Bronx squirmed and escaped through the lounge door.
Paul sat in an armchair to the left of Élodie and Flora chose the sofa in front of them. She opened her planner on her lap and read from it.
“So, to recap, tomorrow we’ll have five interviews, and”
“Eight, not five,” interrupted Élodie. “I’ve added three more as I said in the text I sent you earlier. Haven’t you read it? And why don’t you work with a laptop or a tablet like everybody else, Flora? You’d be up to date.”
Flora knew Élodie would make her job difficult. She always did and this wedding weekend would be no exception. The publicist had accepted the actress as a new client three years ago to do a favor for Paul when the young woman was barely known in the film industry. But her career took a sudden turn when she and Paul co-starred in the movie The Romantic Pursuit that had exploded at the French Box Office. Élodie became nationally famous in an instant. The success of the movie had rebooted Paul’s dying career and had also brought new clients to Flora, a professional boost she needed at the time.
“Eight interviews in a day is a lot, Élodie. I told you this many times. You’re better off meeting with a few journalists from major media and establishing a solid relationship with them than seeing dozens of people in rushed interviews. You’ll see it will pay better with time in a matter of publicity than seeing a dozen of people for a few minutes of rushed interviews. Journalists have to like you too.” Probably the toughest, if not the impossible part, thought Flora.
“I disagree,” answered Élodie. “We need to do more and to interact with the public on social media, Flora. I told you this many times. This is what works today. You know, Twitter, Facebook and the like. Have you even heard of them?” The young woman had a nasty pinched smile at the corner of her mouth.
Flora glared at the actress coldly.
“All right, ladies,” said Paul Dumont. “Let’s not fight, we need to work together as a team, OK?” He took Élodie’s hand. “Baby, Flora knows how this business works and she knows the right and influential journalists who’ll talk about us in a positive light. She knows what she’s doing because she’s been doing it for over twenty years.”
“Yes. That’s exactly the problem,” said Élodie, crossing her arms and legs. She looked away.
“So, Flora, what were you saying,” continued Paul. “Who will we talk to tomorrow?”
“We’ll start at 9 a.m. with Paris Match. We’ll have about an hour with them. They’ll come with a photographer. We’ll sit at the back of the castle, in the Italian garden, and we’ll do a photo shoot after the interview. Then we’ll do a fifteen-minute break and we’ll meet with The Parisian for about twenty minutes. The journalist will take a quick picture at the end. Right after The Parisian, we’ll meet with Elle magazine. I scheduled an hour for them because they will take pictures too. We’ll have a brief lunch and then, around 1 p.m., we’ll meet with Nous Deux for about half an hour. Around 2 p.m., TF1 and France 2 will arrive to set up their lights and cameras for the filmed interviews. It will take them about an hour to prepare everything. I suggest that we do one interview outdoors first, in the garden, and then one indoors, in the ballroom. I talked with the castle’s owner, Amanda, and she has no problem with that. Between the interviews and the photo shoots, we should be done by 7 p.m., if nothing delays us. It will be a long day and a busy weekend, so I suggest we all go to bed early tonight to be in good shape tomorrow.”
“There’s plenty of time to fit three more interviews tomorrow,” said Élodie. She gave a paper to Flora. “Here are the names of the journalists I want to meet. Contact them and set times for additional interviews.”
Flora took the list reluctantly. She glanced at Paul who looked away, gazing around the room, faking a sudden interest in antiques.
“Next time, Élodie, I would appreciate if you talk to me about this before you promise an interview to any media. That’s my job. I must know everything that’s going on. Otherwise, it can have a negative impact on my work.”
“Let’s say it will have a positive impact on your work, then. Thanks to me.” Élodie tilted her head on the side and gave the publicist a mocking smile.
Flora muffled a sarcastic chuckle. If only she could slap the insulting little brat in the face!
Someone knocked at the door. Anita stepped into the lounge with a food cart. Paul stretched his arms and legs with enthusiasm.
