The Little French Guesthouse (6 page)

‘Ah, so that’s how you know my name. Local gossip.’

He pointed at my cup. ‘Smells good. Any chance of one?’ Deliberately or not, he was giving me a way out of the uncomfortable turn the conversation had taken.

I was grateful. ‘No problem. I’ll get dressed and bring you one out.’

‘Thanks.’ As he headed back to the hedge, he looked back, a cute smile on his handsome face. ‘By the way, no need to get dressed on my account.’

I couldn’t get to my room fast enough. Ten minutes later, I’d tousle-dried my hair, pulled on slimming denim crops and a low-cut T-shirt, ladled on nude lip gloss and made him his coffee, which I carried out onto the patio.

He came back up the garden when he saw me. ‘Thanks.’ Taking a sip, he let out an exaggerated sigh, as though he’d gone to coffee-shop heaven. ‘You make good coffee.’

‘Just one of my many talents,’ I trilled girlishly, then winced at how flirtatious it sounded. The boy could be ten years my junior, for goodness’ sake. Flirting was definitely out – life was far too complicated as it was. Making a fool of myself by fawning over a handsome youth could only add to my pain. Besides, I imagined he had girls throwing themselves at his feet wherever he went. I wouldn’t be surprised if good old Gloria had tried it on. Poor lad.

Thankfully, Ryan didn’t appear to notice my gaucheness. He was too busy savouring the sensory marvel that was my coffee. ‘Far superior to Gloria’s,’ he said. ‘Not that she offered too often. I was glad she didn’t, after tasting it. Awful stuff – sludgy and bitter.’ He made a face.

‘I know. I think she bought the cheapest she could find. I’m using Rupert’s secret stash of the good stuff now that she...’ I hesitated, then ploughed on. ‘Now that she’s gone. The grapevine announced to you that she left, I presume?’

‘Yep. Good riddance. Rupert’s better off without her.’ He grimaced. ‘Sorry, that was an insensitive thing to say. I heard your boyfriend went, too. This must be a pretty crap time for you.’

‘Well, it’s not been much fun so far. But I’m okay. I’ve got so much to do helping Rupert today that I won’t have time to wallow.’

‘You’re not leaving?’ he asked in surprise.

I stared at him for a moment. The truth was, I was still processing the fact that Nathan had left me. The idea of cutting my losses and actually leaving hadn’t yet filtered into my beleaguered brain.

‘I don’t think so. Not yet, anyway. I couldn’t do that to Rupert so soon after... Well.’ No need to go into detail. ‘The least I can do is stay until he’s a bit better and we can sort out some help around here.’
Because I feel so cripplingly guilty about what my boyfriend has done. Because I have nowhere else to go. Because I don’t want to drive across France all by myself and go home to an empty flat and face up to family and friends and colleagues and reality in general.

Ryan drained his cup. ‘That’s good of you, under the circumstances. If it makes it any easier for you, I’ll spread the word that you’re capable and coping and couldn’t give a hoot that your man ran off with the wicked witch.’ He smiled – a real full-on, handsome-guy smile that crinkled the corners of his blue eyes. ‘I’ll see you around. I promised Rupert I’d do a couple of extra stints to make up for missing last week.’ He handed me his empty cup, started to walk down the garden, then turned back. ‘If you find yourself losing that stiff upper lip, come and see me. I don’t mind being a shoulder to cry on. Rupert’s not very good at that sort of thing.’

‘Thanks, Ryan. I’ll bear it in mind.’

Come and see me
. What the hell was that supposed to mean?

Still musing over gorgeous Ryan and his flirty manner, I went to rouse Rupert. When there was no response to my discreet knocks on the outer door of his quarters, I let myself in and rapped on his bedroom door. That didn’t wake him either, so I barged in to shake him out of his sleep. Strangely, I didn’t hesitate. A week ago I hadn’t even met the man, and already I had no qualms about invading his personal space. The way I saw it, there was no alternative. We were like two survivors shipwrecked on an island, thrown together to conquer impossible circumstances.

