* * *
She and Gustave spent very little time together. She was cautious about not intruding – he, like everyone else, was fully occupied. He and Charles were preparing the renovated stable block, Les Écuries, for the wedding feast. After breakfast one morning, he took her to see where he was working, what they were ‘up to and where all the fun is due to take place’. Set around a courtyard, the eighteenth-century construction would comfortably welcome at least two hundred guests. Its interior was brick, which had in parts been painted white to lift the atmosphere, lighten up the space. This was aided by dozens of tall windows. Muslin curtains hung at strategic points from the ceiling. These were intended to close off areas for smaller events, creating a more intimate atmosphere, or open the room up to its full and generous height and space. Two carved stone fireplaces had been installed.
‘Are you responsible for the conversion?’
He nodded. ‘You like it?’
‘It’s very impressive.’
Loudspeakers, from which on this morning a recording of Vaughan Williams’s The Lark Ascending was playing, hung from the rafters like satellites orbiting in outer space. Chairs were stacked in long rows awaiting the arrival of the tables. Elsewhere, tucked away in an annexe in what was once upon a time an abutting outhouse, was a splendid billiard table.
‘Quite something, eh? Do you play?’ he asked her.
She shook her head. These men were full of surprises.
‘The first written reference to a billiard table was found in a 1470 inventory of the possessions of King Louis XI. We’ll have a game, all four of us, one evening after dinner. Charles is a crack hand at it.’
* * *
Two days later, when Gustave went searching for Susan, he found her at the far end of the walled vegetable garden. He watched her silently for a few minutes, admiring her and her dexterity, before calling to her from the open wooden door. Susan’s throat was too hoarse from the smoke rising from her bonfires to return his greeting. She waved, threw her pitchfork to the ground, checked her fires were under control and trod the unruly route back to where Gustave was leaning against the brickwork, waiting for her. Her clothes stank of woody scents, of rooted-up clumps of wild garlic, charcoal and weeds. Snails clung to her jeans, but she was more at peace than she had been in a long, long while.
‘You’ve worked magic on this garden. At this rate, we might even manage to plant up a few summer vegetables. It’s sterling work. And how artful of you to keep it such a secret. Do the others know?’
She shook her head and ran a hand through her mussed-up hair. A twig fell out.
‘Whose idea was this? However, strictly speaking, we are not permitted to light fires in summer, due to the risks—’
‘Mine,’ she announced proudly, swinging her attention back to where the bonfires were gently smoking. ‘I think they’re safe, but I’ll make sure there are plenty of hosepipes to hand. You might need to show me where the water sources are.’
‘I was looking for you because . . .’ He led her by the hand to the terrace of the bastide, where a few scattered tables and chairs had been forgotten. They sat opposite one another. ‘I have to go away for a couple of days,’ he reported. ‘Paris beckons once more.’
‘Oh.’
‘Unavoidable, I’m afraid. I’ve designed a concert hall for the banlieue, in the north-eastern suburbs outside the city. One of the members of the council has a few queries.’
‘Well, yes, of course you must go.’ She brushed her face with the sleeve of her shirt, knowing it must have been blackened by sweat and smoke. She felt as though someone had just slapped her in the gut. She had been on the estate for the best part of a week and had forgotten to count the days, had almost forgotten that she was living on the hospitality of others. ‘I can have my stuff together in no time. If you could drop me at the station on your way to the airport. Or are you driving to Paris?’
‘I’ll take the TGV from Aix. No reason for you to leave.’
‘No, no, I must.’
‘Why?’
