‘So, do you really make a living doing this?’ I ask, even though I can easily see her cart is nearly empty and there’s no sign we’re anywhere near the village yet.
‘Yep,’ she says. ‘There are a lot of old people around here who find the walk into town challenging or who only go in on market days. The bloke who owns the boulangerie in the village is a bit of a bugger, to be honest. He refuses to open early even though people want their bread in the mornings, but I can’t complain because he’s left a clear niche for me.’
‘I’m kind of a baker too. I mean, not professionally or anything, I just knock cakes together in my spare time, but I love it. I used to bake a lot with Eulalie, the woman who left us the château.’
‘What do you do for work?’
I’m embarrassed to mention my job to her. It doesn’t even seem like a proper job. ‘I’m a sampler in a supermarket. I hand out samples and try to make people buy whatever the store wants pushed on any particular day.’
‘Oh, I hate those people.’ She suddenly realises what she’s said. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean that.’
It makes me laugh. ‘It’s fine. I hate it too. It’s not what I intended to be doing with my life, but it’s a paying job, so why rock the boat?’
‘You’re talking to someone who relocated to France on a whim. I’m a big believer in boat rocking.’
‘Things go wrong when you start rocking boats.’
She waves an arm around her. ‘At least you sink in a beautiful place.’
She’s definitely right about that.
‘It must be amazing to cook in your château,’ Kat says. ‘I’ve stood at the gate loads of times and tried to imagine what the kitchen would be like. Is it huge?’
‘I don’t know, I haven’t found it yet.’
‘I bet it’s huge. You’ll have to give me a guided tour sometime. And bake me something in it. It’s such a beautiful old house. It probably infuses everything that’s made in there with decadent glamour.’
‘Well, Eulalie certainly seemed to think it was infused with something.’
By the time we reach the village, I understand why elderly folks around here aren’t keen to do it often. Even this early in the morning, the sun is hot enough that sweat is beading on my forehead and I’m desperate for a bottle of water. It’s not a hard trek, but it’s uphill towards the end, and the narrow lanes don’t get any wider or safer, although we don’t see any traffic other than a man on a horse.
There’s a little wooden sign up on a wall surrounding a house that reads ‘Bienvenue à Toussion’. It looks like it’s been burnt into the wood by someone with a magnifying glass in the sunlight. It’s the kind of sign you’d miss if you weren’t looking for it, and as I look at the village spread out in front of me, the same could be said about that. The pavementless tarmac gives way to cobbled streets lined with half-timbered houses, painted in a rainbow of pastel colours around their wooden beams. If the Easter Bunny existed, he would live here.
It’s a beautiful place, and I feel Kat watching me as I take it all in. ‘It grows on you,’ she says. ‘I worked in the middle of a shopping centre back home, every shop in one place. If you ever needed anything it was right there. I laughed at the idea of trying to live here, but you adapt.’
I can’t imagine ever adapting. You could fit the whole of this village into one boarded-up shop on my local high street.
The most noticeable thing is the silence. There’s no traffic, no beeping horns, no yelling. The only sound is a bee buzzing around a red flower in someone’s windowbox.
An old lady totters down her flower-edged garden path with a sprightly ‘bonjour!’ As she chooses one of Kat’s baguettes, I look around and see an old man watering flowers in his window. He waves and shouts a greeting.
If I had a book in my arms, I’d be walking around like Belle in the opening scene of Beauty and the Beast. There’s a calmness here, an atmosphere of the village that time forgot. And stepping back in time is exactly what it feels like. The pretty, wooden-framed houses are nothing like the dull, drab bricks in England. Each window has a windowbox underneath it, full of tumbling, colourful flowers, and although I can’t understand the names on the few shops I can see, it’s easy to tell they’re houses-turned-shops and their owners probably live above them.
‘The épicerie,’ Kat points out as we wander. ‘That’s the grocery shop. There’s a little cash machine in there but it’s often out of funds. You can pay for anything with your cards though. Did you tell your bank you were coming here?’
