The Chateau of Happily-Ever-Afters

by Jaimie Admans

  I don’t know what else to say to him. His answers to the things that have been bothering me make perfect sense, more sense when spoken with his soft, deep accent than they did in my head. I also know we could spend years guessing about why Eulalie never told anyone her stories were more than just stories, but there will never be a true answer without her.

  I sigh and look back out at the storm, creeping away now over the hills, leaving a pitter-patter of rain rather than the torrential downpour of earlier.

  Jules presses his toes against mine under the table. It’s strangely intimate and even though I should yank my feet away, I don’t.

  I’m still lying awake when Jules comes into the bedroom later. I’m not waiting for him, but something settles down inside me as he smoothes out his sleeping bag and clambers into it.

  This house is so big, and when I’m lying alone at night and everything is completely silent, so different from the noisy street outside the flat at home, the emptiness presses down on me. It feels less empty with Jules beside me.

  ‘I had fun tonight,’ I say to the ceiling after a while.

  ‘What, jumping in puddles and chasing me like a chimp fed blue Smarties and let loose in a china shop?’

  ‘Yeah, don’t let it make your ego any bigger, we’ve got enough problems with the roof as it is.’

  He laughs it off. ‘And there was me thinking you didn’t know the meaning of the word fun.’

  I reach over and whack him through the sleeping bag. ‘Opinions can change, you know.’

  The bed creaks as he shifts and looks at me. ‘I know.’

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘That is the most unfair thing in the history of unfair things,’ Kat says, her eyes on Julian where he’s crouched over the generator in the doorway of one of the outbuildings at the side of the château.

  ‘It’s a T-shirt.’

  ‘Exactly,’ she whines. ‘And with shorts that long and boots, he may as well be wearing trousers.’

  ‘If you want to see him with his top off, just ask. He’s usually all too happy to oblige.’ As I say it, I start to have doubts. Julian seems a thousand percent more at ease since he started walking around in a T-shirt and three-quarter-length trousers. Two weeks ago, I’d have said that if Kat asked him to take his top off, he’d have taken the T-shirt, trousers and underwear off for good measure. Now, I think he’d probably blush and make an excuse. I’m not even sure why I think that. There’s just something about his demeanour that’s different. Now he’s stopped using his perfect abs as a shield, he’s almost self-conscious in the most adorable way.

  ‘Nah, you’ve ruined him now. As there’s still no sign of a kilt, I think I’ll just go back to ogling Theo.’

  ‘Ah yes, how is Mr Butter Man? Have you seen him again since the other day?’

  ‘Yeah. And he told me the duck on my head looked nice, so either he was being rude or he got his English words muddled.’

  ‘Of course he got his words muddled. The man is learning to speak another language just so he can communicate with you. Obviously he’s going to get a bit flustered!’

  ‘Well, he’s kind of why I’m here…’

  ‘I’m sure Julian would be happy to translate,’ I say, beckoning him over when I catch his eye.

  ‘I didn’t mean that,’ she says, watching Julian as he walks through the grass towards us. ‘I actually wanted to ask you something. About what he said the other day.’

  ‘What who said? Jules?’

  ‘Yeah, about the market stall. See, I was talking to Theo yesterday, or more like listening to Theo and only understanding bits and pieces, and he said that the chap who runs that clothing stall next to him has got to take a month off with health issues so the stall is empty. He’s left his lease to Theo to spread his butter stuff out, but Theo offered the space to me.’

  ‘That’s great! You said you’ve always wanted to give it a go and you’d be extra close to the Casanova of Normandy butter!’

  ‘I can’t do it alone, Wend.’ She twists her hands in the fabric of her skirt. ‘So… I wondered… as you’re here, and you’re great at making cakes, and you have a huge kitchen…’

  ‘Are you kidding? I can’t run a market stall! And I definitely can’t make cakes to sell to actual people. That’s not like making a couple of batches for me and McGutsy here.’ I nod towards Julian as he comes up the steps to the terrace, knowing he’s heard me. ‘It’s not the same as doing it properly. It’s okay if he gets food poisoning, but it’s not okay if half the population of Toussion go down with it and you’ve charged them for the privilege.’

