Ryan laid a hand on my arm. His face was open and honest. ‘Emmy, that’s okay. I’m not expecting anything of you and I never did. But I am worried you might think I took advantage of you. If I did, I didn’t mean to.’ He hesitated. ‘I know you go home next week, but you’ll be back at some point to see Rupert and I would like to stay friends. I’d hate for things to get awkward between us.’
I managed a wobbly smile. ‘Me too.’
His gaze was direct. ‘So where do you want to go from here? We can carry on the way we have been until you go, if you want. I’d be happy with that.’ A shadow crossed my face, and he nodded. ‘But I can see you’re not.’
I shook my head, feeling slightly sick. ‘I can’t explain why. I don’t think this evening has helped. I... I’m just not comfortable with it any more.’
‘The last thing I want is to make you feel uncomfortable.’ He put on a mock pout. ‘Shame, though. Now I might have to do some actual gardening when I go round to Rupert’s!’
I grinned. ‘So we’re good?’
‘We’re good.’ He reached for the door, then turned back and winked. ‘I can’t tempt you to a farewell quickie in a cubicle? Fine. We’ll go back to the table.’
I started to follow him out, but he wagged an admonishing finger at me. ‘Not together or they might get suspicious,’ he said in a girlish imitation of me. And then, in his own voice, ‘Besides, it wouldn’t make sense. Everyone knows women spend twice as long in here as men.’
I scurried back into the ladies’ to brush my hair and reapply lipstick. My head and my heart both declared their approval at my decision to call it quits with Ryan... but certain other elements of my anatomy couldn’t believe I was turning down a few more days’ hot sex with Adonis.
‘What a lovely couple,‘ Dad commented as he drove us home, the lanes quiet and the fields invisible in the dark beyond the roadside. ‘And Ryan seemed like a nice young man. Polite. Interesting. It’s good to see someone his age so enthused about the outdoors. Handsome, too. Pity he’s not nearer your own age, Emmy.’
I could sense Rupert tensing in the back seat next to me and guessed he was fighting a merry outburst. I tensed along with him, but there was no humour on my part, merely panic.
‘Hmm,’ I said noncommittally.
‘Oh, don’t be silly, Dennis,’ Mum came unwittingly to my rescue. ‘He’s a nice enough lad, but even if there wasn’t such an age gap, he’s hardly Emmy’s type.’
Rupert’s shoulders were shaking now, and I punched him just in time to convince him to turn a threatening guffaw into a cough. God, he could be so bloody childish sometimes. It was difficult to believe he was nearly an OAP.
Dad went on, oblivious. ‘If what you mean by that, Flo, is that he’s not like Nathan, then all credit to him is all I can say. She’s tried the steady, boring type and look how that turned out.’
The following day involved quite a juggling act. There were no rooms to sort out – we were full to the brim already – but I still had the supermarket run, three gîtes to help clean and two to make ready for new arrivals, plus the evening meal to help cook, and all this while plastering a smile on my face and taking several noticeable breaks to pacify my mother.
My schedule was put back ten minutes when I bumped into Jonathan at the supermarket.
‘Emmy! I heard you were staying another week. So glad!’
I accepted his over-familiar hug with stoicism. ‘Thanks.’
‘Bob! Come and meet the lovely Emmy!’ he yelled across the dairy aisle. ‘Had to ask yet another friend to help me today,’ he muttered crossly. ‘Leg playing up. Didn’t dare drive, but the cupboard was bare.’
Bob ambled over, an ageing hippie with long, straggling grey hair, a beard to match and jeans that had seen at least a couple of decades’ wear. We shook hands.
‘So you’re on Jonathan duty today?’ I asked.
He grinned. ‘I usually get away with it when it’s a driving task, seeing as I ride a motorbike.’
They both laughed when my eyes widened at the prospect of Jonathan riding pillion, clinging on for dear life.
Bob put me out of my misery. ‘Don’t worry, I drove Jonathan’s car today.’
‘So how do you two know each other?’