‘No. I didn’t think they’d be interested in my holiday plans.’
‘Well, they’ll probably block your card because they suspect it’s been stolen. You’ll have to phone them and prove you’re you. And that’s the pharmacie, I don’t need to translate that one.’ She points across the road. ‘That’s the boulangerie, the bakery, and not to toot my own horn, but my stuff is much better than his. Further on is the library but you’ll be lucky to find it open. It’s run by a forgetful old bloke who forgets he runs it most days.’
I look around in disbelief. ‘That’s it? A chemist, a baker, a grocery shop, and a library?’
‘What else do you need?’
‘I…’
‘This village only really comes to life on market days. The streets are lined with stalls and that covered triangular area in the middle is full of sellers.’
I look at the odd-shaped area between the bakery and the library, hanging baskets full of flowers swinging from each concrete pillar supporting the roof. ‘When’s market day?’
‘Tuesday and Saturday mornings,’ she says. ‘I’d love to get a stall but I’d have to get here so early that I’d let my regular customers down. Then again, when you meet Theo, the butter seller, you’ll see why it might be worth it. He’s gorgeous.’
When Kat leaves me, with a promise of coming round with breakfast tomorrow morning, and me actually having the cash to pay her this time, I watch her green-tipped hair walking away and wonder what I’ve let myself in for coming here. I don’t understand a word of the language, and even though Kat’s taught me to ask ‘parlez-vous anglais?’ in shops, she’s also told me not to count on any locals speaking English. The next few weeks might not be quite the relaxing holiday I was hoping for.
In the épicerie, the shopkeeper greets me with a bright ‘bonjour’ and comes out from behind the counter babbling in French. After a series of hand gestures and me butchering the pronunciation of the three words I know, he goes back behind the counter and watches me like he’s not sure if I’m a foreigner or a really weird shoplifter.
Chapter Seven
By the time I get back to the château, I’d sell my soul, my first-born child, and every non-vital organ on the black market for a cup of tea. Kat was right about not being able to find anything that even resembles British tea over here. With my few groceries in a brown paper bag, I don’t see anyone but a woman walking her dog on the way back either.
The château door is open when I go in and I let it slam shut behind me to let Julian know how annoyed I am. I’ve no idea where he is, but he can’t go around leaving doors unlocked.
‘That you, Wend?’ he shouts from somewhere below me.
‘No,’ I shout into the empty entranceway, annoyance prickling even harder at him shortening my name like we’re friends. ‘It’s a burglar. I came to steal all your valuables because the door was so conveniently left open, and as your car keys are on the table inside the door, maybe I’ll nick that as well while I’m at it.’
‘You’re wasting your time in food ambassador-ing or whatever it is you do,’ he shouts back. ‘You should be in stand-up comedy.’
‘Ha ha,’ I mutter under my breath. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve found a kitchen yet, have you?’
I feel completely lost looking around the château. I’ve barely had a chance to explore it and half of that was in the dark. There are so many rooms, too many, full of too mu
ch stuff. This is Eulalie’s house, her history, her memories. All of the stuff in these rooms is stuff that she bought, that she put there, that she left after her husband died. She might never have come back here, but she never stopped thinking about it, weaving it into tales, getting lost in her memories. It feels like a lot of pressure to treat it with the honour it deserves.
‘Down here,’ he calls, his voice muffled from the floor below.
I pick up Kat’s baked goods from the table where I left them, surprised to see Julian hasn’t pinched any, and cross the empty entranceway and reception rooms towards a tiny staircase which leads down into the basement level of the château.
‘There’s a kitchen down here?’ I ask as I squeeze my way down a narrow stone staircase with no banister.
‘Servants’ quarters,’ he says from somewhere. ‘The lord and lady of the manor would never have lifted a finger. Everything would’ve been done for them, cooking, washing, all that stuff hidden below deck, out of sight. Don’t tell me you’ve not seen Downton Abbey?’
