‘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.
The 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.
The 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.’
‘I know,’ Kate soothed. ‘You’ve told me a few times that things were getting a bit dull, but I never imagined Nathan would do something like that! He’s always been so... straight-laced.’
‘You were going to say boring,’ I muttered.
Kate and Nathan got along passably for my sake, but they didn’t have much in common. Kate was bright and bubbly and passionate about things like the environment and equality. Nathan was the epitome of conservative capitalism. Chalk and cheese.
‘I wasn’t. I only meant it seems out of character. Maybe he just needs some space. A trial separation.’
‘He didn’t say that,’ I pointed out.
‘Will you try to phone him? In a few days?’
I shook my head, then realised she couldn’t see me. ‘No. Absolutely not. It would look like I was begging. And since I don’t know how I feel about him, other than sodding livid, I don’t see the point.’
She sighed. ‘I wish I was there, Emmy. But...’
‘Don’t remind me! Ten days in the Maldives with Jamie. What time do you fly?’
‘Later this afternoon. Jamie’s collecting me around two.’
‘Okay, well, have a lovely time.’ I was going to cry again. ‘Thanks, Kate. I feel better.’
‘You don’t sound better.’
I straightened my spine. There was nothing more she could do for me for now. ‘I’ll see you when you get back?’
‘I’ll phone you as soon as I can. Promise.’
I powered of
f the phone and put it in the drawer, where I wouldn’t be tempted to check it for messages from Nathan.
Downstairs, there was no sign of Rupert – although he must have been up and about because the washing machine was taking off on a supersonic spin cycle.
The Hendersons were just leaving.
‘Where to today, then?’ I asked politely.
‘Le Château d’Ussé,’ Mrs Henderson announced. ‘It was the inspiration for Sleeping Beauty, you know.’
‘No, I didn’t know. Well, enjoy.’
She managed a small wave and off they went. Two people I would be less likely to associate with fairy tales, I couldn’t imagine.
I stuffed down a croissant while I waited for the washing machine to come in to land, dragged out the king-size sheets we’d stripped from the gîtes yesterday, and trudged outside to peg them out on the line at the bottom of the garden.
No sign of Ryan or his muscles. Shame. Still, it was a Sunday.
Mentally telling myself off for even thinking about him, I trooped back inside to shove another load of washing in, then scanned the bookcase in the hall. The worthy tomes I’d packed along with my good intentions held no appeal, so I plucked out a thriller and went outside. I wandered down the garden, skirting islands of bright pink azaleas and pale yellow roses until I found a wooden Adirondack chair under an arbour of sweetly-scented lilac. The warm sun slanted through the leaves and flowers, just the right temperature for soaking up some vitamin D without roasting, and it was the perfect hideaway for losing myself in the happy world of murder and mayhem in Rupert’s book. The plot tore along at quite a pace and I got so wrapped up in it that I jumped when my stomach gurgled loudly.
Taking heed, I headed back to the house. As I crossed the patio, someone called out.
‘Excuse me.’ A woman stood at the gate between the courtyard and the garden. ‘Hi, sorry to disturb you. I’m Jenny Brown. I’m in the gîte at the end over there. I didn’t get to meet you yesterday.’
Realising she must have arrived while I’d driven Madame Dupont home, I crossed to the gate and shook her hand. ‘It’s nice to meet you. I hope everything’s all right for you.’
‘Gorgeous. Just what we were hoping for. Harry’s been working too hard. We both have. I found this place on the Internet and it looked so scrumptious and I thought, gosh, that’s just what we need. A little R & R, a château or two. You know.’
‘Yes. I know.’ I plastered a smile on my face to hide the fact that my heart had plummeted to my feet. Her words were an echo of mine to Nathan – and look how that had turned out. I hoped Jenny and Harry would have a better time of it.
‘Feel free to come over if you need anything,’ I told her.
‘We will.’ She turned to go, then swung back round. ‘By the way, I’m sorry about your husband’s leg.’ She paused. ‘And I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but you could do with updating the website a bit. You don’t look anything like your photograph.’ Her eyes widening, she quickly added, ‘Oh, I meant that in a good way. You look much younger in real life.’
I frowned. My husband? My photograph? The fog cleared.
‘Oh, no, Jenny. The chap you met yesterday – Rupert – he’s not my husband. What I mean is, that isn’t me on the website. That’s his wife. She’s not here at the moment. I’m... helping out while she’s away. Rupert’s a friend.’
‘Oh. Right.’ Jenny’s sunny smile faltered. ‘I hope I didn’t offend you. I thought Rupert seemed an awful lot older than you. See you later.’ She waved and skipped back to her gîte across the way.
As I threw a sandwich together, I made a mental note to tackle Rupert about the website sometime. If Gloria wasn’t coming back, he could do with removing her hateful image from it. And I could do without being mistaken for Gloria again.
Peeved, I bit into a plum tomato. It promptly exploded juice and seeds all over my T-shirt – clean on today and white. Great.
I’d just put all the lunch items away when Rupert came into the kitchen to forage.
‘What do you want me to do with all that bedlinen when it’s dry?’ I asked him tetchily.
‘Just shove it in one of the unused rooms out of sight for now. I’ll get Madame Dupont to deal with it next time she comes in.’
This seemed rather laissez-faire, even for a Sunday, but if he couldn’t be bothered, I didn’t see why I should.