Even so, I was eternally grateful he wasn’t in the habit of sleeping naked on top of his sheets. There is a limit.

Ten minutes later, he was hung-over but showered and caffeined-up, and we sat at the table to draw up our battle plan.

‘Right. The guests in the
gîtes
aren’t obliged to vacate until ten, Emmy, but in reality they often take longer, so you need to use the time before that to shop for the new guests’ welcome baskets and the house guests’ evening meal.’

Rupert sounded decisive, but as he started scribbling a shopping list, I noticed his hand was shaking. Hangover? Nerves? Shock? I had no way of knowing – and no time to ask.

‘Madame Dupont can freshen up the empty third
gîte
if you get delayed.’ He spoke as he wrote. ‘There’s plenty of spare linen, so the laundry can wait until tomorrow.’

I took the shopping list with trepidation. The truth was, I didn’t like driving abroad. I could do it – I wasn’t a danger to the continental public or anything – but I certainly wasn’t as confident as at home.

But Rupert misunderstood my anxious expression. ‘Emmy.’ He reached across and patted my hand. ‘You don’t have to do this, you know.’

I straightened my spine. ‘I know. But you can’t manage by yourself.’

Rupert gave a small smile. ‘Then thank you.’ He hesitated. ‘Are you... Are you planning to stay the week?’

There was a hopeful note in his voice that I couldn’t ignore. I glanced at his fingers, still shaking lightly as he held the pen. His shoulders were slumped, his unshaven face ashen. Only a few short days ago, the man had been in the hospital with heart problems.

I thought back to what I’d said to Ryan, about waiting until Rupert was a little better and we could get help in. My ferry was booked for next weekend. If I left sooner, I’d have to mess about altering the booking, and since I had no idea what awaited me at home – if anything – I was more than happy to put off the inevitable. Besides, despite the events of the past few days, I liked it here. It was sunny and colourful and comfortable. Why head home to rain and explanations any sooner than necessary?

‘Yes, I’m staying,’ I said decisively. ‘I can’t be bothered to change all my plans, and I need to keep an eye on you or you’ll do too much.’

‘Well, I’m glad – but I do
not
want you slaving away on my behalf.’ A pained expression crept across his face. ‘I don’t want you to feel obliged, Emmy.’

‘I was thinking more along the lines of helping than slaving. At least it’ll give you time to sort something out.
And
it’ll keep my mind off Nathan.’ When he looked like he might argue, I added, ‘It’s my holiday and I shall do what I like with it.’

‘All right, if you insist.’ He looked too tired to argue. ‘But we’ll review it on a day-to-day basis, and if you don’t build in some me-time, as those ghastly life coach chaps call it, I shall have something to say about it. I’ll transfer what you paid for the holiday back into your bank account, and I expect to pay you for whatever you do for me this coming week.’ When I opened my mouth, he held up a hand to stop me. ‘I would have had to pay for local help anyway.’

I shook my head, adamant. ‘No way, Rupert. The holiday charge – okay. Wages – absolutely not.’ Seeing the mutinous look on his face, I pointed at the clock on the wall. ‘We can argue or I can shop. Which is it to be?’

I
took
myself utterly by surprise by driving the lanes past rolling fields and farmhouses to the outskirts of town, remembering Rupert’s directions to the supermarket, parking without crashing, finding everything we needed and arriving back safely by ten-thirty. The rest of the day was a blur of sweat and hard labour, but since it meant I had no time to brood over Nathan’s perfidy or Gloria’s barefaced cheek or Rupert’s dismay, I didn’t mind. There was simply a job to be done with numerous deadlines – my speciality – along the way, and concentrating on the tasks at hand kept me from self-pity.

By the time I got back from the supermarket, Madame Dupont had already sorted out the unoccupied
gîte
, so we got to work on the other two, waiting politely until the occupants drove away and then piling in.

