Return to the Little French Guesthouse

by Helen Pollard

  What I didn’t add was that I knew my mother was the organiser of all organisers and would, if my luck was in, plan the whole thing from the suburbs of Birmingham and send it as a done deal – shopping lists, recipes, games instructions, the lot.

  ‘No problem. Your dad’s obsessed with getting the garden sorted before autumn, so it’ll give me something to sink my teeth into.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum. I appreciate it.’

  And I did. Bossy mothers came in handy occasionally.

  ‘How’s your friend Jonathan?’ she asked. ‘Any better?’

  ‘We think he’s out of danger, but he’s still in hospital. He’s been so poorly, Mum.’

  ‘Pneumonia’s a nasty thing at that age, Emmy, but it sounds like he’s coming out the other side. I’m so glad.’

  ‘Me too. Thank you for asking.’

  I spent the rest of the afternoon e-mailing the guests who would be here at the weekend to warn them there would be a party, which they were welcome to join in with or ignore, and desperately hoping that nobody came back with any objections. Then I set about phoning Rupert’s friends and neighbours, roping Bob in to help me out.

  That evening, I went round to Alain’s. He handed me chilled wine and solicitously placed me in a chair at the back of the house, sitting next to me and taking my hand in his.

  I closed my eyes and absorbed the quiet for a moment, appreciating the feel of his fingers entwined in mine.

  ‘Things calmed down over there?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, thank God. Honestly, I can’t begin to tell you... It’s been bedlam.’

  Tongue in cheek, he asked, ‘Is this something you’re hoping to repeat every year, as a way of increasing the appeal and profits of La Cour des Roses?’

  ‘Ha! It’s something that I hope never to repeat in my lifetime. Portable toilets and caravans and tents? Nine vehicles jammed in the courtyard and on the lane, as well as ours? And I can’t tell you how much food those people got through.’

  His lips twitched. ‘At least you weren’t bored.’

  ‘Oh, I would so love to be bored right now, believe me.’

  ‘Boredom’s overrated.’ He raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘How about a little stimulation instead?’

  ‘Hmm. That could work, too.’

  We took our wine upstairs, and Alain took his time, making sure I appreciated stimulation in all its glory.

  ‘Feeling better?’ he asked afterwards as we lay on our sides, our foreheads touching.

  ‘Tired. But a nice kind of tired.’

  ‘You’ve been overdoing things.’

  ‘That’s what Madame Dupont said. She thinks I should take time to smell the flowers and all that guff.’

  Alain smiled. ‘I don’t suppose Jonathan told you how he’d only had ten years with Matthew and you should never live with regrets, did he?’

  ‘Funnily enough, last weekend, when he was looking all weak and pathetic…’

  We laughed. It was a wonderful thing – to be together, laughing and touching. It wasn’t something I could take for granted.

  ‘I love you,’ I told him solemnly, wanting to be the one to initiate it this time.

  He smiled. ‘I love you right back. I was worried you might have only said it the other night because you’d been influenced by the fairy lights and the music and the champagne.’

  I pouted. ‘You mean I won’t get those every weekend?’

  * * *

  I spent all my spare time between my usual duties reading through my mother’s e-mail of games and food, adapting them to suit, shopping, then taking everything to Alain’s to hide it away from Rupert.

  On Friday morning, Rupert took a call that made my heart soar. ‘That was the hospital,’ he told me as he clicked off. ‘They want me to go and discuss the possibility of Jonathan coming home.’

  ‘Really?’ Tears welled. ‘They must think he’s definitely okay then?’

  Rupert smiled broadly. ‘Must do. He’s a tough old sod underneath all that limping and wheezing. I knew he wasn’t ready to go yet.’ But there was a tear in his eye, too.

  We headed straight for the hospital, where the medical staff told Rupert that Jonathan could go home that afternoon, as long as he had help and someone checking on him regularly.

  ‘What do you think, Emmy?’ Rupert asked me. ‘Can we do it?’

  ‘I’m sure we can. Everyone will have to chip in. I’ll set up a rota. And Jonathan will have to behave.’

