Even as I think it, I know I can’t. I didn’t leave the flat before the crack of daylight, lie to my boss about being ill, take two trains and a painfully expensive taxi, and spend half the day travelling only to go home before nightfall.
This is just a holiday. People take holidays all the time. People go to visit French châteaux all the time. All right, so they don’t usually own them and probably pay a pretty penny for the privilege, and that’s the point, isn’t it? You can’t be given a château and not visit it. That would be silly. This is like a free holiday.
If only I was a person who liked holidays. What I like is routine, my usual day and everything being at its right time and place. I despise the disruption of holidays, the weeks of packing and planning and last-minute panics on the way to the airport. I met my ex on holiday. He wanted to go everywhere and try everything, and look how well that turned out. I haven’t been on holiday since. And that’s exactly the way I like it.
Eulalie was always encouraging me to go somewhere. How fitting that my first holiday in years is at her beloved Château of Happily Ever Afters. Even as I stand here, I see her stories in the reality. She told me of going skinny-dipping in the moat and being caught by a group of local villagers. The moat might not look too appealing for swimming now, but decades ago? Maybe. She said there was a bridge, told me of the time the girl and the duke painted the iron railings white on a sunny day so hot that the paint had dried in the tin. The bridge railings are covered in cracked, peeling white paint now.
The key is a weight in the pocket of my jeans, and I turn back to the building, a silent pull, like it’s inviting me inside. Eulalie believed this place was magic, that it would bring a happy ending to everyone who lived here. I’m not sure I believe in magic, and I definitely don’t believe in happy endings, but Eulalie wanted me to have this place. She wanted me to come here, and that’s more important than routines and comfort zones.
I drag my suitcase up a crumbling set of steps to the gigantic front door. Something is carved in one of the stone pillars and I scratch lichen off to see what it says. Le Château de Châtaignier.
Well, I guess it really is the right place. Eulalie never told me it had a real name. She’d christened it The Château of Happily Ever Afters and that was that. If she’d told me the real name, I could have Googled it. Would I? Maybe. Why was she so determined to keep it a secret? Why did she speak of her time here so often but never once tell me it was real?
The key crunches in the lock and I have to shove all my strength against the double doors to prise them apart, the wood no doubt swollen after many winters of rain and summers of drying out. Old varnish flakes off as they creak open and I hold my breath and stay perfectly motionless for a few moments in case the whole lot falls down. Everything is still and the air is damp and stale. Most of all I notice the absolute silence, not even the hum of a refrigerator that I’m so used to at home.
But one thing’s for certain: if this place really is capable of giving everyone who lives here a happy ending, there must be some ecstatic spiders about.
Inside, the house has the smell and look of a building whose only occupants in the past twenty years have been of the eight-legged variety. Dust has settled like dirty snow, deep enough that you could build a snowman with it, and there’s some kind of cobweb Inception going on, where even the cobwebs have got cobwebs of their own.
I stand in the imposing entrance room in awe. The ceiling is the highest I’ve ever seen. There’s ornate moulding around the doors, the faded flamboyance of delicate wallpaper, which is now hanging off the walls, upturned furniture, and a draught coming in from multiple broken windows.
Everything about the place is shrouded in decaying vintage glamour.
I go up the grand double staircase, my hand trailing along the banister, each wooden bar smooth with a hand-carved rose at the base. The first floor is a maze of hallways and so many rooms that I don’t know where to start. I’ll need a map to find my way around.
The first room I go to is a bedroom. It feels hollow, even though there’s an empty wardrobe, a chest of drawers, a moth-eaten armchair, and a double bed still made up, a burgundy bedspread covering it, undisturbed for years. The windows are grey with dirt, but even the window handles are ornately carved metal as I push them open. I stand there and breathe in fresh air, warm in the late-August heat, suddenly realising that if there’s one thing this place needs, it’s fresh air. My first task will be to find all the windows and open them. For a moment though, I brush dead flies off the ledge and lean on my elbows to look out. The room is at the front of the château and gives me a perfect view of the driveway. There are trees on either side of the courtyard and their leaves wave in the breeze, overgrown reeds bending over and dragging their tips through the water of the moat, and somewhere nearby, birds are chirping at each other.
