‘Sorry.’ I wafted at the carnage down my front. ‘Rogue tomato.’
He nodded. ‘Is Rupert in?’
I crossed my arms over my chest, partly in confrontation and partly to hide the salad spillage.
‘Yes, but I’m afraid he’s convalescing and can’t be disturbed. If it’s that urgent, perhaps I can make you another appointment?’
His brow furrowed. ‘No, I don’t think you understand...’
Bloody accountants. Didn’t he have any patience? ‘No, Mr...?’
‘Alain.’
‘Alain. I don’t think you understand. Rupert really isn’t well. Not only that, but...’ I stopped. It wasn’t my place to tell him about Rupert’s marital misfortunes. ‘Look, unless Rupert’s about to be clapped in irons for not paying his taxes, I really can’t see what’s so important that you need to come here on a Sunday...’
‘Friendship.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Friendship is what’s so important. Not taxes. I may be Rupert’s accountant, but I’m also his friend. I didn’t come to do his books – I came to see how he was. I heard there had been some... trouble.’
There was a tinge of annoyance in his voice, but his caramel gaze remained calm on mine, despite my rudeness. Those soft brown eyes were the kind you could lose yourself in if you weren’t careful, with their warmth and unexpected seductive quality.
Hmmph. I wasn’t inclined to associate any accountant with warmth or seduction, thank you very much.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise,’ I managed.
‘Don’t worry about it. It’s good to know someone’s looking out for Rupert’s interests – which is more than Gloria did. If he’s resting, I’ll come back another time. Could you tell him I was asking after him?’
I gave him the first genuine smile he’d had from me. ‘Of course. I’d ask you to come in and wait, but I’ve no idea how long that would be.’
He shook his head. ‘I’ll go. Thank you.’ He pointed to my T-shirt. ‘Good luck with that stain.’ He winked and was down the steps before I could reply.
Back upstairs to change the wretched T-shirt, I put it in the bathroom sink to soak, in the vain hope that Madame Dupont might know some ancient French trick for rescuing it. That done, I dragged more laundry out of the machine and hung it out, brought the dry linen inside to dump it in a spare guest room as instructed, and finally – finally – went back outside to the patio to read.
I was musing as to why the heroine was so quick to sleep with the hero when he was such a misogynistic pig when I heard footsteps coming across the gravel and looked up. Adonis, aka Ryan, leaned against the garden gate, his jeans anchored on his slim hips, a tight-fitting T-shirt clinging to firm abs, his bare arms tanned and muscled and lightly covered in blonde hair.
I think I may have inadvertently licked my lips.
‘Ryan, hi!’ I called, too brightly, desperately trying to cover my wicked thoughts with a casual greeting. Indeed, since I’d barely come to terms with being abandoned, it occurred to me that I shouldn’t be having wicked thoughts at all. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I promised Rupert I’d do extra to make up for last week, remember?’
Either I’d forgotten, or I’d blocked our encounter yesterday from my mind in the spirit of self-preservation. But there he was – and here I was, once more unsuitably attired, this time in a pair of baggy linen trousers that hid my widening hips but probably made me look the size of a bus, and a T-shirt that must have shrunk in the wash and now clung unflatteringly to my stomach. Self-conscious, I crossed my arms in front to spare him the sight.
‘Oh, right. Didn’t think you’d come on a Sunday.’
‘Makes no difference to me. I’m not a churchgoer.’ There was a hint of devilment in his voice. I swallowed hard as he waved a pair of secateurs at me. ‘I can come back another time if it’ll disturb you.’
‘No, go ahead. It won’t bother me. I’m going to fetch a cold drink. Can I get you one?’
‘Sure. Thanks.’ He strolled off, snipping at bushes and trees as he went.
I fixed iced juice and took it outside. When Ryan saw me, he stopped what he was doing and came over, taking a seat on the edge of the lounger next to mine. Since he’d only started five minutes ago, I didn’t think this was very productive of him, but it wasn’t my place to say.
‘So, Emmy, how’s it going?’ he asked. ‘I gather yesterday was a whirlwind of activity.’
‘You... How... What?’ I asked intelligently.
