by Liz Eeles
Closing my eyes, I listen to water lapping against stone and reflect on the fact that this being grown-up thing is a bit pants.
* * *
Later that evening I behave in a way that isn’t grown-up at all. In fact it’s probably downright childish but I need to hear what Toby has to say for himself and tell him what I think of his plans for our home. So I walk to the phone box on the green with Toby’s number in my pocket.
This makes me a hideous hypocrite, I know, because I stopped Josh from calling him. But the difference is I’m not going to lose my temper and inflame the situation. Oh no. I intend to be as cool as a cucumber.
My plan starts going awry from the moment Toby answers the phone.
‘Ann-ee!’ he coos down the line as though I’ve suddenly become his BFF. ‘How lovely to hear from you. I presume you’re ringing to accept my very generous offer?’
But he drops the charm like a hot brick when he hears that’s not why I’m ringing at all.
‘You want to talk about something else? What else is there to talk about?’ he snaps. ‘I’ve got a cab arriving any minute so you’d better be quick. I don’t want to pay for someone to sit outside my flat.’
‘I was hoping to have a word about your plans for the house.’
‘I was under the impression you and Pasco wanted to stay on in the house after I’ve bought it and paid out a significant sum for a new roof.’
‘We’d love to stay on, but I understand you’re planning on carving up the house into holiday flats.’ Silence. ‘Toby, are you still there?’
There’s more empty space down the phone line before Toby answers, speaking slowly as though carefully choosing each word.
‘“Carving” is rather an emotive word, don’t you think? I’d rather use “transforming” or “improving” or even “enhancing”. And how the hell did you hear about my plans anyway?’
‘That doesn’t matter. What does matter is, one, you lied to us to encourage us to sell to you and, two, Alice would hate you damaging the house.’
Oops, my resolve to be a beacon of serenity in the face of Toby playing hard and fast with the truth is starting to slip.
‘There you go again using emotive words like “lie” and “damage”.’ Toby laughs as though I’m a silly child wasting his time, which really doesn’t help my self-control. ‘Here I am, offering you a good price and the house will still belong to a Trebarwith which seems to be important to you.’
‘But you’d knock the house down if you could.’
‘But I can’t so what’s the problem? Are you being hysterical because you’re trying to say you won’t sell me the house?’
Ugh. Falsely accusing a woman of hysteria is the last refuge of a patronising prat. Clenching my teeth, I rest my forehead against the cool glass of the telephone box and force myself to focus on the clear, soothing water of the river. I wish I was floating down to the sea and onwards towards the horizon.
‘Annie?’ Toby’s tinny voice sounds in my ear. ’I said are you saying you won’t ever sell to me?’
That’s what I want to say, more than anything, but Josh’s face pops into my head. His tired, stressed, sensible face when he’s trying to make ends meet and do the best for all of us.
‘No,’ I sigh. ‘All I’m saying is that we haven’t made up our minds yet.’
‘Then you need to get on with it because my offer won’t be on the table forever. And my car’s here so I have to go. We’ll speak again soon and I’m sure you’ll make the right decision if you stop overreacting. At the end of the day’ – Toby gives a short laugh just before ending the call – ‘it’s only a house.’
I place the phone back into its cradle, step outside the box and take several gulps of clean, fresh air – because talking to Toby always leaves me feeling slightly grubby. Toby’s final words are still ringing in my head because they sum up the problem perfectly. To Toby, it’s only a house whereas to me and Josh and Storm and Emily, it’s a home.
Eighteen
Monsieur Jacques Bouton arrives at Tregavara House early on Monday morning in a flash rented Mercedes that he parks outside the garden gate. As I peek from behind the sitting room curtains, he takes a smart leather case from the boot, sucks in a deep breath of salty air and strides confidently up the path.
At the door, he pauses for a moment and gazes at the sea before rapping on the brass knocker. Eek! Operation B&B, or ‘Operation Axeman’ as Storm’s taken to calling it, has begun.
‘Bonjour Monsieur Bouton. Je m’appelle Annie et vous êtes bienvenu ici,’ I say in my best remembered French accent on opening the front door. Greeting him in his own language seems polite but fingers crossed he won’t reply in rapid-fire French or I’m screwed.
