The Little French Guesthouse (9 page)

‘You get all your friends to do that!’ Rupert laughed and turned to me. ‘He has an informal rota system so no one friend feels too put upon at any one time.’

‘But that’s the problem,’ Jonathan said. ‘I’m getting on now. And I
am
putting on people. You should set yourself up over here, Emmy. A Girl Friday agency to help out old codgers like me.’

Rupert snorted. ‘What, so you could pay her a pittance to run round after you?’

‘Pretty much, yes.’

‘Sorry to disappoint you, old boy, but Emmy’s already got a job to go back to.
And
it pays a decent living wage.’

Jonathan let out a melodramatic sigh. ‘I had a feeling she would. Ah, well.’

When Jonathan had satisfied himself that Rupert wasn’t suicidal, and he’d enjoyed some of the juicier aspects of gossip surrounding our mutual dilemma, Rupert and I headed back outside.

‘I had to leave my shopping at some of the stalls ‘cause I couldn’t carry it,’ Rupert announced. ‘Fetch it for me, will you? I’ll sit here and wait.’ He grabbed an empty table on the terrace.

I shot him a glare. ‘Which stalls?’

‘The meat stall over there.’ He pointed. ‘And that veg one there.’

‘And how am I supposed to ask in French?’

‘They’re expecting you. I gave them my name.’

Resigned, I started across the street. When I got to the butcher’s stall, I felt a bit absurd just saying Rupert’s name, so I dredged my memory banks and bravely tagged on
‘Un sac, s’il vous plaît
?
’
to great success. Dragging the heavy bag of meat over to the veg stall, I tried the same again – and was given two large bags that weighed a ton. I looked inside. Melons, oranges... Rupert and I were going to have words. Lugging them back to the café, I dumped them at his feet without much care for his toes.

‘Rupert, this is ridiculous!’ I snapped. ‘What do you think I am – a weightlifter? You can’t tell me this stuff’s so much better than at the supermarket where you can use a
trolley
to get it to the car...’

‘I quite agree.’ I jumped at the voice behind me and spun around to find Alain towering over me. He smiled at me and shook Rupert’s hand. ‘You’re taking advantage, Rupert.’

Rupert shifted uncomfortably. ‘Yes, well, I didn’t expect to buy so much. Haven’t been out and about for a bit.’

I shook my head. As if
that
was a legitimate excuse for giving me a hernia.

‘So I hear.’ Alain settled himself at our table and ordered a coffee.

Rupert ordered us another small one each, and I winced. I was going to be awake for the next forty-eight hours at this rate.

‘I wouldn’t mind hearing the correct version from the horse’s mouth, though,’ Alain went on. ‘So far I’ve only had it fifth-hand, and it’s starting to get a little outrageous and difficult to believe.’

Rupert laughed. ‘Oh, I think you’ll find that outrageous and difficult to believe isn’t so far from the truth.’

As Rupert began on his tale, I studied Alain from the corner of my eye. He didn’t fit the general stereotype of an accountant at all. His casual trousers and shirt were at odds with the suited businessman you might expect. No paunch from sitting at a desk all day. No sign of grey in his brown hair. If I were to guess, I’d say mid-thirties at most.

When Rupert had finished, Alain cocked his head to one side and said, ‘As your friend, I’m sorry for what you’re going through. I wish there was something I could say or do to make it easier. As your accountant...’ He hesitated. ‘Rupert, we need to talk sometime, now Gloria’s left. We ought to look at what might happen if she doesn’t come back, or if she files for divorce.’

I almost shook my head in disbelief. Typical accountant. Two words of sympathy and then straight into bank balances and the bottom line. I bet he was already juggling Rupert’s finances in his head, playing with figures, moving things around to maximise advantage and minimise damage.

Alain looked at his watch. ‘I have a client to see in fifteen minutes. Just enough time to get you and your shopping back to the car, I should think.’

And without waiting for a response, he stood and hefted the two heaviest bags from the floor.

My opinion of accountants as a species went back up a tiny notch.

‘
W
hat was all that about
?’ I asked Rupert as I manoeuvred the car out of the busy centre.

‘What was all what about?’

‘Bumping in
t
o all those people. It was like a meeting of the nations! When I’m out shopping back home, I don’t bump into everyone I know like that.’

‘Market day in a small town, Emmy. Nearly everyone I know goes in on a Monday. And we all know who favours which café. I was bound to bump into someone. In fact, I’m surprised we didn’t meet anyone else.’