“OK. I guess we’re done here, then?” he said. “Great. Time for dinner, ladies.”
“Why don’t we go to the restaurant downstairs instead?” asked Élodie.
“The restaurant will only open tomorrow morning, madam,” explained Anita. “Mr. Dumont ordered these for you.”
Anita put three plates with salad and quiches on the coffee table facing the armchairs, and a bottle of wine. Flora stood up.
“You’re not staying with us?” asked Paul, surprised. “I’ve ordered food for the three of us.”
“No. I have more work to do. I’ll go to my room and I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” Flora took her plate and left the lounge.
“You should be nicer to her,” said Paul to Élodie. “Why do you give her such a hard time? She does a good job.”
“That’s the problem, Paul. She only does a good job, not a great job, and it’s not enough for me.”
Paul raised his eyebrows and poked his fork into the piece of quiche in his plate. It had a perfect cheesy brown crust on top. He swallowed a bite. “Mmmm, delicious!”
“Ms. McBride cooked it herself, sir,” said Anita. “It’s a mushroom and cheese quiche.”
“Amazing,” said Paul, showing a thumb up in approval.
“Do you have a bottle of sparkling water and lemon slices?” asked Élodie to Anita.
“No, madam. Would you like me to get this for you?”
“Well, yeah, if not why would I ask?”
Anita left the lounge and closed the door behind her. She walked toward the elevator, talking to herself. “Sure. Anything for you, Élodie Faber.”
Chapter 7
A t 6 a.m. sharp on Saturday morning, Amanda gathered her employees in the lobby, including her friend Liliane. They sat on the couch and the chairs facing the reception desk, drinking coffee and eating warm croissants Pierre had just delivered.
D’Artagnan was watching carefully the basket of pastries left on the coffee table. Amanda had specifically warned him not to touch the delicacies. The Great Dane was waiting for the right moment to steal a croissant when nobody would notice him.
Amanda stood up, holding a hot cup of coffee in her hand. “As you all know, today is a big day for all of us. The big day. After many adventures and several months of renovations, my dream is finally coming true: Le Château d’Orvilly officially re-opens today.” The staff applauded and Liliane let out an enthusiastic “Bravo Amanda!”
“I hope you’re feeling as proud and as excited as I am,” she continued. “The success of this new venture is important not only for us, but for the whole village too, as it will sustain our local economy thanks to the numerous guests we hope to welcome all year long. I trust you will do your best. I want us to work hard, but I want us to enjoy this special day too, as much as our visitors will. All right, enough talk. You all know what you have to do. I’ll be in the restaurant with the kitchen staff if you need me. Have a great opening day!”
Amanda raised her cup of coffee. “To the success of the Château d’Orvilly!”
The employees raised their cups too. “To the success of the Château d’Orvilly!”
It was the perfect timing to grab a croissant. D’Artagnan’s big mouth grabbed a pastry quickly and chewed it as fast as he could. The chewed pieces of croissant made a paste that stuck to his teeth. He opened and closed his jaws as if he were chewing gum.
“D’Art, I saw that,” said Amanda, pouting lips.
The dog closed his mouth at once and stopped chewing. He looked innocently at Amanda. You saw what? And he gulped what
was left of the croissant.
Amanda sighed and took the basket of pastries, to the dog’s great disappointment. She walked to the reception desk to give a little rundown to Bertrand and Camille.
“I won’t lie to you, guys, it will be a crazy weekend for you,” said Amanda. “Between the bride and groom, their guests, the journalists staying here, and all the visitors who will attend the inauguration, you’ll barely have time to breathe. So, I advise each time any of you can take a break, take it because you’ll need it. If there’s an issue, stay calm, try to fix it, and if you think something special requires my attention, just call me and I’ll do my best to help you. All right?”
Bertrand and Camille nodded. “All right,” they said in unison.
“By the way,” added Amanda, “we have a lot of early check-in guests. It’s not a problem, check people in as they arrive, all the rooms are ready. Remember, we have an additional guest in room 24, a last-minute wedding guest of Élodie Faber. Ready?”
