Return to the Little French Guesthouse

by Helen Pollard

  As I sipped my wine, I weighed up how much I could say without giving away confidences. ‘I think he’s got used to the idea that she’s gone. And I think he’s resigned to the idea that she’ll file for divorce, but he’s not chasing that up for now.’

  ‘Don’t blame him!’ Ellie said. ‘That’s going to be expensive.’

  ‘I think it was awful, the way she left him,’ Sophie commented. ‘If she was unhappy, she should have spoken to him about it, not run off with someone like that.’

  I shrugged. ‘Perhaps she tried to, in her own way, and he didn’t listen or try to read between the lines. I think Rupert knows he should have paid more attention to the fact that she wasn’t happy at La Cour des Roses.’

  ‘But if she didn’t want to be there, why did she marry him?’

  ‘Because when she first met him, Sophie, La Cour des Roses didn’t exist,’ I explained. ‘They had a flat in London and a house in Majorca, and Gloria was happy with that... But then Rupert came here and fell in love with the place and wanted a project.’

  Ellie eyed the wooden board of goodies the waiter placed in the middle of the table, then began to transfer her choices to her plate, indicating we should do the same. ‘Gloria was less suited to the rural location,’ she explained. ‘Not enough shops, and – as you’ve gathered – she doesn’t like to work too hard.’

  ‘But Rupert seems like such a nice man,’ Sophie said quietly.

  ‘He is,’ Ellie asserted. ‘He’s a great character. Warm, funny, sociable, loyal to his friends. Soft as putty under that gruff exterior.’

  I raised an eyebrow at such praise from Ellie.

  ‘Then why would he marry someone like Gloria?’ Sophie asked.

  Ellie made a face. ‘Lord knows. Mid-life crisis?’

  ‘Partly that,’ I chipped in. ‘Mutual attraction. She is attractive for her age,’ I insisted when Ellie was about to argue. ‘I’ve seen photos of her when they got married. She was a stunner.’

  Ellie held her little finger in the air and waggled it. ‘And she had him wrapped around this, pretty sharpish.’

  I glanced across the way at two men manoeuvring themselves out of a tiny antique shop, carrying a tall chest of drawers of highly polished wood, puffing as they hefted it to the end of the narrow street and a waiting van.

  When I turned back, Sophie had a puzzled look on her face.

  ‘I assumed nobody liked Gloria because she slept with your boyfriend, Emmy, and because she left Rupert. But now I get the impression that nobody liked her before that, either.’

  ‘They liked Rupert, so they put up with Gloria.’ Ellie confirmed what Rupert had told me. ‘She wasn’t always unpleasant – she knew how to play hostess – but I found her vacuous at best and bitchy at worst.’

  I frowned at her. ‘But Rupert told me that you and Gloria were friends at first.’

  ‘Gloria wanted to be, so I went along with it for a while. I could see that she was at sea with the move and the renovations and the guesthouse. She had all these grand ideas, but it turned out she didn’t enjoy her new role there. She told me once that she’d liked her job as a restaurant manager, but she worked long hours and so when Rupert proposed, she thought it was the answer to her prayers. When he bought La Cour des Roses, she thought it would be fun at first, but then reality set in. I think she felt old before her time, away from the thick of things. I felt sorry for her, but then...’ Ellie seemed about to say something else, but only shrugged. ‘Well. We weren’t each other’s cup of tea. We had nothing in common.’ She deftly changed the subject. ‘So, Emmy. When’s Alain due back?’

  ‘Next weekend.’

  ‘And you’ll definitely be seeing each other? Dating?’

  ‘Dates have been mentioned. He’s going to help me with my French.’

  Ellie snorted, her wine halfway to her mouth. ‘Now there’s a euphemism I haven’t heard before.’

  Sophie giggled. ‘I would offer to help you with your French, but I don’t think it would be the same, somehow.’

  When I glared at them both, Ellie took pity. ‘We’d better go easy on her, Sophie. It’s all looking a bit tentative at the moment. When it gets more robust, then we’ll rib her mercilessly.’

  ‘Rib?’ Sophie rubbed at her ribcage, asking ‘What is this “rib”?’ and making us both laugh.

