The water was bubbling. She turned it to low and scooped in the pasta, which sizzled and spat. She sliced a tomato, the only one remaining in a plastic dish above the fridge, and placed it as an accompaniment on the side of her dinner plate. Pouring herself a glass of red wine, she carried it to the table where the letter from Gustave lay. Even his handwriting was suave, distinguished.
Who were these three men living together in a château, making preparations for his wedding? It seemed an odd sort of ménage à trois. Was it a true château, a fairy-tale castle with towers, perhaps, or just a large sprawling house? What type of woman had won Gustave’s heart? A sophisticated Parisian beauty? Was the bride-to-be also in residence? Since Susan’s first encounter with them on the train, these men had intrigued her.
What harm to accept an invitation to lunch? She was being ridiculous, overly protective of herself. Hadn’t today been a success? Even if it had cost her the job. If she set off early again the following day, she felt sure she could nail down another work opportunity. She would accept the offer for lunch, but not tonight. Tomorrow, once she had found herself a new situation, she would switch on her mobile, which she’d rarely used since she’d left England, and telephone Gustave.
6
Gustave collected Susan from the quay a few steps from where The Name of the Rose was moored. It was a bright, sunny Sunday morning. Church bells up and down the town were pealing. He had suggested they rendezvous at 11 a.m.
‘I hope you won’t mind if we start out early,’ he’d said on the telephone, ‘because our crazy old château, Les Oliviers, is set inland almost an hour’s drive from the coast and we’ll have to negotiate all that film-festival hullabaloo.’
She was in an upbeat frame of mind even though she had not yet found herself a replacement bartending job. She was early, as usual, waiting in the sunshine, wearing her favourite loose-fitting, boldly striped summer frock with a rose-coloured cardigan and a large, floppy straw hat to keep the rays from burning her. She soon spotted her lunch date at the wheel of an early-model silver Peugeot 308 cabriolet, with its roof down. He was wearing sunglasses, a pale-blue open-necked shirt and a wheat-toned linen jacket. She caught her breath. He looked so debonair, she might have mistaken him for a film star in this fortnight of celebrity attendances. Gustave drew the car to a halt at the quay’s edge, begging her patience for ten seconds while he delivered an envelope to Florent – ‘the down payment for that blasted sunset cruise’ – and then was back at her side. He greeted her with the traditional bises. ‘You look ravishing,’ he said as he brushed a kiss on each of her cheeks. Foolishly, she was taken aback, having been ready to shake his hand.
They set off at a crack, his foot hard on the accelerator. A clutch of baguettes and hillocks of vegetables resting on the back seats rolled and tumbled to the floor. Susan, hand glued firmly to her hat until she gave up and dragged it, flapping, to her lap, was concentrating on the view, the passing olive groves giving way to vineyards as they climbed north and headed, at dizzying angles, west along narrow country lanes shaded by rows of century-old plane trees. They sped through forgotten stone villages with not a soul in sight, where, on the walls of the tallest buildings, were the remains of paint-faded advertisements for Dubonnet, vin tonique au quinquina. In the silent squares dappled with sunlight, clapped-out Citroëns stood waiting like trusty steeds. Was every member of these hidden communities in church?
La France profonde. Deep France. Lost in France. Yes – she was lost in France. Contentedly so.
* * *
‘Jean-Christophe’s preparing the lunch,’ yelled Gustave, ‘so we should be in for a treat. I was awaiting our fishmonger this morning almost before the poor chap had landed.’ He laughed. ‘Fresh sardines. They’re in the boot. Jean-Christophe will grill them as an entrée. He’s a genius in the kitchen.’
They spoke little because the roar of the engine and the whistling slipstream deafened them, and obliged them to shout.
Within the hour, as Gustave had promised, they were approaching a pair of ornate iron gates flanked by impressive pillars atop of which were two stone lions. Gustave pressed a télécommande and the gates slowly opened. Before them stretched a long driveway. In the distance, barely discernable beyond a stand of what looked like plane trees in young leaf, stood an imposing stone property, several storeys high, with wings or towers. Gustave lifted pressure from the pedal, allowing them to pootle forwards, affording Susan the opportunity to take in and enjoy the approach while he gave her a brief introduction to the property.
