I needn’t have.

I
imagined
him joshing around the kitchen with stone-faced Juliette. He wouldn’t give up until he dredged a smile out of her, which would make her all the more stoical. And poor young Émilie was probably scared stiff of him. I wasn’t happy about Madame Dupont overdoing things, but for now Rupert had the help he needed, and that was all that mattered. He hadn’t mentioned his leg or general health, so either he was improving and hadn’t felt the need to, or he wasn’t but didn’t want to worry me.

God, I missed him. I missed his jokes. His obvious fondness for me. The banter we shared while we were cooking together. Let’s face it, with the crap I’d been eating lately, I missed his cooking, full stop. I even missed his selfish demands – but I comforted myself with the thought that I could go back for a visit soon.

I opened the row of attachments. Wording to change. A copy of the bookings spreadsheet we’d set up, so I could think about an availability page. Several new photos.

At these, tears welled in my eyes. Furious that just looking at
La Cour des Roses
could make me so homesick, I shoved my chair back and stormed off to the kitchen for a healing herbal brew. As I waited for the kettle to boil, I thought about Rupert’s website and sighed. It had been my idea to update it, after all, and I’d promised to do it, even if that promise had been dragged out of me somehow. Ah, well. Better make a start.

T
he following week
at work was no better than the first, and I started to worry in earnest. I should be getting back into my stride by now.

Inexplicably blaming everything on the inadequacies of instant coffee, I splashed out on a shiny little espresso machine, praying that all my ills would be solved by a decent cup of coffee each morning. The irony wasn’t lost on me that the one effort I’d made to feel more at home in good old Blighty was to replicate one of my pleasures in France – except I didn’t have a huge, high-beamed kitchen in which to make it or a beautiful, lush garden in which to drink it.

I spent my evenings on Rupert’s website, tackling the text and photos first. When I started on the availability page, I realised it would be a pig to do because of all the different rooms and
gîtes
. I e-mailed him with the complications and possible solutions. He e-mailed back to say he’d think about it and that Juliette was a pain in the arse.

The only bright point of the week was another text from Kate.
Germs under control. Thursday eve any good?

I texted back.
Absolutely. I don’t give a sod about the germs. I need you!

When Carl called me into his office on Tuesday, my mood was so low, I thought a bollocking couldn’t make it any worse. Despite trying to concentrate on the Kelly account, I knew I’d been on the listless side and hadn’t been grafting at my usual manic rate. Assuming he was panicking about tomorrow’s presentation, I perched uncomfortably on the edge of a chair.

‘Emmy.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I wondered if you were busy this evening.’

‘After work?’

‘Well... Yes.’

Great. More unpaid overtime. Typical Carl tactic – drag me in to haul me over the coals for not working hard enough and then ask me to stay behind, knowing I couldn’t refuse if I wanted to avoid the reprimand. I arranged my features into an expression resembling something like willing.

‘Nothing specific. Why? Are you worried about tomorrow?’

Carl frowned in puzzlement. ‘What? Oh, no. Not at all. I wondered if you’d like to go for a drink. Maybe grab a bite to eat.’

Oh, bloody hell. I hadn’t seen that one coming. The willing expression I’d plastered on my face just seconds before was suddenly horribly unfitting to the occasion, but I had no way of removing it without letting my face fall. I toned it down by tiny degrees as the pause stretched between us.

‘Oh? Who’s going?’ I asked innocently, hoping against hope that he meant a whole crowd of us and playing for time as my mind raced. What on earth had brought this on? There had never been any indication in all the years we’d worked together! Then again, I’d been with Nathan before. Now I’d been abandoned, perhaps I was fair game in Carl’s eyes.

‘Er – I was hoping just the two of us, actually. What do you think?’

Crap. He was my boss. Refusing would be bad, but the idea of playing along for an easy life was too unpalatable. I had no interest in Carl whatsoever. Drinks and dinner would lead to other things I really couldn’t stomach.

‘I...’ Damn. I’d already told him I wasn’t busy. If I suddenly dreamt up a forgotten appointment with the hairdresser or the vet or the local taxidermist, he would only ask again sometime. This had to be nipped in the bud. ‘I’m sorry, Carl. I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

His face fell and he started fiddling with the knot of his tie. I almost felt sorry for him. It must have taken quite a bit of nerve to expose himself to rejection like this. That or his hopeless inability to read others’ emotions had allowed him to think he was in with a chance.

‘May I ask why?’

Yes, Carl, you may. You’re ten years older than me but look more like it’s twenty, you’ve been divorced twice, your beard is scruffy and unappealing and you have no insight whatsoever into the female psyche.
Not only that, but you allow me to mop up all the excess work and take all the flak, and you take all the credit.

‘I don’t think it’s wise to mix work with pleasure,’ I ad-libbed.

He frowned. ‘You met Nathan at work.’

Ah, but I fancied him. He showed promise. For a while, anyway.

‘Yes, but he was in another department. Besides, look how that turned out. These things are all very well until they go wrong and make everyone feel awkward.’ Carl’s expression was still hopeful. I couldn’t bear the idea that he hadn’t got the message. ‘To be honest, Carl, I think I’ve got a long way to go before I’d feel comfortable with anything like that. It’s only a few weeks since Nathan and I split up. I’m not ready to move on yet.’

‘Ah. Of course. Yes. Right, well, in that case, I need to speak to you about the presentation tomorrow. The way I see it...’