Because you won’t be here, was what she was thinking. Was Gustave her reason for staying on? She had no inkling of what her presence meant to him. Or his to her. Aside from occasional moments of intimacy at the end of each evening – strolling the grounds, escorting her to her room after dinner – they barely saw one another and when they did, for a snatched lunch if she didn’t eat alone in the gardens, he was always in the company of the others, which she accepted without any difficulty. Aside from the occasional touch – the brush of a hand, an embrace held a moment longer than necessary – he treated her as though she were his sister. He was respectful, considerate, thoughtful, but hardly amorous. And his solicitude towards her was causing her to ache with longing for him. She was confused by his distance. She was muddled, bewildered by her own tangled emotions. Was it genuinely the offer of a respite, a period of recuperation, he was offering, and only that? Were he and Charles, who had both journeyed through this process of loss, offering her a secure locale, an idyll where she could work through her grief because they knew the depth of her pain?
‘I’ll be back in two, maximum three days. Please stay. That garden will only grow wild again if you don’t complete the job,’ he smiled.
She nodded. ‘Thank you.’
‘You can drive me to the station if you’d like to.’
‘When are you leaving?’
‘I have a reservation on the 16.16.’
‘I’d better shower,’ she said, rising to her feet.
‘Let’s put those fires out first, shall we? We don’t need any accidents.’
* * *
It was the second night of Gustave’s absence and Susan couldn’t sleep. She was perched on a chair in the darkness, feet coiled beneath her, at one of her bedroom windows gazing out through an eerie mauve-blue silence towards the distant sea, while pondering what an odd situation she had found herself in. Listening intently, she was fairly sure she had heard a pair of nightjars calling, when she was disturbed by a faint knocking at her door. She twisted on her seat, towards the sound. Her heart was racing. For one soaring moment she hoped it might be Gustave returned, but as she had agreed to collect him from the station the following lunchtime, and due to the lateness of the hour – she glanced at her watch – twenty past two, it was improbable. She waited. There was no further movement. Had she imagined it? A resident château ghost? None of the men had forewarned her of one. She rose from the chair and stepped barefoot to press her ear against the door. She thought she heard a footstep, a floorboard trodden upon.
‘Hello?’
There was no response. She was mistaken, disturbed by nothing more alarming than the vibrations, the stretching and creaking of an ancient building. Nothing else. She returned to her bed, deciding to try to get some sleep, but lay restlessly with the covers rolled back and her eyes open, gazing at the shadowed ceiling. A few minutes later, she was sure of it, she heard a step along the corridor. She got up from the bed, slid her feet into slippers and wrapped a dressing gown about her. Outside, the corridor was in darkness but there was a shaft of light further towards the main stairs. She felt sure that she had turned off all the switches when she had ascended to her room after dinner. She followed the light source and then descended to the ground floor. Another light was on in the main kitchen: she saw it spill from beneath the closed door. She would make herself a cup of tea. When she reached the door, she hesitated before entering. Inside, the usual chaos and fine cooking aromas, but there, seated at the table, was Jean-Christophe, alone in his dressing gown, facing a roast chicken, a leg of which he was devouring.
He was startled by her arrival, a man caught out.
‘I . . . I’m sorry,’ she stammered.
He waved the clutched drumstick. ‘Don’t be, come in.’
They had eaten a reasonably substantial meal prepared by himself. She couldn’t imagine he was hungry.
‘I was going to make a cup of tea . . .’
/> ‘Please, continue to make yourself at home,’ he said, swallowing his mouthful of meat, wiping his lips and chin with a substantial napkin, which he then tossed to the table, before taking a swig of red wine.
‘Would you like one?’
‘Tea?’ He frowned in disgust and shook his head. ‘I eat when I’m worried. Not a very healthy habit and hopeless for the figure, but then, what does it matter . . . ?’
The kettle was boiling. She reached up to one of the cupboards for teabags, tossed one into a china cup and poured.
She crossed to the table, made herself an inch of space and plumped herself down opposite Jean-Christophe. Had he knocked at her door? Was he in need of someone to talk to?
‘I thought I heard someone on the stairs,’ she said by way of explanation.
‘I think it’s time to give myself up. For everyone’s sake. These chaps are too good hiding me, protecting me like this.’
Susan was taken aback. ‘But who will cook the wedding banquet?’ was all she could think to say, half laughing at herself that their wedding plans had become so important to her too.
