by Anna Bloom
“Grand-mere thought it best for me to be tutored at home.”
“Do you live in Paris with your mum some of the time?”
Looping my arms around my legs, I rest my head on my knees. I could really do with a coffee. Tea. Anything caffeinated.
“Sometimes I do, but she’s very busy. She spends a lot of time…” Simone rolls her hands. “Creating.”
“Creating what?”
“A mess, Grand-mere calls it.”
Well, that’s a bit rude.
“She’s an artist though, right?”
Simone frowns at me and I try to make my question a little clearer. “Your mother, she paints?”
“Oui. I can show you?”
“I’d love that. But I have to get out of bed first.” I point at the cover and my naked form underneath and Simone’s cheeks pink.
“I’m so sorry. Don’t tell Oncle Henri will you? He said I had to let you sleep.”
“Of course not. Why don’t you wait outside? I’ll get dressed and then you can show me around? I didn’t get much chance to see things yesterday.”
“Okay.” She nods, face brightening with a beautiful smile that has a glimmer of Henri but must be more of her parents. Where on earth is her dad?
“So, if you want to wait, you know, outside…” I trail off.
“Oh,” she nods and scrambles from the bed. “I’ll call William and Harold.”
My skin prickles with alarmed sweat that has nothing to do with the morning sun now heating the room like a sauna. Please God, tell me there aren’t two more ‘wards’ hanging around.
“William and Harold?”
“Oui, Oncle Henri’s dogs.”
I laugh, but it’s got a nervous lilt, off-key, shaken and definitely stirred.
I really know nothing about Henri, and while I know he knows nothing about me, it still hits like a thunderbolt to the chest.
Once she’s gone to round up the mysterious dogs, I scramble from the bed grabbing a thick white robe to pull over my shoulders. It’s hotel thick, knuckle deep. With more effort than it probably deserves—damn useless body—I flop my suitcase onto the bed and rifle through for an outfit, settling on a pair of pale shorts and a ditsy strappy vest. My legs are far from sunshine ready, but a quick peek at the burning inferno the other side of the thick curtains assures me I will be a tasty bacon pink by the end of the day.
On a whim I pull out the peacock diary. I have no idea why I packed it, probably because it was the closest thing to a book to hand, and everyone knows you need a book on holiday. Automatically, I flick to my Henri inspired list at the front, a wide grin stretching my face until the corners of my lips sting. Near the windows is a desk. I’m sure it’s got a fancy name I don’t know, but regardless, I stalk for it and shamelessly rifle through the drawers looking for a biro. No biro, but I do find a Montblanc… farmer, my arse.
Chewing on my bottom lip I add: Have sex in a barn as a new entry and then put my obligatory line through it.
A tingle ripples down my spine as I think of what today might bring. Anything Henri shaped has got to be a plus. I need as much of him as I can get in this short amount of time I’ve got. I can’t think about how I’ll leave, what I will say, how I’ll tell him I probably won’t see him again. Today isn’t for those thoughts, possibly not tomorrow either. Tucking the book back away in my case, I grab up my chosen outfit and slip into the bathroom before Simone comes back with the dogs.
Locked in the safety of the bathroom, I stare in the mirror, heart sinking at the changes that stare right back at me: cheekbones sharper, skin a little sallow. The pulse at the base of my throat thrums fast.
I haven’t been truthful with myself, I know that much to be fact. Definitely haven’t been truthful with Dr Francis or Liv. Lies are weaving me into a tight knot and I know one day soon the knot will snuff the air out of me.
Pinching my cheeks, I peer at myself closer. “Times up, girl.” I breathe my words against the glass, misting my breath. “So just damn live.”
In truth it doesn’t matter if he has a ward, or a whole village of them.
A life to share with Henri isn’t mine to have.
I breathe in deep, as far as my lungs will allow, which isn’t far at all; like a rubber band has lost its elasticity and won’t stretch anymore. The buzzing in my head is hard to ignore, but hey I’ve come this far, why stop now?
