Return to the Little French Guesthouse

by Helen Pollard

  The deficiency in my language skills was beginning to seriously sink in. I got by at the market and in cafés, where they were used to tourists. I barely needed to speak at all at the supermarket. I managed with Madame Dupont because it didn’t matter if I got it wrong – we just laughed and muddled through. But I was still nervous of answering the phone, and my experience in the pâtisserie had shown that I wasn’t anywhere near as competent as I’d hoped.

  On the way back to the car, I walked passed Ellie Fielding’s estate agency, wavered for a moment, thought about what Sophie had said, and stepped inside.

  Philippe, Ellie’s business partner, was deep in conversation on the phone, but he waved at me.

  ‘Emmy!’ Ellie bounced up from her chair, came dashing over and startled me by kissing me warmly on each cheek. ‘I’m so glad you decided to come to France.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She glanced at her watch. ‘Do you have time for a quick coffee? I have an appointment in half an hour, but I could do with a shot of caffeine. The woman I’m meeting is deluded. She thinks that because of the last recession she can get a house with a pool and acres of land at 1972 prices.’

  I smiled. Ellie pulled no punches. ‘I’d love a coffee. Thanks.’

  She led me to a nearby café, not far from Sophie’s salon and the fountain. It was crowded, but I liked the buzz. We ordered and Ellie sat back, beanpole thin and towering over me even when seated, the sun glinting off her vibrant red, short-cropped hair.

  ‘I bet Rupert’s chuffed that he finally got the right-hand woman he was so keen to tempt back?’

  I let out a self-deprecating laugh. ‘He might not be so keen at this rate.’ When our coffees were placed in front of us, I filled her in on our naked wanderer.

  ‘Your idea was sound,’ Ellie said. ‘It was just an unfortunate set of circumstances. Have you seen a review yet?’

  ‘No. It’s making me a nervous wreck, checking every two minutes. The idea was to have him telling everyone how great La Cour des Roses is, obviously, but I have a nasty feeling that isn’t the way he’ll go.’

  Ellie tactfully changed the subject. ‘Our mutual, overly romantic friend Sophie tells me that romance is on the horizon with the town accountant?’

  ‘He’s not back for another week yet, but maybe. I hope so.’

  Ellie laughed. ‘Sophie was rather more definite about the prospect.’

  ‘Yes, well, I might be wise not to get too optimistic on that score. I could be back home with my tail between my legs at this rate.’

  Ellie frowned. ‘What do you mean? You only just got here!’

  I told her about Nathan’s phone call that morning.

  ‘What an arse!’ Ellie declared.

  The waiter arrived with our coffees, then scurried off, either run off his feet or sensibly frightened by Ellie’s intent expression.

  ‘He was with you for five years, and he doesn’t trust you to cough up?’

  ‘I don’t blame him for worrying about it. I’m worried. A couple of months or so I can live with. I have savings. But it’s not viable in the long term, is it?’

  ‘What about this business of yours? What did you have in mind?’

  I glanced at a holidaying family choosing postcards outside the nearby newsagent’s and smiled as the father happily plucked an English newspaper from a rack, goggled at the price and put it back. A little nervously – Ellie was a shrewd businesswoman – I explained.

  ‘Sounds good,’ she said. ‘Not too much outlay at the start, other than your time and your brother’s. But how will you get gîte owners to sign up? They might not want to pay if they already use other sites, and if you’re so small at first.’

  ‘I won’t charge to list, so owners pay nothing up front – only a percentage if they get a booking through the site.’

  ‘Ah. So new customers haven’t got anything to lose by advertising with you?’

  ‘That’s the idea.’

  ‘Only problem is, you could be looking at the early season next year for any income that way.’

  ‘I know. I didn’t think that mattered. But if we don’t get any tenants soon, it will.’

  Ellie thought about it. ‘Can’t do anything about the delayed income. But the sooner you get set up, get people interested and on the books in readiness for next year, then knowing it’s in the bag will make all the difference, surely? Make you feel more secure about your prospects?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Hmm. I might be able to get the word out for you.’