Ryan laughed, his teeth white and even in his tanned face. ‘Madame Dupont cleans for my parents over at their summer place. She bumped into my mother this morning at the boulangerie. Mum speaks excellent French.’
‘Oh, I see.’ A blush rose. ‘Isn’t anything private around here?’ I bleated.
‘Don’t worry, Emmy. Rupert’s not stupid. He knows what an old gossip Madame Dupont is – he won’t have told her any more than she needs to know.’ As I sighed with relief, he added, ‘Doesn’t stop her adding her own embellishments, though.’
I watched as he took a long gulp of his juice and swiped the drips from his extremely kissable mouth.
‘Do you live with your parents?’ I asked in an attempt to change the subject, then immediately regretted the question. I hadn’t meant to insinuate he was a stay-at-home mummy’s boy, but thankfully he didn’t seem to take offence.
‘Yes and no. They spend about three months a year out here, on and off. I come out for the gardening season, March through to October, so I often have the place to myself. When they’re out here, I move into the barn.’
‘The barn?’ An image of Ryan sprawled out naked in the hay, barely covered by an old blanket, popped unbidden into my mind.
‘Well, it’s not a barn any more. They’ve been converting it. Eventually, it’ll be a couple of gîtes. Right now, it’s only an open space with a kitchenette and shower room, but it’s coming along.’
‘You’re helping with it?’
‘They get workmen in for the technical stuff, otherwise I do what I can when the gardening allows or when it rains.’
‘You really are a jack of all trades, aren’t you?’
Ryan looked me so straight in the eye that I squirmed in my seat. ‘I’m good with my hands.’
Oh, Ryan, I bet you are. As I stared at his broad hands and long fingers with their soil-ingrained tips and work calluses, I realised I could have said the words aloud. Get a grip, Emmy. He’s just a baby!
‘How old are you?’ I blurted before I could stop myself, immediately giving myself a mental kicking for not stopping my thoughts from becoming audible speech.
‘Twenty-four. Why do you ask?’
He knew damned well why, but we were playing some sort of cat-and-mouse game, and I had no intention of being the mouse.
‘Just wondered. You seem to have a lot of skills for your age.’ Great. Now I sounded like my mother.
‘I’m a quick learner.’ He hoisted himself up from the chair. ‘I’d better get on. Thanks for the drink.’
He handed me his glass and as I reached out to take it, his fingers brushed mine. Raising an eyebrow, he headed down the garden before I could stop gawping.
I closed my eyes in despair. For heaven’s sake, why couldn’t a woman whose boyfriend had deserted her for a middle-aged nymphomaniac be left in peace to wallow in self-pity? Why did there have to be gardeners like Greek gods popping up out of the shrubbery?
I spent the next couple of hours alternating between the excitement of my book and the excitement of glancing surreptitiously across at Ryan, allowing myself the luxury of observing the way the muscles in his arms bunched and tightened while he worked; how his jeans stretched across his thighs as he crouched; the slide of his waistband as he bent.
Oh, I knew I was in a vulnerable emotional state and should be wary of such lascivious thoughts. Plus, he was seven years younger than me. I had no intention of making any moves on him or anything. But si
nce I’d been starved of sexual fantasy for a while now, I figured I was at least allowed to look. After all, when you’re on a diet, there’s nothing to stop you drooling through the bakery window – as long as you don’t go inside to sample the éclairs.
Ryan gathered up his tools and headed back my way.
‘Finished?’ I asked, trying not to stare at the sweat trickling down through the hairs on his chest.
‘For today.’
‘Would you like another drink?’
‘Please.’
I fixed iced grenadine for us both and brought it out. He downed his in five seconds.
‘Thanks. Thirsty work. What are you doing tonight?’
‘Hmm?’ His question took me by surprise.
‘No meals to cook for the guests?’
‘No, but...’
‘How about eating with me?’
‘Well...’ I couldn’t think straight. Was he being neighbourly, or was he asking me out on a date?
‘You and Rupert must be spending way too much time together,’ he went on. ‘Surely you could do with an hour or two away?’