I let him drone on, wondering whether he’d leave it at that or whether he’d have another go when he deemed that enough time had passed for my heart to heal. Maybe moving to France wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

S
till reeling
over Carl asking me out, by lunchtime I was desperate to get out of the office for a while. Walking along the street with no particular destination in mind, I jumped when a hand grabbed my arm.

‘Emmy! God, I haven’t seen you for a while. How are you?’

Lucy used to work in the accounts department with Nathan, and although I didn’t know her well, she’d always been pleasant in passing. She’d since moved on to bigger and better things as some sort of high-flying bank executive, making my career path look like a half-beaten track through the undergrowth.

‘Hi, Lucy. How are you?’

‘Fine. On a quick lunch break. Are you? We could grab a coffee. What do you say?’

‘Sounds good.’

Lucy dragged me into the nearest café, bullied a couple who were thinking about leaving into being snappier about it, and flung her coat across a chair before anyone else could get near.

As we waited for our drinks to arrive, we batted “How are you?” and similar platitudes around for a while until I galvanised myself into enquiring about her career. She filled me in on the last eighteen months’ worth of her achievements, making me feel more like a failure by the minute.

‘So, how about you?’ she finally asked. ‘Still at the same firm? Still with Nathan?’

‘Nathan and I split up, actually. He’s moved to London.’

‘
Really?
But you two seemed so right for each other!’

I frowned. ‘Did we?’

‘Of course. Working at the same place since forever. That lovely flat of yours.’
Being so bloody boring together
, she might as well have said, since it was clearly what she was thinking. ‘It was all so perfect, wasn’t it?’

‘Until now,’ I pointed out.

‘I suppose so.’ Lucy took a surreptitious glance at her watch. ‘So how about work? Any promotions in the offing?’

My heart sank. It was embarrassing to admit I was still in exactly the same position she’d left me in a year and a half ago.

‘No, ‘fraid not.’ I knew that wouldn’t cut it with Lucy, so tagged on, ‘I’m currently looking for a position elsewhere.’
When I get round to it.

Lucy curled her lip. ‘Well, good luck with that. God knows, it’s about time you had a change, but it’s not going to be easy moving companies in this economic climate. It could take you quite a while to find something.’

The bloody cheek!

‘Actually, I’ve been asked to move to France.’ It popped out of my mouth before I could stop it.

Lucy frowned. ‘To
France
?
To do
what
?’

Her tone of voice suggested she doubted I had any skills that might be exportable, and my hackles rose further. Shit. I’d done it now. I could hardly tell her I’d be skivvying for an ageing ex-pat, could I?

‘I... It’s a marketing contract,’ I told her with as much conviction as I could muster. ‘For a tourist business. They need hands-on help on a consultancy basis, and they’re willing to help me establish my own business out there as well.’ God, I was going to burn in hell for that one.

Lucy didn’t bother to hide her surprise – whether about my considering a move to France or the fact that someone might want to employ me, I wasn’t sure.

‘Well, I can see why you might want to move companies,’ she said. ‘But moving to France on a whim – isn’t that a bit reckless? One consultancy contract and then setting up on your own? What about financial security?’

My brain was desperately trying to tell my mouth that this was absolutely none of her business – but she was being so patronising.

‘That’s not guaranteed even if I stay here, is it?’ I pointed out. ‘People get made redundant in our business all the time.’

‘But do you even speak French?’

‘Actually, I speak it really well,’ I exaggerated, smiling as I imagined Madame Dupont cackling at the suggestion.

I drained my coffee, stood and grabbed my jacket. ‘Well, it’s been nice seeing you again, Lucy. Take care.’

W
ednesday’s presentation
to the Kellys was the first I’d been so nervous about in a long time. I felt that I had a great deal to prove. It was me they asked for every time, me they trusted. In the past, they had never been entirely happy with our proposals, going along with them half-heartedly because they paid us good money to come up with ideas, knew our reputation and trusted my judgement. But the fact that they were never quite on board meant the results were never what they might be. I was thrilled they had decided to go along with our vintage theme – but it felt like a last ditch attempt, somehow, and as I’d already told Carl, it was quite a gamble.

Gamble or not, it went down a storm. The Kelly brothers were happy that we were playing on an aspect of their company they were comfortable with and proud of, and the younger generation were happy that their elders were finally enthusiastic about
something
. There was a lot of work ahead, but at least we all agreed that we were finally targeting the right markets with the right advertising and exposure.

‘I hear it went well,’ Cathy said as we took five minutes for lunch at our desks. ‘I’m not sure Carl was convinced about your tactics, but you pulled it off as usual. Here. Have a cream cake to celebrate.’ She pushed a plate in front of me. ‘Been keeping it in the fridge all morning for you.’

‘Thanks.’ I sounded flat and tried to smile. I couldn’t understand it – I usually got such a buzz from a success like that, but this time the buzz wasn’t forthcoming.

‘Is everything alright?’ she asked, frowning. ‘I would have thought you’d be floating on the ceiling after this morning!’

Shit. Is it really so obvious?
I shrugged. ‘So would I. Maybe I’m just tired.’

‘Emmy, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but did something happen in France? Other than splitting up with Nathan, I mean.’

Oh, something happened all right. I fell in love. With a place, and everything that goes with it.

T
he day was not made
any better when I was foolish enough to answer my mobile without checking caller display. Before I could get my bearings, my mother had elicited a promise from me that I would allow myself to be fed and watered at their house after work. Apparently, my daily phone calls weren’t enough to reassure her with regard to my wellbeing, and she wanted to see for herself that I was still vaguely in the land of the living.