‘Thank you, and please call me Jacques,’ he says in almost accent-less English. Phew! I hesitate in the doorway, not sure if he’s going to kiss me on both cheeks, but he steps past me into the hall and puts his suitcase down onto the flagstones. He’s older than I expected – maybe early sixties – with a shock of steel-grey hair above a handsome, tanned face.
‘It’s very good of you to accommodate me at short notice in your charming seaside home.’ He waves his arm around the hallway. ‘You are planning to open a small hotel, yes?’
‘Well, more a bed and breakfast than a hotel.’
‘Ah yes, Rupert at the public house explained it to me.’
I assume he means Roger but I don’t correct him. ‘Rupert’ brings to mind a huge cuddly bear, which is actually quite a lot like Roger if you ignore the cuddly bit.
‘We haven’t actually opened as a B&B yet so it’s very good of you to be our guinea pig.’ I smile and nod but Jacques frowns.
‘A pig?’
‘No, I’m not saying you’re a pig. Not at all. It’s an English saying…’ I trail off. ‘Would you like me to show you to your room?’
‘I think that might be for the best.’ Jacques picks up his luggage, still looking puzzled, as I make a mental note to keep colloquialisms to a minimum.
Tregavara House has been cleaned to within an inch of its life. The weekend has been a bonanza of dusting, vacuuming and scraping mouldy bits off bathroom grouting. But when Jacques pads behind me up the stairs, I spot scuffs in the paintwork and a dark stain on the carpet – things I never normally notice but today they stand out. And from the look of Monsieur Bouton, he’s used to the very best.
I’m a bit nervous about showing him upstairs but he gives a brief nod of approval at the stained-glass window on the landing that’s throwing streaks of vibrant red and blue across the carpet. And there’s a grunt of satisfaction when I show him the bathroom. It is looking pretty good – Storm’s towels have been picked up, Barry’s manky spare toothbrush swept into a drawer, and the pretty basin – with blue forget-me-nots picked out across the enamel – is gleaming. Jacques seems particularly taken with the Victorian claw-footed bath that was my great-grandmother’s pride and joy.
But I hesitate when we come to Alice’s room because it doesn’t seem right bringing a stranger in here. Reminding myself that we’re doing this to save the house, I take a deep breath and push open the heavy oak door.
‘Jacques, this is your room.’
‘But this is charming,’ exclaims Jacques, dropping his case on Alice’s bed before wandering over to the stone-framed window and peering out. ‘And you are spoiling me with such a magnificent view of the cliffs and the sea.’
‘The view is wonderful. Alice loved this room.’
‘Alice?’
‘My great-aunt who lived here most of her life until she died recently. She didn’t die in this room,’ I add quickly in case Monsieur Bouton has a thing about ghosts.
A furrow appears between Jacques’ eyebrows. ‘My condolences. Losing a loved one is difficult.’
‘Have you lost someone?’
Way to go, Annie! Cross-examining a guest before he’s even unpacked. ‘I’m… I’m so sorry,’ I stutter, ’I don’t mean to pry.’
Jacques turns his back to the window and regards me coolly. The light behind him catches his hair and silver streaks shine amongst the grey.
‘I lost my wife a while ago.’
He brushes off my condolences with a very Gallic shrug, moves back to the bed and runs his hand across the pillows while I force myself to smile. A strange man will be sleeping under Alice’s covers but this is the best room in the house and my practical great-aunt would want it to be used. So it’s for the best even though clearing out her possessions was the worst thing ever. Her dresses, books and ornaments are now piled up in my bedroom while we decide what to do with them.
‘What made you choose Salt Bay, Monsieur… Jacques?’
‘This and that. I have heard a lot about it and thought it was time to visit. Would you give me a tour of the village?’
I nod, taken by surprise. I hadn’t reckoned on being a tour guide too. ‘Of course, though it won’t take long. Salt Bay is slightly smaller than Paris.’
