‘Every time someone says that…’ A clap of thunder cuts me off and the rain gets heavier.
‘Let me guess,’ he shouts. ‘Every time someone says that, thunder cracks and the heavens open?’
‘Something like that!’ I shout, still laughing at the boyish grin on his face.
He bounds up the steps and grabs my hand, dragging me back out into the rain.
‘Jules!’ I protest.
His only answer is to start screeching out the chorus of ‘Singin’ in the Rain’.
‘It’s a bloody good job we haven’t got any neighbours!’ I say as raindrops slide down the back of my neck, making me shiver. ‘They’d think peacock mating season had started!’
The look on his face is unmistakably one of a child about to do something naughty. Sure enough, he kicks through a puddle at me, splashing me with rainwater, grins, and goes back to singing.
‘You git!’ I shout, running after him as he jumps down a step and splashes into the next puddle.
Luckily we’re in the same position – neither of us can get any wetter – so I chase him, determined to get my own back. The rain is coming down so hard that the water is pooling on the concrete steps, and I splash through each puddle, trying to kick water at Jules, usually missing. It doesn’t matter though. We’re like a pair of children, jumping and screaming in the rain, giggling like it’s the funniest thing on earth. I’d die if anyone saw us now, we both should’ve grown out of jumping in puddles thirty years ago, but for a moment, nothing seems more important than the sound of his laugh rumbling through the storm, and the way his smile lights up the dull evening night.
He grabs my hand and pulls me across the wide step and I crash into him, giggling as we nearly fall over, and his arms slide around my waist, holding us both up. I intend to brace my hands against his shoulders and push away instantly, but his arms tighten around me and instead of pushing away, I melt against him, relishing the warmth of his skin through the wet fabric of his T-shirt.
I look up and our eyes lock, and heat races along my veins even though this rain is bloody freezing. It’s closer than I’ve been to a guy in years, a fizz in my stomach that I never thought I’d feel again. His tongue wets his lips and my eyes are fixated on them. It would be so easy, if I leant up on my tiptoes just an inch, if he leant just a bit further down, it would—
A flash of lightning right overhead makes me scream and the spell is broken. We jump apart so fast it’s as if the lightning had actually hit. I stare at him for a moment in shock. I could’ve kissed him. I was going to kiss him. I wanted to kiss him.
No, I didn’t. That’s too ridiculous for words. I do not want to kiss him. He’s Julian, for God’s sake. He’s… well, he’s not for kissing, I know that much.
He hovers on the steps in the rain like he’s done something wrong and is waiting for me to yell at him. Because I have no idea what else to do, I find myself laughing at the ridiculousness of this situation. That did not just happen. It was obviously a hallucination brought on by all the lightning. Maybe I did actually get struck by lightning. That’s probably it. That’s a far more logical explanation than actually wanting to kiss him.
Jules is watching me with a raised eyebrow and I know I have to do something to defuse the tension, so I kick through a puddle and send a good hit of water sploshing all over him. He shouts in surprise and his face breaks into laughter, easy and full of joy, and the tautness disappears as quickly as the next roll of thunder above us.
Julian shakes a fist at the sky, still cackling. ‘All right, Nature, we get it.’
He holds his hand out to me and I can’t stop myself taking it as we bounce up the steps one last time.
I’m laughing so much I can barely stay on my feet as we stumble into the château and slip on the wet floor. Julian’s hand is the only thing that keeps me upright. He’s out of breath and still giggling. His hair was in a ponytail earlier but now it’s fallen down and is plastered to the side of his face, dripping around the back of his neck, and his glasses are steamed up and covered in raindrops so he can’t possibly see a thing, but he suddenly seems young and carefree. I giggle as he shakes himself from head to toe like a dog getting out of a bath, soaking the tiled floor of the entrance hall, and for the first time, I realise that I’ve gone ten minutes without feeling sad. Since Eulalie died, I’ve been alone. Really alone. There have been pity invitations to go out for a drink with the girls from work, awkward conversations as they sit around chatting about frustrations with husbands and children, awkward excuses as they try to set me up with single friends and awkward explanations as I explain I’m not interested in dating. False giggles as I turn it into a joke and tell them that all men are bastards and there’s no point trying to convince me otherwise. More awkwardness as they try to plan their next girly night out while figuring out the most polite way not to invite me again. But the last time I really laughed with someone? The last time I relaxed with someone? The last time I wasn’t afraid to be stupid in front of someone? I can’t remember it. I wouldn’t have jumped in a puddle, even with Eulalie. And she would’ve jumped in puddles.