It’s so peaceful here.
No sooner than the thought crosses my mind, a noise reaches my ears. A car engine. The booming thump of a radio playing too loudly. Squealing brakes as it takes a corner too fast. And then I see a flash of red between the trees. It’s getting closer. This cannot be a good thing.
I watch from the window as the car turns in, speeding down the driveway towards the château. Any semblance of peace is shattered as the music thumps out, loudly enough to shake the entire building. The car is a sleek sports thing with the top down, and I squint to get a look at the driver. Long-ish dark hair tamed with product and a pair of sunglasses far too big for his head. Oh no. I’d know the smirk on his face anywhere. It’s the bloody nephew-git.
I should have known. Why didn’t I guess he’d come here too? Of course he would. Men like him are all the same. Money, money, money. He’s got no interest in Eulalie or the château, other than what it’s worth, no doubt. But he’s heard the word treasure, hasn’t he? I should’ve known after all that unfair advantage stuff the other day.
The shiny red car squeals to a halt in the courtyard with a spray of gravel, and the noise finally stops.
‘Yeah, yeah, you’ve got a small willy. No need to advertise it any louder,’ I mutter.
I watch as he gets out of the car and stretches muscular arms, his shirt riding up at the movement, showing a hint of tight stomach, and I shouldn’t feel so disappointed when he pulls it back down again. I can’t tear my eyes away from how low down the buttons lie on his chest – not until he pushes his sleeves up, anyway, easily redirecting my attention to his tanned forearms. He slides his sunglasses off and tucks them into his pocket, pointing his keys over his shoulder as he walks away from the car. The beep-beep of his car locking brings me back to my senses. Bloody hell, what is wrong with me? The French sunshine must’ve gone to my head. Anyone would think I was ogling the enemy. That pretentious knob with his roofless poser car. No way would I ogle him. As if.
He stands in the courtyard and looks up and I jump back from the window. He must’ve seen me. Bollocks.
What am I going to do? I don’t want him here. This doesn’t belong to him.
He’s going to come in here. I can hear gravel crunching under his feet as he walks towards the house.
And I’ve left the door open.
I slip across the landing and half-slide down the stairs in my rush to get to the front doors. I nearly fall out of them rather than close them. As I stumble to right myself, I look up and meet his eyes for one split second as he’s walking up the steps, then I heave the doors together and slam them shut. I twist the key too fast and it makes such a severe grinding noise that I expect it to come out in two pieces. I lean against the doors with a sigh of relief.
I don’t even realise what I’m doing until he bangs on the other side. ‘Oi! What are you doing? Let me in!’
I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head, hoping he’ll go away.
Shutting him out was a silly, childish thing to do. I know that. But I also know he doesn’t belong here. Eulalie wouldn’t want a complete stranger turning her ho
use upside down because of some silly riddle about treasure.
I didn’t come here because of some half-arsed mention of surely non-existent treasure. I came because Eulalie wanted me to come here. Not for money. He doesn’t care about what Eulalie wanted. He doesn’t care about this house and how much she loved it.
It feels like everything has spiralled out of control since the meeting with the solicitor, and that key is the only solid thing I have. It’s the only power I’ve got over the man outside. I got here first and I locked him out. Winning.
Er, probably.
I hear the crunch of his shoes over the gravel again. Good. He can go back to his fancy car and zoom away with his lustrous hair trailing behind him. I wait for the sound of the engine starting up as he leaves in defeat.
It stays eerily quiet for a few minutes and I try to figure out what he might be doing out there. He’s probably walking around looking for another entrance. I haven’t had a chance to find out if there’s a back door yet, but hopefully it’s still locked. The place would’ve been ransacked by burglars if there were any unlocked doors. He can’t get in. I just have to keep telling myself that.