I might have been mortified last night that Rupert had told Madame Dupont everything on the phone, but today I was grateful. It meant no explanations were necessary.

Her face was brown and wrinkled from the sun and her old-fashioned floral dress, support stockings and black lace-up shoes gave me the impression of a strict grandmother. Her stern demeanour made me a little nervous about the day ahead – but as we muscled our way into the first
gîte,
she gave me a semi-toothless smile, patted my arm, pointed at the basket of cleaning accoutrements in my arms and said a simple
‘Merci,’
rather loudly, as if I were deaf.

I smiled. We may not have understood each other linguistically, but it seemed she knew I was doing my best for Rupert. Heaven knew I had to be preferable to Gloria, who had probably let the poor old woman do the lion’s share of the work while she rearranged the potpourri or trimmed stray cotton strands off the curtains.

Getting access to the
gîtes
brought out the nosiness in me. I’d seen photos on the website when I’d considered booking one for myself and Nathan, but they hadn’t fully conveyed the delightfully rustic interiors. Rough whitewashed walls, stone fireplaces, wooden bed frames, beautiful patchwork quilts and soft woollen throws – they all exuded carefully-thought-out charm. Paperbacks and a smattering of board games on the shelves added a nice touch.

Curious, I went through the back door to where each
gîte
had its own outdoor space with a table, chairs and parasol, separated from its neighbours by trellises wound with climbing plants not quite yet in flower. A gate led to a communal lawned area which, screened from the courtyard and therefore from the danger of cars by a tall hedge, curved back around towards Rupert’s garden – a lovely area to sunbathe or for kids to safely kick a ball around. I hadn’t even known that part of the garden existed. No wonder this place kept Ryan busy in the summer.

The grass here was newly mown, but I could hear a motor still running. Unable to help myself, I peeped through the hedge that divided the
gîte
garden from Rupert’s, to see Ryan pushing a large lawn mower, his muscles flexing as he swivelled around the flower beds. It took some effort to turn away. I strode quickly back to the
gîtes
before gawking could turn into stalking.

Limited to communicating with gestures and simple phrases, Madame Dupont and I got by, and I was surprised at how quickly my long-forgotten French seeped back into my consciousness as she chattered at me without expecting me to fully understand. While she dusted and swept, I mopped. She cleaned the oven while I cleaned the fridge. Since she knew where everything was kept, she checked the toiletry supplies while I scrubbed the bathroom.

As we changed the bedding together, my elbow knocked the shallow dish of potpourri on the bedside table, and I only just caught it before it scattered across the floor. Madame Dupont reached over and took it from me, then crooked her finger, beckoning me to follow. In the kitchen, she stood on the pedal of the bin and with a wink and a flourish, she poured the potpourri from a great height with a rapid-fire diatribe of which I only understood maybe every tenth word – but Gloria’s name featured prominently, and I gathered that this was a symbolic cleaning out of her toxic presence.

I grinned along with my new ally as we dragged the bin bags outside and headed for the next
gîte
.

B
y late afternoon
, all three
gîtes
were done, with two occupied and one awaiting an arrival, and I was pooped. Poor Madame Dupont was pooped too, so much so that I offered her a lift home. She only lived half a mile down the lane, but I was worried her varicose veins wouldn’t get her there.

As I pulled up outside her dilapidated cottage, she let out a string of Gallic invective, then she patted my cheek and said
‘Merci
,’ several times. Despite the language barrier, I understood the gist. It was good to know that she, and ergo the rest of the neighbourhood, was on our side.

As I waited for her to get safely indoors, a cacophony of noise drifted through the open car window and I craned my neck to see over her fence, looking for the source of the racket. Dozens of scrawny, evil-looking black hen-like creatures scurried about her yard and the land beyond. I pulled a face. I couldn’t imagine having to look at and listen to them all day. Good job her neighbours weren’t too close.

When I got back, Rupert made me a well-deserved cup of tea.

‘Get Madame Dupont home alright?’