‘Yes, well, I’m glad we didn’t. Partly because my bladder couldn’t have coped with any more coffee and partly because you said we were just nipping to the market. We’ve been gone for hours, and you’re knackered. It’s done you no good at all.’

‘On the contrary, Emmy, I may be physically tired, but I have been socially and mentally stimulated and I enjoyed it very much. Leave me alone.’

Back at
La Cour des Roses
, Rupert – despite his protestations – was too tired even for lunch. He headed straight for bed, while I snaffled some fruit and yogurt and took them out to the garden, seeking out my favourite spot under the lilac. Hidden away out of sight and sound of the house, here I was enclosed on three sides by shrubs and hedge. The small patch of lawn I could see from my hideaway led to the end of the garden and the chicken run. I breathed in the scent of the lilac flowers draping over me like a canopy and sighed with pleasure.

The Hendersons were out – as usual. How
did
they keep up the pace? I was surprised we hadn’t bumped into them at the market along with everyone else. A sudden vision of straight-laced Mrs Henderson trying to seduce her husband by wearing a skin-coloured girdle and suspenders popped into my mind, and I nearly choked on my yogurt.

The chickens were quiet, there was no noise from the
gîtes
, no Ryan doing his manly chopping and digging. Had I hoped he would? That would be ridiculous. He was easy on the eye, and there was no doubt it was enjoyable to lounge around watching him work and sweat, but I couldn’t expect him to be here again today. Besides, I’d had my chance last night. It had been there for the taking –
he
had been there for the taking – but I hadn’t been ready for it.

Now, as I lay on the lounger with the afternoon sun warming my skin and melting my tired, stressed-out bones, all I could think about was the feel of Ryan’s hands running over me, his lips demanding... Demanding what?

Too restless to sit still, I went back up to my room with no sense of purpose. A warm bath to soothe? A cold shower to punish? Sexual frustration coursed through me like a torrent now, and I didn’t know whether to kick myself for not scratching the itch last night, or give myself a pat on the back for showing such heroic restraint.

Opting for the happy medium of a warm shower, as I stood under the spray, I wondered what Ryan was thinking. Had he already forgotten about it – would’ve been nice, but never mind? Did he still pine for my body? (This, I appreciated, was the least likely scenario.) Or was he offended by my sudden withdrawal? He’d seemed understanding, but I didn’t like to think he might be feeling insulted or rejected. We’d had a good evening, something I wouldn’t mind repeating before I went home, and I didn’t want an atmosphere between us for the rest of the week, both for my sake and Rupert’s.

Coming out of the bathroom, as I crossed to the dressing table for fresh underwear, I realised I ought to do some washing. There wasn’t much left except... Scrabbling to the back of the drawer, I pulled out a matching bra and briefs set and stared at them in surprise.

It had completely slipped my mind that I’d brought these. Hidden away from Nathan’s prying eyes, they were my seduction gambit, their purchase prompted by dismay as I’d packed my motley collection of white (and off-white) underwear for the holiday. Realising such garments were hardly conducive to unbridled passion, I’d felt guilty and to some extent responsible for our physical cooling-off of late. I may not have been at the granny-pants stage yet – I liked to think I was a good decade or two away from that inevitable decline – but there
had
been a slow and unnoticed creep into an era of sensible cotton pants and plain T-shirt bras.

Staring into my half-packed suitcase, horrified by how much I’d let things slide, I’d felt compelled to dash out to the extortionate lingerie shop on the nearest high street and splash out on this little set. Handing over my credit card, I’d imagined waiting for the right moment – after a meal in a restaurant; coming back to our room mildly intoxicated; peeling off my dress to reveal the sexy underwear and a tan. Nathan’s surprise and appreciation. His enthusiasm. A much-needed spark.

That moment had never come. Instead, Nathan had had
his
moment with Gloria, who no doubt made a habit of spending Rupert’s money on expensive Parisian underwear and thought nothing of showing it off to paying guests. Was hers lacy and black, like this? Satiny red? Or did she have the gall to go for pure and innocent white? Perhaps Nathan had seen her in all three by now.

Flooded with sudden emotion, I sat down on the edge of the bed to finger the delicate black lace and tiny red rosebuds. Self-pity turned to anger and then defiance. Discarding my towel, I pulled on the pants, wriggled into the balcony bra and braved the results in the mirror.

With these on, I had curves mostly in the right places, the balcony bra creating more where I wanted them and the pants giving enough coverage to hide those I could do without. They did what I’d wanted them to do when I’d bought them – they made me look and, more importantly,
feel
sexy. Trouble was, the person intended to admire me in them wasn’t here any more.