“Ready!” answered the two employees with a tight smile. Amanda laughed.
“Relax, guys, all will go well.”
Amanda left the reception, closely followed by d’Artagnan. The dog cherished hopes related to the basket of pastries she was holding in her hands.
“Don’t fool yourself, d’Art,” said Amanda. “I know why you’re following me. But you will not get another croissant.”
The dog grumbled. Damn, this is torture!
Chapter 8
B y 10 a.m., the castle’s parking lot was already full. André, the handyman, had planted a sign on the grass on the north side of the property directing additional visitors to park there. Cars kept coming in, driving along the path that led to the Domaine.
Tables with white tablecloths were placed outdoors, at the back of the castle, between the Italian garden and the edge of the cliff that was fenced for the guests’ safety. The place was crowded. People were talking loudly, children were playing and running around, eating mini-sandwiches or pastries. D’Artagnan stood close to them, knowing well the funny little people were always generous with their food or could drop a piece by accident.
Three waiters ran back and forth from the kitchen, bringing trays of appetizers and sweet delicacies while two others served drinks under a white tent. The lineup for the drinks was long.
Amanda stood by the gate of the Italian garden to observe the crowd of Orvillians who looked happy, enjoying themselves. She smiled, savoring this success, recalling all the events that had led to this day since she had left Victoria a few months back. Then she noticed someone waving at her. A short, plump woman with blonde hair and red cheeks made her way through the crowd. Amanda recognized the familiar face.
“Yoo-hoo, Amanda!” yelled the woman, holding a glass of Calvados.
“Régine!”
Régine was the owner of the only hotel in the village. Well, now it wasn’t the only one anymore. Amanda had very much enjoyed her stay at The Little Norman when she had arrived in Orvilly-sur-mer. Régine and her husband Paul had been wonderful hosts, and since then the couple had been very helpful, offering Amanda sound advice about running a hotel. The women gave each other four kisses on their cheeks, like Normans do. Régine hugged Amanda, compressing her friend’s tiny body against her robust chest.
“Congratulations, Amanda! The castle looks great, and this inauguration is a real success. Look at all these people. It feels so good to see this old place coming back to life. And look at you! A real chef!”
Amanda smiled proudly and adjusted her brand-new, white chef coat. “Where’s Paul?” she asked.
“Oh, he had to stay at the hotel, there’s too much work to do. We’re fully booked! I’m just here for a few minutes… and a few drinks.” She winked. “The inauguration and the stars wedding brought so many visitors to the village! This is insane but great for business. I haven’t seen Orvilly-sur-Mer this full in many years!”
“How’s Titi?” asked Amanda. “Does he get on well with your guests?”
Titi was Régine’s dog. A tiny, ugly animal—let’s be honest—of undetermined breed. He had a little strand of hair clipped on top of his head, dyed green, that looked like a rooster comb. And he had crooked teeth. Titi wasn’t the incarnation of canine beauty. Moreover, he was always angry, ready to bite any human or animal bigger than him. His nickname was ‘Mini-Hulk.’
“Bah! You know Titi and his anger issues,” said Régine. “I keep trying to teach him manners, but he can’t help barking at people. The guests find him amusing though, so at least he’s useful entertaining them.”
Régine took a piece of apple pie from a table nearby. “Did you bake it?”
“Of course,” answered Amanda proudly. “Me and my cooks in the kitchen did.”
“It won’t kill me, right?” asked Régine with a grin. She poked Amanda.
Back in April, when the renovations of the castle just started, Amanda had cooked an apple pie in the kitchen and had offered pieces to all the construction workers on site. Unfortunately, a man had died, poisoned by the piece he had eaten. A few weeks later, Amanda had successfully lifted the veil on the mysterious murder, and the killers responsible for the crime were sent to jail.
Amanda made a face. “Hilarious, Régine. No, it won’t kill you.” Régine shoved a big piece of pie in her mouth. “I think…” said Amanda with a mischievous smile. She laughed when she saw Régine’s facial expression. Her mouth stopped halfway on the piece of pie. “Got you!” said Amanda.
