The Chateau

by Catherine Cooper

  Emilie leads us through an enormous atrium with a crystal chandelier into a small lounge with an oversized fireplace. Though the days are generally still warm, the fire is lit, no doubt because it makes the room look more impressive. There are two huge antique leather sofas on either side of it with a glass coffee table in between, on which rest two giant copper urns. There is a couple on each sofa, the women a little older than us – about the same age as Helen, but way more glamorous; the men a decade or more older than them. There’s also a man in his mid-twenties sitting in an armchair at the end of the coffee table.

  ‘Monsieur and Madame Dorian, may I present Monsieur and Madame Byng,’ she indicates the couple to the left, ‘and Monsieur and Madame Silverthorn. And also Monsieur Hervé who is joining us this evening. Would you both like a glass of champagne?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ Nick and I say at the same time. I am not planning to drink much this evening – I offered to drive, pretending that I was being generous so that Nick could relax, but really I want to be in charge of when we leave in case the boys need me. But having seen the other guests and the surroundings, I’m even more nervous than I was before. I tell myself it will be OK to have a glass or two to help me ease into the evening.

  They all get to their feet and come over to welcome us, and everyone does the bise – one kiss each side. Both women are wearing floor-length dresses – one I recognize from a magazine as a Temperley – and again I feel underdressed and awkward. One of the women has clearly fake boobs and the other looks like she’s recently had lip fillers which haven’t settled down yet. Thea had said the dress code would be ‘smart casual’, which the men seem to have taken on board – they are all dressed similarly to Nick, except for Hervé (is that his first or second name? It wasn’t clear), who is wearing a traditional dinner jacket. The women are perfectly coiffed and dressed as if they are gracing the red carpet at a film premiere. I wonder if Thea deliberately downplayed the smartness of the occasion, wanting me to feel awkward and on the back foot. If that was her plan, she certainly succeeded.

  Where is Thea anyway?

  Nick and I sit opposite each other, one on each sofa, and Emilie returns with the champagne and a fresh plate of canapés.

  ‘You’re new to the area, I believe?’ one of the men asks. He looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t quite place him.

  I nod, quickly chewing and swallowing the quail’s egg dusted with paprika. ‘Yes, we are. We arrived a few weeks ago; we’ve bought a chateau about fifteen minutes away to renovate and run as a B&B, eventually. And you? Have you been here long?’

  He takes a large gulp of his champagne. ‘We’ve had the house around ten years. Tiggy’s been here most of the time for about the last five or so; I’m mainly in London and come for weekends and holidays and the like.’

  ‘Sounds idyllic!’ I say, wondering if I would love or hate being alone in our chateau, just me and the boys. ‘And what do you do in London?’

  ‘I’m an MP,’ he says. Ah. That’s why he looks familiar. And I guess Thea wasn’t merely trying to impress by saying that her dinner guests needed privacy. ‘So it’s a little tricky to get out here too often as it’s the done thing to be in the constituency at weekends, but I can usually fly over every other weekend or so. Plus during recesses obviously.’

  ‘Gosh. Must be hard to spend so much time apart,’ I say, though I’ve already decided I am a little envious. Especially the way things are between Nick and me at the moment.

  ‘You get used to it,’ Tiggy says. ‘I have our two girls to keep me busy, during the school holidays at least, and a little landscape gardening business.’

  ‘I see. And you, Mr …’ I’ve totally forgotten all the names Emilie gave us and it only now strikes me as weird that she introduced everyone by their surnames. Does anyone even do that anymore outside of school?

  ‘Tristram,’ he says. ‘We live out here full-time, bar popping back now and again to sort out the various property investments we have in the UK. This is my wife, Celia.’

  The one with the fake boobs. ‘Lovely to meet you,’ I say. She smiles in reply, but doesn’t say anything.

  ‘And you, Hervé?’ I ask. ‘Do you live locally?’

  ‘No, I live in Toulouse,’ he says, his voice more heavily accented than Emilie’s. It’s the first time I’ve looked at him properly and he really is extraordinarily good-looking. ‘I am, ’ow you say, in the entertainment business.’