His loss. He might no longer find me attractive, but there were others who did. Ryan, for starters.

What a stupid expense.

Or was it? The underwear was bought and paid for. The body wearing it was desired, judging by last night’s kiss. It would be a shame to let it all go to waste... Wouldn’t it? I thought about how Ryan had looked at me last night – the way I’d felt when he’d kissed me, run his hands over me – and it was enough to make me squirm. Just because Nathan and I didn’t have that spark any more didn’t mean I was ready for the scrapyard. If he could feel free to rekindle his love life with someone unsuitable, then so could I.

W
ith an exhilarating mix
of bravado and defiance, I pulled on tight jeans, a low-cut top – great cleavage with the bra doing the work – and heels. No point in going at it half-cocked, so to speak. I headed downstairs before I could change my mind. When I poked my nose around the door of Rupert’s quarters, the light snoring coming from his bedroom confirmed he was still having a nap. As I’d hoped. No explanations required.

Leaving a scribbled note in the kitchen saying I’d gone out for a drive, I went into the hall to rummage in the desk for Rupert’s address book. I had an idea where Ryan’s parents’ house was from our conversation last night, but the last thing I needed now I’d made my mind up was to drive around the French countryside for hours, only to come back empty-handed. Riffling through the dog-eared pages, I realised I didn’t know Ryan’s surname, but then a streak of inspiration led me to R and, hey presto: Ryan. A mobile number
and
an address. Bingo.

My hands shook slightly on the steering wheel as I drove along the country lanes past regimented rows of vines, deserted in the middle of the afternoon. I’d never done anything like this before, and I wasn’t sure whether I was excited or petrified.

With one eye on the satnav, I wondered if I should have phoned first, but what would I have said?
“Hello, Ryan, will you be in this afternoon, because I fancy having sex?”
Too direct, too much laying of cards on tables. He might have changed his mind, and I wouldn’t be able to tell over the phone. If he was out, I would have to turn round and go back for a cold shower. If he was in, I could say I happened to be passing and was curious to see the progress on the barn. Nothing obvious. Keep it casual.

The house stood alone along a narrow lane with a convenient sign at the gate. Turning in, I veered towards the barn, one end still ramshackle, the other in the process of improvement. Ryan’s car was parked outside. Good. No other cars in sight, so his parents must be out. Even better. Adjusting my cleavage, I knocked tentatively on the heavy wooden door, my prepared speech going round in my head on a repeat loop.

Ryan opened the door, bare-chested and in his work jeans, his hair ruffled. He looked dopey, as though he’d been asleep – but as he looked me over from head to toe until I tingled, the dopey expression was replaced by wide eyes and a predatory smile.

‘Emmy. Come on in.’

‘Hi. I was just passing and thought I’d pop in and have a look at the place.’

‘Right. Sure. Do you want a drink? Beer? Wine? Tea?’ The last was said with a tease in his voice.

‘Wine would be nice, if it’s chilled.’ I was beginning to feel hot and bothered – and to second-guess this oh-so-brilliant plan of mine. Cold alcohol wouldn’t go amiss.

He poured two glasses and handed one to me. I took a large gulp.

‘This is coming along.’ I gestured at the room.

‘I’ll give you the tour.’

He did. It took all of two minutes. He was right when he said it was a work-in-progress. The tour consisted of poking my head around the door of the finished bathroom – nicely done in earth-hued country tiles with a walk-in shower – and then back to the main room, which for now had a neat new kitchen area near the door, an old sofa, a TV, and Ryan’s bed at the far end.

‘It’s lovely,’ I said. ‘So far.’

‘So are you. So far.’ Ryan turned me to face him, all trace of teasing gone. ‘Why are you here, Emmy?’

I couldn’t speak. Instead, I took another gulp of wine before Ryan relieved me of my glass, placed it on the coffee table, took my face in those capable, hard-working hands and pressed his lips to mine. I all but melted into the kiss as he backed me up to the bed and lowered me onto it, then pulled away, his expression questioning.

‘No pressure, Emmy. Really. I’m happy to do whatever you want, but I don’t want to take advantage. I’m not that kind of guy. Just a bit of fun, okay?’

He was so sweet. And gorgeous. Shirtless and muscled and mine for the taking if I wanted. And oh boy, I wanted. I’d had enough of pedestrian lovemaking. I wanted my share of passion for a change.

‘I’m sure. Come here.’