  ‘My ears are burning with the constant praise and adoration again,’ Jules says. ‘But I’ve obviously done something right because you’re usually wishing something far more serious than food poisoning on me.’

  ‘But you’re a great cook, Wend.’ Kat shakes a coconut and raspberry tart at me. ‘These are incredible, and you made them here. Cooked locally with homegrown ingredients—’

  ‘I didn’t grow those raspberries, they grew themselves. There are raspberry bushes all over our grounds and it has nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Exactly! All you’d have to do is make a couple of batches of these, a couple of batches of those hazelnut brownies I tried last week, maybe some fairy cakes or something, and stand behind a table in the market and smile at people as they fall over themselves to give you their money. Theo would be right at the next stall to help you.’

  ‘I can’t understand a word Theo says!’

  ‘You don’t need to understand—’

  ‘I can’t do it, Kat. I’m only here for another week and a half, and—’

  ‘I’ve only got the stall for a few weeks. It’s like Julian said…’ She nods towards him where he’s now standing behind my chair. ‘I could make use of you while you’re here, like a test run, and if it goes well then I’d know it would be worth getting a stall permanently and employing someone to run it. You’d be doing me a massive favour. I’d pay you, obviously, and I’ll bring you breakfast every morning for free for the rest of your holiday.’

  Julian’s hand suddenly clamps onto my shoulder. ‘She’ll do it.’

  ‘No, I—’ I glance down at his fingers on my white top. They’re smeared with unidentifiable black stuff and there’s grease under his fingernails. ‘Will you get your mucky hands off my T-shirt, please?’

  ‘Oops, sorry.’ He doesn’t sound in the least bit sorry. Instead of moving, suddenly his elbows land on each of my shoulders and he leans over me, so close that I can feel his stubble brushing against my hair. It sends a not-entirely-unpleasant shiver down my spine.

  ‘Like I said, she’ll do it.’ I can’t see his face, but I can hear how smug his grin is.

  ‘Julian!’ I reach back and try to smack him but I miss and he leans just a little bit heavier on me. His closeness is short-circuiting something in my brain as his usual dark woody scent surrounds me, increased by the green smell of the grass he’s been cutting back and the masculine undertone of engine grease on skin. ‘What makes you think I can do this or that you have the right to volunteer me for it?’

  ‘You hate your job and you make bloody amazing cakes. They shouldn’t just be for me.’

  ‘When have I ever told you I hate my job?’

  ‘It’s not in what you have said, it’s in what you haven’t said. Namely, “I love my job and can’t wait to go back there”.’

  ‘And how I spend the next couple of Saturdays of my last holiday until next year isn’t going to change that, is it?’ I snap, mostly annoyed that every time I try to be mad at him, he turns into this sensitive soul who can read between the lines of the things I’ve never told him.

  ‘No, but it might give you a bit more confidence in your abilities. I’ve never eaten cakes like the ones you can make. They’re beautiful. We’ve got a great supply of the end of summer’s fruits here, you may as well make the most of it before you leave. Call it th
e crash-course baking apprenticeship you never got to do before.’

  I shake my head, trying to ignore the extra weight of Jules hovering above me.

  ‘Please, Wend,’ Kat says. ‘I really don’t want to miss this opportunity, and I don’t know who else to ask. The next market is on Saturday. I can’t advertise for a baker in that time, and I don’t even know if it’s financially viable until I’ve done it a couple of times.’