  He laughed. ‘Do you want to be the one to tell him that?’

  * * *

  Saturdays were bad enough without all the extra subterfuge. For every new arrival greeted by Rupert, I’d had to wait until he was elsewhere, collar them and reissue an open invitation to the party. Most were fine, some even eager. One or two suggested they might go out for the day.

  Madame Dupont offered to come early on Sunday to help, but I insisted she’d been invited as a guest and not for hard graft. I was only grateful she hadn’t offered several of her chickens as a contribution.

  My idea of putting on vintage British party fare had seemed a good idea at the time, but Mum’s list of ingredients had to be seriously adapted to suit what I could obtain in a French supermarket, and my general feeling of inadequacy was not helped by Rupert’s prawn salad, fish with perfectly steamed vegetables, followed by pavlova at the guest meal that night. All I could do was compare it to mini sausages on sticks in a panic. The only food item I was sure would be okay was the birthday cake Ellie had offered to bake – yet another facet to her that I would never have expected.

  By Sunday, I decided I must have inherited some of my mother’s social organisational aptitude, after all. I’d arranged for Jonathan to lure Rupert to his house for lunch and keep him there from twelve till three, during which time Alain and I ferried all the food and drink from his house to La Cour des Roses, while Ryan and his parents transformed the garden with garish bunting and balloons and Ryan set up what we needed for games.

  I only just had time to smarten up before guests began to arrive at two forty-five as instructed, which was when I phoned Rupert to tell him there was a leak in a guest bathroom. He heaved a sigh and said he was on his way. As soon as he left, Jonathan would text Bob, who would go over there on his bike and bring Jonathan in Jonathan’s car.

  Rupert arrived to cheers and whoops.

  ‘Emmy,’ he growled. ‘Is this your doing?’

  ‘Yes. You said I was to say no more about it. You didn’t say I couldn’t do anything about it.’

  Nerves fluttered in my stomach as I waited to see how he would take it. The trouble with surprise parties was that the surprise could be an unwanted one.

  But he kissed my cheek, said ‘Thank you for the party, love,’ and went off to greet everyone with gusto, while I breathed a sigh of relief.

  Ellie and Sophie had appointed themselves as drinks hostesses.

  ‘I do not understand any of this food.’ Sophie wrinkled her nose as she pointed at the array of halved melons turned upside down and stuck with cocktail sticks sporting combinations of cheese cubes, pineapple chunks, mini sausages and pickles; butterfly buns filled with blue buttercream (courtesy of Ellie); and a disgusting-looking trifle with enough cholesterol to kill an ox.

  ‘This was the height of sophistication in my youth, I’ll have you know,’ Ellie commented mildly, sending them both into peals of laughter.

  Ryan appeared, looking for a beer, and was quite disconcerted at the sight of scary Ellie giggling like a schoolgirl.

  As he wandered off, bottle in hand, Sophie gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘Well, I definitely would.’

  ‘Really?’ Ellie appraised Ryan’s admirable backside as he walked away. ‘Mmm. I can see where you’re coming from. Bit too hunky for me, though. And three decades too young.’

  ‘So what is your type?’

  ‘It has to be the silver fox nowadays, whether I like it or not. Preferably lean and fit. Definitely no beer belly. But the main criteria are comp
etence in bed, with no desire whatsoever to start proposing or anything equally ghastly.’

  We cast our eyes around for likely candidates, but Sophie’s gaze was distracted by Ryan again.

  Ellie tutted. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, why don’t you just make a move on him?’

  ‘I don’t know his type. I don’t want to be rejected.’

  Ellie and I both stared, gobsmacked, at the prettiest girl at the party by far.

  ‘Do you know what his type is, Emmy?’ Ellie asked.

  ‘I… Er, he once said he likes women he can talk to and feel comfortable with. I get the impression he’s not so bothered about them being too dolled up.’ That was as far as I was willing to go on that subject.

  I walked through the garden, saying hello to everyone as I weaved my way around the flowerbeds. It occurred to me that autumn would soon start to turn the leaves of the trees, and I looked forward to seeing what changes a new season would bring.

