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Return to the Little French Guesthouse Page 14

by Helen Pollard


  ‘Me, too.’

  We dozed and kissed and dozed again until I realised something was bothering my senses. My mind struggled through a mist of sleepy post-sex euphoria, trying to get to grips with what it might be.

  ‘The chicken!’ I shot out of Alain’s arms and out of bed, tugging on my sundress as I made for the stairs.

  In the kitchen, there was a distinct smell of burning. I yanked open the oven door to a billow of smoke, grabbed oven gloves and pulled it out.

  The smoke alarm went off. Alain, tugging on jeans as he followed me into the room, unlocked the back door and opened it wide as I stared at the blackened object in front of me, and my chin wobbled.

  ‘Don’t get upset, Emmy. It’s just a chicken.’

  ‘But it’s not just any chicken! It’s Madame Dupont’s chicken! And now it’s died for nothing!’

  Alain paled a little, but he was highly impressed that I’d been gifted one. ‘That old lady must be fond of you.’

  ‘Yes, well, you’d better tell her how delicious it was if you bump into her, or my life won’t be worth living,’ I mumbled.

  He kissed away my misery. ‘I’m sorry we got so distracted that we forgot about it.’

  ‘Are you?’

  He burst out laughing. ‘What do you think?’

  Velvet soft, his laughter was infectious, and I had to join in. He took the bird outside, where it could finish smoking before being binned, then came back in and took the foil off the other dishes.

  ‘Roasted veg and potatoes? Gives us time for a glass of wine outside first.’ He picked up the oven gloves. ‘Take a proper look around while I sort it out, if you like.’ When I hesitated, his lips twitched. ‘You know you want to.’

  He was right. I’d been too distracted earlier to take much notice of my surroundings, but now my curiosity was niggling at me, so I went off to inspect his lounge. Perhaps because he was an accountant, I’d anticipated an element of the clinical, but there was nothing of the kind. His space was inviting and comfortable – cream walls, slouchy sofa and armchair with cream covers and coffee-coloured cushions, warm wood bookshelves, a large lamp with a driftwood base, a wooden coffee table scattered with newspapers and books.

  The dining area held a small square table and chairs, currently playing host to the entire contents of his briefcase by the looks of it. I was touched that he hadn’t over-tidied before I arrived. I took that to mean that he was comfortable with me and didn’t feel the need to impress. I liked that.

  A glass-fronted shelf unit held a few knick-knacks, including a photo of a couple around my parents’ age – presumably Alain’s parents – and another of a young boy and girl smiling at the camera, who I guessed must be Alain’s niece and nephew. No photo of the children’s parents – hardly surprising, under the circumstances.

  I went back through to the kitchen, a soothing space with sage green and pale blue tiles, white units and grey worktops, and he handed me my wine.

  ‘So. Do you like what you see?’ There was a twinkle in his eye.

  I had a twinkle in my eye. ‘You know I do.’

  We sat at the back of the house amidst the hydrangeas, with a glorious view across farmland. To the right, there was a profusion of colour in the distance.

  ‘What’s that?’

  Alain lapsed into French. ‘Roses. They grow a lot of them around here. The region’s well known for them.’

  ‘Crikey. It’s a hell of a view.’

  ‘In French.’

  I made a face, but I did it anyway, after a fashion. He asked what else I could see, and I managed to describe the fields and the trees. The road in the distance. What the guests had been up to.

  After a quarter of an hour, he smiled. ‘You did really well this evening.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He had no idea how well. Concentrating on speaking a foreign language was hard enough, but it was twice as hard when all you wanted to do was kiss the guy teaching it to you. ‘Do I get a reward?’

  ‘You had your reward in advance. Anyway, I’m hungry. A man can’t perform on an empty stomach.’

  We ate outside. ‘That was delicious, even without the chicken,’ Alain said as he finished. ‘Thank Rupert for me, will you?’

  ‘What makes you think Rupert made it?’ I asked him, indignant.

  He laughed. ‘Emmy, I’ve known Rupert a long time. I know his cooking when I taste it.’

  ‘And how do you know he didn’t just tell me how to do it?’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘It was my chicken,’ I said sulkily.