‘Les Oliviers is a large manor house, a château, with vineyards rather than olive oil, despite its name. Its records – an earlier property existed on the same site – can be traced back to before the Middle Ages. Its title possibly refers to a previous incarnation. What we own is a twenty-five-hectare estate, so rather modest given its history. Back in the forgotten ages, the domain would have boasted several thousand hectares. These would have been used for hunting, vine-growing, forestry, olive groves, tenant farmers, but over the years the acres were sold off, parcel by parcel, to fund the upkeep of the principal house. When Charles and I discovered the place, quite by chance, five years ago, it had been empty for the best part of a decade and was in a very neglected condition. From our first viewing, he was hell-bent on purchasing it. I was a little more . . . well, cautious.’
Susan was listening, swallowing back dozens of questions, while glancing about her, swinging her head to and fro. The driveway was flanked with tall dark conifers, beyond which were neatly maintained vineyards.
‘Do you produce your own wine?’ she asked.
‘The estate does but at present it’s an outside affair. We lease all these fields to a family who produce cooperative-quality juice and give us a small percentage of the production. Five hundred bottles or so a year, depending on the yield. The bulk of it is a fairly hearty red, which is drinkable, but little better in my opinion. I’m keen to take the leased land back at some point in the future when their contract expires – there are very strict rules about such agreements in France – and then develop a more respectable wine outlet. Once the house and our current ventures are up and running, that is. See there.’ He pointed over to Susan’s right. ‘Beyond that meadow, we uncovered a very early twentieth-century pétanque court – it must have been one of the first – and there’s a rather splendid Art Deco outdoor pool over that way as well. We’ve renovated it, put in new cleaning and filtering systems and knocked up a few bathing huts and a summer dining area. Later, if all goes according to plan, we’ve pinpointed a site where we might invest in the construction of a fitness centre with indoor heated pool, jacuzzi and gym. But we’re not quite there yet,’ he laughed.
Were he and his future wife and friends intending to set this estate up as a hotel?
‘The principal house is an Italian-style château with four towers added at a later stage. In 1801, to be precise.’
The château was within view now, with its warm stone walls, eggshell-blue shutters and a spacious outside terrace furnished with a marble fountain and rusted iron tables and chairs, and parasols tightly closed. A quintessential fairy-tale castle indeed. A dream home protected by spreading plane trees. To the left, where Gustave was directing the car, was a parking area with several stationary vehicles, including a vintage Bentley with its soft top closed.
‘Charles thought it a deliciously extravagant feature to ferry the bride to the chapel,’ he explained.
He drew his Peugeot to a halt alongside the Bentley and pulled the key from the ignition.
‘Well, here we are. Welcome to Les Oliviers, Susan.’
They sat in stillness for a moment. The location was impressive, and the residence magnificent. It was all a little overwhelming. Susan felt her heart knocking. She was jittery at the prospect of social intercourse with other guests. Gustave’s wife-to-be, what would she be like? Would she welcome Susan’s arrival? And his two companions. She supposed they also had wives. Jean-Chris
tophe had referred to his, hadn’t he, on the train? This day would be filled with beautiful, articulate people and she wouldn’t be able to think of a single word to say. She feared she was out of her league, a bland husk in a casket of jewels.
‘How many bedrooms?’ Jeez! She sounded like an estate agent, and instantly cursed herself for such a crass question.
Gustave pushed open his door and climbed out. Susan, mortified, remained where she was. He was leaning over the rear, tossing the sticks of bread and vegetables into a cardboard box.
‘Twenty-five in the château and a further ten, not yet renovated, in the bastide, the Provençal farmhouse, which is a ten-minute walk from here – a leafy stroll towards the pool and boules area. Time for a well-earned apéritif, I think. Coming? Everyone’s dying to meet you.’
* * *
They entered by the back of the house into a kitchen, which was vast and totally disorganised. Heat and steam enveloped them as they made their way inside. Jean-Christophe, navy-blue-and-white-striped apron tied about his plump torso and chef’s toque plonked untidily upon his head, was bending over a stove and several bubbling stainless-steel pans.
Whatever the ingredients, it all smelt delicious and reminded Susan of her late mother’s Sunday roasts. Familiar and welcoming aromas, which put her a little at her ease.