‘Surely Eulalie and her husband didn’t have servants? She wasn’t the kind of person who’d have servants. She hated people doing anything for her.’
‘I don’t know. It depends how rich they were. To be honest, it probably goes back much further, this house has a lot more history than just Eulalie.’
There are dark stone floors and an open fireplace at the bottom of the stairs, a huge room that spreads in both directions. If this really was servants’ quarters once, it’s bigger than an entire floor of my block of flats put together. It smells damp and musty, and like the rat in the box I found last night isn’t the only thing to have died here in the past twenty years.
‘Where’ve you been?’ he calls from another room.
‘I walked into the village with Kat to get some shopping, not that it’s any of your business.’
He lets out a low whistle. ‘Oh good. I was starting to worry you’d been eaten by a snake. They’re big enough around here to devour a human. It would’ve been a dreadful shame if you’d run into one.’
‘You’re hilari—’ I turn a corner and put my head around the door of the room I think he must be in. Then I let out a shriek and nearly drop my shopping. ‘You’re naked!’
He glances down at himself. ‘Your powers of observation get more efficient by the day.’
I blush crimson red and turn around so I don’t have to look at him. ‘What are you doing without any clothes on?’ I ask, trying to ignore the edge of hysteria in my voice.
‘Getting an early lunch.’
‘I meant why are you doing it naked?’
‘Well, why not, eh?’
I make myself take a deep breath and count to ten. ‘Julian, you can’t walk around with no clothes on.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you’re not alone. I’m staying here too and I don’t want to see that!’ I wave a hand over my shoulder to indicate his bits.
‘Don’t look then.’ He laughs. ‘If it annoyed you so much you wanted to leave, that would be fine with me. You said you could outdo me on the annoying housemate front. You obviously haven’t begun yet so I thought I’d get a head start on proving you wrong.’
‘Well, I’m asking you nicely,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘Please would you put some clothes on?’
‘Why should I?’
‘Because that’s offensive!’
‘This is my house just as much as yours. You can walk around naked too, if you want. I won’t mind.’ I can hear the smirk in his voice.
‘If there were police around, you’d be arrested for indecent exposure.’
‘Only in public. Not in my own home. If it offends you so much, you know where the front door is.’
I glare at the empty room so I don’t have to turn around and face all of him. He’s doing this to annoy me. He’s doing it for a reaction, and I’ve given him one. I should’ve ignored it. All I’ve done is given him what he wanted.
And I cannot let him win.
I paste a grin on my face and spin around, waltzing into the kitchen, keeping my eyes focused upwards. ‘Actually it doesn’t bother me at all. Just surprised that someone with a willy that small would be eager to show it off, that’s all.’
He laughs. ‘Well, your sense of humour is equivalent to a childish six-year-old’s and you’re quite happy to show that off.’
I glance at his smirking face. ‘Just so you know, you can try to offend me all you like, but I’ve met men who are far worse than you’ll ever be, and nothing you do will work.’
‘Ah, but it won’t hurt to make sure, will it?’ He winks at me.
I’ve never had violent tendencies before, but I’ve suddenly started wondering how difficult it would be to dig up this floor and bury the body.
I smile at him instead, forcing my eyes to stay upwards and not start wandering down his smooth chest… Focus, Wendy. Focus.
‘Wow.’ I tear my eyes away from the vast expanse of bare skin and look around the room instead. It’s the biggest kitchen I’ve ever seen.
He laughs. ‘Yeah. I thought you might like it… Well, you’re probably used to big kitchens, but this is off the scale. There’s a big cook-y thing over there, and…’
‘A cook-y thing?’ I ask, trying not to let out the giggle that wants to escape. ‘Are you really so undomesticated that you can’t identify an oven?’
‘I don’t know.’
I follow the direction he waves his hand in and gasp in delight. ‘An Aga!’
He scratches the back of his neck. ‘Aye, one of them.’
