If Kat blushes any harder, she might explode.
‘Tell him he never bores her,’ I say. ‘Tell him she feels exactly the same and she’s going to learn more French, and tell him that she’s single too.’
‘Don’t tell him that,’ Kat whines.
I gesture towards Theo with my eyebrows. ‘Tell him.’
Julian looks between us and then starts talking French to Theo again.
‘He also says he likes your hair,’ he says when he stops. ‘He says the blue and green bring out your eyes, and that every time he comes here, he wonders if you’ll have dyed it again, and he likes guessing what colours you might choose next.’
I don’t think anyone has ever looked as happy as Kat does at that moment, and when I glance at Theo, the look is echoed on his face.
I can’t stop smiling as we walk away.
‘So, would you really like a stall here?’ I say to Kat as the three of us wander around the covered market area together, looking at handmade pottery, an array of multicoloured cups and saucers, hanging ornaments, and wall plaques I can’t read.
‘More than anything. Just a little table with loaves of my fancy breads and my most popular pastries. Maybe I could extend to some little handmade gifts. I love this market. I’d love to be part of it.’
‘Why don’t you?’ Julian asks.
‘A million reasons. I’d have to get here so early that I’d miss my usual round and let my regular customers down. I could employ someone but it’d be a massive expense and I don’t have a clue if running a market stall would be financially viable, and there’s so much paperwork and red tape, it’s not worth it unless I know it’s going to work. It’s just a dream that’ll never happen.’
Julian’s quiet for a while before he nudges me. ‘You could do it.’
Kat’s head spins so fast she might’ve given herself whiplash.
‘What?’ I say.
‘You could do it. You’re used to selling cake and you’re a great cook. You could help with the baking and sell the results here.’
‘I’m on holiday, Jules. I’m only here for a couple more weeks.’
‘Yeah, but it could be a way for Kat to decide if it’s worth doing permanently.’ He looks at her. ‘If it works out and you make loads of money, you’d know it’d be worth employing someone properly to do it. Call it a way to test the waters.’
She shakes her head. ‘It’s a lovely thought but you can see how packed the place is. It’s not easy to get a stall here and there’s a huge waiting list.’
He shrugs. ‘Just a thought. Wendy’s a great cook and I’m going to be the size of a whale if she doesn’t find someone else to feed with her cakes.’
Chapter Fifteen
When we’re done, we leave Kat at the market and Julian and I walk home together. Even though he’s loaded down with plants, I half expect him to take off jogging again, but he doesn’t. I’m sure he could easily walk faster, but it’s actually kind of nice that he wanders along at my pace instead of leaving me alone.
‘I can’t believe such a sleepy wee village comes to life like that,’ he says as we walk down the empty country lane. ‘It’s like they wear their batteries down on market days and take the rest of the week to recharge everything.’
‘That’s exactly it. I’ve walked into the village a few times now and it’s pot luck whether you find any shops open, and the equivalent of a Lotto win if you find the one you want open. And that library is a joke. Today was the first time I’d seen its doors open, and that was only to let someone use the loo.’
‘You do know we have our own library, right?’
‘Yeah, I know, I just love libraries, I wanted to have a little nose in and see if they had a French phrasebook or something I could get out. I don’t even know the basics.’
‘I could teach you.’
‘You? You would teach me French?’
He shrugs. ‘I could teach you enough to get by. Most of the words are very similar to ours, and you’d probably be surprised how many you know without realising. It’s the accent that’s more confusing than the words themselves. I could teach you enough to say hello to people and buy stuff in shops without ending up with ten litres of paint stripper instead of a pint of milk.’
‘Kat’s been teaching me some things. For example,’ I clear my throat, ‘Vous est twat.’
He lets out a burst of laughter. ‘Well, you’ve just said “you is twat”, so that’s the wrong grammar unless you’re Ali G. Correct would be “vous êtes un twat”.’
I laugh too. ‘Are you seriously helping me to insult you in another language?’