  She gave me the predatory smile that used to terrify me, but that I now knew was her potential-business-in-the-offing expression – only this time it was my potential business. She was turning out to be quite a sweetie, Ellie Fielding.

  ‘Philippe and I have sold plenty of properties to Brits over the years. I can’t pass their details on to you, obviously, but we could send an e-mail extolling your virtues. You know, “Hi there, it was a pleasure doing business with you, by the way, we thought you might like to know that a local businesswoman is starting a new venture that may be of interest to you, blah blah blah.”’

  ‘That’s so good of you, Ellie. Are you sure Philippe won’t mind?’

  ‘This is a small town. Businesses are happy to support each other. And it never harms us to be able to recommend services if clients are dithering. If someone’s thinking of buying, but worrying about letting out their property, something like that might tip the scales. You’d have to let me know the set-up in more detail, and then I could start recommending you to new clients, too.’

  ‘The website’s still a work in progress, so I’ve started working on a leaflet summing up what I’m about.’

  Ellie smiled encouragement. ‘Well, then, get it finished, woman! Here’s my business card. E-mail it to me ASAP.’ She stood. ‘Right. Better go put this brainless woman in the picture about the current property market.’

  As I drove back, I decided three main priorities had come out of the morning.

  I needed to get on with the leaflet – I didn’t want Ellie’s offer and enthusiasm to peter out. I could make sure I kept up with writing tourist info for the website. And I needed to do something to improve my French. If I was going to make a proper go of it here, ‘getting by’ was no longer an option.

  The minute I walked in, Rupert tetchily informed me that my mother had phoned. Twice.

  ‘Is there an emergency?’ I asked him, alarmed.

  ‘In your mother’s eyes, yes. She’s not happy about all this texting, Emmy. Apparently, it’s not good enough. She expects a proper conversation today, or else.’

  ‘Urgh.’

  ‘She also wants to know why you didn’t answer your mobile.’

  ‘I was probably driving or in the shop. Anything else I should know?’

  He scrubbed at his beard. ‘Yes. She doesn’t expect to speak to you any less than she did when you were in the UK. There’s no excuse for it, in this day and age.’

  I shook my head. ‘When I lived in the same city as her, she was perfectly happy with the odd phone call and the occasional personal appearance. That woman has a selective memory.’

  ‘A mother’s prerogative. Go and get it done, Emmy, and save us both from any more earache.’

  Taking bread and cheese with me, I gravitated to my chaise longue at the open window and did as I was told. A proper online video chat. As Mum required a full rundown of my first week, it was a long session.

  ‘So, Emmy, any sign of a new romantic attachment yet?’ she enquired nonchalantly.

  My brow furrowed. I hadn’t said anything to her about Alain – the woman would put the Spanish Inquisition to shame. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Is a mother not allowed to enquire after her daughter’s love life?’

  ‘Depends what agenda she has.’

  ‘My agenda, Emmeline Jamieson, is to ensure that my daughter is well and possibly even happy after her previous boyfriend behaved like a total arse. Is that too mu
ch to ask?’

  I laughed. ‘No, I suppose not.’

  ‘So?’

  I toyed with denial, but Mum always knew, somehow. ‘There may be,’ I hedged.

  ‘May be? What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It means I would prefer not to go into details at this time.’

  Mum tutted. ‘You’d make a great politician!’ She waited, and when no further information was forthcoming, said, ‘Well?’

  I stared at the familiar backdrop of the family lounge behind her: the sofa that had been the site of a hundred cushion battles with my brother, the twenty-year-old family portrait in pride of place on the wall behind it. ‘I may be starting to see someone soon,’ I admitted.

  ‘Too cryptic. Who is this someone?’

  ‘His name is Alain.’

  ‘Is he French?’

  ‘Half-French, half-English.’

  ‘How did you meet him?’

  ‘He’s Rupert’s accountant.’

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Thirty-six.’

  ‘He’s not married or with a partner? And if not, why not, at that age?’

  ‘Mum! He’s divorced.’