  The champagne is slipping down nicely and I’m already starting to feel more relaxed and am about to ask Hervé something else when a gong sounds. It’s so unexpected I can’t help but laugh.

  ‘What’s that?’ I squeak.

  Emilie is standing at the door holding a small brass gong and a mallet.

  ‘Mademoiselle Thea d’Arbanville,’ she announces.

  Everyone stands up and I suppress an urge to giggle. What the fuck? I glance at Nick, but he isn’t looking at me. Thea is gliding across the room in a bodycon white gown (also floor-length, naturally) with a gossamer cape.

  ‘Darlings! So pleased you could all make it this evening. Dinner is served – shall we go through?’

  10

  September, Mozène

  Aura

  We cross the atrium to the other side of the chateau and enter the dining room, which is smaller and cosier than I had imagined. A fire is blazing in another oversized fireplace and a table covered in white linen is set for eight. There are place cards with our names on in elaborate cursive script, but there is no need to read them as Emilie and two butlers in tailcoats show us to our places. I am in between Tristram and the other man, whose name I have forgotten. Thea is between Nick and Hervé. The room is lit entirely by candlelight from ornate holders placed around the room. Elaborate candelabras on the table narrow at the bottom so they don’t obstruct the table or our view of each other and branch out higher up to light the table from there. Looking around at the others I can see it’s a very flattering, sensual light.

  As I sit down, I remember that I wanted to check my phone or even call home before we sat down for dinner, but it feels too late to get up from the table now. I put my bag on my lap rather than on the floor to be sure that I will hear the phone if Frank rings.

  The two butlers circle the table, offering more champagne.

  ‘Only a half-glass for me,’ I say, ‘I’m driving.’

  ‘I or my colleague will be happy to drive you home if you prefer,’ he says, ‘and arrange for your car to be delivered back to you. Mademoiselle d’Arbanville likes everyone to be able to fully relax into the evening. But that is up to you, of course. As you wish.’

  ‘Oh. OK.’ A large part of me wants to stay sober in case I need to go home before the end of the evening – I don’t want to feel trapped – but I catch a glance of Nick and Thea, heads together at the end of the table and her touching him on the arm as she throws back her head and laughs uproariously at something he’s said, and realize that a drink or two might help me get through the evening. ‘If you insist, I’ll have some more, thank you.’

  ‘I don’t insist – everything that happens this evening is your own decision,’ he says, which seems a strange thing to say, but maybe it’s because he is not speaking his first language.

  ‘Sorry, it’s just a turn of phrase. Yes, please, I would like some more champagne. Thank you.’

  He nods and tops up my glass. Nick is now whispering something in Thea’s ear. It is too intimate a position between two people who barely know each other. The sexy lighting reminds me how good-looking Nick is and why I fancied him so much all those years ago when we first met. He and Thea look like something from a film or a photoshoot, leaning in together like that, lit only by candles. Hot fury courses through me. Has he forgotten I’m here?

  I turn to the man on my left, who I’ve remembered is called Bertie.

  ‘So tell me, Bertie, what brought you to the Mozène?’

  Bertie launches into a long and boring story about how he w
as great friends with a previous prime minister who recommended the area so he came on holiday and fell in love with it and blah di blah di blah. I say ‘mmm-hmm’ and smile and nod in the right places, but all the while I’m keeping an eye on Nick and only half listening. I’m relieved to see Thea has now turned her attention to Hervé and is flicking her hair about like a show pony as he unashamedly casts approving glances at her ample cleavage. Nick is now talking to fake boobs woman, but I can tell by his face he doesn’t find her attractive or even interesting. I allow myself to relax a little.

  The butlers have distributed a cold amuse-bouche tomato soup and I eat it (all of two teaspoons) while Bertie drones on about the buying process for their chateau and how difficult it was to get planning permission for the home cinema extension. This time when the butler passes with the wine I ask for a glass of white without hesitation. It is cold, crisp and delicious.

  The amuse-bouches are cleared away and two enormous platters of oysters on crushed ice are brought out, with little jugs of shallot vinegar and intricately cut lemon halves. By now Bertie has moved on to some of the various problems they encountered with their builders and the difficulties of French paperwork. Nick is glazing over as fake boobs lady (Celia?) tells him a story about her housekeeper being deported; from the snatches I can glean, it’s a wonder he hasn’t died of boredom.

