The Little French Guesthouse (25 page)

Running off to France wasn’t my only option. I would soon be rid of the flat, and then I could find somewhere that suited me here. If I accepted the promotion, I might get my passion back. I could even use my contacts to start freelancing in my spare time.

At three o’clock, I only just made it to the bathroom in time to throw up.

Mum and Dad could come out for holidays. Nick could bring his latest conquest over. I would miss Kate terribly, but she could come to stay, too. It wasn’t as if I didn’t know anybody in France. Rupert and Sophie. Ryan. Jonathan and Madame Dupont. And then there was Alain. Mmmm... Alain.

At four o’clock, I threw up again. Twice.

W
hen the alarm
shrilled at seven, I jolted out of a deep, dreamless sleep. My headache was gone. My temperature was down. I felt hungry. And everything was clear.

I lay staring at the ridge in the ceiling, knowing I should get up for work but making no move to do so.

The text alert on my phone jolted me out of limbo. I plucked it up from the bedside table, expecting it to be my mother making sure my virus hadn’t turned into pneumonia.

It was from Rupert, and I opened it in a panic. Perhaps his leg was worse or his angina had been playing up or one of the girls helping had mucked something up or he was cross with me for not acknowledging his e-mail.

Three little words.
Come home, Emmy.

I thought of my once-loved job with its trendy offices. Working alongside people like Carl. The exhausting commute to work. This flat with its cold sleek lines and no heart.

I didn’t want a minimalist life any more. I wanted warmth and noise and clutter and colour and friendly chatter and pleasant aggravation.

I wanted to live again.

I
could smell
lavender through the open window as I slowed the car to a stop, the crunch of gravel causing a group of chattering birds to explode from the vines above the
gîte
doors.

As I clambered out of the car, nervous knots in my stomach mingled with a welcome glow of homecoming. I pushed open the gate, and a blur of black bolted straight for me. My heart jumped into my mouth, and instinct had me holding out my hand for the hound to sample. Relief washed over me when it sniffed, licked, then threw itself wantonly onto its back for me to tickle its tummy. This was no hound. This was a gormless, harmless mutt.

‘Gloria!’

Rupert’s voice from inside the house made my stomach clench and my veins freeze. All the blood drained from my face. She was back, then.

Rupert peered out of the doorway. ‘Emmy. Thought it must be you. It’s wonderful to have you back.’

He launched himself down the steps to suffocate me in a tight bear hug, which was brought to a halt by the jealous head-butting of the dog.

I wanted to say something along the lines of, “Why the hell didn’t you warn me your bitch of a wife’s back so we could put a stop to this arrangement before I paid my ferry fare?”

‘You got a dog,’ I said numbly instead.

‘Yes.’ Rupert pushed the dog’s head away. ‘For God’s sake, Gloria, let Emmy breathe!’

My eyes widened. ‘
This
is Gloria?’

‘Of course. Why, what did you think... ?’ Rupert took in my pale complexion, started to laugh, then stopped before I could hit him. ‘Oh, Emmy, I’m sorry. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

‘You called your dog
Gloria
?’ I asked incredulously, already flooded with relief. ‘Is that fair on the dog?’

Rupert grinned as he tickled the dog behind the ears and she snuggled adoringly against his leg. ‘Why not? She’s a bit past her prime, she needed rescuing, I couldn’t resist her – and she’s a bitch.’

I smiled back, fondled the dog’s waiting head and leaned up to kiss Rupert on the cheek.

My heart soared. I was home.

T
hank
you for choosing to read
The Little French Guesthouse
. I hope you enjoyed Emmy’s journey to France
and self-discovery as much as I did! If you were as sorry as I was to reach The End and you are wondering what will happen between Emmy and Alain, you will be pleased to know that a sequel is on the way!

As for my inspiration for
The Little French Guesthouse
, I’d had the opening scene in my mind for a long time, but I didn’t get around to doing anything about it until, on one of our family holidays to France, I stumbled upon the region and location that felt just right for it. Creating
La Cour des Roses
was only a few steps away in my imagination, and everything flowed from there. I sometimes forget it isn’t a real place!

I absolutely loved being in Emmy’s world – and head. She feels like a close friend to me. Writers often say their characters take on a life of their own, and that was certainly true with this book. Rupert, in particular, did not turn out how I’d initially intended - but I like him so much better the way he led me to write him, and I’m very fond of him. It seems others are, too, from the comments I’ve received.

If you enjoyed the read, I would love it if you could take the time to leave a review. It makes so much difference to know that readers have enjoyed my book and what they liked about it . . . and of course, it might encourage others to buy it and share that enjoyment!

You can sign up for news about my new releases here:

You can also find me on Facebook, Twitter and Goodreads, and at my website and blog.

Thank you!

Helen x

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olding Back

Warm Hearts in Winter