Turning my attention away from the depressing view in the mirror, I switch on the shower and jump in once the hot water is steaming and swirling in the air, wondering just what a holiday with Henri might involve.
“Oh, sweet Jesus.” I step out into the ornate hallway, my gaze drawn firmly to Simone who is rolling with two wolves on the floor. Okay, maybe not wolves, but definitely the biggest dogs I have ever laid eyes on. They don’t get walked, they pull sleighs, or buses, I’m sure.
“Wow. These are some dogs.”
He’s a dog person. I’m not sure how I feel about that. My thoughts wander to Barney and whether Liv has shaved his fur off yet. Poor Barney, I bet she’s chasing him with the Dyson.
I hope Paige hasn’t opened a window and he’s escaped into an unknown neighbourhood. A cat as clueless as Barney could easily get lost in Notting Hill.
One of the dogs with mix matched eyes, giving him a loose-cannon expression, stands up, coming almost to my hips and gives me a long lick up the arm.
“He likes you,” Simone says as she clambers from the floor.
“Where on earth were they yesterday?”
“Oh, Grand-mere won’t let them in the house.”
“You’re brave bringing them in then.” I give the girl a nod. She’s got balls. I wouldn’t cross Grand-mere.
Simone’s slender face cracks with a wide smile. “She’s, uh.” She points at her head as she tries to find the right word and swirls her finger.
“Crazy?” I offer.
Simone’s smile flickers. “Non, uh, getting her hair, uh, set.” She pushes her hands with splayed fingers against her scalp.
Of course, you don’t look that perfect and regal without a daily set.
“So, you wanted to show me your mum’s work?”
Simone’s expression clouds with confusion. I’ve got too used to Henri’s perfect command of the English language. I’ll need to revert to some basic English for this.
“Paintings. Mother.” I motion a paintbrush, although why I do I have no idea. I can’t even paint a wall without cocking it up.
“Yes! Come, I’ll show you.” She skips ahead down the long corridor while I trail behind looking at the paintings on the wall, the sculptures on tall pillars. This place is on the verge of blowing my mind. I can’t imagine a life where waking up in a châteaux filled with priceless belongings is a reality. Although to be fair I’m still adapting to the thought of not waking up at all.
23
Pancakes
Underfoot is a thick, red carpet which covers cool marble tiles sliced with grey veins. Henri said cheese and in my head I had this vision of a simple life, maybe a country farm, some rambling buildings, farm animals braying at dawn. I definitely wasn’t thinking a castle with round towers topped with conical spires like upturned ice cream cones.
We end up in a parlour I guess it would have been. It looks like it’s a family-only room and not part of the hotel or whatever they call this huge place. There’s an array of sofas, small side tables, and even a piano positioned, overlooked by the light of a set of French doors that lead outside.
I wonder what the French call French doors? I make a mental note to ask Henri when he comes back.
“These.” Simone stabs her finger at an enormous oil painting on the furthest wall, its colours a vibrant combination of shocking pinks and turquoise. “Wow,” I breathe. I can’t quite make out the subject, it’s abstract and no amount of squinting at it will make it become clearer. It’s arresting though, tormented maybe.
I know nothing about art, but even I can feel the emotion runni
ng off its surface.
“It’s beautiful, Simone. She’s very talented.”
“Merci.”
I stand a while attempting to make sense of the brush strokes, occasionally distracted by one of the genetically engineered dogs who is licking its butt on the sofa. I’m pretty sure that’s not allowed. My stomach gives a loud gurgle and Simone laughs. “You’re hungry.”
“I can’t remember when I last ate.” I think it might have been the cake. If Liv knew, she’d be straight on a plane over here to tell me off.
“I can take you to the kitchen.”
“I’m not sure I should be allowed in a Michelin starred kitchen.”
“Non.” Simone shakes her head, reading the grimace in my face. “It’s our private kitchen, no staff.”
“Oh phew, something normal. Lead the way.”
