Wedding event fees!
‘However, if we screw up on our first outing, the word will be all around the financial elite of Europe. Those to whom we are appealing. Not the French aristocratic set; most have châteaux or country houses of their own or buried somewhere in their family history. The young rich and the foreigners, that’s our market. The British, Irish, Americans in particular. Even the Asians – Chinese, Japanese, Koreans – they are all sending through enquiries. Flurries of emails land into Charles’s inbox by the day. Everyone dreams of being married in a French château, it seems. Charles judged it perfectly. Nevertheless, they will expect a modicum of comfort, and as you can see . . . Well, the condition of the place speaks for itself. I am not even going to show you the towers.’
‘So, this is not your wedding?’
‘Mine?’ Gustave let out a roar of laughter that drove away the clouds of worry. His laugh was loud and hearty, causing his Adam’s apple to bob, and Susan wanted to hug him. ‘It’s the first event in our new business. Weddings and, later, conferences. However, we have hit a sticky moment. Oh, and it’s Sunday. I am not meant to be discussing “weddings” today. It is a golden rule, set down by Jean-Christophe, who is a firm believer in parking your problems and getting on with life. In fact, he’s rather a dab hand at it, given the challenges he’s facing.’
‘Which are?’
A bell began to sound in the main corridor on the ground floor, followed by a loud commotion as a tray of glasses went crashing to the floor.
‘Merde!’
‘À table,’ yelled one of the pair from below.
Susan’s question had been forgotten as the voices travelled up through open floors. She was ravenous. She glanced at her watch; it was twenty-five past three. They were certainly casual about schedules, these gentlemen, which might not bode well for major social occasions.
As they swept back down the stairs, she felt herself smiling, humming along to Pachelbel’s Canon playing somewhere downstairs.
* * *
The dining room was high-ceilinged, corniced and capacious. It also gave off a perfume of beeswax as well as sweetly scented roses from a bouquet of pale-pink blossoms standing in a vintage Lalique vase on a carved oak country sideboard. The table had been laid up with cream Limoges bone china dinnerware, silver cutlery and an ornate pair of Napoléon III candelabras. At a pinch, the long oval table, spread with a damask linen cloth, could welcome thirty guests – but not one hundred and fifty. Had these men thought any of this through?
Charles gestured Susan towards a seat alongside where Gustave was to be. He settled himself opposite, to the right of Jean-Christophe at the top of the table. Jean-Christophe arrived almost immediately, bearing an oval platter arranged with two dozen marinated and grilled sardines, slabs of lemon and plenty of herbs both dried and fresh. He announced the dish, along with all its ingredients and the time it had taken to prepare, rather like a toastmaster might. Charles clapped his hands together. ‘It smells delicious, my friend. Come and sit down, take off that darned hat. You look like a harried hunting dog.’
‘Give me booze!’ cried Jean-Christophe, slumping theatrically into the carver at the top of the table.
Susan was dying to quiz these amiable strangers about their plans but feared to broach the subject, firstly because it was Sunday and she did not want to be the one to break the rules, and secondly because she did not want to appear a busybody. She longed to offer help. What fun that might be, but of course it was totally impractical. Her lodgings were too far away and she had no transport. And then she chided herself silently – she was getting carried away. She had been invited for lunch, not to interfere.
The food was sublime, sumptuous. Just as Gustave had promised, Jean-Christophe was a master chef, even if he had never been employed as one.
‘My hobby,’ he confessed with a boy’s shy smile. ‘As you can see from my silhouette, I am a gourmand. Food and wine, I live for them.’
‘And women!’
‘Now, now, please, Charles, we have company. In any case, Susan, the man lies but, my, you are lovely.’
7
They rose from the table just after six o’clock, replete, more than a little tipsy, or Susan was, and exceedingly light-hearted. They had laughed a great deal, taken their time, discussed at length and relished the many plates on offer, which, after the sardines, included fresh asparagus from the Camargue and a succulent roast duck from an organic farm in the Languedoc, served with three tureens of lightly cooked garden vegetables and dressed with a velvety sauce of blueberries, mint, fig and port. This was followed by a young leaf salad and an assortment of cheeses, the like of which would rarely be on offer in a Michelin three-star establishment. And to round it off, ‘to revitalise the palate’, sorbets: Granny Smith apple, raspberry and lemon, home-made by Jean-Christophe from fresh fruit bought by Gustave in Cannes at the Forville market. Each course was accompanied by an astonishing bottle of wine. A 2007 Puligny-Montrachet with the sardines: ‘well-balanced with citrus and floral notes’.
