What Happens in France

by What Happens in France (retail) (epub)

  Roxanne continued with her spiel. ‘Could you wear the outfits we discussed with each of you on Skype? We don’t want you clashing with each other. Make sure they’re clean and pressed. Cameras have a horrible way of making the tiniest stain stand out. That’s everything for now. Sleep tight. You’ve got a big day tomorrow.’

  ‘Roxanne,’ called Bryony. ‘Is Anneka Rice going to be on set tomorrow?’

  Roxanne hesitated a second. ‘Anneka Rice? She isn’t the presenter. Whatever gave you that idea?’

  Bryony’s cheeks burned. ‘A fellow contestant at the audition told me she’d overheard someone say it was going to be her.’

  Roxanne shook her head. ‘No. She was never considered. The person must have been pulling your leg. Don’t worry. The presenter they chose is amazing. You’ll love him.’ With that and a wave, she shot off towards the taxi rank, leaving the group to follow Philippe.

  Once on board the minibus, Bryony fell silent. It had been a long day filled with excitement and now she was overcome with fatigue. She was not sure what to expect over the next couple of days but the news that Anneka Rice would not be hosting the show was a severe blow. Without Anneka, Hannah might never tune in.

  Lewis picked up on her mood and left her to her thoughts, chatting amiably to Jim and Oscar as they tried to guess where they were headed. Biggie kept his eyes on the road as if memorizing the route.

  Little by little the conversation ebbed away and they sat in companionable silence as the minibus gobbled up the miles. Eventually it pulled up in front of a small château.

  ‘Hotel Petit Château,’ read Oscar. ‘It seems we’ve not only travelled in a private jet but we’re now going to spend a night in a château. Who’s paying for us to enjoy the high life?’

  ‘The production company is footing all the bills. Laura told me the French tourist agency is contributing a generous amount in an attempt to drum up interest in the region and to attract more British tourists to the country,’ Jim replied.

  ‘That’s very generous and I for one shall do my bit to cement Anglo–French relations. I shall enjoy testing out their wines and rating them in my little black book of wines,’ said Lewis.

  Jim entered the cool foyer ahead of the others, who filed in behind him, heads turning to take in the elegant furnishings and walls in harmonious shades of greys and blues, decorated with paintings of dancing women. A tall, rangy, untidy figure of a man in a light-pink shirt, jeans held up by a pink and blue candy-striped belt, entered the lobby, arms wide open, and a large, gap-toothed smile on his face.

  ‘Bonjour. I am Bertrand de Saint-Aldin. Welcome to my home, the Hotel Petit Château. You are the film people.’

  ‘That’s us,’ answered Jim, setting his brand new wheeled bag onto the expensive marble tiles.

  ‘I have your room keys ready. First, I must tell you, you are invited to dinner at eight thirty. There will be drinks in the lounge over there,’ he said, pointing to a room along the hall. ‘You must sample our famous wine grown here on the estate. It is,’ he said, forming a circle with his forefinger and thumb and pressing them to his lips, ‘formidable – delicious!’ he explained. Bryony suspected he enjoyed sampling the fine wine from various vineyards, and not merely his own. ‘Now, can I have your names please?’

  ‘I’m James Moore,’ said Jim.

  Oscar stepped forward, cuddling the tote bag. ‘And I’m Oscar Brooks.’

  ‘Ah,’ Bertrand exclaimed, looking animated. ‘You are the man with the big, small dog. Where is your big, small dog?’

  Biggie chose that moment to make his entrance. He peered out from the bag, brow wrinkled, tongue out, and gave the man a quizzical look.

  ‘That’s him.’

  ‘He is a fine dog – and he is wearing a little French beret,’ Bertrand remarked. ‘He is a petit chien français dressed like this, no? Monsieur Brooks you are sharing the suite with Monsieur Moore. You have one big bed and a separate room with two smaller beds – one for you and one for the dog, n’est-ce pas? Is that okay?’ He handed them the key.

  Oscar nodded enthusiastically. ‘Thank you. Merci. Yes, that’s fine. I hope you don’t snore too loudly.’