She would’ve liked Julian. I’ve thought it before, but as I watch him standing in the hallway screwing rainwater out of his hair, it hits me again. She would’ve liked him a lot.
‘Stay there, I’ll go and grab a towel,’ I say, struggling to drag my eyes away from the way his wet T-shirt is stuck to his chest. It’s not like there’s anything under there I haven’t seen before, but it’s a lot sexier now he doesn’t parade around half-naked.
I run up the grand staircase and into the only bathroom with a flushing toilet. It’s nearest to the bedroom so it’s the one I’ve been gradually cleaning up, and it’s only a couple of days ago I uncovered the linen cupboard full of fluffy white towels. A quick wash and they were as good as new. And we just happen to need them.
This house couldn’t… Nah. It’s too ridiculous for words, even as I hear Eulalie’s voice in my head. The Château of Happily Ever Afters gives people what they need before they know they need it.
I wrap a fluffy towel around my hair and shoulders, and take two more downstairs. Jules catches them gratefully as I throw them to him, and I realise I’m still grinning, and still failing at taking my eyes off him as he bends forward and wraps a towel over his head, rubbing his hair with the same enthusiasm you’d rub an excitable dog dry with. I grip the banister because some long-buried part of me has an urge to go over and rub it for him.
‘So, rain’s like a full moon to a werewolf to you, then?’
He laughs and looks up, white towel hanging over his face. ‘Yeah. Sorry, I get a bit carried away sometimes. I love the rain. I hadn’t realised how much I’d missed it since I left Glasgow.’
It’s an odd thing to miss, but kind of, maybe just a little bit endearing. Whoever would’ve imagined a Brit missing the rain? I can’t take my eyes off the flex of his biceps as he rubs his head, the way water droplets slide across the smooth skin of his upper arms, the cling of his T-shirt sleeves with every flex.
I shake my head and clear my throat, forcing myself to look up the stairs instead. ‘You should change. You’ll freeze if you stay in those clothes much longer.’
He looks up at me. ‘You should too. You look cold.’
I don’t tell him that I think I’ve broken out in goosebumps for an altogether different reason.
‘I’m going to. Upstairs.’ I point upwards, towards the bedroom where my suitcase is.
‘My stuff’s down here.’ He points along the hallway to his left.
‘Good,’ I say. ‘You were out there for ages, you need to dry off and warm up or you’ll catch a chill.’
‘Don’t worry about me.’ He gives me a wink. ‘I’m sure you’ll be devastated if I drop dead of pneumonia.’
I thwack him on the legs with my towel. ‘Devastated, no. Disappointed, because if that’s what rain does to you, I’d love to see you in the snow.�
�
He bursts out laughing. ‘Oh, I’m a monster in the snow. I can build the best snowman in Scotland, hands down, and I’ll snowball fight any kid who tries to challenge me!’
I shouldn’t be wishing this hard for snow in August in France. Even if The Château of Happily Ever Afters really gives owners what they want, it would struggle with that one.
‘Hey, Wend?’ Julian says as I start to climb back up the stairs. ‘Thanks for coming out to help me. You didn’t have to do that.’
‘You’re welcome,’ I mumble, unsure of what else to say, because his face has gone from playful to serious again, and he sounds sincere, and I’m not sure how to deal with him sounding sincere. He’s meant to be a git. He’s not meant to sound sincere.
I take a couple more steps but then stop and go back. ‘Jules?’
‘Hmm?’ He turns around, still rubbing his hair through the towel, his glasses steamed up again.
‘Are you hungry? I mean, anyone needs something warm and filling after an outing in the rain, and you’re cold and wet, and…’ I trail off because I shouldn’t want to feed him this much.
‘What did you have in mind?’
