‘And how do you propose to do that?’
‘Every time a guest leaves, ask them if they’d be kind enough to leave one.’
‘What if they didn’t have a good stay?’
‘Accidentally-on-purpose forget to ask – but most guests love it here, you know they do.’
‘Then why did we need the ruddy blogger?’ Rupert asked sulkily.
‘Because we need more people to love it. You have me to pay now. We have gaps in the bookings. We need to extend the season. We have to reach beyond loyal guests, word-of-mouth and the local tourist board. When I get a chance, I’ll set us up on social media. Post photos of breakfast and dinners, the house and grounds, even the dog. But as for reviews... We could send an e-mail a few days after people leave, thanking them for choosing us and reminding them that reviews are appreciated.’ I brought up a popular site on the laptop and turned it so he could see. ‘Your average rating is good, but the number of reviews isn’t high. Your customers don’t think to leave one. I could e-mail everyone who’s stayed this season. Thank them, say we hope they’ll repeat the experience, and tell them how much we’d appreciate a review.’
‘Can’t hurt. It’ll be a lot of work for you, though, setting up the e-mail list.’
‘It’s what you’re paying me for. And we’ll be able to use it in future.’
Dragging my laptop to the den, I spent the remainder of the afternoon creating an e-mail list of past customers, starting with the most recent and working my way back to the beginning of the year. It was a pig of a job and gave me a headache, but I persevered, then sent out my begging-for-a-review e-mail. I knew only a percentage would bother, but whatever we got would be worth it. The Silver Fox’s review could do a lot of damage, sitting on those websites, unchallenged by enough positive reviews. Which might mean fewer bookings. Which I couldn’t allow, if I wanted to earn some sort of living here.
Rupert popped his head around the door. ‘Are you all right? I haven’t seen you for hours.’
‘Yeah. I wanted to get this done.’
‘Aren’t you supposed to be speaking to Alain tonight? Do you want something to eat?’
I looked at the time on my screen. ‘I had no idea how late it was. But I’m not hungry.’
‘I know you feel responsible, Emmy, but I don’t want you making yourself poorly over this. How about I defrost some homemade soup for you?’
I gave him a grateful smile. ‘That sounds perfect. Thank you.’
* * *
Alain had already seen the review. I was touched that he’d kept an eye out for it, knowing I was so worried.
‘What do you think?’ I asked him.
‘It’s mean and small-minded.’
‘It’s more than that. It’s distorted!’ My voice hitched.
Alain nodded. ‘It’s a real hatchet job.’ He gave me a puzzled look. ‘You must have dealt with stuff like this all the time in your last job, Emmy.’
‘Of course! But this feels more personal. There’s... There’s more at stake. I gave everything up to be here, Alain. I don’t want it to go wrong.’
‘I know. I wish I could give you a hug right now.’
‘I wish you could, too.’
His voice became more matter-of-fact. ‘I presume you have a comeback strategy?’
I told him how I’d spent my afternoon. ‘I don’t know why Rupert didn’t already have an e-mail list,’ I grumbled.
‘The poor bloke was too busy doing all the things Gloria couldn’t be bothered to do, I should imagine.’
Alain reached for a mug of tea at his side, and as I watched the way he folded his long fingers around it, I found myself wondering how they would feel caressing me.
‘Everything okay?’ Alain asked.
I jumped out of my reverie. ‘Er – fine. I – er...’ Think of something, Emmy, quick. I hesitated, wondering whether I should tell him about Nathan and the flat. And then I figured there was no point in having an accountant for a friend if you couldn’t tell him your financial worries.
‘What do you think?’ I asked when I’d explained.
‘I think it’s unlucky, but it’s too early to worry about it yet. Surely it won’t make that much difference to you in the short term?’
‘No, as long as it is only short term. I can manage, but it wasn’t what I’d planned. My savings were for setting up my business or for other things here. I don’t want to fritter them away on mortgage payments from my old life.’
‘I can understand that. We’ll keep fingers crossed for now, okay?’