“So, how are they?” asked Régine, nudging Amanda gently with her elbow.
“Who?” asked Amanda.
“Our famous movie stars! Élodie Faber and Paul Dumont.”
“Hum… To be honest, the actress didn’t make a good impression on me. She’s bossy and behaves as if everybody were her servants.”
“Really?” said Régine with a point of disappointment. "It’s surprising. She seems like such a sweetheart in her movies. And she sounds so nice in interviews she gives on TV. What about the sexy Paul Dumont?” Régine waggled her eyebrows, fishing for juicy details about the actor.
“I don’t know what to think of him. He looks like a faded Don Juan whose time has passed. Frankly, the two of them make an odd couple.”
“Oh, you’re so hard, Amanda. All French women of my generation had a crush on Paul Dumont when he became a star! I still find him very attractive. I wouldn’t mind getting a kiss from him.” Régine giggled like a teenager. “By the way, where are they now? I don’t see them.” Régine looked around, hoping to see the famous couple wandering on the property like any other visitor.
“They’re meeting with journalists all day for interviews and photo shoots,” answered Amanda. “So, we kept the veranda private for their use.”
“Not even a chance to have a little peek at them?” asked Régine.
“Well, if you stick around a bit more, you might see them. I know they’re supposed to do a photo shoot outdoors at some point.”
“Oh, it would be so nice to see them! You might be wrong about Élodie Faber. I’m sure she’s a delightful young woman. You know, a wedding can be very stressful for a bride.”
Chapter 9
“I asked for a bottle of sparkling water and lemon slices half an hour ago! Is that too much to ask?” said Élodie to a poor waitress who had already apologized ten times.
“Sorry Ms. Faber,” answered the waitress, “but it’s such a busy day, we forgot about it. I’ll go get this for you right now.” The waitress rushed to the kitchen, leaving the veranda’s door half-open behind her.
“What a poor service we get here,” complained the actress, fussing about on her seat. “They’d better improve it if they want to stay in business after this inauguration. I’m so sorry, Véronique, pardon me, what were you saying?”
The journalist from the prominent magazine Paris Match read from her notes. “When did the romantic relationship started between you and Paul? Was it during the shooting of The Romantic Pursu
it?”
Élodie giggled and tilted her head, playing with her long strawberry red locks. She put a hand on the knee of her future husband, who was sitting beside her.
“Paul and I knew each other before shooting the movie, but not very well. We were more acquaintances. You know, friends of friends... And then, the first day of the shooting, when I saw him on the set, something happened.” Élodie paused and moved back her long hair, tilting her head to the other side. “I felt very attracted to him and fell for him right away. I saw in him what all the women of my mother’s generation had been seeing for a long time. A real man.”
Paul Dumont put one arm around Élodie’s shoulders. He chuckled and gave her a side glance. “Well, my generation is still young at heart,” he said.
Everybody in the room laughed, including Flora, who was sitting beside the journalist, and Élodie’s mother, who was standing in a corner, holding her little white dog in her hands. She was feeding him smoked salmon canapés.
“What about you Paul?” asked the journalist. “What made you fall for Élodie? Obviously, she’s a gorgeous young woman, but maybe you can share something special about her we don’t know and that our readers would be glad to discover?”
Paul turned to Élodie, forcing a smile. “Oh, well, uh… She’s gorgeous, as you said, and… and she’s a kind and caring person. Yes. Kind and caring.”
A man walked toward the journalist to inform her he was ready to go ahead with the photo shoot.
“Why don’t we start with a few pictures here, and then we’ll go outside?” suggested Véronique to the actors. They nodded, and the photographer gave them directions for the shots.
From the half-open door of the veranda, a woman slipped into the room discreetly and hid behind a luxuriant philodendron planted in a large pot.
“Perfect!” said the photographer. “Now, please, Élodie and Paul, look the other way.”
French Weddings Can Kill You Page 3