‘Yep. That cottage should be under some sort of historic preservation act.’

Rupert laughed. ‘You should see inside.’

‘What are those ghastly creatures she’s got in her yard? Hens or something. What on earth does she keep those for?’

‘They’re a sort of chicken. Madame Dupont has several grown-up children and therefore numerous grandchildren and great-grandchildren. That’s a lot of mouths to feed.’

‘Mouths to feed?’ I looked at him questioningly, although I had a nasty feeling where the conversation was going.

‘They’re good eating birds. When she has family to visit or she visits them, they get a chicken. I wouldn’t get too friendly with her if I were you, or you might find yourself on the receiving end of her generosity.’ He twisted his hands in a wringing motion.

I shuddered at the thought of the ugly birds’ bald necks. ‘Wish I’d never asked.’

Taking a gulp of reviving tea, I kicked off my sandals and put my aching feet up on the chair opposite. Now that the flurry of the day was over, my mind latched straight back onto Nathan’s desertion.

I looked across at Rupert. ‘Do you mind if I ask you something?’

He shrugged. ‘Depends what it is.’

‘I wondered... Were you and Gloria having problems already? Before Nathan?’ But then I stopped and held up a warning hand. No matter how desperate I was to find reasons for being abandoned, I didn’t have the right to pry into Rupert’s marriage. ‘Actually, no, don’t answer. Sorry. Nothing to do with me.’

‘If it’ll stop you feeling so guilty about his behaviour, I don’t mind telling you.’ He shot me an exasperated look. ‘Yes, we were having problems. Things were good at first. Gloria gave up work and we rented out her little house and split our time between my flat in London and the house in Mallorca. It was a perfect life for her – sunning herself on the coast half the year, shopping and fancy restaurants the other half. Then, about six years ago, I decided to buy this place. You should have seen it, Emmy. It was a wreck, but I fell in love with it the minute I saw it. I knew it could be beautiful and I needed a new project. I was bored with Spain, and London was only a bolt-hole to me. Several of the pies I had fingers in had come to a natural conclusion and this place seemed like the perfect investment. It could earn us an income for as long as we wanted and would be worth loads more than we’d shelled out on it if we wanted to sell. So I went ahead and bought it.’

I took a sip of tea, sighing in appreciation, and nodded at him to continue.

‘Gloria liked the idea, but she didn’t know what she was letting herself in for. We had to live here to oversee the work, and it wasn’t the relative luxury she was used to. When it was finished, we advertised to upmarket types and she quite liked the idea of being the lady of the manor. She wasn’t so keen on the hard work it entailed, though – and of course, it tied us down. I rented out the place in Mallorca because we didn’t have time to go there any more. Gloria sulked about that. She made sure we still went to London, but I wasn’t bothered about gallivanting over there too often, so sometimes she went on her own.’ He poured more tea. ‘I was blind, Emmy, or stubborn, or both. We’re not exactly next door to Paris here. The novelty wore off for Gloria, but I loved it so much, I stuck my head in the sand.’

‘That’s understandable.’

‘Maybe, but also terribly complacent. I knew when I married her that it was probably my lifestyle she found attractive.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘But then it all seemed to go a darned sight better than I expected. Lulled me into a false sense of security.’ He sighed. ‘I should have seen things from her point of view. She married a reasonably dashing middle-aged man of independent means who could offer her the nearest she was likely to get to a jet-set lifestyle, and ended up in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of noisy chickens and an ageing stick-in-the-mud.’

So much for the rose-tinted glasses I’d thought Rupert had on last night.

‘You’re not being fair on yourself,’ I told him.

‘No sympathy, please. I only told you so you’d get it into your head once and for all
that Nathan’s poor decision – and that’s what it was, Emmy, because he must have been mad to cheat on you – had nothing to do with breaking us up. My marriage was already foundering on the rocks. Nathan was merely the catalyst to an inevitable conclusion.’