  ‘“Was” being the operative word.’ He glanced across at the blackened remains next to the dustbin. ‘Can you stay tonight?’

  ‘I...’ I remembered that I didn’t have my car. Or any toiletries. Or a change of clothes.

  ‘I can lend you a toothbrush. Anything you need. We’ll get up at the crack of dawn and I’ll get you back to La Cour des Roses in time for you to change.’ When I didn’t answer, he asked, ‘Worried what Rupert might say? That man has made it his life’s mission to get us together. He’ll be thrilled.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll stay.’

  ‘Good.’ He relaxed a noticeable fraction. ‘If we have to get up early, we ought to get to bed early, don’t you think?’ He gave me a top-to-toe appraisal. ‘And I seem to recall that you shot out of bed so quickly, you forgot to put any underwear on under there.’

  I let out a long, slow breath as he led me upstairs. And then my mind turned to mush as Alain slowly made a start on fulfilling his earlier promise, using his hands and his mouth, until my body hummed with desire.

  He’d said every millimetre – and he’d meant it.

  * * *

  The alarm on my phone went off at the godforsaken hour I’d set it for, but I was already waking with the light coming through the window. We’d left the shutters open during the night to allow some air in.

  Alain grunted and rolled over, but he wasn’t getting off that lightly. I rolled over too, my arms around his waist, my breasts against his back.

  ‘You’re playing a dangerous game, Emmy,’ he murmured sleepily.

  I trailed kisses across his shoulders. ‘I like a little danger sometimes.’

  ‘Oh, you do?’

  In a split second, he’d spun around and pinned me against the mattress. ‘I thought you needed to get back early.’

  ‘Early’s a flexible term.’

  ‘I’m a flexible kind of guy...’

  Afterwards, I looked at the clock in a panic, leapt out of bed and began to dress.

  Alain dutifully dragged on shorts and a T-shirt.

  ‘You’re not going to work like that?’

  ‘Hardly. I’ll have a run after I’ve dropped you off, then shower and change for work. God knows, it’s early enough.’

  ‘Is that how you stay so fit?’

  ‘Yup. I run every morning, cycle at weekends sometimes. And I do my own garden. It keeps me fit enough.’

  ‘It certainly does,’ I agreed, openly admiring his physique as we went to the car.

  ‘When can I see you next?’ Alain asked me as we drove. ‘Are you free Friday?’

  ‘Yes. But I don’t think I can come to yours again, or stay over. I don’t want Rupert to think I’m deserting him because you’re back. Does that make sense?’

  Alain gave me an easy smile. ‘It’s okay. I understand. How about if I come over to La Cour des Roses? I ought to spend some time with Rupert anyway.’

  I sent him a grateful smile. I loved that he wasn’t complaining. ‘Thanks.’

  Back at the guesthouse, our kiss was easy, relaxed, his lips soft on mine. I let myself into my room, threw myself in the shower and quickly dressed. By the time I got to the kitchen, I was a little flustered and Rupert had started on breakfast. Several guests were already at the table.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ I said as he made me an espresso. ‘The... alarm didn’t go off.’

  ‘No worries.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Alarm, my arse, Emmeline
Jamieson. Did you have a good time at Alain’s?’ His eyebrows wiggled.

  I opened my mouth to deny, but I was so filled with euphoria at the way things had gone with Alain that no words would come out. I closed it again and simply smiled and nodded. Rupert was a good friend, and at that moment I could have told him anything, but even I realised that telling a bloke thirty years older than me about a long evening of glorious sex with his accountant was possibly over-sharing.

  I didn’t need to say anything. My face must have said it all.

  ‘I’m glad. It’s about time you two got it together. Your eyes are shining, Emmy. If I didn’t know better, I’d have said you’d been at the dog’s vitamins.’

  But despite his light tone, I thought I detected a sadness in his eyes. I was moving on from Nathan and Gloria’s actions, and I’d thought Rupert was too, but perhaps he was still somewhere in limbo.

  * * *

  It was surprising what a bout of spectacular sex could do. The fact that it had been with someone I felt could become someone very special was just the icing on the cake.

  I was on a roll. Not one but two bookings came in to fill last-minute vacancies, both from the e-mail I’d sent to Rupert’s loyal customers and one of them for the coming weekend.