  I dutifully greeted our mayor – Bob had advised me that it never went amiss to invite him to such things. He kissed me on both cheeks and told me I was clearly a born organiser, which boded well for my future business. The whole time I was talking to him, I was aware that most female eyes in the vicinity were upon him.

  Jonathan was seated in the shade near the patio, with Bob and Alain to keep him company, and the dog secured around the chair leg in case she got too excited and stormed off on a mission to trip up all the guests or decided the feast in the kitchen was not to be ignored.

  ‘Jonathan, are you okay? You’re not going to get too tired?’ I asked him.

  ‘I’m fine, lovey. It’s lovely to be out and about. Don’t you worry.’

  Madame Dupont came over, and she and Jonathan began a garbled conversation. They seemed to be enjoying themselves, and it allowed Bob and Alain to mingle for a while.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I asked Alain when he came over to steal a quick kiss.

  ‘Yes. It’s good to be here. To know I’m welcome.’

  ‘You and Rupert are going to be fine. He values you as a friend.’

  ‘I know.’

  I squared my shoulders. ‘Right. Time for games.’

  I corralled the guests into some semblance of order. Nobody would be forced to take part, but thanks to the punch they’d enjoyed, plenty were game. Spectators lined the edges of the garden and we started with races, the flowerbeds and trees making the ‘course’ a little more exciting. The bean-bag (or in this case, rice-bag), three-legged and egg-and-spoon races were completed – the latter won by Madame Dupont, who had the iron control of a woman who could finish off a chicken without flinching.

  With everyone loosened up, we moved on to the more risqué games.

  Squeak, Piggy, Squeak involved adults, unfazed at being blindfolded, sitting on a cushion on someone’s lap, asking them to squeak and trying to guess who they were. Since not everyone knew each other, it was made more hilarious with guesses like ‘that chap with the glasses and the quiff’ and ‘the lady in the green dress with the impressive cleavage’.

  Still on a blindfold theme, we moved on to Blind Man’s Bluff, where people were allowed to stagger around trying to grope – er, I mean, tag – people, with similar outlandish guesses.

  Since everyone now knew each other somewhat better than before, we formed two teams in a line, a balloon at the head of each to be passed to the player behind until it reached the back – using no hands. I was all for specifying a politically correct version, but the older team declared this to be for sissies and said that any body parts were allowed (bar hands).

  If I’d worried about the party being a damp squib, I needn’t have. Those of the generation who remembered such games were all for taking part, those bewildered by their antics were happy to watch and laugh, and plenty of younger guests were willing to take a leaf from their elders’ book for a change.

  ‘I see Sophie’s got herself well positioned,’ Ellie said wryly at my side as we watched.

  Sophie had managed to get herself next in line to Ryan, and they were passing the balloon between them in a disturbingly erotic manner.

  Ellie fanned her face. ‘Is it my age or is it getting hot out here?’

  With the older line winning hands down, a second game was declared, and Ellie and I were roped in.

  Alain gallantly made sure he was behind me, so I only had to endure dubious movements with one stranger, and then it was our turn. I felt ridiculous as we manoeuvred the balloon between us. It didn’t stop me wanting to duck out of the game and drag him behind the nearest bush, though.

  We turned to watch the other team in time to see Ellie and Rupert engaged in combat with their balloon. I gaped as they wriggled against each other and exchanged coy smiles. Either Ellie was overheated… or she was blushing.

  ‘Now, wouldn’t that be an interesting pairing?’ Alain murmured at my ear.

  As everyone laughed and cheered, I felt a rush of happiness. I had a new life, a new man, and a best friend who was finally willing to forgive him.

  ‘Happy?’ Alain asked.

  ‘Yes. Very.’

  With that game over, I decided we needed a break and declared it time to eat. Thankfully, the food was well received – nostalgically in the case of some, and as a novelty for others.