‘Funny. That’s exactly the same way I see Gloria. As a catalyst. Nathan and I were fine at first – we had a lot in common, working at the same company, and we enjoyed the same things. But then it started to slip, and like you, I didn’t pay enough attention – at first, anyway. This past year, I’d noticed it more. Fewer conversations that weren’t about things like the energy tariff or replacing the boiler. And working at the same place meant we tended to spend our evenings telling each other about our day at the office in vast detail. It got kind of depressing. But lately, even that tailed off. Less talking. Fewer evenings out. Less...’ I blushed furiously.

‘Less sex?’ Rupert asked gently.

I nodded, miserable and embarrassed. ‘I put it down to tiredness, working too hard... But it’s obvious now that the spark had died a bit. I just didn’t think it had died enough for him to sleep with someone else. And it would have been so much better if Gloria was a nubile twenty-three-year-old. It’s not good for the ego when your boyfriend runs off with someone older than you.’ I gave him a curious look. ‘How old
is
Gloria?’

‘Forty-six,’ Rupert admitted apologetically.

I made a face. ‘I can’t imagine what’s got into their heads. A bit of illicit lust is one thing, but running off together? It can’t last.’

‘No, I don’t imagine it will,’ Rupert agreed. ‘I think they’re probably using each other as an excuse – a way out for them both. For now.’

He finished his tea, and we heaved ourselves back to our feet for kitchen duty. I was grateful to see that he’d planned his menu more sensibly this time: homemade spring vegetable soup from the freezer to start, followed by a cold seafood platter – plump prawns, lobster tails and crab, surrounded by salad leaves – and fresh fruit salad for dessert. Three delicious courses that looked and tasted fantastic but were mercifully light on hard work, and all of which we could prepare in advance. We worked amicably side by side, defrosting, chopping and peeling. At least there would be no standing over a hot stove co-ordinating numerous dishes to come together at once – something Rupert wasn’t up to and I was frankly incapable of. One-pot Emmy, that was me.

‘I met your gardener this morning,’ I said casually.

Rupert nodded. ‘I like Ryan. He’s a hard worker, that’s for sure. Done wonders with the garden. Usually comes in two or three times a week, so you’ll likely see him again before you go.’ He glanced sideways at me, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. ‘Good-looking young man, wouldn’t you say?’

‘I suppose.’ I gave a nonchalant shrug, although certain nerve-ends were tingling at the vision I still had in my head from this morning. ‘If you like that sort of thing.’

Rupert grinned. ‘Not your type? Prefer a nice, studious accountant?’

I grimaced. ‘Ha! Not any more. I think Nathan’s put me off accountants for life!’

Rupert nodded. ‘Understandable. I doubt I’ll be chasing after any blonde restaurant managers in the near future, either.’

As we finished off in the kitchen, we decided the new
gîte
guests need know nothing of Rupert’s current situation. They had the accommodation they’d booked, a welcome basket as promised, and the owner was available to provide information and deal with any problems as advertised. The fact that only one of the owners was around would probably go unnoticed.

The Hendersons were a different matter, however. It would be too much to hope
they
wouldn’t notice the place being run by one incapacitated member of the team, while the able-bodied one was permanently unavailable. I didn’t think a couple who could spot a speck of dust at twenty paces would be blind to the fact that my partner was suddenly missing too, while I was permanently up to my elbows in household chores.

‘We’ll get ‘em drunk tonight,’ was Rupert’s solution. It seemed to be his solution to most things. ‘I’ll dig out the Chablis.’

Piece of cake.

T
he Hendersons were indeed impressed
by the wine, but not by the news. I admired the way Rupert handled it. He may have come across as a jovial buffoon, but I was beginning to see that this was a front he put on for the guests’ benefit, to put them at ease during their stay and presumably to soften the brittle edges of Gloria’s manner.

Rupert kept his announcement factual. ‘Well, I imagine you’re wondering why Emmy and I were somewhat... inebriated when you came back last night.’

Mrs Henderson’s eyebrows shot up, and her husband shifted in his chair.