She winds us down corridors away from the over-stylised guest areas until eventually we must be in the private wing—a wing which is the same length as Liv’s whole street—and pushes on a simple heavy and ancient oak door. It gives a satisfying groan as it releases the aroma of rich coffee beans while my stomach gives another distressed gurgle.
Odile is sat at a large wooden table that looks like it’s been in situ for at least four hundred years. Six inches thick, it has a score of grooves and cuts that could cast it as a prop in a battle scene of a film.
“Bonjour, comment te sens-tu?”
Ahhhh, wait I know this! Good morning, how do you feel? “Je…vais bien, merci.”
I’m good, thank you. Thank God for the limited school conversational French I have remembered so I can at least try to make an effort. I vow if I do get a donor heart, I will learn the language.
Odile scrapes back her chair across terracotta tiles. “Here, sit. We were worried about you last night.”
“No need.” All the damn need, but let’s not discuss it. “Not enough food that’s all.”
“Coffee?” She pushes a cafetière towards me and I’m almost salivating at the smell. It would be uncouth to ask for biscuits to dunk, so I pour the thick tar-like mixture and then doctor it with even thicker milk from a metal jug.
“Is this Henri’s milk?” I ask, glancing up to find her watching me, lips twitching.
“It’s from the herd, yes.” She nods, biting down a smile.
What have I said?
Oh.
“I meant Henri’s cows, not him.” Whoosh, it’s hot in this kitchen. Laughing, I pull forward the jug and peer inside. “That would be an impressive feat by any man’s standards.”
Odile peals a laugh and drops her head to her arm on the table, bronzed and exposed shoulders shaking.
“What’s so funny?” Simone asks, but I just shake my head as I struggle to breathe. Laughter, embarrassment, dying. It all does something nasty to the chest area.
The door groans and Odile lifts her head as Henri walks in, banging her hands on the table as she peals off another laugh.
“What’s so funny in here?”
Don’t you dare tell him. She fires off some French and points to the jug while Henri’s dark eyebrow curves and he looks directly at me. I could almost forget the embarrassment just by staring at his beautiful face. Almost… not quite.
“It was lost in translation.” My lips quirk into a grimace at the edges.
With a long stride that almost leaves me breathless he’s across the kitchen and crushing me to his chest. “You’re awake early. I thought you’d sleep more.” His kisses drop like gentle rain on my hair, and I lift my face to absorb some more.
Gentle hands cradle my cheeks and as he inspects my face, reading me as he always has, there’s a frown between his midnight eyes, so I’m not sure what prose he’s finding there on the landscape of my skin.
“What’s on the agenda today? Are the cows all happy?” I ask to fill the gap his inspection has left hanging in the kitchen.
“Fuck the cows, Julianna.” His lips lower to mine while I can sense the burning glance of our audience.
“Well, if that’s what you like to do, I’m not one to judge.”
God, that smile. It curves, luscious pillows of pink temptation. “You’re a wicked temptress, ma petite.”
And he thinks I’m the tempting one—I’ll never get my head around that, will probably spend the rest of my days trying to work it out.
“Exactly, so just kiss me already and make this day start again.” Delicately brushing my mouth over his, I make an erstwhile wish that every day could start with a Henri kiss. I’d happily slip into Groundhog Day if it began with a single kiss from him.
It’s chaste and sweet, even so I sense the avid attention of our audience. “How do you feel?” His words brush my mouth, his eyes still closed.
“Better,” I lie.
Midnight shines over me, hotter than the scorching sun through the open patio doors. The tilt of his head confirms my fib has been caught.
“A day at the beach,” Henri gives a confirming nod, “that’s what you need.”
I break out into a panicked sweat.
“The beach? I didn’t bring any swimwear.”
“You came to the South of France without swimwear?”
Admittedly I feel a little stupid, but I wasn’t anticipating lounging on the beach if I didn’t find him or found that he no longer wanted to see me.
“I wanted to go back into town. It’s so beautiful there and I hardly got a chance to see it.” This is the truth. I want to crawl back over those small, winding streets, absorbing the geranium in the air, the tang of ‘different’ I’ve never really known.