  Jim shrugged his shoulders and replied, ‘Cathy says I keep her awake some nights. I snore badly if I eat cheese. If I don’t eat cheese, I’ll be fine. It must be the—’

  ‘I don’t mean you, Jim. I was talking to Biggie,’ replied Oscar. ‘I don’t mind if you snore. I hope Biggie doesn’t make too much noise for you. Did you hear that, Biggie? You get your very own bed to sleep in too. You’ll be able to spread out in style. Come on, Jim, let’s go and check it out and then you can phone Cathy to tell her all about the journey here. I want to take some photos of Biggie in the bedroom before I mess it all up with my gear. See you all downstairs in an hour,’ he shouted, leaping up the stairs two at a time. Jim followed behind, admiring the décor and the exquisite wooden staircase as he climbed the stairs.

  A telephone rang in the kitchen and Bertrand excused himself, leaving Bryony and Lewis waiting. The door to the dining room was ajar. Bryony stuck her head in. It was filled with dark period furniture, ornate in style and fitting for the château. A large portrait of a stern man hung above a dark chest of drawers. An oval table covered with a rich red cloth and set for five people occupied the centre of the room. Suddenly, she drew her breath. ‘Lewis, am I imagining things or is there a painting of The Last Supper on the wall. It must be a reproduction,’ she squeaked.

  Lewis peered at the painting. ‘It’s definitely a reproduction and it’s been expertly painted. The faces on it are slightly different to the original. Besides, it’s highly unlikely anyone would own the original. That hangs in a convent in Milan and I shouldn’t think anyone could steal it. For one thing, it’s pretty large. Think it’s about fifteen feet by twenty-nine feet. Bit difficult to sneak it into a handbag or briefcase. But more importantly, Leonardo da Vinci painted it on the dining hall wall.’

  Bryony’s mouth dropped open in surprise and she blushed at her ignorance. Lewis flashed a smile. ‘Not a lot of people know that,’ he said, emulating Michael Caine.

  Bertrand reappeared and discovered them in front of the painting. ‘This reproduction is by one of my ancestors. It is good, no?’

  ‘First-rate.’

  ‘It was painted around 1850 by a famous painter, reproducing the well-known The Last Supper from Leonardo da Vinci,’ continued Bertrand. ‘Which of course was painted many years before that between 1495 and 1498. This, however, is a very fine painting,’ he repeated, a smile of satisfaction across his face. ‘I have your room key. You are in the Chambre Louis XVII. It is my preferred room and has a wonderful view of the garden and the pond. I hope you like it.’ He held the key out to Lewis.

  ‘Where am I staying?’ asked Bryony.

  The man’s eyebrows furrowed together. ‘With your fiancé.’

  ‘I can’t share that room with him because—’ Bryony began.

  She was interrupted by a bewildered Bertrand. ‘All the rooms are occupied. The Chambre Louis XVII room is exquisite,’ he added, wringing his hands together and misunderstanding her concern. ‘It is my honeymoon room for couples. Everyone adores it.’

  Lewis put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Come on, darling. Don’t confuse the gentleman. We’ll be very happy with it. Thank you, Bertrand.’ He took the key from the man, who seemed relieved. He offered Lewis a small bow in return.

  ‘Just go upstairs,’ he whispered to Bryony. ‘We’ll sort it out when we get there or tomorrow morning. I’ll sleep on the floor if necessary.’

  ‘Okay, maybe a room will come free tomorrow. If Jim can manage to share with Oscar and Biggie Smalls, I’m sure we’ll cope.’

  They headed upstairs and paused outside the room they’d been allocated. Lewis unlocked the door and Bryony let out a small gasp. It filled with antique furniture befitting of its name. The walls were papered in lavish cream and beige patterned wallpaper. A king-sized bed covered by a superb, h
andcrafted bedspread and matching cream pillows filled one wall. Two pillows embroidered in the same material were suspended from a brass railing above the bed. A period fireplace, over which hung a huge mirror, made the room appear larger and added to the feeling of grandeur.

  Bryony placed her bag on the wooden floor and wandered to the open window, drawn by the sound of cicadas chirping in the garden below. The sky was deep shades of purple, orange and yellow, the colours so vibrant they were almost unrealistic. The delicate perfume of scented roses floated in with the warm evening air. From the dark pond that shimmered in the distance came the chorus of frogs, adding to the insect melody beneath the window. Their musical strains soothed her jaded nerves and she breathed in deeply before returning her gaze to Lewis. He gave her one of his mischievous grins, knocking her off-guard. He had placed an eiderdown and pillow on the floor in front of the bed.

  ‘Ta-dah!’ he announced. ‘It’ll be like camping only in the dry and it’ll remind me of being in the boy scouts minus the woggles for holding up scarves,’ he explained, ‘And the camp fires singing ‘Ging Gang Goolie’.’