‘Besides, other things to worry about first,’ he said. ‘The Stewarts are due on Tuesday.’
‘Why is that a worry?’
‘Madame Dupont isn’t in today – church. Or tomorrow – sister’s. Could you do their room for me, love?’
I frowned. ‘Today? Why not tomorrow?’
‘Because tomorrow is market day,’ he stated, as though this was a perfectly obvious answer. When all he got from me was a bewildered expression, he explained, ‘I always go into Pierre-la-Fontaine on market day. I get my fresh and specialist food there.’
I blew out a frustrated breath. ‘Can’t we stick to the supermarket this week?’ I’d only just mastered that little hurdle. Driving to the outskirts of town and parking in a large supermarket car park was one thing. Negotiating my way into a proper French town on a busy market day was quite another. Besides... ‘Haven’t you heard of doing your grocery shop online?’
He had that stubborn look in his eye that I was coming to recognise all too well. ‘Of course. But I wouldn’t like it.’
‘Why not? Wouldn’t it be easier?’
He shook his head. ‘I like to see what’s fresh. What’s on offer. I don’t even write a list – I’ve only been doing that for your benefit. I wouldn’t dream of confining myself to the supermarket, anyway. I like to use the shops in town. Go to the market when it’s on. Bump into people I know and have a chat. I’m getting cabin fever, Emmy. I need to get out, get back to normal a bit. And it would do you good, too. Give you a break from this place.’
He gave me a pleading look, and I couldn’t help but laugh. He looked like one of those dogs with the wrinkled faces and huge eyes that you can’t say no to.
I sighed. ‘All right.’ The idea of getting out and about was beginning to appeal to me, too. Other than the first couple of days pottering about nearby villages and taking strolls along country lanes with Nathan, there had been a distinct lack of traditional holiday activity so far. ‘But only on the condition that you treat me to coffee afterwards.’
Rupert shook his head. ‘You’re getting so you’re anybody’s for a coffee, Emmy.’
‘I know. You’ve corrupted me with your big shiny machine.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘I wish!’ But to his gratification, I’d already blushed bright scarlet before the words were out of his mouth.
7
Resigned to my afternoon fate, I went up to what would be the Stewarts’ room, opened the windows to air it out, then glanced into the bathroom. It had been cleaned since the room was last occupied, but I wiped it over. Spotting that the complimentary toiletries were running low, I went to ask Rupert where he kept his supplies.
‘No bloody idea,’ he admitted. ‘Gloria always dealt with that girly stuff.’
I was going to say it was good to know there had been at least some useful task in Gloria’s remit, but he had such a defeated look on his face – whether at Gloria’s absence or his gap in knowledge with regard to toiletry stocks, I wasn’t sure – that I kept my remarks to myself.
Methodically, I went through every cupboard and drawer in every communal area. First, the kitchen units I hadn’t yet explored, then the inbuilt broom cupboard in the hall. No joy there. I glanced at the tall wooden desk unit by the front door where the phone and diary resided – not enough storage space, but I did a double take anyway. I’d admired its polished elegance every time I passed, but it was only now that I realised what it was – a restaurant antique, one of those counters where the maître d’ would stand sentry with his reservations book and a haughty look. Fabulous.
Trooping upstairs,
I had a quick root through the large armoire on the landing, but it only held bedlinen and towels. With all the obvious places covered, I went back downstairs for an unlikely foray into the guest lounge, a slightly formal affair with upright upholstered chairs and sofa, and an imposing sideboard in dark wood. I’d only poked my head in here a couple of times, but I’d rejected it as a place to linger – it was quite a contrast to the warm and welcoming atmosphere of the kitchen, and since the bedrooms were spacious enough to include a small armchair, I hadn’t felt the need to use it. Looking through the sideboard, I found napkins, tablecloths, candles, and finally came up trumps with two deep drawers stuffed full of individually-wrapped soaps, sachets of shampoo, and tiny bottles of bath oil. Why toiletries should be stored in a sideboard in the guest lounge, I couldn’t begin to guess.
I emptied them into two empty plastic storage boxes I found in the hall cupboard, left one there to be nearer the gîtes and took the other upstairs so it would be handier for the guest rooms.
That done, I set to doing what I should have already finished by now – vacuuming, dusting, polishing and making the bed in the Stewarts’ room. I took a leaf from Madame Dupont’s book and defiantly binned Gloria’s clichéd and dusty potpourri, then went down to the garden, cut fresh flowers, found a glass vase for them in the kitchen and placed it on the now shining antique dressing table. And on the basis that less was more, I relegated several hideous ornaments to the top shelf of the wardrobe while I was at it.
Finally, I admired my handiwork with a sense of pride. The room was as it should be: a clean, tastefully-decorated haven within the restful cocoon that was La Cour des Roses.
I was looking forward to resuming reading in the sunshine when I heard a knock at the door. Talk about never getting any peace!
Rupert’s accountant was on the doorstep. Again.
‘Hi. I – er.’ His gaze fixed on my chest, which ordinarily would have either flattered or annoyed me, depending on what mood I was in and who was doing the staring. This time, it did neither, since I realised it was only because of my sloppy eating habits. I’d forgotten to change, and the tomato pulp was now dried on like cement.
The Little French Guesthouse Page 8