I wondered what Rupert would say about me dining out with his gardener. ‘I don’t know if he’ll cope on his own. I mean, he’s still...’
‘He’ll be fine. He can scramble himself some eggs or whatever it is that invalids eat. I’ll pick you up at seven.’
My mind desperately sought a way out, but by the time it had got a grip and begun to process any coherent thoughts whatsoever, Ryan had already waved, closed the gate and started his engine.
What had I let myself in for now? No good could come of this, whatever Ryan’s motives. If his intentions were honourable and he was simply being kind, then I appreciated the sentiment but didn’t relish being an object of pity. On the other hand, if his intentions were dishonourable, then I was in real trouble, because either he was sadder than I thought and there must be something wrong with him – why couldn’t he find a nice girl nearer his own age? – or he was a heartless gigolo, happy to take advantage of a vulnerable woman without caring about the consequences.
Two hours later, my book abandoned, I was still stewing it over. I wanted to duck out and cancel, but that would involve phoning Ryan, which would involve asking Rupert for his number. Besides, I had no excuse to give. If Ryan was only being nice, I might hurt his feelings, and there had already been enough hurt feelings around here to last a lifetime.
I reconciled myself to my fate. The best that could happen? I might enjoy a pleasant evening with a nice young man, possibly struggling to restrain myself from drooling if he looked as good fully clothed as he did half-naked and sweaty. And the worst? Well, I was a big girl now and quite capable of rejecting the advances of a misguided youth.
In the meantime, there were more immediate problems to contend with, namely Rupert. What was I going to tell him? “By the way, I’m off out with your under-age gardener tonight. Not sure if he’s offering me a shoulder to cry on or a shag, but either way, I’ll be leaving at seven.”
I tracked him down in a small den at the back of the house: a cosy retreat with a large leather-topped antique desk and captain’s chair, a small leather sofa scattered with bright ethnic cushions and a fading Turkish rug across the wooden floor. One wall was lined with ceiling-height bookshelves, stuffed to overflowing. Rupert sat at the desk, a look of open self-pity on his face, which he was quick to hide when I poked my head around the door.
‘Emmy. All right?’
I wanted to ask him the same question, but since he was pretending nothing was wrong, I didn’t feel I should push.
‘Yes, thanks. Your accountant called round again while you were resting.’
‘Oh?’
‘He wanted to know how you are. The local grapevine works remarkably efficiently around here, doesn’t it?’
Rupert nodded. ‘I’ll get back to him soon. It was good of him to call. He’s a nice chap.’
I grimaced.
‘You don’t think he’s a nice chap?’
‘I didn’t say that, but being an accountant is already a black mark against him in my book.’
‘Only in your twisted, bitter, post-rejection world, Emmy. You can hardly hold that against the poor bloke!’
I harrumphed and changed the subject. ‘I threw out the potpourri in the Stewarts’ room and used fresh flowers from the garden. Is that okay?’
Rupert’s brow furrowed. ‘Did you leave a bald patch in the flower beds?’
‘No. I was careful.’
‘Then that sounds lovely. Thank you. Did you manage to find the toiletry stores?’
‘I did. Eventually. You know, Rupert, they’re fiddly and small. They can’t be economical, and they’re certainly not environmentally friendly with all that packaging. To be honest...’ I stopped. ‘Sorry. None of my business.’
Rupert gave me a look. ‘It’s your business for the next week. What did you want to say?’
‘Well, I think they’re a bit tacky. Like people are staying in a motel chain or something. Everything else here is so classy, it seems a shame.’
‘What would you suggest?’
I shrugged. ‘Not sure yet. I’ll think about it.’
‘I appreciate it. Any walls you want knocked through? Any furniture that needs replacing?’
‘I’m only trying to help,’ I muttered.
‘And I’m only teasing. Anything else?’
There was no point in putting it off any longer. I tried for a bright, breezy and matter-of-fact tone.
‘Yes, actually. I – er – wanted to let you know that I won’t be around to eat with you tonight. I’m going out.’
Rupert raised a surprised eyebrow. ‘Oh? Anywhere nice?’