‘You don’t think we should opt for a Meursault? From the vineyard of Patrick Javillier, for example?’
‘I am convinced that the Puligny-Montrachet works well.’
‘I agree,’ Charles confirmed. ‘And I am acquainted with the proprietor of the vineyard. I feel sure he will offer us his best prices.’
A Saint-Emilion grand cru 2003 had been decanted that morning for the duck, and it was also on offer for the cheese if Susan preferred not to switch to a younger Châteauneuf-du-Pape 2013.
And to complete this gastronomic marathon, perfect with apple sorbet, a heavenly glass of very smooth Calvados. A Marquis de Saint-Loup, vintage 1939.
‘The oldest Calvados available in the world, a true vintage,’ rhapsodised Jean-Christophe. ‘I sold my Harley-Davidson to purchase two bottles.’
‘No!’
‘Non, non, I jest, sweet serious Susan. My, you’re even lovelier after such a repast.’
Susan inhaled the liquor’s apple-skin aroma, sipped its musty flavour and took a satisfying swig.
Had they laid on this banquet in her honour? She couldn’t believe so. Did they eat like this every Sunday, every day? Were there no neighbours for them to dine with, or wives? Why were these men here without women? Three attractive, intelligent men setting off on this extraordinary venture without the help of any women at their sides. She was more than puzzled.
‘Coffee?’ offered Gustave. She shook her head. Not one more mouthful of anything could pass her lips. ‘I’d better, as I’ll be driving.’
She felt a surge of guilt, of awkwardness about dragging Gustave away from his Sunday evening, his companions and creature comforts.
‘Why don’t I ring for a taxi?’ she suggested.
‘Nonsense, I’ve been pacing myself. Let’s go for a walk outside. It looks as though it’s a perfect spring evening for a post-prandial.’
‘What about the dishes, the table?’ She could not reasonably leave her too-generous hosts with all the clearing up.
‘We have a very efficient local lady who comes in each morning, Monday to Saturday. First thing tomorrow, Magali will be singing her socks off and busying herself with everything. Please don’t concern yourself. I propose we take a stroll to the bastide and you can hold your hands up in horror at the work that lies ahead for us,’ he smiled.
Susan acquiesced and they stepped outside, this time by the double-fronted oak door, which gave onto the view that from the upper floors reached to the Mediterranean. Here, it was a spectrum of countryside and vineyards. Sweeping stone steps, stone or marble fountains, dizzying to behold.
‘Sometimes, I close my eyes and think I am in Rome,’ Gustave said.
‘Why Rome?’
‘All that running water. Fountains abounding. You are never far from a fountain in Rome. Close your eyes and listen.’
They stood very still and Susan shut her eyes. The air, also very still, smelt of the approach of evening.
It was sweeter, more potent, healing. In the distance, the mating calls of frogs could be heard.
‘Your home is amazing,’ she cooed, ‘magical. Thank you so much for this invitation.’
I will never, ever forget this, she was thinking. Such kindness.
‘We like to think so too, and it’s a pleasure to welcome you here. This way.’ Gustave rested his hand on the base of Susan’s spine and guided her to the left. Gravel crunched underfoot. The evening, as the sun prepared to set behind them, was growing a little chilly. Her head was light from the wines and from happiness. Yes, happiness. She felt buoyant, in a skipping mood, although she refrained. It was the first time, aside from their recent sailing trip, that she had experienced any emotion that might resemble felicity or mirthfulness. A balloon released. She was free to go anywhere, to follow whatever she so desired. Without her even noticing it, she had upped her pace and was walking on ahead, outstripping Gustave’s step.
She paused, looked back and saw him bending over a low bush studying its leaves. She sauntered back to draw level with him.