  ‘You were a boy scout?’

  ‘Got my cook activity badge to prove it. I slaved over an omelette and some cornflake cakes to earn it. They were awesome cornflake cakes too. They became my speciality. My mum was so proud of that badge she sewed it onto a blanket for safekeeping. I think she’s still got it somewhere. I didn’t last long in the scouts. I wasn’t cut out for life under canvas or doing outdoor stuff. I never got the hang of rubbing twigs to make campfires. Good thing we’re not on one of those survival shows. We’d perish with me in charge. Give me a room, a cooked meal and a laptop any day.’

  Bryony’s mouth twitched. Lewis had also discovered and placed an old-fashioned twin bell alarm clock beside his makeshift bed.

  ‘You can’t lie on that uneven floor. It creaks and I’m sure it’s uncomfortable. The bed’s massive. If you don’t mind sharing, we can both sleep there.’

  ‘If you are sure. If not, I can always ask Oscar if I could use his spare bed.’

  ‘Gosh no! Biggie Smalls won’t like that. He’s a dog used to his comforts. Also, it isn’t fair to either Oscar or Jim. Sharing with one stranger is hard enough, let alone two. Poor Jim will be completely thrown out with two men and a dog in the room adjoining his. We’re a team so we’ll stick together. Besides, Oscar and Jim might try to nobble you in the night so we can’t win, or tie you to the bed so you can’t get to the meeting in the morning, or Jim will drown you in his vast fountain of knowledge or at least demoralize you.’

  ‘My, you have a vivid imagination,’ he scoffed. She pursed her lips to protest and he grinned. ‘It is probably better if we don’t separate tonight. We don’t want them discovering too soon that you’re the brains of our team and I’m only here to cheerlead. How about I place a pillow in between us if that helps protect your modesty.’

  ‘I’m not exactly worried about you jumping on me in the night, if that’s what you mean,’ she laughed. ‘After all, I’m not your type, am I?’

  Lewis deftly changed the focus of their conversation. ‘Any idea what to expect tomorrow, then?

  ‘No. I am stumped. I looked at the road signs on the way here so I’m aware of where we are but I can’t work out what the crew has planned for us. The only clue we were given was when Laura mentioned a treasure hunt during the Skype interview, so there must be one. Until we’re told more, I’m as puzzled as you.’ She paused for a second before saying, ‘Sorry for being difficult about sharing a room. It’s not like me to be grouchy. I was pretty disappointed to find out Anneka won’t be hosting the show.’

  ‘Is that all? What’s the big deal about that presenter? It doesn’t matter who’s hosting, does it? You’ll be on television, and if we play our cards right, you’ll win a significant amount of money for your charity.’

  ‘True. I need to stop being such a misery and get on enjoying this experience – after all, look at this place.’ Bryony glanced about appreciatively, threw her travel bag onto the bed and unzipped it.

  ‘Why’s it so important that Anneka Rice hosts the show?’

  ‘It’s silly, really. I can’t explain why.’

  Lewis raised an eyebrow. ‘You are shrouded in mystery, Bryony Masters.’

  Bryony shrugged. ‘I’m bagging the bathroom first – woman’s prerogative. It’s a fact that we take much longer to get ready than men,’ she stated, bringing the conversation to an end.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  SUNDAY, 23 JULY – EVENING

  Relaxed against a plump cushion on an extremely comfy settee, Bryony sipped her glass of wine. Bertrand stood proudly with a bottle in his hand, extolling the virtue of the grapes used to make the rather delicious, fruity Muscadet wine.

  ‘Nantes is the capital of the Muscadet region,’ he explained. ‘And last year was an excellent year for the grapes.’

  The wine was making Bryony feel mellow. She’d eaten little during the day and was now beginning to experience the warm, fuzzy feeling of the first stages of being drunk. She focused on the others, blocking out some of Bertrand’s monologue. Jim’s brown, button-like eyes shone. He was no doubt soaking up Bertrand’s every word and committing it all to memory. He had a colossal capacity to recall information. In her opinion, the man was a human encyclopedia and his intelligence far outshone her own. Bryony reckoned she stood little chance of winning each day with Jim as an opponent. She might make it to day four or even five if she was lucky. Worse still, there’d be no Anneka. She felt downhearted at the futility of that part of her plan that had held so much promise. She glanced at Lewis, balanced on the edge of his stool. He too appeared fascinated by Bertrand’s words and his eyes glittered with expectation. She scanned the room, taking in Jim’s and Oscar’s eager faces, and sensed the collective feel of anticipation. She mentally chastised her negativity and tuned back in to Bertrand.