I get more antsy as the minutes tick by. He hasn’t left yet. And I can’t see what he’s doing. I wish these doors weren’t solid wood and had a window to peek out of.
Just as I’m thinking about going back upstairs and peeping out of the open window, his voice filters in from outside.
‘Wendy! Come to the window!’
I can’t. I can’t go up there and talk to him. I’m not good at talking to people. It’s probably why I’m so bad at my job. Pushing samples of food is mostly about engaging with people, talking them into trying something new and then buying it, and my boss is constantly on my case about poor sales figures.
If I talk to him, he’s going to want an explanation for why I slammed the doors in his face, and the only one I can come up with is that I’ve temporarily forgotten I’m thirty-three and not an immature eight-year-old.
‘I know you’re in there!’
I leave the wooden support of the front doors and creep up the stairs. Not that creeping makes much difference – everything in this house creaks loudly enough that someone in the next village can probably hear it. I get to the landing and do an SAS-style crawl across the grimy floor so he can’t see me from outside, until I’m lying on my belly under the window.
‘You’ve got to come to the window eventually,’ he shouts in his Scottish accent. ‘If you don’t close it, I’m going to find a ladder and climb in, so you may as well just show yourself.’
Bollocks. I’m only on the first floor, he wouldn’t need a very big ladder, and there were a few outbuildings in the grounds. You can be sure there’s a ladder lying around somewhere.
‘What do you want?’ I shout back.
‘A Lotto win, a milky latte with just a hint of macadamia nut, and one of those human-sized hamster wheels!’
‘Well, the only thing you’re going to find here are dust bunnies the size of bowling balls, so you may as well leave.’
He laughs. ‘Okay, we’ll start with the basics. How about access to my own property?’
‘This isn’t your property,’ I shout out. ‘It’s Eulalie’s, and she wouldn’t want you here.’
‘We both signed documents that say otherwise.’
I stand up, suddenly seething at his nerve. ‘I don’t care. You’re obviously only here because—’
‘Nice dust.’ He nods towards me.
I glance down at myself. Great. I’m wearing more dust than a sock that’s been lost behind the washing machine for two years, and when I look behind me, there’s a body-width trail where I’ve unintentionally cleaned the carpet with my clothing.
‘Anyone would think you’d been hunting for treasure,’ he says from the courtyard.
I look down and glare at him. ‘Well, I haven’t. Some of us are interested in more than money.’
‘Yeah. You’re here because you loved my great-aunt so much, and you—’
‘She wasn’t your great-aunt. You didn’t even know her.’
‘You weren’t even related to her!’
‘Family is about more than blood. She chose who to leave this place to, and it wasn’t you.’
‘Maybe she would’ve if she’d known I existed.’
I huff, trying to ignore the niggling voice in my head. Eulalie and I were the closest thing each other had to family, but if she’d have known she had real family, would I really be the sole inheritor of this place? Probably not. ‘Well, you’re obviously only after one thing and you’re wasting your time. There’s no treasure here.’
He nods towards me again. ‘And you know that because you’ve been rolling around on the floor trying to find it?’
‘No, I haven’t. But I knew Eulalie. She had a vivid imagination and she liked to tell stories. This treasure is her idea of a laugh. It doesn’t exist.’
‘From what I gathered at the solicitor’s office, you said that about the château too, and yet…’ He gestures at the building in front of him.
All right, he’s got a point about that, but this is different. I can kind of understand that Eulalie would have kept quiet about owning a castle in France. I know she loved it too much to sell it, and any form of renting it out would’ve been too much work at her age, but if she’d had a treasure chest full of gold sitting in the basement, she wouldn’t have struggled to make ends meet.
He’s still looking up at me expectantly. ‘Yeah, well, I have the key and I’m not letting you in.’
He laughs again, like I’m too pathetic to be taken seriously. I ignore the voice in my head that says I am being utterly pathetic here.