‘Ah, I know how empty your life would be without thinking up insults for me. I wouldn’t want to spoil your fun.’ He looks over at me and grins. ‘Besides, if this is the vital part of the language Kat’s been teaching you, I think you need help. But you can just keep insulting me if you like. I don’t mind.’
‘I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that,’ I say, feeling the familiar guilt spreading through me. I nudge his arm and grin, trying to make a joke out of it. ‘In all fairness, you’ve been a very decent twat recently.’
He laughs. ‘Ah, that’s what I spend my life aspiring to be. A very decent twat.’
I shouldn’t be smiling this much at him. I have to stop myself. ‘Where did you learn to speak French anyway? How come you’re so good at it? I can’t imagine there’s much call for fluent French in Scotland?’
He raises his shoulders and shakes his head like he’s brushing the compliment off. ‘I just took it in school. I didn’t particularly like it but there were a few exchange trips that got me away from my father for a few weeks so I carried on with it, and then my first job was in customer service for a big mortgage lender in Glasgow, but the company’s head office was in Bordeaux so I got sent there for training and ended up working with an office full of French people quite often. I’m pretty rusty now, but it comes back surprisingly fast when you start talking to people.’
‘You say that about everything.’
‘What?’
‘That you’re rusty but it comes back. You said the same about knowing your way around a generator.’
‘I’m pretty old and rusty at everything now.’ He’s smiling as he says it, but his eyes are dull. ‘Don’t worry about me.’
It’s another defence, another brush-off. Another brick in the invisible wall he’s hiding behind. My mind starts running off in all sorts of directions and I have to stop myself. I cannot start caring about Julian or why he’s so guarded.
‘So, did you like that?’ he asks, a blatant attempt to change the subject.
‘The market? Yeah, it was fun. It’s so laid-back and easy-going. I can’t remember the last time I was in a place that crowded and didn’t leave with a few bruises and a fear for my life.’
‘Exactly. Back at home, if you’re brave enough to go shopping on a Saturday morning, you’re not guaranteed to make it out alive. Here, I could’ve laid down for a nap in the middle of the road and no one would’ve minded.’
‘They’re probably used to Brits rolling around in the street from tea withdrawal.’
He snorts and I try not to think about how much I like making him laugh. ‘You obviously liked it, Greenfingers McBeath.’
‘That’s one of the nicer things you’ve called me,’ he says with a laugh. ‘And yes, that was amazing. All that food was so fresh. Most of the fruit had literally been picked this morning. Shopping there is the kind of thing I could get used to. It makes me never want to set foot in a supermarket again.’
‘I know the feeling.’
‘I go to farmers’ markets at home but there’s so much rivalry between sellers. They’re always competing with each other for the biggest stock and the lowest prices. Here, they were all supporting each other and telling me what I should get from the other stalls. Everyone was so nice. I didn’t see one frown or unhappy person. I didn’t see anyone glued to their
phone. It was like things used to be in the good old days.’
I look up at him but he keeps his eyes focused on the narrow road ahead. I know the general feeling here is that of a really slow snail crawling through treacle, and I’d never realised before that little village-life could be so different from the crowded high streets at home, and maybe a more relaxed life wouldn’t be a bad thing… I have to stop thinking about it, and about how much I’m enjoying talking to Jules, and how easy it is when I’m not too busy insulting him. ‘So, did Mr Butter Man really say all those things?’
‘Yeah, of course,’ he says. ‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. That’s pretty much exactly what Kat said to me the other day, I thought you might’ve overheard and… embellished.’
‘I don’t embellish.’ His eyes are dancing as he glances at me. ‘That was what he said. Of course, it might have helped that I told him she thought he was the most gorgeous man in France…’
I giggle. ‘I knew you’d said something along those lines.’
‘No relationship is going anywhere without a bit of honesty. It was only right to tell him. I thought it might help if he knew.’