Jacques ignores my pathetic attempt at humour and clicks open the shiny clasps on his suitcase. Inside there are piles of carefully folded clothes and a brown leather washbag with JB monogrammed in gold lettering. He pulls out a pale blue shirt and starts smoothing it across the rose-pink counterpane.
‘If it’s not too much trouble, do you think I could have a cup of coffee?’
‘Of course, straight away,’ I bluster, feeling caught out that I haven’t already offered him a drink. Some B&B host I am!
By the time I bring up a cafetière on a tray – with a jug of milk, a bowl of sugar lumps plus ancient silver sugar tongs I found in a drawer – Jacques’ clothes are hanging neatly in the wardrobe and the case has been pushed under the bed so only its wheels are showing.
He thanks me when I place the tray on the bedside table and I fight the urge to bow and shuffle backwards out of the door, Downton Abbey-style. Storm is right. Having a random bloke in the house, in Alice’s bedroom, is weird.
Ten minutes later, Jacques comes downstairs carrying the tray and finds me waiting in the hallway. It’s probably odd to wait in the hallway like I’m the local retainer or something but I can’t settle to anything else.
‘Shall we go for our walk?’ he asks. ‘I would enjoy some fresh air.’
He’s just handed me the tray when the front door opens and in bowls Storm. She’s wearing the clumpy Doc Martens bought with money from her mum that she insists on wearing whatever the weather.
‘Penzance was rammed with tourists stinking of sun cream and—’ she stops when she catches sight of Jacques and gives him a very obvious once-over.
‘This is my sister, Storm, who lives here with me,’ I say, hardly daring to breathe. ‘And this is Monsieur Bouton – Jacques – who’s staying here for a few days as we discussed.’
Storms glances at me before wiping her hand down her jeans and thrusting it towards our visitor. ‘How do you do?’ she says in a very posh voice.
Blimey, it’s a miracle – though I’ve got a horrible feeling she’s taking the mick. Jacques takes hold of her hand while I send up a silent prayer that he won’t kiss it. Or her. If he goes in for a cheek-kiss this time we’re in big trouble. But Jacques merely gives her hand a brief shake. ‘It’s good to meet you. I have not heard the name Storm before.’
‘Huh,’ Storm sighs and contemplates the name she hates. ‘That’s probably ’cos it’s so sh—’ She checks herself and smiles. ‘It is rather unusual, yes. Now if you’d please excuse me I have shopping to put away.’
She brushes past Jacques and gives me a grin. ‘Good to see you’ve got the best china out,’ she mutters, before nodding at the sugar tongs and smirking. ‘Fancy!’
‘What a charming young lady.’ Jacques holds the front door wide open so I can go out ahead of him. ‘I think I’m going to like Salt Bay.’
* * *
‘Charming’ appears to be Jacques’ favourite word. The church and its squat tower are charming, as is the village green with its intricate metal lamp post, and the view across the village from the rising fields that edge it. He doesn’t know the English word for ‘valley’ but I don’t know the French word for it either, so fair dues.
During our walk, he tells me he’s about to retire from the bakery business he set up more than thirty years ago. I assumed he had a boulangerie or two in a Parisian suburb but it turns out that Monsieur Bouton is a big French cheese who runs loads of top-end pâtisseries in the city. He’s obviously loaded so quite why he’s opted to stay with us is a mystery and what on earth will he make of our shabby-chic house? A man like him must frequent five star hotels in swishy French resorts and he’s already name-dropped his friend François Hollande.
‘So you’ve never been to Salt Bay before then?’ I ask, steering him through the low door of the Whistling Wave.
‘Never. Actually, I have never been to Cornwall but I’ve heard it’s beautiful and that’s true.’
He ducks to avoid bashing his head on the beam above the doorway and follows me to the bar, cooing appreciatively at the thick bumpy walls and worn flagstone floors.
‘So this must be Rupert.’
He nods at Roger, who’s pulling a pint. There’s sweat on his brow and he wipes his beefy arm across his forehead before lumbering over.
‘It’s Roger, mate. And you must be the French bloke. Good to meet you.’ He holds out his sweaty hand and I catch the slightest of shudders from Jacques before he gives it the limpest of shakes.