  Bertrand was talking about his home, arms outstretched as he gesticulated towards pieces of furniture and wall decorations. ‘Hotel Petit Château is a fine dwelling dating from the time of the Directoire.’ Bryony could not ingest any more facts. She had no idea who or what the Directoire was. Having listened to Jim for most of the journey to France, her brain was now full to the brim with facts. A gong sounded, interrupting Bertrand in mid-flow.

  ‘I think now, dinner is ready,’ Bertrand declared. ‘We must eat.’ Bryony registered they were moving, her nose picking up on the aroma of roast chicken that now wafted into the room.

  ‘Biggie, you have to wait here.’ Oscar wagged a finger at the small animal. ‘Sit. Stay.’ Biggie looked dejected and slumped onto the floor.

  ‘He’s not allowed at the table or to beg for food. He has a strict diet and I don’t want him ballooning up. I’ll never be able to carry him about if he becomes heavy and fat. Besides, it’s not nice for anyone to have a salivating pug staring at them while they eat.’

  ‘Quite right,’ said Jim. The wine had gone to his head too and he had begun to slur his words. ‘Discipline. That’s the thing. We had plenty of discipline in the army. My, how I missed it when I came out into civvy street. It’s difficult to quit the routine once you leave. And I missed the camaraderie even more. It was like leaving behind a huge family of brothers and uncles.’ A wistful look played across his face. He did not, however, talk at length about the army. Instead he put a fatherly arm around Oscar’s shoulder and complimenting Bertrand on his taste in furnishings, walked ahead with the pair, leaving Bryony and Lewis trailing in their wake.

  ‘Anyone here need pinching to make sure this is all for real?’ asked a deep voice. Bryony and Lewis turned towards it. It belonged to a colossus of a man dressed in cargo print trousers and an olive T-shirt that stretched over his barrel chest. At about six foot five, he towered over his partner and with his bald head, a large round face and merry, green eyes he resembled a friendly ogre.

  Lewis was the first to speak up. ‘I’m Lewis and this is Bryony. Ni
ce to meet you.’

  ‘Donald and this is my partner, Nicola. She’s not my “partner”, if you know what I mean. We’re not living together.’

  ‘Heaven forbid,’ replied Nicola, smirking at the big man.

  ‘She’s my partner for this show. I’m actually happily married to one of her sisters, Eve. Eve and I always hold hands, even after twenty-five years together,’ he said a wistful look in his eyes before adding, ‘If I let go of it she shops.’ His throaty laugh filled the air.

  Nicola tried hard not to chortle at his remark. ‘That’s not true and you know it!’

  Donald wriggled heavy eyebrows on his craggy forehead. ‘They’re all tough women in their family. Six women! I pity my father-in-law. Imagine what a life he had – all those nagging women to deal with. Even the dog was female. This one,’ he said, pointing at Nicola, ‘badgered me senseless until I agreed to audition for the show with her, then complained when we actually got teamed up. I wouldn’t mind but I know naff all about France. Now, if it was about football…’

  ‘I didn’t badger you. You were really keen to get away for a few days and skip off work. Besides, it was never a given you and I would get through or be teamed up.’

  ‘See,’ mouthed Donald, pointing a digit at her. ‘Bossy!’

  ‘You eating with us?’

  Donald shook his head. ‘No, we arrived much earlier than you and went into town, so we’ve already eaten. Thought we’d opt for an early night, ready for tomorrow. Don’t let us hold you up. See you tomorrow.’

  ‘Competition,’ whispered Lewis as the couple headed up the stairs. ‘Deliberately being over-friendly when really he wants to beat us.’

  ‘Really? How did you come to that conclusion?’ Bryony asked.

  Lewis tapped the side of his nose. ‘Intuition. Don’t worry. He might be broad and tall, but I have the secret weapon in my team – Brainy Bryony.’ He gave a quiet chuckle and swept her into the dining room. A patterned casserole dish sat in the centre of the table. Next to it stood a polished, silver dish filled with perfectly golden roast potatoes garnished with rosemary. Bertrand lifted the lid of the casserole dish, allowing the aroma of garlic, herbs and chicken to escape. Bryony’s stomach rumbled.