  ‘And you, Aura,’ Bertie asks as the oyster shells are taken away and Chateaubriand steak is carved at the table and dished up onto piping hot plates with dauphinoise potatoes and asparagus spears, ‘do you have children?’

  It’s the first time he’s stopped droning on about himself all evening to ask me a question, so I’m a bit taken aback. I take a bite of the steak – it is incredibly tender – before answering. ‘Yes, we have two boys, Sorrel and Bay,’ I reply.

  ‘Interesting names,’ he says, somewhat patronizingly. ‘And … how old are they? Are they out here with you?’

  I know I don’t look like much compared to the other women here tonight, but surely I don’t look old enough to have grown-up children? I’m not even thirty years old! Lost for words, I reach for my glass. It’s empty, but a butler appears and I accept a glass of red to go with the steak.

  ‘Bay’s fifteen months and Sorrel’s nearly three,’ I say.

  He nods. ‘Lovely ages. Ours are a bit older, but they’re at boarding school most of the time now anyway.’ Ah – that was what he was asking. He thought they were away at school. That I was someone who would have children only to send them away, like him. It’s clear I have absolutely nothing in common with these people. ‘So where are your children tonight?’ he continues. ‘Did you bring them with you?’

  ‘No, I didn’t realize that was an option.’ Was it? I’d much rather have done that. Thea didn’t offer – I’d have remembered if she had. Then again I can’t see the boys fitting into this set-up. Even if I’d managed to get them to go to sleep upstairs somewhere, they’d probably have been awake and shouting for me by now. Or they’d be toddling around, covering some of Thea’s no doubt priceless objets in sticky handprints. Or even worse, breaking things. I feel a pang of guilt that I haven’t phoned to check on them yet or even looked at my phone. I touch my bag again. I’d have heard if it had rung, surely? After this course I will excuse myself and at the very least see if I have any messages – or call Frank, if I can.

  ‘We’ve got a guy called Frank babysitting them, you might know him?’ I say. ‘Been out here for ages. He’s a friend of Thea’s; he introduced us to her, actually.’

  ‘Ah! Frank. Yes. I know. Oh, they’ll be fine with Frank – he’ll do anything for anyone. Salt of the earth type – I know he helped Tiggy out a lot, especially when we first arrived. And he’s always happy to pop over to fix a blocked sink or minor IT issue when I’m not here. Or even if I am – I’d be the first to admit I’m not very good at getting my hands dirty,’ he guffaws.

  My wine has been topped up yet again, and I’m feeling slightly drunk, which gives me the courage to ask what I was wondering about earlier. ‘I was surprised when Frank offered to babysit – I thought he’d be invited this evening too, being that he said he and Thea are good friends?’

  Bertie laughs. ‘Frank can be something of a liability at parties, especially ones like these. Gets a tad … overexcited, shall we say.’

  What does he mean by that? That he drinks too much? I left him a couple of beers to have with the lasagne but … oh God. Is he an alcoholic?

  ‘But you’ve got nothing to worry about with your nippers – he used to babysit ours often. I’d trust him with my life – but probably not with my wife!’ He laughs uproariously at his own joke and I titter along politely, even though it doesn’t seem particularly funny.

  The plates are cleared away and I seize the opportunity to go to the loo to check my phone. My head spins as I stand up and it is a struggle to walk straight.

  Emilie is waiting outside the dining room – has she been there all this time? – and leads me to a door at the end of the corridor.

  Inside there is an anteroom with a pink chaise longue and a vanity unit with perfume, hairspray, disposable hairbrushes in a pot, hand cream and even a discreet dish of tampons. It’s so feminine I can only assume this is actually a bathroom especially for female visitors and there’s a separate one for men. How weird. I go through the next door into the actual loo, put the lid down and sit on top of the seat.

  I take my phone out and feel a whoosh of relief as I see that there are no messages. Even so, after Bertie’s cryptic remarks about Frank, I can’t help but call. Frank answers on the second ring.