The laugh turns into a falsely sweet smile as he looks up at me. ‘You might have the key, but do you know what I’ve got?’
‘Your ticket home, with a bit of luck.’
He grins. ‘I’ve got all the patience in the world. I’ve got no job to get back to. I’ve got no reason to leave this courtyard. So I hope you stopped for food supplies in your rush to beat me here, because I did. I’m set for weeks, me. I’m going to stay right here. So, if I can’t get in, you can’t get out. Think about that when you’ve eaten the packed lunch your mummy made for your trip back to the school playground.’
I go to respond but nothing comes out. Bollocks. He’s right, of course. I haven’t eaten since the train switch in Calais this morning. Food didn’t even cross my mind. Somewhere downstairs, there’s my handbag with a half-eaten packet of chocolate digestives in it… No, actually, I ate those in the taxi. No one in their right mind would leave half a packet of chocolate digestives.
‘Oh, sod off,’ I say, pulling the window shut hard enough that the glass threatens to make an escape.
Great. My stomach has already started rumbling, I’ve got no ingredients to make anything with, ordering a takeaway would involve having to open the door, if I could get one ordered in French anyway, and I can’t get out without him getting in.
The sun is dropping in the sky, casting shadows across the courtyard from the trees, and I hide at the corner of the window and watch as Nephew-git McLoophole saunters back to his car. He does something to make his seat tilt back, then he sprawls into it, putting his feet up on the dashboard. He lifts his sunglasses out of his shirt, slides them on and settles back with his arms behind his head. He looks like he’s going to bed in a luxurious hotel, not a small-willy-syndrome car.
Well, of all the things that have gone wrong in my life lately, this is definitely at the top of the list. My grand plan was to refuse him entry and send him packing with his tail between his legs. How did I end up getting myself trapped in here with no way out other than surrendering? And why didn’t it even cross my mind that, in a house that’s been unoccupied for twenty years, any food left in the cupboards would be likely to have sell-by dates so old they’d be written in roman numerals?
As I stand there trying to br
ush muck off my once-lemon T-shirt, ignoring the rumbling in my stomach, which has got more insistent since his smug display outside, my mind wanders to treasure.
What if he has a point? All the times I sat and listened to Eulalie talking about an English girl falling in love with a French duke, the lavish château they shared… I always thought they were embellished versions of reality. I knew her husband had been French and they’d spent their married life in Normandy, but there was so much glamour and luxury in her stories, and she was such a fan of unrealistic romance books, and she had been alone for so long. I always assumed she was rewriting her own memories into a love story, that there was some truth, but mostly she was just a lonely old lady who wanted to remember an ordinary life as extraordinary.
And now I’m standing in the middle of her stories. Her husband really was a duke. There really was a château. The moat with a bridge across it. The grand ballroom I peeked into downstairs. It was all real. Is it really that far-fetched to think there might be some truth in Eulalie’s treasure riddle?
All Loophole-git out there wants to do is squeeze as much money as he can from this place. He’s already said he wants to sell. He doesn’t care about the personal meaning. Eulalie could have sold this place years ago and made herself rich. But she chose not to. Just as she chose to leave it to me because she knew I wouldn’t. She didn’t have children, but if she had, she would have left it to them as a family legacy. I’m not family by blood, but I know this place is worth more than money. But money is my only chance of getting Nephew-git McLoophole out of my life. And it’s the one thing I don’t have.
Unless there’s treasure.
And I find it first.
If there is some kind of treasure hidden here, I can use it to buy his half of the château. It’s the only way of un-loopholing him and setting things right again. He’ll get what he wants, which is undoubtedly money, and I’ll get to keep the château, which is what Eulalie wanted. It’ll give him a fair share of the inheritance, which she would probably have wanted him to have if she’d known him. If there’s treasure here, it’s my only chance to make things right.
The Chateau of Happily-Ever-Afters Page 3