Jean-Christophe nodded his head slowly, with grave deliberation. ‘That is what I keep asking myself.’
She couldn’t bear to see the long-laid plans of Gustave and Charles dashed at this crucial final stage. It made her cross, outraged, to think that this fat little man who Charles had tried to help might run out on them. She had no idea why. ‘You can’t just desert them,’ she said. ‘Have you really robbed a bank?’
He guffawed and downed the remains of the wine in the glass and poured a generous refill. ‘I might as well have done. I owe the HSBC so much, they think they are banking with me. Four major property investments have collapsed. My wife has kicked me out. I haven’t seen my children since . . .’ He shook his head. ‘We need money, Susan. All of us. Urgently. Gus and Charles need rich wives. Women who will support them with this insane dream of theirs. It’s the goal they’ve set themselves.’
‘What is the goal they’ve set themselves?’ Her voice was strained.
‘To marry well.’
Susan felt a shiver run through her. She clasped her hands round her hot cup.
‘Are you rich?’
She shook her head.
‘Then don’t stand in Gus’s way.’
Had her earlier misgivings been the more perceptive? Was Gustave hoping she would bail them out? Even if she sold her cottage and loaned him everything she had, how long would it keep them afloat? And what would become of her?
She had felt so safe here, so cossetted. Yet it was a fact that Gustave did behave towards her as a brother might, not expressing the physical attentions of a man who was attracted to her. And yet . . . and yet there had been moments. The first evening, after dinner, they had sat together in the courtyard beneath the stars, listening to music, listening to nightingales. He had rested his hand against her arm, his fingers lightly massaging her skin. She had thrilled at the touch, but had not reciprocated. She had misguidedly hoped that he was giving her time, space to grieve, to be liberated, if that were possible. And the evening when they had all played billiards, falling about with laughter at her ineptitude. He had held her that night outside her room. And then as quickly pecked her on the cheek and wished her Bonne nuit.
Jean-Christophe was observing Susan with those hunted sapphire eyes. Perceptive, vigilant, if just a little bleary from booze. ‘You’re very beautiful,’ he said, ‘but so English, so insecure. Gus needs . . . well, he needs a châtelaine, a woman who is at ease in society, one as capable as Anouk.’
She felt the stab at her heart, but could not stop her question. ‘What was she like?’
‘Anouk and Chloé were exceptional girls. I’d have married them both, given half the chance. Anouk had the edge in looks. She was one of those women you can’t take your eyes away from. Her beauty was . . . Well, it’s corny, but she was breathtaking. Talented too.’
Susan felt her insides implode. ‘Talented?’
‘She taught music. Violin, cello. You hear her everywhere here, non? There is always music in this house, n’est-ce pas? She haunts him.’
Susan’s whole being was caving in and she was fighting so hard not to give this man the pleasure of seeing her disappointment, her distress.
‘I think you have fallen a little bit in love with him, eh, ma chère Susan? You surely know that would be selfish and ill-advised?’
‘You’re being ridiculous. I am not . . . Did you knock at my door earlier?’ She bit back her desire to snap at him.
He nodded. ‘I was hoping for a little company.’
Susan sipped her tea. She was shaking.
‘If you felt like spending the night with me, Gus need never know. Our secret.’
She unfurled her hands from her cup and slowly stood up. ‘Goodnight, Jean-Christophe.’
‘Call me J-C. All my friends do. Don’t be so formal – come here.’ He lifted his arm towards her, grappling for the belt of her dressing gown.
She swung herself beyond his range. ‘Goodnight, J-C.’
Back in her room, in the shadowed light from a waning moon, tears streaming, she tossed her clothes into her bags. At the bottom of one were her framed photos of Justin, smiling up at her. She had not taken them out of the luggage since she had left her little studio. It was time to move on.
10
As promised, Susan collected Gustave from the station at Aix. She greeted him with a rather exaggeratedly hearty embrace while at the same time hauling her luggage from the rear seat. He was puzzled. She had called him on the train during his journey to forewarn him that she was leaving.