‘We frequent the same bar. Everyone gets dragged into Jonathan’s circle sooner or later. He’s like an inexorable force that sucks you in.’
‘Talking of which, will I see you again before you go home?’ Jonathan wanted to know.
‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised.’ I was getting used to this everyone-bumping-into-everyone thing.
‘Then we’d better let you get on. I know Saturday’s a busy day for you.’
Back at La Cour des Roses, Madame Dupont and I set to work, following the same routine as last week.
‘Where do you live back home?’ she asked me as we worked. ‘In a village or a city?’
‘In an apartment, near a city,’ I told her.
She wrinkled her nose in disapproval. ‘Is it busy and noisy?’
I laughed. ‘Yes, but I like that.’ I dredged through my mental French dictionary for the right words. ‘I like being in the... centre of things.’ I glanced through the window. ‘But I like it here, too. Birds singing in the garden – I don’t hear them in the city. And Pierre-la-Fontaine is perfect. Not too big. Not too small.’
She nodded. ‘Bigger is not always better.’
I couldn’t argue with her there.
When Dad realised Mum was driving me mad with her eagle eye and her interrogations between each task I performed as to why I needed to do this or help with that, he winked conspiratorially and whisked her off for an afternoon drive, gallantly offering to drive Madame Dupont home on the way – giving me extra kudos with the old lady for possessing such a considerate parent.
The phone rang as Rupert and I started on the guest meal, and since he was up to his elbows in flour, I went to answer it.
‘Emmy? It’s Sophie. I was so glad when I got your text. Would you like to go out for a drink or a meal this weekend?’
‘I’d love to, but my parents found out what happened and they arrived on Thursday for a long weekend, so...’
Sophie chuckled. ‘So you must spend time with them and show them you are perfectly fine?’
‘Exactly. I’m sorry. It would be lovely to see you again.’
‘No problem. I understand what parents are like. Especially when you present them with such a drama! Why don’t you phone me after the weekend?’
‘I will. Thanks for phoning, Sophie.’
‘You’re welcome! Good luck with your parents!’
‘Sophie again?’ Rupert asked. ‘Best friends already?’
I grinned. ‘Not quite. But I think we could have been, if we lived nearer. She’s kind and vivacious and...’ I made a face. ‘And disgustingly pretty, by the way.’
Rupert waggled his eyebrows. ‘In that case, maybe I could join you and this extremely attractive hairdresser for lunch sometime next week?’
I threw a chunk of courgette at him. ‘Forget it. She’s way too young for you. In fact, I think she’s probably a bit younger than me.’
Rupert winced. ‘Been there, done that. Won’t be doing it again.’
I glanced at him. ‘You’ll meet someone eventually.’
He leaned against the counter, his fingers covered in shortbread mixture. ‘You know, Emmy, I’m not convinced I want to bother with all that again.’
‘You’re just saying that because Gloria treated you so badly. But you’ll get over her. It may take time, but then you might feel like dating again and...’
Rupert shook his head. ‘I’m beginning to think I was a bachelor till I was fifty for a reason. Maybe I was meant to be on my own.’ He wafted his hand at me, dropping spots of flour mix at my feet. ‘And I’m not saying that to be melodramatic. I can be selfish and I want my own way a lot. That’s not an ideal quality in a relationship.’
‘Oh, and Gloria was the queen
of selflessness, was she?’ I pointed my knife accusingly at him.
‘Certainly not. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe neither of us were really suited to wedded bliss. Anyway, I think I’ll be more than happy on my own for a while. As long as I have my friends to bitch and complain to – and about.’ He winked.
I forced a smile and attacked a large red pepper, imagining it was Gloria. Maybe Rupert was right – maybe he would be okay on his own. But I hated to think he might rule out the chance of future happiness with someone else just because of the way Gloria had behaved, stomping on his heart like that.
14
By the time we were tucking into dinner, I was tired and didn’t have much of an appetite. That didn’t mean I could pick at my food, however. With my mother watching me like a hawk, I had no choice but to steadfastly work my way through the hake in sauce and oven-roasted vegetables, occasionally resorting to mushing it around my plate so it looked like I’d eaten more than I had – an old childhood trick which I was sure wouldn’t fool her at all. Luckily for me, she was distracted by the delicious food, lively conversation and the wine top-ups my dad surreptitiously foisted on her, bless him.