‘I have been replanting this boxwood walkway. Every one of the shrubs was dried and shrivelled when we took over the estate. I dug them up and replanted earlier this year, but these leaves are looking a little yellow at the edges. Know anything about them?’
‘They need regular bouts of water. It needs to reach down to the roots. The yellowing of the leaf could be pest-related, but let me see . . . No, I don’t think so. Give them a good old dousing in the mornings and you’ll see the difference.’
Gustave rose to his full height and stepped close. Instinct impelled Susan to move away but he caught her lightly by the left hand. She thought he was going to kiss her. No man had been this close to her in eighteen months. Except her dad at Justin’s cremation. Justin. What was she thinking? She lifted her gaze to Gustave. ‘I’d better be heading home,’ she whispered. ‘I . . . I don’t want you to be . . . be driving back up here in the dark. Or, please, do let me ring for a taxi.’
Gustave kept hold of Susan’s hand and led her forwards in the direction they had been following. She shivered, whether from the evening drop in temperature or because she was afraid or happy or simply lost and confused, she could not have said. He lifted his arm and wrapped it around her shoulder, pulling her closer, making walking a little awkward as they bumped up against one another. Ahead was a vast greenhouse with many empty panes and ivy climbing its damaged skeleton. Grass thigh-high fringed its exterior. Gustave took her hand again and led her towards it. In one of the few panes intact she caught the reflection of the moon still low in the sky but rising. Rising even in advance of sunset, as though eager to take its place in the high heavens.
‘Watch your step.’ They crunched over broken glass and made their way inside.
‘It’s almost as large as Crystal Palace,’ she laughed, ‘or Kew Gardens.’
‘This was where the army of staff gardeners fostered tropical plants and fruit transported from the Pacific Islands. Further towards the bastide is a walled garden for vegetables. Once we’ve rid it of weeds and planted it up, it will serve our needs very nicely,’ he informed her, seating himself on a worn old wooden stepladder, which rocked and steadied as it took his weight. With both hands, he drew Susan to him, his inner thighs wrapped either side of her. For the first time, she was marginally taller than him. He closed his arms about her and held her tight, his head brushing her shoulder and upper breastbone. She continued to shiver, terrified of what lay ahead, fearing pain, hurt, while imbibing the glorious strangeness of this man who was so different from Justin, both physically and in personality. This man, and his companions, were risk-takers. She knew nothing about him. They might be crooks. Bank robbers, all of them, not only Jean-Christophe. Although that was surely a joke between them, wasn’t it? She was in a foreign country, alone, vulnerable, without direction. Gustave had probably discerned that from her demeanour. Perhaps this man, this attractive aristocratic Frenchman, who had first encountered her in a first-class carriage, was hoping she had money, resources, funds to bail them out. Was that why they had laid on such a spread? She should go. Now.
‘I must get home,’ she announced, dragging herself firmly backwards and beyond his reach. Gustave watched her, appraising her. She saw the wheels in his mind turning, deliberating, deciding whether to persuade her otherwise.
She coughed. ‘I . . . must . . . be going. It’s been a wonderful day and I cannot . . .’
His fingers, two fingers, reached up to her lips, staying the rest of her sentence.
‘You lost someone,’ he said.
She stiffened, her spine rock-like.
‘Your husband?’
She was silenced. She felt the betrayal of tears, of grief welling up like a roaring tidal wave within her, all set to expose her. It all came rushing back; those last days in the cottage before the hospice. The arrival of the ambulance, Justin on a gurney, accompanied by oxygen machines. The knowledge that he would never return, would never share her bed again, never more walk the countryside with her, never stand, arms wrapped about her in the moonlight as they listened to the melodious song of a nightingale. Alone at his bedside, she had read, recited Keats and Shelley to him because he was too weak to utter anything more than monosyllables. The man who had taught her so much, taught her to look outwards, to enquire, who had loved her so deeply, encouraging the blossoming from student to woman.
Those first steps back at their cottage as she, bereaved, unlocked the front door, shuffled into its cold interior, closing out the milky pre-spring afternoon. The dawning realisation that she was alone and that her life as she had known it would never be the same again. A widow at thirty-two. He was gone. Justin was silent.