‘Bienvenue,’ waved Jean-Christophe, wiping the perspiration from off his crimson face. ‘Charles is in the blue room, our petit salon, uncorking the Krug,’ he grinned, and then frowned. ‘We’ve met before, I think? Mon Dieu, you are the chestnut beauty from the train. The girl with those feline green eyes!’ he exclaimed. ‘Gus, you are a dark horse, old boy. It was me who remarked on her stunning good looks while you had your nose in a magazine.’
‘Jean-Christophe, this is Susan. Susan, Jean-Christophe, our quite exceptional chef and resident bank robber.’
‘Arrête tes bêtises, Gustave.’
‘Stop my foolishness, eh?’
‘Bonjour, Susan. My, you’re pretty, and I saw you first!’
‘Here, fresh sardines and the salads you requested. Come on through, Susan.’ Gustave squeezed his box of shopping with difficulty onto a large wooden table, littered with juicers, cocktail shakers and strainers.
‘There’s little space left to deposit anything in this house since you’ve been here, J-C. Come on, Susan, follow me.’ Gustave guided Susan out of the kitchen along a windowless corridor, which smelt mildly of mould, fresh paint and sawdust, towards the front of the house, where it fanned out to a magnificent entrance hall, off which were closed doors leading, Gustave told her, to a library, two salons and three reception rooms.
‘I have just realised that I don’t even know your full name,’ he whispered as they drew towards a door to the left of them that stood ajar. ‘An oversight, you must agree.’
‘Susan Parks,’ she returned, feeling excited and ever more curious and nervous. The door was pushed open and there was Charles, elegantly attired in lightweight suit and waistcoat, silk spotted handkerchief flopping from his top pocket, with a chilled bottle of Krug in his grasp.
‘Perfect timing. I was just about to pop this. So, you are the belle dame from the train? Yes, I remember you now. As lovely as the first time I set eyes on you. Clever old Gus to have tracked you down. Never, never underestimate this man’s determination, Susan.’
Susan stepped forward to shake Charles’s hand and was instantly embraced and again greeted with kisses. The chilled bottle brushed against her bare arm.
‘Welcome to Château Les Oliviers, where there are few cultivated olive trees but a forest of wild ones, which I suppose is from where the estate gained its appellation. Over the centuries, this château was inhabited by some of the most noble families of Provence. Some of them would have produced their own oil. Did Gus give you the potted history? Originally, it was a property owned by the Counts of Provence. Several princely dynasties have resided here since and left their marks, coats of arms. Be seated,’ commanded Charles.
Gustave had disappeared and returned seconds later with a silver tray upon which were four crystal flutes.
‘I wouldn’t let that chef of ours near the Krug or we’ll get no lunch,’ joshed Charles, drawing the cork with a skilful twist.
Susan settled into a Napoléon III scroll-back sofa with polished ebony legs, recently reupholstered in an off-white material, possibly linen. Overhead hung a crystal chandelier.
‘We are showing you our best side first,’ smiled Gustave as he handed her a flute of champagne and then settled himself in a chair by the unlit fireplace, long legs outstretched. A man at home, in his castle, in his element.
‘Before lunch, Gus will enjoy nothing better than to take you on a tour of the old place. I’ve laid up the dining room, by the way, old boy. Or should I have hosed down the garden furniture and stuck a few cushions out there?’
‘The dining room will be more comfortable and less hassle with no staff to serve us. Santé.’
The men held aloft their glasses. Susan lifted hers. ‘Cheers. Is there anything I can do to help?’
‘I wouldn’t make such an offer if I were you. Charles will have you hammering nails in walls before the day is out.’
‘Gus, if the lady wants to work, it would be churlish to refuse her.’
‘Charles is spot on. We still have a great deal to prepare before the wedding and need urgent help. One month away. Dear Lord,’ opined Gustave. He seemed a little less extrovert in Charles’s company.
‘It’s Sunday, mon ami. The subject of the wedding is forbidden on Sundays, remember? Or you’ll be fined. House rule, Susan.’