‘Well, it did. It was really nice of you to come over and translate all that. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than meddle in Kat’s love life.’
‘Are you kidding? She makes bread and he makes butter. Bread and butter. They’re a match made in baked-goods heaven. Next time I go there, I’ll tell him how to say she looks pretty in English or something. No doubt that’ll make her melt.’
‘That’s really nice, Jules,’ I say. ‘Kat really likes him, and I don’t think she’s had much luck with men. She needs all the help she can get.’
He knocks his shoulder against mine as we walk along. ‘I didn’t have you pegged as the romantic type, and yet there you are, trying to get the two of them together.’
‘Well, romance is fine if you like that sort of thing. Everyone deserves a chance at it. Romance can work great in other people’s lives. Just not in mine.’
‘Same,’ he mutters. ‘That’s something else we’ve got in common, Wend. This is getting scary. We’re supposed to be enemies, not have stuff in common.’
Are we enemies? It hasn’t felt like it lately. Ever since the snake in the kitchen, he’s been different than he was at first, and I’m not sure why.
I shake my head to clear it. ‘Oh, come on, romance doesn’t work for you? You must have women throwing themselves at you.’
‘Don’t know.’ He shrugs. ‘Don’t care. I’m not interested in that kind of thing.’
‘You look the way you do and walk around half-naked because you’re not interested in women throwing themselves at you?’
‘Oh, yeah. Someone who only likes me for the way I look is exactly what I want. What could possibly go wrong in a relationship like that?’
‘So, what, you’re a one-night-stander? Serial user?’
‘No,’ he says, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say he was offended. ‘I don’t go in for any of that. I’ve done the whole relationship thing and I’m not doing it again. What about you? Got a string of boyfriends waiting at home?’
‘Ha.’ I give him a sarcastic smile. ‘No. I’ve done the whole relationship thing too and it never ends well. Love just doesn’t work for me. I’m better off alone.’
‘So you didn’t come to The Château of Happily Ever Afters for the happily ever after then?’
‘I don’t believe in happily ever afters, Jules.’
‘Me neither.’ He gives me a sad smile. ‘We came to the right bloody place, didn’t we? What are we here for? To rename it The Château of Forever Alone?’
I can’t help laughing at him.
‘Did Eulalie really think the place was some magical love charm that worked its voodoo on anyone who walked through its doors?’
‘I don’t know. She always talked about it in fictional terms, so it’s hard to untangle what was real and what wasn’t. Apparently the duke used to hold grand parties and the house would, like, throw two people who were an ideal match together in the same room and lock them in and no one would be able to find the key until they’d started to like each other.’
He bursts out laughing. ‘Call me cynical, but my guess would be they were two arseholes who’d been rude to servants and the servants got their own back.’
I laugh too. ‘There you go – cynicism, something else we have in common. What Eulalie told me about the house was always just fiction, but if she actually believed it, then I’m with you. Magical bloody walls. More like vengeful servants.’
He grins at me and, for the first time, I wonder if we could’ve been friends had we met in different circumstances. Without the château, without my inability to trust anyone where money is involved, without the unknown reason he’s so closed off, could we have got along? I know if Eulalie had met him, she’d have been itching to set me up with him. She’d have seen the funny, interesting person he hides behind a tight-lipped smile and a flex of bicep. She’d have got to the bottom of why he talks without thinking and then suddenly realises he’s revealed too much of himself and changes the subject in a flash.
‘So, you’ve got a real thing about plants, huh?’ I look over at him with an orchid under each arm and a bag of fresh vegetables with a bundle of lavender sticking out the top hanging from the crook of his elbow.
‘Yeah.’ His face lights up involuntarily. ‘I love them. I love being outside in nature, watching the seasons change, getting my fingers in the earth. It reminds me of how small I am and how much bigger the world is. And who doesn’t like flowers? I have orchids at home and coming downstairs every morning and seeing them on my kitchen windowsill brightens my day. Everyone should have a flower in their lives.’