  ‘Do you want to walk up to see the château?’ Ellie suggested when we’d paid the bill. ‘Get rid of some calories?’

  Since she was thinner than a runner bean, I didn’t see why calories were an issue for her, but they probably were for me, so I was happy to go along with the idea.

  We made our way through the town and up to the castle, walking around its walls of cream stone and admiring its grey roof and pointed turrets, taking in the view across to the river with its arched bridge. Sophie and Ellie were immensely patient while I took photographs. It was gorgeous. It would be the perfect addition to my website.

  8

  I’d enjoyed my afternoon with Sophie and Ellie very much – a well-timed distraction – but by the time I spoke to Alain that evening, I was all wound up again over everything that was going wrong and everything I had to do.

  We were talking online – it seemed to have become an unspoken agreement after that first time; a kind of graduation from phone calls and on to the next stage – and it meant I couldn’t hide my agitation.

  ‘Are you still upset about the review?’ he asked with concern. ‘I understand why, but it’s only one man’s opinion, Emmy.’

  ‘You didn’t see the other one?’ I directed him to the site where Clare’s review sat simmering.

  He slipped on his reading glasses to peer closer at the screen. They made him look like some kind of sexy professor in need of loving attention.

  Desire hit me like a punch to the gut. ‘God, you look sexy in those!’

  Oops.

  ‘What? I mean, er, really?’ he stammered. It was kind of cute.

  ‘Yeah. But I didn’t mean to say that out loud.’

  He grinned, finished reading Clare’s brief but deadly missive, then took his glasses off, tossing them to one side.

  When I put on an exaggerated pout, his lips twitched. ‘I can put them back on again, if you like.’

  ‘That’s okay. I fancy you without them as well.’

  ‘Glad to hear it.’

  ‘So, what do you think?’

  ‘About you fancying me with or without my glasses on?’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘The review.’

  ‘I think you’re right to do what you’ve done. Smother it with good ones. Once they start rolling in, these will have much less impact.’

  ‘I hope so. I don’t like their impact so far.’ I told him about the Websters’ cancellation and my dicey conversation with Julia Cooper.

  ‘But you persuaded her. And bribed her with breakfast goods. Well done, you.’

  ‘Yes, well, that’s not all she wants. Now there are dogs and a marquee, and she wants me to find her a jazz band from the festival for the party. I tried to look into it this morning, but it meant nothing to me. It’s hopeless!’ The feeling of being overwhelmed that I’d had that morning washed over me in a fresh wave.

  Alain gave me a considered look. ‘Tell me what you’ve fixed so far, between you and Rupert.’

  ‘Who’s in what accommodation and when. The cake. The caterer. Duvets for airbeds. Where the tent and caravans will go.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think that’s bad going in just a few days, considering you were starting from scratch, do you? What’s left to do?’

  ‘Marquee. Toilet waste.’

  Alain grinned. ‘Let’s leave those to Rupert, shall we?’

  ‘Dogs not getting on.’

  ‘Can’t do anything about that till they get there. What else?’

  ‘This wretched band! I don’t know where to start!’

  ‘You should start by asking someone to help you. And that someone would be me. I told you, I’ve been to the festiv
al before. Let me bring up the programme.’

  On went the glasses again.

  Sigh.

  ‘I can’t say I know all these bands, by any means. But I would suggest that you aim for those in the less popular time slots. They’ll be the ones who’d be keen for an extra gig. So – not those playing Friday night or Saturday night. Maybe the afternoon or Sunday ones instead. And as Julia said, you need a small band. I do recognise a couple of these. Why don’t I go through this later tonight and e-mail you the names I think look most likely? Then you’ll need to look online to see if there are any clips of them playing, so you can judge whether they produce the kind of sound you want blasting through the grounds.’

  I watched the breeze ruffling the leaves outside my window, then jumped as the dog came bounding into sight, let loose by Rupert for an evening gambol. I grinned as she raced around the trees like a manic skier on a slalom run. ‘If you like jazz, wouldn’t you be better doing that?’

  He shook his head. ‘It sounds to me like the Thomsons might be a mixed bunch – some into jazz, some not, but all getting into it for the sake of the guests of honour. You know nothing about jazz, right?’

  ‘Damn right.’