‘Is Annie looking after you then? She’s taken the week off work specially to settle you in.’
‘She is very hospitable,’ says Jacques, leaning across the bar to inspect the gleaming beer taps.
‘What would you like to drink?’ I ask, pulling out my purse. I’m desperate for our B&B venture to succeed and if that requires bribing the guests with alcohol, so be it.
‘That’s very kind but do allow me to buy you a drink, Annie,’ says my guest, who’s pretty damn charming himself, especially when he says my name with a slight French accent – Annee. ‘I will have a pint of that one please, Rupert.’
He indicates the St Austell’s Tribute tap and Roger is halfway through pulling the pint when he glances over my shoulder and nods at someone behind me.
‘Is it that time already? Be with you in just a minute so don’t get arsey about waiting.’
‘There’s no need to be crude, Roger,’ says a familiar voice. I turn and grin at Jennifer, who closes her newsagents at one o’clock on the dot every day and has an orange juice and sandwich in the pub before heading back for the afternoon shift.
‘Jennifer, can I introduce you to our guest who’s staying with us at Tregavara House for a few days.’
‘It’s good to meet you,’ says Jennifer, patting her blonde backcombed hair. She gives a welcoming smile but her face freezes in a rictus grin when Jacques turns around.
‘Bonjour, Jennee,’ murmurs my guest quietly. ‘Il est merveilleux de te revoir.’
Jennifer’s mouth drops open and then snaps shut as a flush rises across her cheeks. Roger has stopped concentrating on the pint he’s pulling and liquid starts flowing over the top of the glass and slopping down his legs.
‘Hell’s teeth,’ he grumbles, grabbing a cloth and mopping his knees. ‘These were clean on today.’
But no one cares about his drenched trousers. Everyone in the pub is staring at Jennifer, who turns on her heel without a word and flees. What on earth is going on? Roger slams the pint down in front of Jacques and makes no attempt to wipe the glass clean when creamy froth trickles down the outside and pools on the polished-wood bar. Then he glares at me as though it’s my fault that Monsieur Bouton has come to Salt Bay.
Jacques picks up his slippery pint without a word and carries it to a table near the blackened stone fireplace.
‘What the hell was that all about?’ demands Roger, pouring me a lemonade. ‘I can’t be doing with outsiders upsetting the locals. Jennifer can be tricky at times and she’s
got a mouth on her but she’s a good woman and a Salt Bay stalwart.’
‘I have absolutely no idea what’s going on.’ I fish about in my purse for a fiver because Jacques’ offer to buy me a drink has been forgotten in the kerfuffle.
When I take a seat opposite Jacques, he carries on studying his pint with his head bent.
‘Um, have you met Jennifer before then?’
‘Yes, but it was a long time ago.’
Jacques sips his beer in silence after that and I don’t feel able to pry although I’m desperately curious. Thank goodness Kayla’s not working today or he’d be getting the third degree.
After downing half the frothy pint, Jacques suddenly scrapes his chair back across the flagstones and rises to his feet. ‘Thank you for the tour but I must go back to your house because I have work to do.’
‘If you need to be online, you’ll be better off working in here where there’s decent Wi-Fi. I’m sure Roger won’t mind.’
I glance at Roger, who’s glaring at Jacques with a face like thunder.
‘That’s a good idea but I have a financial report to complete which will not necessitate usage of the Internet.’ Blimey, his English is brilliant! ‘Perhaps you would be good enough to escort me home and allow me to use your dining room table.’
There’s no sign of Jennifer when we come out of the pub and I take Jacques the long way home so we avoid walking past her shop. That’ll lessen the risk of her spotting us and going all weird again.
Mind you, Jacques is being plenty weird enough on his own. He walks along beside me, making polite conversation as though nothing has happened and even starts telling jokes. They’re not very good – the humour presumably lost in translation – but I laugh politely and wonder how long he’s planning on staying. All I wanted was to try out our B&B idea, to see if it might work and help us to save Tregavara House. It sounded so simple, but it seems our first ever guest isn’t quite all he seems.