  Ellie and I placed candles on the cake to form the figures for sixty. We could have tried putting sixty candles very close together, but the lawn was dry and I didn’t want to risk a conflagration. Lighting them, we carried it out to the garden and launched into ‘Happy Birthday’, with everyone joining in. And when that rendition had finished, the mayor and Madame Dupont began a French version, with Sophie and the other French guests joining them.

  Rupert good-naturedly closed his eyes to make a wish and blew out his candles. I wondered what he’d wished for.

  Jonathan hoisted himself up and very slowly ambled into the middle of the gathering, where Bob tapped the side of his glass for him.

  ‘I’d like to propose a toast,’ Jonathan said, as the chatter died down. ‘Rupert has been my friend for six years now, and I’m sure many of you will realise that he’s not exactly thrilled about being sixty. I don’t know what he’s moaning about. He ought to try being nearly eighty!’

  A chuckle rippled through the crowd.

  ‘I’m not going to make a long speech, but I do want to say this. People harp on about carpe diem – seize the day. Well, my friends, when you look at it from my side of life, you realise they have a point. Appreciate what you’ve got. Your health, your friends, your loved ones, your lovers. The fact is, life’s too damned short.’

  He raised his glass in Rupert’s direction. ‘As for this young man here, God knows he’s had a hard time of it lately, but he’s still made time to look out for his friends, to ensure his guests have a brilliant stay and managed to retain that dreadful sense of humour of his. He’s always grabbed life by the horns, and I hope he will continue to do so for many years to come. To Rupert. Happy birthday!’

  His sentiment echoed back from the crowd, and then he began to sing ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’.

  I couldn’t think of a more perfect way to sum it up.

  Since nobody was showing any sign of wanting to leave, we moved on to the finale: tug of war. Typically, they insisted on men versus women, and the men won – but as everyone collapsed in a heap on the grass, nobody seemed to care.

  Smiling, I picked myself up and dusted myself down. I was just thinking about clearing up in the kitchen when I felt a tug on my arm.

  ‘Come with me,’ Alain said.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Somewhere quiet.’ He dragged me off to the orchard.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Seizing the day.’ He kissed me thoroughly. ‘I’m so in love with you, Emmy. And I can’t believe I’m lucky enough for you to be in love with me.’

  My heart stuttered, and I reached out to link my fingers in his as a warm feeling of wellbeing flooded my system. ‘Wel
l, I am, so stop being so soppy. Have you been drinking?’

  ‘Of course. A little. But I have also been inspired by Jonathan’s speech.’

  I frowned. ‘Which bit?’

  ‘I think it hit me at “life’s too damned short”.’ He took my hands in his and dropped to one knee, right there on the grass under the shade of an old apple tree. ‘Emmeline Jamieson, will you marry me?’

  I stared down at him, my jaw open in surprise, my heart thudding against my ribcage.

  ‘Since I can see you’re speechless, I should add that I’ve never felt about anyone the way I feel about you. The thought that I was losing you was the most awful feeling I’ve ever had. The time I spend with you is the best I have, and when I’m not with you, I can’t wait to see you again. Does that help?’

  My mind raced at the same rate as my pulse. Was this too quick? Did we know each other well enough? Was it just a besotted thing that would fizzle out, or was it proper love?

  I looked into those caramel eyes; stared at that mouth that I loved kissing; thought about his fingers linked in mine, knowing I never wanted to forget how that felt.

  And said ‘Yes’.

  Alain had been holding his breath. It came out in a whoosh, but then he caught it again. ‘Er – yes, that helps? Or yes, you’ll marry me?’

  I smiled. ‘Both.’

  And then his lips were on mine, and there in the dappled sunlight of the orchard, with his mouth working its magic, my body humming and my heart soaring, I knew for sure that no matter what life threw at me, my future lay right here.

  Letter from Helen

  Thank you for choosing Return to The Little French Guesthouse.

  I have had so many lovely comments from readers telling me how much they enjoyed following Emmy’s adventures in The Little French Guesthouse, so it has been a delight and a privilege for me to be able to continue her story as she, Alain, Rupert and friends negotiate the minefield of daily life at La Cour des Roses – romance, good times, bad times, heartache; as Emmy would say, ‘the whole caboodle’.