  ‘Hello?’ he says. He doesn’t sound drunk. At least, nowhere near as drunk as I am. ‘Aura?’

  ‘Yes, it’s me,’ I whisper, because I think Emilie is waiting for me outside the door and I don’t want her to hear. ‘I’m just ringing to check everything’s OK.’

  ‘Yes, all fine and dandy. I enjoyed your lovely lasagne, the boys woke up about an hour ago, I read them a couple of stories and they went back to sleep, good as gold. You’ve got nothing to worry about. You having fun there?’

  ‘Um, yes,’ I say, because it feels rude to say no when he was the one who introduced us to Thea. ‘I decided to have a drink so one of the … I guess they’re staff, said they’d drive us back, but we won’t be too late.’

  ‘No rush, you take your time. I’m a night owl anyway, and nothing particular to get back for.’ I wonder if he’s angling for an invitation to stay the night, but my head is too fuzzy to work it out, so I push the thought away.

  ‘OK, thanks, Frank. And you’ll call me if there are any problems?’

  ‘In a heartbeat. Now go and have fun!’

  I lift the seat, have a wee, flush and then wash my hands. I look at myself in the mirror. My face is blotchy from all the wine and my mascara is smudged, but in my rush to leave the house I forgot to bring any make-up with me. Ah well. I’ll have to do.

  Emilie is indeed waiting for me outside the door and leads me back to the dining room even though it’s just up the corridor and I could have easily found my way. Bertie is now chatting to Nick and fake boobs lady, so I can’t ask him what he meant about Frank. Though I’m not so worried now that I’ve spoken to him and it sounds like everything is fine at home, thankfully.

  Dessert is crêpes Suzette – they are being flambéed on a trolley at the side of the table by one of the butlers. I glance at Nick, who is looking rather glassy-eyed – not sure if that’s the drink or the conversation. A bit of both, I think. Thea is now practically in Hervé’s lap, though he doesn’t seem to mind. Perhaps they’re a couple? There was nothing to indicate they were earlier, but who knows?

  The man on the other side of me – Tristram – is now chatting with lip-filler woman and I can’t be bothered to try to break in to either of the conversations. I take the opportunity to eat my crepe and appreciate the surroundings. I don’t think I’ve ever eaten in such a beautiful room. There are French windows which op
en out on to a terrace lit with fairy lights. The walls are exposed stone and the two windows are framed with heavy curtains without a speck of dust. Over the table there’s a smaller version of the crystal chandelier in the atrium, which is shimmering and glinting in the candlelight. Above the fireplace there’s an enormous modern painting of colourful, geometric shapes which probably shouldn’t work in a period room like this, but somehow does. And in each corner are huge, intricately sculpted flower arrangements, lit by strategically placed candles, the heady scent of both filling the room and making me a little dizzy.

  The plates are cleared away and Emilie appears in the door with a gong again, which she taps seemingly without any sense of irony. Although, now that I’ve been here the entire evening, while the gong still seems incredibly pretentious, it no longer catches me by surprise as it did earlier.

  ‘Coffee and digestifs will be served in the salon,’ she says.

  We all get up and follow her through to the room where we had champagne at the beginning of the evening, which now feels like a lifetime ago. The lights have been turned off and the room is lit purely by candles, like the dining room. They smell amazing. There’s choral classical music playing – I’m not sure what it is, but it’s somehow sexy.

  The eight of us sit down on the two sofas – the armchair Hervé was sitting in earlier has vanished. Emilie manages to direct who sits where without actually saying so, and I find myself between Bertie and Hervé. The sofas suddenly don’t feel so huge and I notice that both men’s legs are pressed against mine. I try to shift away but there isn’t enough room. In between the sofas, the glass table is topped with several bottles of Cristal champagne in an enormous ice bucket, a bottle of Remy Martin Louis XVI in a decanter that looks like an oversized perfume bottle, various appropriately sized glasses and a couple of plates of exquisite-looking petit-fours.

  Celia takes a tiny pouch from her Chanel handbag, tips some white powder onto the table and starts expertly fashioning it into little lines with a platinum credit card. It takes me a couple of beats to realize exactly what she’s doing. I’ve never seen it done in real life before – only in films or on TV.