‘I would apologise for our behaviour,’ Rupert went on, ‘but I’m sure when you hear the reason behind it, you’ll understand.’ He refilled their glasses. ‘I’m afraid my wife has taken it upon herself to leave me at what is rather an inconvenient time. Emmy has kindly agreed to help me over the next few days, so I hope you’ll bear with us.’

Clearly amazed that a paying guest would offer to do any such thing, Mrs Henderson’s eyebrows shot up even higher. ‘I see,’ she managed. ‘Well, we’re both...very sorry, of course.’

‘Absolutely, Hunter,’ her husband chipped in. ‘Rotten luck. Bad timing, as you say.’

Mrs Henderson’s pursed lips as she glanced sideways at her husband confirmed that Rupert knew his stuff. Lies would have been seen through and put him in a bad light.

To break the awkward silence, Rupert launched into one of his tales. ‘Did I ever tell you the story behind the name for this place?’

I smiled encouragement. Anything to get us back onto neutral ground.

‘
La Cour des Roses
– courtyard of roses. Straightforward, you’d think. And when we first saw the place, it seemed an obvious enough name. There was a courtyard, and there were roses. Millions of the things. Trouble was, they’d taken over the whole garden, strangling themselves and everything else in sight, especially the climbers. So what was the first thing we had to do? Have ‘em all taken out. Every last one of ‘em. Someone came in with a digger, and all we were left with was a mud bath. It was pretty depressing, I can tell you. There we were with a property named after roses, and not a blasted rose in sight!’ He laughed. ‘But the name sounded so pretty, we didn’t have the heart to change it. Besides, what would we have changed it to?
La Cour de la Désolation
doesn’t have quite the same appeal, does it? So I had to get the landscaping chap to train those rambling roses over the doorways of the main house, and Ryan’s been introducing a few new bushes in the garden each year...’

I listened to him ramble on with a smile on my face. Last night, he’d called me a real trooper. Well, he was quite a trooper, too.

T
he next day
, I revelled in a much-deserved Sunday lie-in. I eventually surfaced around noon, groggy and grumpy, my body complaining that its caffeine fix was a good three hours overdue. As I dragged on some clothes, I glanced at my phone on the bedside table. The message screen was devoid of contact from Nathan. I hadn’t expected any different. I wasn’t sure if or why I wanted to hear from the cheating bastard anyway.

I wondered if I should be making some calls myself. My parents, for a start – but I wasn’t sure I was strong enough for that yet. My mother was... strident, and she would have an awful lot to say and no qualms about saying it. My dad would only worry, and as an accountant himself, he’d always got on so well with Nathan. I’d never understood half of what they talked about, but they seemed to enjoy themselves. Why tell them any sooner than I needed to? Maybe that was best left for when I went home.

I could phone my little brother, but although Nick would express sympathy, as a committed commitment-phobe, he could never fully understand. Besides, he’d probably think Nathan leaving was a cause for celebration – he and Nathan had never got on.

My best friend Kate, on the other hand... With a pang that hurt, I wished I could meet up with her for a latte to sob out my woes, but since that couldn’t happen, a phone call would have to do. I flicked up her number and clicked on it.

She answered immediately. ‘Emmy! How’s France? I wasn’t expecting you to phone! Is everything okay?’

At the sound of her voice, the emotion I’d been holding in check for Rupert’s sake – and mine – flooded over me in a sudden wave. ‘No!’ I wailed. ‘Nathan left me!’

‘He
what
?’

Ten minutes later, she was up to speed with a fairly incoherent account of Nathan, Gloria and Rupert.

‘Bloody Nathan. Bloody disgrace,’ she pronounced. ‘You’re better off without him.’ There was a pause. ‘Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.’ Another pause. ‘Do you think he’ll come back?’

‘I don’t know,’ I admitted, exhausted after my rant. ‘I’m still so angry with him, I can’t think straight. It’s all been so unexpected.’