I laughed. ‘Is that an official accountancy strategy?’
‘Of course.’
‘Well, apart from your impressively detailed accountant’s advice, I have another favour to ask.’
‘Oh? Will I enjoy it?’
‘Not necessarily. I was wondering if you’d consider helping me with my French. It’s years since I did it at school. I’ve bought books and CDs, but I’m struggling to find the time and it’s boring and it’s never going to be up to scratch at this rate. I need help with it. You know, colloquialisms and stuff.’
‘I’m more than happy to help you with that, and whatever else you need or want besides.’ He allowed a dramatic pause that had my pulse racing. ‘Once I get back, maybe we should set up something specific. An hour each date. Otherwise, you’ll keep putting it off.’
‘Okay. Sounds good.’ Although I could think of better things to do on our dates.
‘And don’t put yourself down, Emmy. You’re doing all right so far.’ When I began to shake my head, he said sternly, ‘You manage to communicate with Madame Dupont, so you can’t be too rubbish.’
‘I know, but I don’t get enough practice here at La Cour des Roses.’
‘Okay. There are two different ways to approach this, and we need to do both. First, you can’t ignore the basics. Grammar...’
‘Urgh.’ I glanced at the language books I’d bought, still pristine on my little bedside table. ‘Grammar?’
‘Yes. We need to work out what you remember, what you don’t and what you were never taught in the first place. Learning a language is like building a wall. If you don’t make the bottom rows straight and sturdy, the rest will be flimsy and you’ll always feel insecure. It will make you feel so much more comfortable and confident. I promise.’
‘Okay. Will I like the second approach better?’
He laughed at my hopeful expression. ‘Maybe. You need to absorb the language into your consciousness. Have the car radio on a news channel. If you’re meeting up with Sophie, ask her if you can speak in French for part of the time. Same with me.’
‘With you?’
‘Yes. We need to get you comfortable and fluent.’
‘Oh, Alain, no. I’m not ready.’
‘You never will be unless you get on and do it. I promise not to make fun of you, and I won’t correct everything – I’ll just help with words you don’t know and let you babble on, okay?’
When I remained decidedly unbabbly, he simply lapsed into French. ‘What did you do today? Who’s staying at La Cour des Roses?’
‘Okay...’ Shy and embarrassed, I did my best, while he gently corrected and supplied vocabulary.
And, oh my goodness, how sexy was Alain when he spoke French?
I shook my head to clear it, gritted my teeth and persevered. After ten minutes, Alain told me I was tired and I’d had enough.
I refrained from telling him that I would never have enough of listening to him speak French. I could feel a cold shower coming on.
* * *
My alarm jolted me out of a dreamless sleep. I stretched and climbed out of bed, pottering over to the window to watch the early morning light filter through the leaves of the trees in the orchard.
I loved being round the back of the house like this – my own little hideaway. I loved taking my coffee breaks in a beautiful garden with a dog’s head in my lap, instead of a crowded city or the tension-filled kitchenette in the office.<
br />
The guest meal tonight meant three courses of Rupert’s glorious cooking – despite what Geoffrey Turner thought.
And then I remembered it was Saturday, a day of hard labour. I’d only done a couple of these so far, while I was on holiday – not the usual tourist activity in the Loire region, I grant you – and I knew I would be exhausted by the end of it. But maybe that was just what I needed right now. Honest physical work, with no time to brood on tenants and bloggers and Thomson task lists.
Once I’d set up breakfast, I glanced at the shopping list and groaned. This was one of the things I intended to change about Saturdays, but for today I was stuck with it. Leaving the guests to Rupert – other than eliciting a promise for a review from Pippa and Angus who were leaving and declared they would be back – I got off so that I could be back by mid-morning.
* * *
Dumping the shopping in the kitchen for Rupert to get started on welcome baskets, I walked over to the long building of cream and grey stone, once a barn but now housing the gîtes. Cars were still being loaded outside two, but the third was empty, its wooden door wide open.