  And I had an e-mail from Ellie. I told Rupert about her offer to help and showed him her proposed e-mail to clients, to which she would attach my leaflet.

  ‘That’s good of her. I always knew she had a soft side underneath that intimidating front she puts on.’

  ‘I know. I’ve seen a different side to her lately.’ I fired off a reply, telling her it looked great and thanking her profusely, then brought up the reservations. ‘I’ve filled two vacancies already,’ I told him, showing him the spreadsheet.

  ‘Really? Well done!’

  ‘Don’t you ever get any French people staying here? These are nearly all British names.’

  ‘Mainly British. Some Dutch – who always speak perfect English – and a smattering of other nationalities. But no, I rarely get any French.’ He laughed. ‘Think about it, Emmy. A Frenchman allowing himself to be cooked for by a Brit? He’d rather starve!’

  I’d had another no from another band, but since I was on a high, I decided that was a positive, in that it was narrowing down our field.

  I phoned the letting agents to harangue them again. They said they had one couple who might be interested. I told them to make them more interested.

  And then – the moment I’d been waiting for – a yes from a band. I asked Rupert to make sure my French comprehension skills weren’t playing tricks on me.

  He replied with a hug. ‘You did it!’

  ‘Ha! With a little help from my jazz-loving friend.’

  ‘Did you get him to play for you?’ he asked curiously.

  ‘I… er... forgot all about it. There was the chicken to worry about and then...’

  Rupert snorted with laughter. ‘No need to explain. I get the picture.’

  I cleared my throat. ‘Right. One victorious e-mail to Julia Cooper coming up!’

  ‘Er. Before you do that, Emmy...’

  His sheepish expression made me nervous. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘I agreed to do a barbeque for them on the Thursday night.’

  ‘You what? When was this? Why didn’t I know about it?’

  ‘She phoned yesterday when you were otherwise occupied at Alain’s, and asked if it would be possible. She’s worried that they’ll be tired and emotional and it would be a shame to all eat separately on the first night that everyone’s together. I agreed to it.’

  I shook my head in despair. ‘You’re soft and daft. Are you expecting any profit? We might as well just write Julia Cooper a cheque and be done with it!’

  ‘Don’t worry, Emmy. Julia will pay the food bill. We’re only doing the shopping, the cooking and the clearing up afterwards.’

  ‘Oh, is that all?’

  ‘And we’ve agreed to keep it simple. Meat, bread, salad. Bought desserts. That’s it.’

  ‘For thirty-four people.’

  He ruffled my hair. ‘Cheer up, Emmy. It’ll be fun.’

  I didn’t bother to argue. What would be the point? It was a done deal.

  I sent my e-mail about the band to Julia, and got a highly congratulatory one back. Along with notification of three vegetarians and a vegan. And since we were now providing breakfast for all the guests, could we also extend the buffet lunches for the three days of the festival to all the guests? (At an extra charge, of course.)

  Rupert’s head was back in his hands. ‘I may retire. Preferably before the Thomson weekend.’

  I punched his arm. ‘Don’t you dare desert me now, Rupert Hunter. Right. We need to do a little planning. I can feel a sizeable internet supermarket order coming on...’

  My phone rang. It was Sophie.

  ‘Emmy! Wine, pizza, my place with Ellie tonight? Please say you can come.’

  ‘Oh, Sophie, I’d love to, but I can’t. We have a guest meal and...’

  Rupert frowned and indicated that I should hand him the phone. Startled, I did.

  ‘Sophie? Rupert here. Yes, she can come. No, I’ll manage, but she can’t be there till at least half seven, if that’s okay? And she’ll need to be back by eleven or so. Okay. Bye.’

  I gaped. ‘What did you say that for?’

  ‘You can help me prep and get the guests settled. I will entertain them. And you can help clear up when you get back. Now, do you want to discuss this feeding of the five thousand or not?’

  11

  Before I got started in the kitchen that evening, I squeezed in a quick chat with Kate. My chin wobbled when her face appeared on my screen, but I was grateful for the modern technology that allowed us to do this.

  I filled her in on my just-over-a-week in hotel management, about which she managed to sympathise whilst laughing her socks off.