  ‘So you’ll be a good judge of whether it’s the kind of music non-jazz lovers could enjoy as background music at a party.’

  I blew out a long breath. ‘Thank you.’ My voice was small. ‘I know it’s not your problem.’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘If it makes you look as woebegone as that, then it is my problem. I prefer to see you smiling.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry. Just take things one at a time and you will get there. I know you’ve had a crap week, and you’re seeing this Thomson thing as negative right now, but it’s not. A group of thirty-four people have chosen La Cour des Roses for one of the biggest events their family will experience. You and Rupert are going to make it fantastic for them. And if they like it, some of them may come back for a proper stay some time.’

  There was a child’s shriek in the distance, followed by a loud giggle.

  Alain grinned. ‘Bedtime for the little horrors. They’re too excited about Paris tomorrow. Mum and Dad have told them they’ll take them on a boat. I’d better go and see if their uncle can have a calming influence on them.’ He winked. ‘I’ll send you that e-mail later. Night, Emmy.’

  ‘Night.’

  If he worked his calming influence on those kids the way he’d worked it on me, they would be settled in minutes.

  He was right. I’d built all the different strands of the Thomson party into one big mountain, without taking stock and realising we’d already scaled quite a bit of it already. The jazz band was the worst hurdle, and when I got his e-mail, I’d do what he suggested and make a start.

  Every time I spoke to him, I was reminded that I had a future here to look forward to, if I could make it work. La Cour des Roses, my agency, my language skills... It was a lot to contemplate and to implement, but that was what I’d come out here to do. I wasn’t about to give up yet.

  * * *

  Alain’s promised e-mail was sitting in my inbox the next morning. He’d sent it at one in the morning, bless him, but I couldn’t do anything about it right away. Monday was market day. I did, however, make time for a desultory phone call with the letting agents in Birmingham. No, they hadn’t found tenants yet, and did I realise it had only been three days since I last called them?

  ‘Are you thinking of going into town today, ladies?’ I asked Violet and Betty over breakfast. The long wooden table was set with all the usual breakfast goodies, as well as bright orange slices of heavenly sweet cantaloupe melon, which Rupert had bought from a roadside stall on one of his walks with the dog. The kitchen windows were flung wide and the bright sun hadn’t yet managed to chase away a light, refreshing breeze.

  ‘Rupert has promised to let us follow him in, so he can show us where to park,’ Violet told me. ‘We’re worried about it being busy because of the market.’ Her lined brow furrowed at the thought, highlighting the face powder she used so liberally.

  I smiled. This was why Rupert’s business was so successful, usually. He didn’t just provide bricks and mortar and good food – he always went several steps beyond what might be expected.

  ‘No sign of the Jacksons yet?’

  I heard a snigger from the direction of the oven, where Rupert was plating scrambled eggs for Violet and Betty. I even thought I heard a giggle from the ladies themselves. Yesterday, the Jacksons had arrived for breakfast at the last possible minute of Rupert’s generous hours – Charles Jackson dishevelled and out of breath, Ruby Jackson’s cheeks as flushed as her name might suggest – proclaiming they had ‘slept in’.

  It looked like it could become a pattern. As everyone was finishing up, they did the same again, rushing in with out-of-breath apologies. They were clearly morning people.

  When Rupert had settled the dog by the open window in his lounge, we met Violet and Betty in the courtyard. Rupert drove sedately so they could keep up. I looked over at him as we dawdled past a field with a combine harvester growling and grinding its way through a golden crop. I thought about him pottering about, throwing sticks for his beloved dog, laughing with the guests. Since the moment with the wedding dress, he had seemed to be okay. A bit tetchy sometimes, but that was just his way. Even so, he and Gloria had been married for ten years – they’d been in love. I was well over Nathan, but I knew now that I hadn’t ever been in love with him. Could Rupert really be recovering so well so quickly? I wanted to ask, but with Rupert it was best to pick your moments carefully.

  We pulled into town and parked on a quiet street further away from the centre than usual so Betty and Violet could park without difficulty. My arm muscles groaned as I thought about the extra distance I would have to carry the bags later.

  Like a tour guide, Rupert corralled his charges and led them along the streets to the main square. Violet and Betty were rapt as he pointed out the best shops, cafés and stalls.