* * *
It was another hour and a half, with two bottles of Krug demolished, before they finally made it across the corridor to the dining room. Jean-Christophe’s lavish repast took longer than he had anticipated, partly because he was drinking and talking, recounting stories, discussing ingredients in minute detail as he popped back and forth between the kitchen and the salon. The resident jester.
Susan and Gustave had climbed the stairs. Music was playing softly in the background. Mozart, Bach. They were wandering through stately suites with waxed parquet flooring and four-poster or king-size beds and adjoining bathrooms kitted out in pristine white porcelain and black and white tiles. Those that had been completed were, to Susan’s eye, welcoming, gorgeous, even opulent. The bedroom walls were painted in dark olive-green or rich burgundy tones, each with panels of inlaid cherry wood. Every room or suite had its name engraved on a plaque on its door: Victor Hugo, Jean-Paul Sartre, Jacques Cousteau, Jacques Tati, Marcel Pagnol, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry.
‘We had fun choosing a few of our Gallic heroes,’ winked Gustave.
‘All men,’ she noted.
‘No, no. A recent addition, Jean-Christophe’s choice, is Brigitte Bardot along the corridor. Personally, I would have opted for Jeanne Moreau, who along with Marguerite Duras honours splendid neighbouring sea-view suites-to-be, on the top floor. Those ladies will have the finest views. Catherine Deneuve will grace the master bedroom in the bastide. Overlooking the yet-to-be-renovated tennis courts will reside Simone de Beauvoir in stately splendour. In fact, I am fighting for an all-female line-up in the bastide. Don’t judge us chauvinists, Susan. We are not. Well, I won’t vouch for Jean-Christophe,’ he grinned.
Susan felt the giddying pull of attraction swell up within her. Or she was giddy from champagne.
Elsewhere, as they infiltrated a labyrinth of rooms and openings and spaces lacking floors at the rear of the house and the entire third storey, they were obliged to climb over hillocks of rubble; discarded porcelain sinks; broken floor tiles; abandoned bidets; chrome taps; cupboards jammed with woodworm-infested, moulting brushes; and half a dozen bathrooms in various stages of construction, or not. To manoeuvre from one space to the next, Gustave took her hand as they balanced on planks almost as narrow as tightropes while avoiding rusty piping jutting out of broken walls.
The views f
rom the second- and third-floor windows at the front of the house swept dramatically to the distant sea and were exceptional.
‘Once you have completed the renovations, it will be paradise,’ she smiled. Gustave, who, when she turned back from the windows, was on his knees beating with his suede shoe at a floorboard that had come loose.
‘Dastardly thing. And this room, Jacques Tati, is one of those that we have almost completed. Every time we secure it, it pops up again,’ he sighed. ‘Tati must be enjoying the joke.’
‘You can ask one of the workmen when they come back tomorrow to secure it, can’t you?’ She was attempting to put an encouraging spin on the situation. From what she had seen so far, it would require an army to prepare the château for the arrival of one hundred and fifty visitors in a few weeks. Where were they all to sleep?
‘We’re running a little late on their cash payments,’ Gustave explained sheepishly.
‘Oh, I see.’
‘Nothing to be alarmed about. We’re not impoverished. They’ll be back when we raise the readies, as Jean-Christophe might describe it.’ Gustave laughed, but a flash of concern spread across his features. He suddenly seemed so vulnerable and Susan longed to help him.
‘Can’t you ask your bride’s parents to chip in?’ she suggested. Where was his bride? For a brief spell, she had forgotten the bride. ‘After all, it’s for their daughter and . . . will you be living here after the wedding, or . . . ?’
Gustave stared at her with bemusement. ‘They have already paid their deposit. Then Jean-Christophe spoke to them and managed to wheedle a second ten per cent down payment out of them. Now they have coughed up for the entire cost of the sunset cruise. Everything else, which is to say the final payment, is due fifteen days before the event, which they will settle on time and without hesitation. They are decent people and the inheritors of an immense fortune. Steel, I think. Our wedding event fees are but a drop in the ocean to them. However, fifteen days will not leave us sufficient time to complete the renovations. Frankly, Susan, we are in a bit of a pickle. But in my business I have known much worse. I feel confident that it will all fall neatly into place.’
The Love of a Stranger (Kindle Single) Page 5