  ‘Oh my God, Emmy, what have you got yourself into?’

  ‘I can honestly say that every day is different.’

  ‘Don’t you miss your job here?’

  ‘Haven’t had time to. Plus, I work flexible hours, eat fresh food, take breaks in a magnificent garden in bright sunshine, have a vested interest in what I’m doing, and my only colleagues are a man and his dog. Do I miss my stressful job and characterless apartment? Do I heck!’

  I’d saved the juiciest morsel till last – Alain’s early return.

  ‘How did it go?’ she asked, bouncing up and down in her chair. ‘Have you done the deed yet?’

  My smile was the widest it had ever been.

  She clapped her hands like a two–year-old. She was as bad as Rupert. Honestly, why everyone was so thrilled that I was getting laid, I had no idea.

  ‘I take it that it was satisfactory, then?’ she enquired.

  ‘More than satisfactory! It’s... Well, I shouldn’t say.’

  ‘Yes, you should say! It’s what?’

  ‘It was incredible. Honestly, Kate. Best sex ever. But it’s more than that. We fit together perfectly, you know? Like we were meant to be.’ I rolled my eyes to mitigate the soppy nature of the statement.

  Kate sighed dreamily. ‘I’m glad. He isn’t a boring accountant in bed, then?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Hmmph. Wish I could say the same about me and Jamie.’

  ‘I thought you and he were okay in that department? You did nothing but have sex on your holiday, you said.’

  ‘I think we were influenced by the exotic surroundings. Now we’re back in boring old Brum, the fire’s gone out.’

  ‘Oh, Kate. I’m sorry.’

  ‘No worries. It might just be a post-holiday slump.’

  I thought back to the way my relationship with Nathan had slowly declined, both in and out of the bedroom, and I knew the fact that we hadn’t discussed it had made things worse. ‘Have you talked to him about it?’

  She made a face. ‘Not yet. I’ll see if I can pep it up a bit first. I might g
o into town to that shop in the mall...’

  I waved my hands in the air to stop her. ‘No mental images that I’ll struggle to erase, Kate, thank you!’

  * * *

  When Rupert was sorted with the guest meal, I set off to Sophie’s. She lived in a flat above her hairdressing salon; it was bijou but very Sophie-like, with flower motifs on the cushions, fairy lights draped here and there, candles dotted around every surface. I loved it.

  We settled in with wine – mine diluted with sparkling water, as I was driving – to wait for Ellie, who arrived ten minutes late, looking flustered.

  ‘So sorry I’m late.’ She kicked off her shoes, dropped onto the sofa, snatched Sophie’s wine glass out of her hand and took a large gulp. ‘That’s better. Men! Drive you mad.’

  Raising a perfectly arched eyebrow, Sophie asked, ‘Shall I get you your own glass?’

  ‘Yes, please. But could you add a load of ice? I’m feeling hot and bothered, and it’s not just my age.’

  When she was suitably medicated and the pizza was in the oven, we waited, agog.

  Ellie frowned. ‘What? Why are you both staring at me?’

  ‘We are waiting for you to tell us what is wrong,’ Sophie pointed out.

  ‘Oh.’ She shook her head. ‘No. I don’t go in for that sort of thing. Girly group confessions. Sorry.’

  That didn’t surprise me, but Sophie winked at me and we waited like vultures until, after what seemed like an age, Ellie buckled.

  ‘Okay. Fine. What the heck? So, I met this man two months ago. We were attracted. I ascertained he wasn’t married – been burned there before – and I told him in no uncertain terms at the start that I don’t do romance. We had sex. He sent me flowers. I told him off. He was contrite. I forgave him. The sex was good, so I figured he deserved another chance. It’s been fine for weeks. No flowers, no proclamations of undying love. Just how I like it.’

  ‘So what went wrong?’ I asked her, amazed at this new side to Ellie. So far, I’d got the impression that she was decidedly single and disapproved of men altogether.

  ‘It turns out he’d been holding it all in.’ When Sophie giggled, Ellie clarified. ‘The undying love, that is. He’s madly in love with me for some reason, and he wants us to have a proper relationship involving candlelit meals and holding hands and all that crap.’ She shuddered.

 

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