  ‘Those two have a major crush on you, Rupert Hunter,’ I told him when they had tottered off and we bypassed the trinkets and clothes to get to the food stalls at the top end. ‘You’ve got them hanging on your every word.’

  ‘They’re welcome to have a crush, as long as they don’t try anything on.’ He shuddered. ‘They must be a good fifteen years older than me.’

  ‘That didn’t stop your wife sleeping with my boyfriend, did it?’

  ‘Hmmph. Did us both a favour.’ He gave me a sly look. ‘You wouldn’t be whispering sweet nothings over the airwaves with a gorgeous French accountant otherwise, would you?’

  ‘It’s not all sweet nothings,’ I said defensively. ‘He’s going to help with trying to find a jazz band.’

  ‘Well, we need all the help we can get with that,’ he admitted. ‘I should have thought of Alain the minute you mentioned it.’

  ‘Because he’s been to the jazz festival before?’

  Rupert barked out a laugh. ‘He hasn’t just been to it, Emmy. He’s played there.’

  ‘Played there?’

  ‘Saxophone.’ He gave me a puzzled look. ‘Didn’t you know?’

  ‘No. He didn’t say. He just said he’d try to help.’

  ‘Ah. Well, he’s a modest soul, our Alain. He’s never been one to advertise these things. It’s just a leisure thing for him, I think – a way to relax.’

  I nodded and smiled at the idea of Alain’s long fingers playing an instrument. Any instrument.

  I pulled myself back. ‘So. Which stalls today?’

  ‘Cheese, sausage and... Oh, you have got to be kidding me.’

  I followed his gaze to my favourite market stall – favourite, in that it was fascinating and of an era I’d thought long gone. Girdles, corsets, stout bras and granny pants that I didn’t imagine anyone wore any more. And who was browsing there, paying particular attention to a pair of snug-looking pants with a waistband so high it would reach right up to their
matronly bosoms? Violet and Betty.

  Sniggering, we shuffled past before they could see us.

  Pierre-la-Fontaine was heaving, and the queues at the stalls were long with holidaymakers keen to try local produce, so our shopping was laboured.

  But our post-shopping coffee was what I looked forward to most, because we would bump into Jonathan. He was – as ever – propping up the bar inside the café, easy to spot by his shock of white hair.

  ‘Rupert. And the lovely Emmy. Welcome back!’ He embraced us both.

  Jonathan preferred to stay inside, where he could enjoy the down-to-earth company of the regulars. I welcomed the cool interior with its dark wood wall panelling, matching tables and chairs, the TV above the bar, the chatter of locals catching up on market day – but I did insist we sit at a table.

  When the barman placed a squat cup of steaming coffee in front of me, I sighed with nothing short of utter contentment.

  ‘Happy?’ Jonathan asked me with a smile.

  ‘Mmm. Happy.’ I sipped, glorying in the taste. There was no doubt about it – the French knew how to make coffee.

  ‘Rupert’s not driving you mad yet?’ Jonathan jabbed his friend in the chest.

  ‘It’ll be the other way around,’ Rupert pointed out. ‘She’s just getting back into her stride. She’s already ordering me about. Soon she’ll be changing everything, insisting on this, that and the other.’

  ‘Isn’t that why you coerced her into coming out here?’

  Rupert gave me a fond look. ‘Yup. Doesn’t mean I can’t grouse about it, though, does it?’

  ‘So, now you’re back, any chance of a few errands, Emmy? I’ll slip you a bit of cash.’

  Rupert spluttered on his coffee. ‘God. It’ll be like bob-a-job week all over again.’

  I stared at him. ‘What the hell’s “bob-a-job week”?’

  Rupert and Jonathan exchanged grins, and Rupert explained. ‘When we were lads, Emmy – much longer ago for Jonathan than for me – bob-a-job week was when cubs and scouts went from door-to-door asking if anyone had a job they wanted doing for a bob. That’s a shilling. If you weren’t invited in by some dubious old bloke eagerly anticipating his favourite week of the year, you were used as slave labour by people who thought it perfectly acceptable to get a small child to wash their car, mow their lawn and clean out their tropical fish tank for less than the price of a pint of beer.’