As I approached, half a dozen little birds shot out of the vine that clambered over the doorway, chattering crossly and making me jump. Passing through the doorway, I spotted small bunches of grapes hidden amongst the foliage. I’d disturbed them from stealing their breakfast.
Madame Dupont was scrubbing the oven, her back to me. Her floral dress was garish but of a cool, summery material – unlike her thick support stockings. I didn’t know how she could stand to wear them. It was nearly thirty degrees already.
‘Bonjour, Madame Dupont.’
She whirled around. ‘Bonjour, Emie.’
We settled into a work routine, Madame Dupont continuing with the oven while I started on the fridge. I wrinkled my nose. Someone had been adventurous in their choice of local cheeses.
‘Rupert said you’ll have to visit your sister again. How is she?’
Worry etched her wrinkled forehead. ‘She has severe arthritis and diabetes.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ At least her sister’s conditions sounded similar in French to English, otherwise I’d have had no idea what I was commiserating over. ‘That must be hard for you. Is she married?’
‘Veuve.’ When I shook my head in non-comprehension, she explained. ‘Her husband died. And her children moved away – one to Paris, the other down south – so when she is very bad, I go to help for a day or two.’
‘That’s good of you.’
‘And good of Monsieur Hunter to allow me to fit my work around it. But I told my sister I can never go on a Saturday. Too much to do here!’
Her capacity for work never ceased to amaze me. She must have been over seventy.
‘When will Alain be back from Paris?’ she asked me, a mischievous glint in her eye.
The woman was the centre of the local gossip grapevine and a dreadful meddler. Rupert came a close second. It was like having my very own cheerleading team of two.
‘In a week,’ I answered vaguely, aware that whatever I told Madame Dupont I was imparting to the entire Loire valley.
She flashed me a semi-toothless smile. ‘You need someone nice after your last boyfriend.’
I couldn’t argue with her there.
After the second gîte, we took a break, drinking thé au citron at one of the patio tables at the back. It was so peaceful out here, each gîte separated from its neighbour with large, pale yellow roses on the trellises between, a wooden gate at the end of each little patio leading out to the large lawn area for the gîte occupants to use, the grass curving away from the building and around towards Rupert’s own garden, a tall hedge shielding it from the courtyard and making it a quiet sunbathing spot or a safe play area for kids.
We were sitting with our faces lifted to the sun, sipping tea and enjoying the quiet, when a motor fired up, making me jump.
Madame Dupont laughed. ‘That will be Ryan.’
He manoeuvred the mower along the strip of lawn beyond the gates. Shirtless in the summer heat, frayed denim shorts, hair streaked blonde by the summer sun... You’d have to have stopped breathing to not be moved by the sight, but appreciation was one thing and feelings were another. We’d agreed to remain friends after those few mad days for good reason. Neither of us had been looking for a relationship at the time, and although Ryan was one of the nicest guys on the planet, his casual, easy-going nature wouldn’t work for me in the long term. And then there was the small fact that he was seven years younger than me.
We exchanged a friendly wave.
‘Come on,’ Madame Dupont said with a wink. ‘We can’t sit about staring at that beautiful young man all day.’
When the third gîte was done, I drove Madame Dupont home to her ramshackle cottage to save her elderly legs, kissed her goodbye, winced at the racket from the ugly black chickens in her yard, then headed back to start on the vacated guest rooms – after which I collapsed in a heap in the kitchen, where Rupert dutifully supplied me with a huge mug of Earl Grey tea.
‘Mmm.’
‘Glad to be back?’
‘Oh, yes. I love cleaning.’ I fixed him with a glare. ‘About this Saturday morning shopping. I can go to the supermarket any day of the week. Why Saturday?’ I spied Geoffrey Turner’s decorative egg on the counter and twirled it round on the granite. It was one of the few ornaments I had kept of all of Gloria’s tat: a decoupage peacock feather pattern of iridescent blues, greens and gold. Was it really hideous kitsch?
‘Habit, because of the guest meal and welcome baskets. I used to shop while Gloria helped Madame Dupont with the gîtes and rooms.’