It seemed the Stewarts were more in love with the Loire than ever.
‘We’re thinking of looking for a holiday home in the area,’ Karen Stewart announced over heavenly home-made ice-cream and melt-in-your-mouth shortbread.
‘Really? That’s fantastic news! I can recommend an excellent estate agent,’ Rupert told them. ‘Her name’s Ellie Fielding. She’s the English half of the agency, Philippe’s the French half. Ellie can be a bit scary at first, but she knows her stuff. If you like, I’ll give you her phone number. Maybe you could find time to meet her before you leave on Tuesday.’
‘That’s kind of you,’ Karen said, beaming, as Rupert wrote down the number. ‘Now we’ve had the idea, I can’t wait to get started. It might be sensible to have a quick chat with someone before we go home. It’d be so good to have a bolt-hole here in France.’
She squeezed her husband’s hand on the table, and I fought my resentment. It wasn’t the Stewarts’ fault they were happily married – or that they were well-off enough to buy a second home. Even if Nathan and I were still together, the idea of him agreeing to a holiday home abroad was laughable. For a start, we didn’t have that kind of money. Then there was the small matter of a holiday home not being much use if your job meant you never took any holidays.
Physically and mentally exhausted, I escaped to my room as soon as I could clear away without actually snatching plates from under everyone’s noses.
Sunday was thankfully a more laid-back affair. After breakfast, while Mum got settled outside, Dad helped me hang out some of the laundry from yesterday’s mountain of washing at the bottom of the garden, where we took advantage of the cover of billowing sheets and the distance from my mother to converse in conspiratorial whispers.
‘Is Mum okay with all this?’ I asked him anxiously. Her many disapproving looks yesterday had begun to get me down.
Dad patted my arm. ‘She’s shocked and cross with Nathan, as we all are, but she’ll get over it. And so will you.’
‘I appreciate the confidence, Dad, but that wasn’t what I meant.’
‘I know,’ he mumbled through a mouthful of pegs. ‘Rupert could charm the birds out of the trees, but your mother isn’t that easily taken in. To tell the truth, she thinks he’s taken advantage of you.’
‘How about you?’ I asked.
‘Me?’ Dad considered a moment. ‘I think helping is doing you good, taking your mind off things while it has a chance to catch up with itself. I suspect Rupert is taking advantage, but I can’t blame him after all he’s been through. He’d be in a terrible mess if you weren’t doing all this.’ He gestured at the snowy white sheets for emphasis. ‘In any event, as long as you’re both benefitting, it doesn’t matter, does it?’
I shot him a grateful smile. He could always size up a situation in a trice and make the best of it. A rush of emotion came over me for the one man who had always been there for me, no matter what. Giving in to it, I threw my arms around his neck and hugged him tight as I breathed in his familiar aftershave.
‘I love you, Dad,’ I murmured.
Taking this in his capable stride, he hugged me tightly back, then pulled away. He took my chin in his hands. ‘I love you, too.’ He smoothed a tear from my cheek with his thumb as he blinked away his own. ‘Come on. Your mother will be wondering where we’ve got to.’
Rupert brought us a tray of coffee and disappeared back indoors, presumably because his trouble radar had picked up on my mother’s disapproval of his enslaving her daughter and he didn’t fancy being in the line of fire.
She looked upset.
‘What’s up, Mum?’
‘I don’t know, Emmy. What with your brother a permanent gigolo, and you and Nathan splitting up, it seems this family’s not having much success in the relationship department.’
Her eyes glistened, and in that moment my strident, ever-practical mother looked decidedly vulnerable. It tore at my heartstrings that Nick and I could still cause her so much worry.
‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong.’ I squeezed her hand. ‘Nick hasn’t tried anything long-term yet, so how he can be a failure at it? Besides, you and Dad have been married for decades without killing each other. I’d call that a success, wouldn’t you?’