‘What’s this about, Susan? Why this abrupt exit?’
‘I’m off to Italy,’ she replied airily. ‘I’m meeting up with a friend in Florence. He’s a . . . a real sweetheart,’ she lied. ‘It’s time for me to move on. Thank you for everything. It’s been such fun.’
‘But . . . when did you change your plans?’
‘Out of the blue an old friend made contact. He . . . he’s rented an apartment in Florence. The timing’s perfect. You men have work to do and I really must be on my way.’
Gustave looked tired. He was perplexed. He was bemused by the Susan he was witnessing – brittle and falsely cheerful. He bent to take hold of her bags.
‘No, please. You get on the road. The others are waiting for you. The tables arrived, by the way. It’s all beginning to look very splendid and convivial in the banqueting suite.’
She was sorry that their paths would probably never cross again. Really very sorry, but to pursue this was only leading her to heartache. She stood on tiptoe and leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek. ‘Merci, Gustave,’ she whispered, ‘for sharing your lovely château with me. I will never forget these precious days. It was very special. A fairy tale.’
He held her for a moment, his eyes boring into hers, but she withdrew herself with a frigidity that she had nurtured overnight.
‘Au revoir, Gustave. Bonne chance.’
With those words, her valedictory, she swung about and gathered up her few simple belongings. Her back was towards him and then she was gone, leaving Gustave standing by his car watching her, allowing her to go, knowing that he could not pull her back. She was not ready. Had it been another time, another stage in her life, she might have accepted him, but he knew that to call after her again was futile. The kindest act was to let her go. To leave her to her grieving. Such a pity, he thought. He had not been so attracted to a woman in a long while. Not since Anouk.
11
Susan boarded her train to Italy, on the move, never looking back. She needed to escape, to flee her developing attraction for Gustave, but most importantly she had to put behind her the cruel utterances of Jean-Christophe. How completely foolish she had been to have assumed that she might have something to offer to a man of Gustave’s standing. In any case, Jean-Christophe’s observation that she had fallen a little bit in love with Gustave was nonsense. She l
oved Justin.
To Florence she was bound, where there was no friend. Nobody to greet and welcome her. No music playing in every corner, no fallen plasterwork about her feet, no jungle of a garden to clear and cultivate, no joyous dinners à quatre. There were only lonely days of queuing and tramping about the galleries.
She remained in the city of art but a few days. From there, she threaded her way south, slowly, following her inclination until she landed up in Rome. Mid-June in Rome. Hot and overcrowded. Rome as the summer was unfolding, with its coachloads of tourists. Crowds of Americans shouting loudly to one another in the ruins, bitching about the temperature. Guides holding flags aloft for crocodiles of people to trail behind. Japanese snapping everything, mostly each other. Hawkers selling tall sticks to facilitate the snapping of more selfies. Hawkers selling fans, maps, wraps to protect burnt shoulders on the open-top buses. Ice cream vendors. Everyone was yelling. Tiny Fiats were hooting and accelerating like snappy miniature dogs. Louche-looking men standing on corners whistled at her passing, shouted ‘bellissima’, trailed her, walked alongside her, propositioned her. She wanted to scream at them all.
She was lost in the midst of all this high-octane activity. Her feet were sore from traipsing to and fro. Her heart felt as wrecked and decrepit as any of the ruins about her.
Gustave had sent her several text messages. She had not unlocked her phone since she’d left France. She found them more than ten days after the first of them had been sent.
No news from you? Are you receiving my messages?
Downloaded to her phone the previous Friday. She chose not to answer it. In any case, he would have given up on her by now.
Hello Susan, how are you? The wedding went off swimmingly. No one drowned on the Sunset Cruise, not even from alcohol. You were missed . . . Where are you?
So happy for you that it was a success, was the extent of her reply. She thought back to her day on The Name of the Rose and felt a pang of regret.
The Love of a Stranger (Kindle Single) Page 8