I doubted such labour was evenly divided between the two women. I stopped the spinning egg and wondered where Gloria’s ballerina was, or if Geoffrey had simply made it up. ‘It doesn’t make sense any more. You have the dog to walk, and we’re too busy. I’ll shop on weekdays from now on, fresh stuff only. I do not want to see anything on the list that could have gone on your weekly online order. Understand?’
‘I can’t believe I’m paying to be bossed around like this.’
‘Well, you can pay me back by bossing me around this kitchen. What’s on tonight’s menu?’
‘Caesar salad, poached salmon in hollandaise sauce with buttered green beans and garlic potatoes, apricot tart. No doubt far too eclectic and nowhere near French enough for Geoffrey Turner.’
‘Ha! I doubt tonight’s guests will agree with him. Any progress on catering for the Thomsons?’
‘One was far more expensive than the other for a similar menu, so I went with the more reasonable one. They have a good reputation. They’re sending me a proposed menu and official quote on Monday. I’ll forward it to Julia as soon as I get it.’
‘Good. So that’s the cake and the party food sorted. I can tell you now, my French doesn’t stretch to portable toilets. I’m leaving that to you.’
As we worked side by side, I marvelled – as ever – at the fact that I could play any practical part in producing the delicious food that would be relayed to the table this evening. I was in a good mood when the phone rang.
‘I’ll get it,’ Rupert said as he glanced across and saw that I was busy mangling apricots in my attempt to pit them.
‘La Cour des Roses? Yes, Rupert Hunter speaking. Yes, I remember your booking, and we look forward to... Cancel? Is there a problem? I... Yes, I have seen it, but...’ He turned his back to me and my heart sank.
‘Mr Webster, that was just one man’s experience, and we feel it was not at all representative of... Yes, I do appreciate that, but... I can’t persuade you to change your mind? Then I’m sorry. Yes. Goodbye.’
I stared at him as he put the phone down, a fresh apricot squashed to a pulp in my hand. ‘What? Tell me.’
‘The Websters have cancelled. A whole week.’
‘Why?’
‘They saw the Silver Fox’s review.’
‘Shit.’ I released the apricot mush from m
y hand onto the chopping board. ‘Charge them.’
‘What?’
‘They can’t cancel at the last minute like that.’
‘He made it clear he expected no charges. Not only that, but he wants his deposit back.’
‘And you agreed to that?’
‘Not happily or willingly, but yes, I did.’
‘But...’
‘There’s no point in getting in a fight over this, Emmy. I can’t go over there and prise the balance out of the man’s wallet, can I? And if I don’t return his deposit, he could take it further. He could contact the Silver Fox and we could end up with some kind of campaign being waged against us. I think the safest thing to do is to let it lie. Could you put that fruit knife down? You’re beginning to scare me.’
I complied. ‘Oh Rupert, I’m so sorry.’
He shook his head. ‘It really isn’t your fault, Emmy.’
‘This is ridiculous! It’s one thing Geoffrey Turner slagging us off to all and sundry, and us losing potential clients. But to lose existing clients... This is serious stuff. I’ve a good mind to e-mail the bastard and request that he take down his review on the basis that it’s biased and doesn’t reflect the full details of his stay.’
Rupert just looked at me.
‘All right, I know. Escalation, blah blah blah. I hate this!’
Rupert began to laugh.
‘What?’ I snapped. ‘What can possibly be so funny?’
‘You stamped your foot, Emmy. You actually stamped your foot like a toddler.’ He took the wine out of the fridge. ‘I recommend a very large glass of this.’
I took his recommendation to heart. And then repeated it, for good measure. It certainly helped me enjoy the guest meal.
Our new guests consisted of Ruby and Charles Jackson, and also Violet and Betty, two delightful old dears who had made me laugh as they drove carefully into the courtyard with Violet peering comically over the top of the steering wheel and Betty battling with a large map. They immediately took to Rupert – and I immediately warned him that he would have to moderate his language for the duration of their stay.
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