Mum cocked her head to one side as she thought about it. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘Yes, you’re right.’
As my parents’ little car disappeared down the lane late that afternoon, I thought about what I’d said to my mother. Their visit had served to remind me how much they loved each other. They weren’t just fond of each other, or used to each other, or putting up with each other, or taking each other for granted. After thirty-five years, they were still in love.
What if I never found what Mum and Dad had? Could I settle for anything less, having been a witness to their relationship, knowing it might be out there for me somewhere if I waited long enough for the one-in-goodness-knows-how-many who might be the person I could share it with?
I sat and watched the sun sink slowly behind the field across the road until the midges and mozzies and beasties came out to feast on my bare arms and then, with a self-pitying sigh, I hoisted myself upright and returned to the house.
Feeling out of sorts and unable to settle, I wheedled Rupert’s laptop from him, took it to the kitchen and set to work on that atrocious booking system of his.
Creating a spreadsheet was simple enough, but transferring the manual diary onto it was another matter. I’d never seen such a mess. When Rupert came in to see how I was getting on, the table was covered with little piles of date-sorted booking enquiries and letters of confirmation and goodness knew what else.
‘How’s it going?’ he asked, halting cautiously at the doorway as he took in the paper mayhem.
I glared up at him. ‘Fine.’
‘Would it help if I helped?’
Glancing at the diary with its spider scribbles and eraser smudges, I shoved it at him. ‘Absolutely.’
It was after ten when we sat back with a celebratory hot chocolate to admire our pretty-coloured spreadsheet and neat file of correspondence.
‘Okay, you were right,’ Rupert said grudgingly. He picked up the diary and tossed it in the general direction of the waste bin. ‘I admit it. I couldn’t have followed that lot.’
‘You’ve always managed so far. Never a hitch, you said.’
‘Yes, but what I didn’t tell you is that I always asked Gloria because I couldn’t understand anything she’d written. Since she left, I’ve only looked ahead a few days at a time. If I’d tried to plan any further, I wouldn’t have stood a cat in hell’s chance. You’ve stopped me from coming quite a cropper.’
‘I’m glad.’
‘Now for the other bit.’
I stifled a yawn. ‘What other bit?’
‘Website. Gloria.’<
br />
‘Ah.’ I still felt guilty about suggesting that, which was why I hadn’t pushed it. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
It was late and we were tired, so I kept it simple. The photo of the two of them was removed. Rupert found one of him on his own – taken at least five years ago, but it would do – and we removed any mention of Gloria from the text. That was all that was needed for now.
‘Thanks, Emmy,’ Rupert said quietly as we shut the laptop down for the night.
‘No problem.’ I studied him. ‘Are you okay?’
He gave a wan smile. ‘I’m fine. Thought I was, anyway. It’s just... Doing that...’ He wafted a hand at the screen. ‘It seems so final, somehow.’
‘I can change it back, if you like.’
‘No. I’m a realist, Emmy. No point in showing something other than the way it is.’
Figuring that was enough for one night, I stood and popped a kiss on his cheek. ‘Night, Rupert.’
‘Night, love.’
And now there was another expression I understood better. I couldn’t honestly say I was heartbroken when Nathan left, but as I climbed the stairs to my room now, my heart was breaking for Rupert. His defeated expression, the tired lines, the shadows under his eyes would haunt me for quite some time. That moment when I’d deleted the photo of him and Gloria – happy, smiling at the camera, arms around each other’s shoulders – had been nothing other than awful.
Still, as I climbed exhausted into bed, I’d have been lying if I hadn’t admitted I rather liked the idea of Gloria logging on to her own website, only to find out that she was missing in action.
My lie-in the next morning was rudely interrupted by Rupert bawling my name up the stairs, presumably in lieu of the fact that he hadn’t yet ascertained how much pain and effort might be involved in climbing them.
I staggered out onto the landing looking like a sleep-deprived witch. ‘What? What?’
‘Were you still asleep?’
The Little French Guesthouse Page 18