Just as I’m about to go over to it, I catch sight of something else out of the corner of my eye. Familiar red and green lettering on a white box. I dump my shopping in a heap and grab it, cuddling it to my chest like a golden chalice. ‘Where did you get these?’ I ask in delight. ‘And a kettle!’ I let out a noise so squeaky that a mouse would be embarrassed to make it.
He raises an eyebrow and looks at me like I’m not a full loaf, but I don’t care. He’s found PG Tips and a kettle. Eulalie probably had them all along, although they both look new and modern. I look at the kettle out the corner of my eye. It’s shiny white plastic with no hint of two-decade-old grime on it, and there’s no way Julian’s that good a cleaner.
‘I brought them with me,’ he says, confirming my worst fears.
‘What kind of person brings a kettle on holiday with them?’ I snap, instead of begging him to let me borrow a teabag.
‘The kind who’s ever tried to find a cup of British tea in France before.’ His voice is so smug it could hold up wallpaper. ‘From your reaction, I take it you didn’t bring any with you.’
‘No.’
‘Oh, what a shame. I wouldn’t like it to be awkward when I’m drinking my lovely, delicious cups of tea and you can’t have any.’
‘Surely you wouldn’t be that cruel?’ I know there’s hope in my voice, but even as I say it, I have to wonder why he’d share anything with me. I haven’t said one nice word to him yet; he’s not going to give me a teabag every morning, is he?
‘Ah, but we don’t share things, do we? How convenient that someone who’s got such a big problem sharing a house with me suddenly wants to share something when it suits her.’
‘A mansion and a box of PG Tips are not the same thing.’
‘Both are a valuable commodity, are they not?’
I glare at him so hard that it makes him laugh. ‘Is it my fault you didn’t prepare for coming here? Is it my responsibility to provide you with things you forgot in your rush to beat me here?’
‘Well, no, but…’
He makes a noise that says I’ve proved his point.
I’m trying to have a reasonable conversation with a naked man. The reasonable train clearly left his station a long time ago. I’ll have to try a different approach. ‘Look, I’m practically having withdrawal symptoms here and it’s only been a day. Surely we ca
n work something out. I’ll do anything.’
‘Anything?’ He waggles his eyebrows.
‘Anything within reason. I’m not doing you bloody sexual favours for a cup of tea.’
‘Firstly, what makes you think I’d want that sort of thing from you? You’ve got all the sexual charisma of a coffee table with a wonky leg. And secondly, what makes you think I’m the kind of man who’d ask for sexual favours in exchange for tea?’
‘You’re a git. I wouldn’t put anything past you.’
‘Trying to get round me with insults. Not the best approach.’
‘Sorry,’ I mutter. Insulting him has already become second nature. ‘A swap then? Look, I have all these lovely baked goods from Kat this morning.’ I wave my hand in the direction of my heap of shopping. ‘Wouldn’t you like a nice flaky croissant or a brioche round with a hint of lemon icing?’
‘Nope, I’d like my PG Tips. In fact, I might just put the kettle on now and have one. Can I get you something like, oh I don’t know, a glass of hot water?’
‘Please, Julian. Surely you can spare one? There are two hundred and forty teabags in this box!’
‘That’s two hundred and forty lovely cups of tea for me then, isn’t it?’
My nails dig into my palms as I clench my fists to stop myself from throwing the box at his head. I wonder if anyone’s ever been killed by teabags before…
‘I can’t believe how big this kitchen is,’ I say instead, looking around to take my mind off caving his head in with a box of PG Tips. ‘That sink is the size of my bathtub at home.’
‘Yeah, and the spider living in it is the size of a small cat. It should be paying rent and its fair share of the household bills.’
I shiver as I peer into it from a safe distance.
Julian’s suddenly much too near. He nudges me with his elbow. ‘Ask it to get the Mr Sheen out, will you? The place needs a good clean and it’s obviously not been pulling its weight around the house.’
The Chateau of Happily-Ever-Afters Page 7