Jeans were removed between kisses and Ryan was as gorgeous naked as I’d imagined he would be, his body lean and tanned, his muscles strongly defined – and then those twinkling blue eyes and oh-so-kissable lips.

When I wriggled out of my top, Ryan took in the lingerie with hungry eyes and let out a whistle.

My eyes narrowed with momentary cynicism, unsure if it was meant for me or the underwear, but then the thought struck me that it didn’t matter. He didn’t need to flatter me – I was his already. I smirked. Every penny spent on these damned things was going to be worth it.

Ryan didn’t relieve me of my fancy lingerie straight away. Oh no. We got our money’s worth first as he ran his hands over the lace, then under the lace, until they were finally discarded with a flourish. Even in the desperate heat that followed, Ryan was kind and attentive, roaming my body as though he wanted to explore every inch, and I revelled in it.

Lying together afterwards, I stared up at the high-beamed ceiling, my heart pounding, trying to catch my breath. Spectacular. That was the only word I could think of.

‘Spectacular,’ I said. This was becoming a bad habit, speaking my thoughts out loud.

Ryan hovered over me and smiled, revealing those cute dimples of his. ‘Yes, it was. You are. God, Emmy, there was a store of pent-up energy in there. I can’t say I’m sorry you chose me to release it on.’

I gave an embarrassed smile.

He planted a light kiss on my lips. ‘Don’t worry, I can handle it.’ His hands slid down between us. ‘Want to go another round?’

I did, so we did – another round in the bed, and when I went for a shower in the walk-in, he followed me and we had another round in there amidst the steam and pounding water and fragrant masculine-scented soap. Ryan was insatiable and so, I was surprised to find out, was I.

When I’d dried myself off and was too exhausted for more, I started to dress.

‘Do you want to stay?’ Ryan lounged against the wall, a towel anchored on his slim hips. ‘I make a decent spaghetti bolognese.’

‘No, thanks. I ought to get back. Rupert will be wondering where I am. He thinks I went for a drive.’

Ryan rolled his eyes. ‘You two are developing rather a strange relationship, Emmy. You do know that, don’t you?’

‘Nathan ran off with his wife, Ryan. I don’t want him to worry about me on top of everything else.’

‘You could phone. Tell him you’re safely tucked up in bed elsewhere.’ His smile was slow, lazy... Wicked.

‘If I stay any longer, one or both of us is likely to have a stroke.’ I pulled on my jeans.

Ryan’s dimples flashed. ‘Okay, have it your way. I may be around at Rupert’s
tomorrow. Feel free to wear that sexy underwear again. You could pretend it’s a bikini. Sunbathe on the patio in it.’

I shot him a withering look. ‘Rupert already has heart problems. I don’t want to be responsible for adding to them.’

‘Great way to go, though.’

‘Bye, Ryan.’

As I drove home, an image of Ryan standing in his doorway wearing nothing but a towel around his waist still imprinted on my brain, I couldn’t stop smiling. I’d had a great time. I’d rediscovered sex, and the icing on the cake – surprisingly, for a girl who had a complex the size of France – was that I had no trace of guilt to plague my enjoyment.

It was almost seven when I pulled up at
La Cour des Roses
and glanced in the driver’s mirror. Oh dear. I could probably wipe that smug smile off my face, but there was no mistaking the flush across my cheeks, and the clothing I’d chosen this afternoon for seduction was hardly suitable for my alleged solitary afternoon drive. Rupert was no fool. As I climbed out of the car, I fervently hoped he wasn’t around, so I could scoot upstairs and change.

When I peered around the kitchen door, Rupert had his head in the fridge and was busy rummaging. Cursing my luck, I took advantage of his blind position to shoot past him.

‘Back in a mo. Need a pee,’ I shouted, before he could turn around and catch me in vamp mode, flying through the kitchen and up the stairs at a speed not suited to the height of heels I had on.

Crikey, I hadn’t experienced so much excitement and subterfuge in years.

T
he next morning
, with the sun shining through the curtains, I stretched like a cat. A contented cat that had got the cream.

Nathan may have deserted me, and there may have been many ramifications still to be faced, but for now there was nothing I could do about any of it. I’d had incredible sex –
three times
– with a hunky gardener; I had the tacit approval of the doyenne of the community, Madame Dupont, something I suspected she didn’t dole out lightly; and I was earning major brownie points in my role as good Samaritan to my host, with whom I was developing a genuine, solid friendship. I’d even managed to deflect his suspicions about my afternoon drive over supper last night. All in all, I felt decidedly chipper.