  ‘Hmm.’ She mulled this over. ‘Children?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What did you mean you may start to see him? Either you are or you aren’t.’

  ‘He’s away at the moment. We’ve been chatting on the phone and online.’

  Uh-oh. Sure enough…

  ‘Oh, so you can make time to speak to a man you’re not even dating yet, but not to speak to your own mother?’

  ‘I would have phoned, Mum. It’s been like a madhouse here.’

  ‘And this Alain. Is he—’

  ‘No, that’s enough for today.’

  ‘I was only going to ask, Emmy, if he’s likely to treat you better than the last one.’

  I bristled. ‘I wouldn’t be thinking about getting involved with him if I didn’t believe that, would I?’ But then I relented. Anything for an easy life. ‘Alain is a genuinely nice bloke. But don’t read anything more into it than that at this stage, okay?’

  ‘I won’t.’

  A likely story. By the end of the evening, my father, brother and Aunt Jeanie would be in the picture, at the very least.

  With that ordeal out of the way, I made my regular check of Geoffrey Turner’s blog. I was so used to doing it with no result that I hadn’t even bothered to steel myself this time.

  I nearly choked on my cheese.

  * * *

  THE SILVER FOX TRAVELLER

  at

  La Cour des Roses, near Pierre-la-Fontaine, Maine-et-Loire

  #WishYouWereAnywhereButHere

  La Cour des Roses is in a swoon-worthy spot, a natural sun-trap nestled amidst the rolling farmland and vineyards of the Loire Valley. Its gardens are beautifully planted with mature oaks, weeping pears, delicate willows, fragrant herbs and colourful annuals in bright pinks, purples and oranges. The welcoming patio is well maintained with potted geraniums and plenty of space for all. From the roof terrace, you can gaze upon the bucolic view, sipping iced tea in the hot sun or a rich red wine under a star-filled night sky. The guesthouse itself is a typical converted French farmhouse of creamy stone and blue-painted shutters.

  But I’m afraid, dear readers, this is where my praise ends. Let’s step inside.

  Hulking antiques are at odds with dreary, cheap prints of generic French countryside and assorted kitsch such as decorative eggs and anorexic ballerina figurines, no doubt purchased at a local flea market by a decorator with a split personality disorder.

  The guest lounge is uninhabitable, with no redeeming features. Frankly, it defies the Trade Descriptions Act. The chairs are stiff and uncomfortable, the décor is as above, and there’s an added hint of the Arctic. How any French room manages to be so cold in August, I do not know.

  In contrast, our room may as well have been sitting over the fiery pits of Hades. The electric fan provided was noisy and inadequate, and even with all possible measures taken to keep cool, sleep was elusive. Our mattress was too soft, and the voile curtains – besides affording little privacy – had no blackout ability, forcing us to close the shutters at night, rendering the room stuffy.

  Yes, they gave us darkness, but don’t think we got a lie-in with the army of chickens clucking from the crack of dawn. Speaking of nuisance animals, La Cour des Roses is also home to a giant, malodorous Labrador, who lumbers about communal areas being ‘friendly’ to the unsuspecting, frightened and allergic.

  The complimentary bathroom toiletries were in large glass bottles – no doubt a twee attempt to make them look homemade. Judging by the smell, they had been filled with the cheapest supermarket rubbish imaginable. I didn’t enjoy smelling like a marzipan fruit basket.

  And on to the dining… The host, Rupert Hunter, provides breakfast daily and three guest meals a week, supplying recommendations for local restaurants on other nights. I suspect the average tourist might not mind his gastronomic offerings. But while it was not traditional British fare, it was not très français, either. Perhaps Mr Hunter is aiming to cater to everyone’s taste by trudging along the middle ground, but the result has a dismaying lack of identity. If I stay at a French guesthouse, I expect skilled French cuisine, not some half-baked cross-channel hybrid. At one point, I was served some kind of fish mousse and thought I’d slipped through a wormhole back to the 1970s.