‘I was at the market this morning and I got this huge round of camembert cheese. Kat managed to translate what the cheese seller was saying. Apparently there are three cheeses you have to try if you’re visiting Normandy—’
‘Les trois Normands.’
I can’t hide that I’m impressed by him knowing that. I swallow hard. ‘Yeah, well, this is one of them, and it’s way too big for one person, and you put it in the oven, and—’
‘I’d love to, Wend. Thanks.’
I grin, unable to hide how happy I am to hear that. I love the thought of cooking proper food for him. There’s something about him, particularly when he’s as unguarded as he was outside tonight, that makes me want to take care of him. When I first met him, I thought he was smug, confident and egotistical, but now he seems the exact opposite. Sometimes he’s quiet and withdrawn, sometimes he’s funny and childlike, and sometimes there’s something about him that verges on shy, even though shy is never going to be the right word to describe someone who takes their clothes off for a living.
But food is good. I know what I’m doing with food. I’m in my comfort zone with food, not a million miles outside of it, in France with a man who doesn’t seem anything like I thought he was at first.
Chapter Nineteen
I’ve never even eaten camembert before, never mind cooked it. The cheese seller told me what I’m supposed to do with it, via Kat, but savoury dishes are not my forte. Even so, I unwrap the cheese, slice the top off, put it back into the circular wooden box it came in, and slide it into the Aga’s baking oven. There’s something lovely about buying local things. I’d never really thought about it before but what Jules said on the way back from the market last week made me think. Everything on sale on market days is made by people who really care about the products. There are no big corporations, no factory machines producing batch after batch of the same old thing. The sellers are selling their livelihood. They don’t want you to enjoy their products in case you leave a bad review – they want you to enjoy their products, period. I’ve never done farmers’ markets at home. Buying vegetables dug out of the ground an hour before, cheese made from the milk of cows we can actually see grazing on the hillsides, eggs laid that morning… It’s new to me, but it’s nice. When I get home, I’m going to visit farmers’ markets more often. It won’t be the same though.
I look up at the sound of clattering and scraping upstairs. I don’t know what Julian’s doing up there, but I do know that visiting farmers’ markets isn’t the only thing that won’t be the same once I get home.
I have to stop thinking about him. Just because he’s been semi-decent to live with recently doesn’t mean anything’s changed. He’s still a git with a loophole who wants whatever he can get out of this place. He still doesn’t care about Eulalie or what she wanted. If there had never been a mention of treasure in the will, would he be here? No. He spends a lot of time in the gardens cutting back weeds, claiming he’s looking for something to do with the electrics, but he’s probably on the hunt for some kind of underground vault.
More noise from upstairs makes me sigh and shake my head, my damp hair tied up into a knot now and heavy on the back of my head. I’ve changed into a pair of pyjama bottoms and a cardi, feeling the chill after the soaking, even in August. Wind and draughts from loose windowpanes pay no mind to the season. I start chopping up a bag of pistachio nuts I got from the market, taking my frustration out on them, annoyed because I can feel myself starting to trust him, and even now, he’s moving furniture around upstairs. What’s he doing if not looking for treasure that he supposedly doesn’t believe exists?
Even though I hear him coming across the floor above, Jules still makes me jump when he comes into the kitchen. I’m crouched down with the Aga door open trying to figure out how you tell if camembert’s burning when he lets out a low whistle from the doorway. ‘Nice jimjams.’
‘They’re not as cute as yours.’ I stand up and nod towards the Homer Simpson pyjama trousers that fit around his waist and hang wide from the sides. His taste in adorable pyjamas is not something I could ever insult. He looks good again with a huge navy hoody that drowns him. His hair is still damp but it’s been brushed out and is hanging loose, brushing his shoulders. It’s the first time I’ve realised how long and scruffy it is, and if my hands tighten around the kitchen unit, it’s absolutely not because my knees go a little bit weak.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me. He’s not remotely attractive. Not. Remotely.
‘What were you doing up there?’ I snap, more annoyed at myself than at him.
‘Ah, wait and see.’ He taps his nose. ‘Shall I make the drinks? Cup of tea?’