“Oui, and you shall, but today you rest.”
It’s like he knows without knowing and I don’t really know what to do with that. I could just bombshell the truth right now… but then if he doesn’t know, and this is just a caring side of his personality that runs the show, I’d ruin this slice of heaven before it really got going.
Luckily my stomach fills in the gap by growling loudly. The midnight gaze settles on my face. “I haven’t fed you.” That beautiful face clouds with dismay.
“I’m a grown woman. I can fend for myself.”
Sometimes.
That achingly beautiful smile spreads as he lifts his arm from where he’s holding me close and broadly swipes it in the direction of an old range cooker and cream painted cupboards. “Then please don’t let me stand in your way.” His gaze glints. “I haven’t eaten yet either.”
Ah, a challenge. I push up my imaginary sleeves and worm my way out of his grasp. Challenge accepted.
Right. What do I know how to cook?
Henri, with the serene face of a saint in marble, sits down at the big oak table and stretches before reaching for a newspaper sat folded in the middle of the table. Momentarily mesmerised, I wait for him to open it with his newspaper loving ways, but first he shoots off undecipherable French at Odile who looks at me sharply and then gets up from her chair squeezing his shoulder as she passes him by, collecting Simone on the way out of the kitchen door.
“Where are they going?” I narrow my gaze.
He shrugs, bloody Frenchman.
Knowing that’s the best answer I’m likely to get, I turn for the cupboards and rifle through. Hmm… limited skill set… unlimited resources.
Henri’s lips teasing a smile are almost tangible through the air. Eventually I settle on some flour, eggs, and milk. Yes, pancakes. I’ve got distant memories of my mother making them for us on Shrove Tuesday and she’s always just shook the ingredients in. Seems easy enough.
First go is rather cement-like, so while I try to loosen the whisk I’ve got stuck in the mixture, I splurge in more of Henri’s milk which makes the whisk plop free and splash grainy liquid onto my face. There’s a snort from behind me followed by a press of warm lips onto my neck.
“Julianna.” Reaching long arms around me he takes the whisk and the milk from my hands and lays them down on the side before turning me in his caged embrace. His smile when he sees the mes
s I’m in brightens my entire universe.
“I have never in my life met anyone like you.” His statement is sealed with a kiss that tingles right down in my toes. Hungrily, I kiss him back, all thoughts of batter, pancakes, eating forgotten within the tight intensity of how much I want him. I want him more than anything.
“Forget the food,” I mumble into his mouth, words tangled with hot kisses.
“Non.” Leaving me aching in truly painful ways, he pulls away. “Step to the side.”
“I’m cooking.”
“Non, you’re making a mess.”
“And who are you, the clean police?”
He glances at my hair. “I shall help you wash that out, just as soon as I’ve fed you.”
Oooh, now we are talking. Henri in a shower is almost certainly a sight I need to see. I make a mental note to add shower sex to my peacock book. Satisfied that I’ll get what I need shortly, I step over as instructed and watch Henri whisk up a light and thin batter. “The trick with crepes is to keep the batter thin so it spreads around the skillet quickly.”
“Thank you for clarifying, Master Chef,” I say, trying and failing to hold in a snort of a laugh.
“Well, they wanted to film the finals here.”
That kills the laughter in my mouth. “What?”
“Truth.” He crosses his heart with the whisk splattering us with more mix. Who cares? We are going in the shower just as soon as I’ve scarfed some hot food in my mouth to keep him satisfied. “But then Papa died, and it just didn’t seem right. Maybe next year.”
“Wow.”
His gaze becomes serious. “Maybe you could be here when they do it?”
My stomach lurches—no, Henri, I won’t be here. God, the thought makes me feel a little ill and I clutch onto the counter.
“Or maybe not.” He shrugs at my visible, but silent response.
“No, it’s not that…” I don’t have anything to say apart from the truth, which I don’t want to ruin this perfect sunlit moment with. “Come on, I’m starving, and I definitely need some help in the shower.” I wink, trying to lighten the dark cloud hovering between us.