She nodded now, unable to form words. A gurgle of saliva was the extent of her articulation.
He nodded. ‘I won’t ask you to tell me about it, to talk, because . . . I can drive you back to where you are staying or I can offer you a bed for the night in a room with renovated flooring and a bathroom with taps and warm water, where you will be left in peace and out of harm’s way. The choice is yours. It’s early yet.’ He glanced at his Jaeger-Lecoultre watch. ‘Seven thirty, just gone.’
‘I’m not happy without my toothbrush,’ she blurted, ‘so home, I think, if you don’t mind.’ Her response was softly spoken, but resolute.
The others were nowhere to be seen when she returned to the blue room to collect her handbag, sunhat and cardigan. She would have liked to wish them a bonne soirée and thank them for their extraordinary hospitality. Gustave remained outside. He was closing the roof on the car before they set off back down the hills, almost without a word, though the mood between them was easy. As they descended the corkscrew lanes, a brilliant blood-red sun appeared, as though from nowhere. Suddenly it was there, hanging before them, suspended above the Mediterranean. An illuminated sphere slipping from the sky right in front of them. The entire coastline seemed to have been lit up by its iridescence. Then, as the redness began to seep out of the day, waves of gold broke out on the water, creating a glinting, corrugated sea.
‘Oh, my,’ she muttered wistfully.
He pulled over, switched off the engine for them to savour it. ‘Quite something, eh?’
‘Mmm.’
They sat in silence for a few minutes, both looking straight ahead of them at the miracle of light shifts on display.
And then he spoke, softly, barely audible.
‘I lost my wife eight years ago. She and her sister were killed in a car accident while passing through a tunnel outside Lucerne in Switzerland. They were on a skiing trip. You might have read about it? It was all over the French news for a couple of weeks. Months, it seemed to Charles and me.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘It was the seed for the idea that led us to the château. This hare-brained wedding business. If our happiness has been snatched from us, why not create it for others?’ He lowered his head, contemplating his hands with
their long slender fingers clasped together in his lap beneath the steering wheel. She flicked a glance in his direction, incredulous. ‘It doesn’t get easier, Susan. That’s what they’ll tell you, though, spoon-feeding it into you like a narcotic.’
‘It doesn’t?’ Was she to live with this pain for the rest of her life? This serrated-edge ache that sawed through her, that had perforated the very essence of her?
‘I think of Anouk most days. Less frequently than in the beginning, it’s true, but I haven’t forgotten her. I ask myself how she might look now, at forty. Whether we would still be together. But over the years I have come to negotiate the loss, learned to live again. Without her. I . . . We’ve moved on. We are building or attempting to build from the ashes.’
‘We?’
‘Charles and I.’
She was confused, open-mouthed.
‘Charles and I have known each other since the Grand École. We were, are, the closest of friends. We studied together, discovered our summers of misspent youth together. Even later, we went into business together – Charles is an engineer, while I’m an architect – and along the way we married sisters, Anouk and Chloé. Our business was burgeoning; we were chained to its success. I was travelling all over France taking on commissions, designing houses, art galleries, concert halls. At that stage, it seemed vital to accept every decent offer that came my way. Build my reputation. The girls were determined to have a skiing trip and so we sent them off on their own without us. In Charles’s Citroën. We never discovered the full facts, the precise cause of the accident. Several vehicles were involved. A lorry at the rear, an estate car in front. They were concertinaed.’ He sighed. ‘It was, well, a harrowing time.’
The sun had set. The light out on the water had darkened. The backdrop was a rising smoke of small purplish-grey clouds. Susan felt cold. She shivered and pulled her cardigan more tightly about her. The process of losing Justin had been gradual. Relentless and cruel, but gradual. She had been given time to adjust, to accept that she must be strong, or put on a show of it for Justin’s sake, to help him bear his suffering. She knew that she would soon have to let him go, and she knew that he needed her, somehow, to give him permission to go: ‘It’s all right, I’ll be fine. I’ll manage. I’ll always love you.’
The Love of a Stranger (Kindle Single) Page 6