‘Sure.’ I turn back to the unit and try to concentrate on chopping up fresh cranberries and not on Jules bustling around the kitchen behind me or the sexy smell of dark oak that seems to follow him around. ‘Did you warm up?’
‘I wasn’t cold.’
I glance at his back across the kitchen. ‘You’re wearing a hoody that looks like it’d fit three of you. You put that on coz you’re warm, do you?’
‘It has nothing to—’
He’s cut off by his phone ringing. I look over but it’s still in the same place it always is, untouched on the unit. Most people dive on their phones when they ring. Julian carries on making tea like he hasn’t heard it.
‘Someone wants you,’ I say, curious about why he’s ignoring it.
‘Undoubtedly someone who wants to talk to me about my double glazing needs, my PPI, or an accident I’ve had recently. I hate those phone calls. They always freak me out and make me start questioning myself. Have I had an accident in the past three years? I start feeling myself down for injuries in case they know something I don’t know.’
I try to stop myself giggling but fail miserably. ‘What if the accident caused a concussion and you don’t remember it?’
‘Exactly!’ he says, laughing too.
I glance at him over my shoulder, wondering how he can possibly make me laugh any more today. My jaw is aching from smiling at him.
‘Seriously, Jules,’ I say after I’ve got myself under control. ‘I’ve never known anyone ignore their phone like you do. You barely look at it. Most people are surgically attached.’
‘I didn’t come here to play with my phone,’ he says, shrugging. ‘There are rooms full of nostalgia, this beautiful building steeped in history, gorgeous countryside, the most amazing grounds I’ve ever seen. There’s nothing on a screen that could be better than where we are right now.’
It’s such a nice sentiment, something that so often bothers me about people constantly attached to their phones. No one cares about where they are any more, only about how many likes their photos of it will get on Instagram. ‘Shouldn’t you at least check it wasn’t imp
ortant?’
‘It wasn’t. Friends would text, I’ve got a custom ringtone for my father or anyone from his nursing home if something had happened, and if it was anything to do with work then it can, respectfully, go fuck itself.’
I look over at him in surprise but he carries on making two cups of tea obliviously. ‘Well, you are on holiday,’ I say, but something bothers me about the bitter tone in his voice. He doesn’t strike me as being protective over his holiday. It’s not like he’s sunbathing on the terrace all day. He’s been gardening or electrician-ing every single day. I’m sure modelling is a hell of a lot easier than this.
I force myself to concentrate on tearing one of Kat’s fresh baguettes into strips instead. It’s nothing to do with me whether Julian answers his phone or not, and it’s not up to me to psychoanalyse every word he says. I don’t care about him and his life. I really don’t.
I try to block him out as I get the camembert out of the oven and put the strips of baguette in, until he leaves.
‘Oi!’ I shout after him as he walks out of the room with both cups of tea. ‘Where are you taking those?’
‘We’re not eating down here tonight.’ He winks at me as he walks out.
‘Where are we eating then? I’ve only just dried out, Jules. If you’re going to suggest something stupid like outside in the rain then you’re on your own, mate.’
‘Come upstairs when you’re done,’ he calls back.
It turns out I don’t need to go and find him, because he comes back after a couple of minutes to see what he can carry for me. It makes me hide a smile behind my sleeve because he’s so attentive sometimes. He takes the tray of bread and cheese and I follow him up the servants’ stairs and across the entrance hallway, through the grand double doors of what was once a majestic ballroom. It’s not majestic any more. In the centre of the floor is a fallen chandelier, the biggest I’ve ever seen in my life. It must’ve hung from the ceiling once, but now it lies sideways on the wooden floor like someone’s had a Del Boy and Rodney moment with it. Last time I was in here, the walls were streaked with black mould and the floor was covered in smashed crystals from the chandelier. It was hard to imagine happy couples dancing around it in days gone by, but tonight the floors have been mopped and are now a shining mahogany, and I feel quite touched that Julian’s gone to the effort of cleaning up. On the other side of the room, the wide double doors that lead out onto the back terrace are open, and set back inside them is a table for two, complete with candles in glass jars so the wind doesn’t blow them out. It might look romantic but it’s only because there’s still no electricity in this part of the building.
The Chateau of Happily-Ever-Afters Page 18