‘I have no idea. Ryan asked me out to dinner. I think he feels sorry for me. Not that I told him about Nathan, of course; it’s that wretched Madame Dupont. Anyway, he asked me to dinner and I wanted to refuse, I mean I was going to refuse, and I tried to, but he left before I could...’
‘Emmy. There’s no need to explain. Of course you should go out and enjoy yourself. Ryan’s a pleasant young chap.’ He frowned. ‘Bit young for you, though, if you don’t mind me saying so.’
‘I wouldn’t mind you saying so if it was likely he was looking for a long-term relationship, Rupert, but as far as I know, his intentions only stretch as far as dinner.’ Now it was my turn to frown. ‘I hope.’
Rupert laughed, a loud guffaw that dispelled my nerves. ‘Don’t worry, love. Ryan’s a well-brought-up young man. I’m sure he only wants to give you a bit of company and get you out of the house for the night, not out of your pants. Here, put this in your handbag in case you need to fend him off.’
He reached behind him for an antique sword mounted on the wall over his head. I threw a cushion at him and left.
Up in my room, I showered, slathered on body cream, then screeched to a halt as I hit the perennial problem of what to wear. My holiday clothes stared forlornly out at me from the antique wardrobe, looking lost now that Nathan’s were no longer hanging alongside them. Overriding the sudden wave of misery and loneliness that threatened to engulf me, I rummaged through them. By rejecting anything unflattering or over-revealing or too casual, I was left with two summer dresses I’d packed for the express purpose of dining out with Nathan. Little had I known I’d be choosing between them for a date with a cute gardener.
After much soul-searching, I went with the blue, made my make-up as natural as I could get away with and hurried downstairs. The last thing I wanted was for Rupert to answer the door to Ryan and have them both shuffling uncomfortably around the lounge waiting for me, like an overprotective father with his daughter’s prospective suitor.
In the kitchen, Rupert was munching his way through a salad, and his glass contained sparkling water. Good for him. I raised an eyebrow.
‘Don’t start,’ he muttered, reading my mind. ‘Thought I ought to have an evening off, that’s all.’
‘It’s good to see you�
��ve decided to be a good boy for a change.’
A horn beeped out in the courtyard and Rupert grunted. ‘Hmmph. Yes, well, you be a good girl, for that matter.’
Blushing all the way from my sandals to my split ends, I shot him my best glare and left before he could embarrass me any further.
Despite the many and varied scenarios my anxious mind had dreamed up for the evening, its worst fears remained unrealised.
Ryan had cleaned out the front of his estate car so I didn’t get soil all over my dress (although the back was still a mucky gardener’s paradise). He was charming without being smarmy, and his easy-going manner soon calmed my nerves.
We drove into Pierre-la-Fontaine and dined in a hotel restaurant where I enjoyed the formal waiter service, crisp tablecloths, fanned napkins and, well, the Frenchness of it all. The porc en croûte oozing mustard butter, served with crisp green beans and potatoes piped into pretty swirls, was heavenly – and the dainty tarte au citron was a stratosphere beyond the pale imitations I’d tried back home.
The irony wasn’t lost on me that dining out in France with my own boyfriend had involved struggling to find common ground or any enthusiasm for conversation, and yet here I was with a sun-streaked blonde gardener of tender years who I’d known for less than two days and with whom there seemed to be no problem finding topics to talk and laugh about. Life could be funny sometimes. Funny peculiar, that was, not funny ha-ha.
‘So how did you end up gardening here in France?’ I asked him, over coffee. ‘Was it because your parents have a holiday home here?’
‘Kind of. I started studying landscape design at college but dropped out after a year. Didn’t like the idea of sitting behind a desk when I could be out doing the real thing all day. So I’m self-taught – I picked up a few jobs and learned as I went along. My parents had a smaller holiday home in the area when we were kids – we came out every summer – but three years ago, they sold it and bought somewhere bigger that they could develop and have a couple of gîtes to give them some income when they eventually retire. The house needed modernising, but the gardens were totally neglected, so they asked me to come out and do my stuff. People saw what I was up to and liked it, and of course we knew quite a few people from spending our summers over here. I built up quite a client base.’
The Little French Guesthouse Page 9