I thought about texting Kate to reassure her that I was doing better – far better – than she might expect, but I worried it might cost her a fortune to receive or reply from the Maldives. Then I decided her peace of mind was worth the price.

Her reply came back soon after.
So glad to hear it, my friend. Wish you were here. Bet you do, too! xx

Smiling, I dressed and followed my nose to the kitchen.

‘Ah, just in time.’ Rupert handed me an espresso.

‘Hendersons out?’ I asked. My communication skills were limited nowadays until the first cup was absorbed into my circulatory system. I had rapidly become addicted to Rupert’s healing brew.

‘Of course.’

Apart from guest meals, the Hendersons had been noticeably absent, invariably leaving soon after breakfast for a full day’s sightseeing, and I worried that this stemmed from the inconvenience of Rupert’s personal difficulties.

‘Are they always like this?’ I asked him.

He gave me a knowing look. ‘You’re worried that all this business with Nathan and Gloria hasn’t gone down too well.’

I nodded miserably.

‘They’re culture vultures, Emmy. You heard what they’re planning to do when they get to Paris – fifty-three museums in a day or whatever. They’ve always been like this. And they always look as though they’ve got pokers stuck up their arses. Don’t worry about it.’

‘But I don’t want you to lose business. And you said they recommend you to all their friends.’

‘They were cheesed off when they arrived, but even they can’t complain that things haven’t run like clockwork around here, thanks to you. I’m not sure they were over-fond of Gloria anyway. They leave on Thursday, thank the Lord, and I’m not going to go bankrupt or die of disappointment if they never cross my doorstep again. Okay?’

‘Okay.’

Since we’d shopped for tonight’s guest meal at the market yesterday, my morning was free – and I had a good idea of how to spend it.

‘Is it alright with you if I go out?’ I asked him.

‘Of course. Anything exciting planned?’

‘I spotted a hairdresser’s in town yesterday. Mine’s a mess.’ I scraped a hand through the split ends for emphasis. ‘I thought I might see if they can fit me in.’

‘Do you want me to phone for you first?’

‘No, thanks. If they can’t manage it, I’ll have a mooch and a coffee.’

‘Good for you. It’s about time you did something for yourself.’

I drove the now-familiar roads past gently rolling farmland into Pierre-la-Fontaine. The streets were more sedate without the market, and as I walked towards the main square, I took time to look at the buildings – so characterful with their cream or whitewashed fronts and red or grey roof tiles, their doorways and balconies sporting colourful containers of bright flowers – pinks, red, yellows. The square, with its stone fountain, was neat and similarly festooned with blooms, lending it civic pride. I peered into a
pâtisserie
with its glorious tarts and pastries, watching in awe as locals thought nothing of handing over an arm and a leg for a beautifully-boxed
gâteau
.

When I reached the hairdresser’s, I took a deep breath, then opened the door. A pretty woman somewhere around my age left her customer to greet me. Knowing my French wasn’t up to the task at hand, I pointed dramatically at my unkempt yet somehow still boring hair like a manic mime artist.

Thankfully, her English was much better than both my French and my miming.

‘I’m Sophie,’ she introduced herself with a smile.

I smiled tentatively back. ‘Emmy.’

‘So, Emmy...’

She studied my hair. Between us, we came to the conclusion that I was a disgrace to my nation for not having had it trimmed before I came on holiday, and that my fading highlights left substantial room for improvement. Taking pity on me – I think she saw it as her sworn duty as a Frenchwoman – she told me I could take up a last-minute cancellation if I came back in half an hour.

I filled in the time with a coffee in the square. As I soaked up the morning sunshine, I fancifully imagined I could breathe in the life and noise and history surrounding me. This was what I’d come to France to do, after all. I watched the old men outside the
tabac
; listened to animated chatter as women exchanged news, a small fussy dog under their arm or in their shopping bag (a strange phenomenon – the French did love their little dogs); and found myself wondering how it was that French women were always so immaculately dressed, even at their most casual. No pottering around the supermarket in paint-covered jogging bottoms and ketchup-stained hoodies like we British. I envied them their casual elegance and their perfect haircuts. At least I would be joining them on one of those counts soon. I hoped.

‘So, what do you want me to do?’ Sophie asked when I was back and settled in the chair.

‘A trim? Highlights?’

She tutted in a Gallic manner and shook her head with disapproval. ‘I think we need to do a lot more than that, don’t you? Layers. Lots of them. Three different highlights. Light blonde, gold, darker blonde. Very... What’s the word?’