  Mealtimes are – most unfortunately – a communal affair, and Mr Hunter presides with his own brand of verve and humour, although I warn you, his overbearing personality may not be to everybody’s taste. I’m sure the idea is everyone will get along famously in a jolly holiday atmosphere, but our personal experience of clashing personalities – vociferously clashing personalities – made us most uncomfortable, to the point where we had to leave early. The proprietors seemed reluctant to intervene in the matter.

  On the subject of ineffectiveness, I was dismayed to witness a request for an ambulance delayed because Ms Jamieson had no idea how to call for one. It beggared belief.

  In summary, La Cour des Roses should, in theory, be a charming enough place to visit, but in practice… the risk is yours.

  6

  If I were a cartoon character, there would have been steam coming out of my ears, with accompanying shrill whistles.

  I took the laptop through to Rupert, herding him into his private lounge first, in case his language was too colourful when he read the review.

  His language wasn’t colourful. He remained unnervingly quiet.

  ‘It’s so unfair!’ I flopped my head back against the chair, banging it a little harder than intended. ‘He’s twisted everything!’

  Rupert made no effort to comfort me in my distress, causing my heart to sink further. He blamed me, I knew he did.

  ‘He’s made a huge deal about me not knowing the emergency number, but failed to say it only took me a minute to find it. He makes it sound like a life was in jeopardy. This is just completely subjective. I don’t even believe he didn’t like the food – or the shampoo. He never said anything at the time. There’s only one decorative egg, and I have no idea what ballerina figurine he’s on about. I thought I’d got rid of that kind of thing. As for the dog…’ My shoulders slumped. ‘He’s right about the dog.’

  ‘Emmy…’

  But I was on a roll. ‘And why were there “vociferously clashing personalities”? Hmm? I see he doesn’t bother mentioning it was because he flashed an elderly woman. Twice!’

  ‘He’s hardly going to mention that, is he? Calm down. You’re giving me a headache.’

  Rupert moved over to the kettle at his little kitchenette to make us a cup of tea, while I stared at the words on the screen, willing them to metamorphose into something more palatable – but they remained resolutely horrid.

  ‘Maybe not that many people will see it, Emmy. And of those who do, there can’t be that many who would have happened to be considering coming here. We’re only
a drop in the ocean, really.’ He handed me a mug. ‘As for the things he complains about, there’s a fair few we can fix. Those pictures, for example. I suspect you had half an eye on them already.’

  I grunted. ‘That’s what annoys me.’

  ‘As for the problems with other guests, with any luck, people will see his experience as unfortunate – a one-off.’

  ‘Except his two-star rating is emblazoned right across the top. It’s huge! Oh, this all my fault!’

  ‘Of course it isn’t your fault!’ he snapped. ‘Shit happens. Now get rid of that martyred expression, put on that scary marketing one you possess instead, and tell me what we can do about it. We have a right to reply, surely?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It inevitably makes it worse. It can escalate things. Best just to leave it be.’

  Exasperated, Rupert stood and began to pace the length of his lounge – no dreary prints here, I noticed, but rather acceptable original landscapes. ‘So a man can wander naked in my guesthouse and pee in my wardrobe, and we can’t give our side of the story?’

  ‘No. Think about it, Rupert. A guest expects confidentiality. They don’t expect you to tell the world about their personal habits after they’ve left. If you say anything about Geoffrey’s, they won’t trust you not to say anything about theirs, will they?’

  ‘So what can we do?’

  I took several deep breaths. ‘I’ve already done laminated notices with the emergency numbers. But we need to get that mutt of yours on the website. Cute photos. If anyone has got a problem with her, at least they can’t say they didn’t know.’ I sighed. ‘That means I need to e-mail everyone who’s already booked and let them know about her, just in case.’

  Rupert’s mouth dropped open. ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘What if someone has a phobia or an allergy? And then...’ I drummed my fingers on the table. ‘We can’t do anything about this blog. Those who read it will make their own minds up. But Geoffrey’s bound to put a short version of this on popular review sites as well. That’s where we can do something. We need to get as many positive reviews as possible to counteract it.’