‘They’re not exactly the most macho thing you could be into.’
‘If that’s some thinly veiled sexist attempt at emasculating me, it won’t work.’
‘I didn’t mean that. I just meant that most guys are all, I dunno, vroom vroom cars and football.’
He laughs. ‘Where are you meeting all these stereotypical men? It’s like you’ve only ever met one man and made him into the prototype for every other man on the planet. Should I be shocked that you’re not into ballet and ponies?’
I’m trying not to laugh again and I fail completely when he looks over at me with a smile, and we both dissolve into giggles.
‘Have you got a big garden at home?’ I ask when I can speak again, instead of any of the other things I want to ask him.
‘Nah, not even a windowbox. It’s one of the reasons I love this place so much. The garden is so big, and the climate is so much better than the UK. The temperatures are hotter and the growing season is longer. You could grow almost anything you wanted. The weather’s great and space will never be an issue with fifteen acres. There’s nothing you couldn’t do with that garden. It’s beautiful.’
Listening to his enthusiasm makes me wish I appreciated the outdoors more. I like flowers as much as the next person, but I could kill an artificial bouquet. I will never be a good gardener.
‘Once I get the weeds cut down, that garden will be incredible. It’s like my dream garden, but bigger than I could ever have hoped for. Everything in it is perfect, from the apple trees out front to the strawberry patches and herb gardens. You could literally live La Belle Vie here. Someone has plainly been self-sufficient in the past. The fields towards the back of our land were pastures once, there are wire cages in the barns that would’ve housed chickens, underneath all the weeds are well-laid-out allotment beds. There are enough outbuildings that you could grow things undercover in bad weather, plenty of space to store the autumn harvest, the kind of trees that give a good, long-lasting crop, all planted in the exact spot to get the best sunlight exposure. Do you know if Eulalie’s husband was a gardener?’
‘No idea,’ I say, watching the way his face changes as he talks. When he’s talking plant
s, his eyes shine and his cheeks glow. ‘This is really your dream? The Tom and Barbara Good Life thing?’
‘Aye, more than anything. Move out into the country, get out of the rat race. I tried to get out when I started modelling but I’m still part of it, just not the nine-to-five part any more. I wish I could make a living like those guys at the market do, selling stuff I’ve grown with my own hands, feeding a family with nothing but food from our own garden. It’s not a viable dream in Britain, but here with the better climate and such a huge piece of land… it could be.’
‘Sounds like a lot of work.’
‘Nature does the work for you, you just need to give it a nudge in the right direction,’ he says. ‘I’d love nothing more than to be here in the autumn and sell our chestnuts. Those beautiful trees in our orchard are going to spend yet another year feeding only squirrels at this rate.’
‘You’re not planning on staying that long then? I thought you were all “I can stay as long as I want, I haven’t got a fixed job to go back to”?’
‘When this shoot is done, my agent will start circulating the pictures to clothing companies long before they’re out in public. One big campaign leads to more big campaigns and brands are keen to get in while the iron’s hot. Chances are I’ll get more work pretty quickly, and it’ll be worth me staying in London a while. No point driving back here for a day or two and then going back over there. It’s a long drive and my car guzzles diesel like a donkey in a desert.’
I look up at him as we walk. His face is expressionless and his voice flat now. ‘You don’t seem happy about that.’
‘It pays the bills,’ he says. ‘I’m sure you’re not overjoyed about handing out pieces of cake in supermarket aisles either.’
‘It barely pays the bills,’ I say. ‘Actually, it doesn’t really pay the bills at all, but a job is a job.’
‘Exactly,’ he says. ‘I’ve never had a job that I liked. I’ve never looked forward to going to work in the morning. I model now because I earn enough from one shoot to pay the bills until the next shoot, and I don’t have to drag myself into a soulless office every day with a bunch of other miserable people with a one-way ticket towards death.’
The Chateau of Happily-Ever-Afters Page 15