  Even as I start to protest, my head fills with images of cakes, set out on a stall in that friendly, happy market. Another little thrill goes through me and this time it has nothing to do with the weight of Julian’s elbows on my shoulders. I’ve always wanted to bake properly for a living – that’s why I work in a supermarket bakery. I just stumbled desperately into a job that was even vaguely connected to baking, and somehow ended up stuck as a sampler. The thought of doing something like this, just as a one-off, just to see how it goes…

  ‘And I’ll be there as soon as I finish my regular round,’ Kat says encouragingly.

  I don’t need much encouragement. The idea was imprinted in my head as soon as she said it.

  ‘All right,’ I say as I get an idea for revenge. ‘I’ll do it on one condition.’

  ‘Anything,’ Kat says.

  I reach up and clamp my hand around one of Julian’s forearms. ‘I’ll do it if Jules does it.’

  ‘Ha.’ He instantly stands up straight and pulls his arm out of my grip. ‘Yeah, right.’

  I turn around and look at him. ‘Yeah, bloody well right. You’re so keen to volunteer me, well, let’s see how you like it, McBeath.’

  ‘I can’t cook to save my life. I struggle to identify boiling water.’

  ‘I know.’ I grin at him. ‘I’ll make the cakes, you sell them. You speak French, I don’t. The sellers at the market are so friendly, they’re always chattering away, and I’ve barely got to grips with “bonjour” and “merci beaucoup”. I can’t talk French people into buying cakes. I don’t even know how to say “cake” in French.’

  ‘Gâteau,’ he says.

  ‘That’s not helpful, Jules.’ I stare at him expectantly.

  ‘No way.’

  ‘That’s my condition. Take it or leave it.’

  ‘You can’t put that on me.’

  ‘Julian, please,’ Kat says. I can almost see her lip wobbling. ‘This was your idea.’

  ‘It was not!’ He looks between me and Kat and eventually rolls his eyes. ‘Fine. I’ll do it. Bloody pushover that I am.’

  Kat lets out a squeal to rival even the squeakiest guinea pig. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you!’

  I look up at Julian and find him grinning back at me. Somehow, I don’t think he’s nearly as bothered as he says he is.

  Kat’s bouncing in her seat. ‘We’re on to such a winner here! What French person wouldn’t want to buy cakes from a Scottish guy who looks like you… particularly if you happened to be wearing a kilt…’

  He laughs. ‘What a shame I don’t own a kilt. You’ll have to save that cliché for someone else.’

  ‘Shirtless?’ she says hopefully.

  ‘I think Wendy might kill me.’

  ‘Nooo,’ Kat says. ‘She wouldn’t mind, would you, Wend? It’d be a surefire way to attract customers.’

  I look up and meet Julian’s eyes. There’s something unsure in them, something shy. His hands are shoved in his trouser pockets and he looks like he wishes he was hiding inside one of his huge hoodies.

  ‘His abs belong on a gym wall, not a cake stand,’ I say.

  If I didn’t know better, I’d say he breathed a sigh of relief.

  ‘Oh, you’re no fun, you two.’ Kat pouts. ‘Except, of course, you are, because you’re both doing me a massive favour! Free breakfast delivered to your door every time you come here for the rest of forever! Thanks, both!’

  I feel Julian’s eyes on me as she skips off down the driveway. ‘You deserved that.’

  ‘I know.’

  He smiles when I look at him, and I know full well he was always going to agree. ‘Let me guess, you were going to volunteer anyway but you wanted to see us beg?’

  ‘Nope, I wanted free baguettes and croissants every morning for the rest of my stay.’

  I grin and half-heartedly go to whack him, but he dodges easily.

  ‘At least you can translate what Theo’s saying,’ I say. ‘Apparently he told her he liked her duck this morning.’

  ‘This is Kat we’re talking about. I wouldn’t be even vaguely surprised if she actually had a duck with her as a fashion accessory.’

  It makes me laugh as he salutes and jumps back down the steps, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t take my eyes off him sauntering back through the grass towards the generator’s shed, exaggerating it because he knows I’m watching.

  I’m already thinking about what to make for Saturday’s market as I go back inside the château. Those food stalls in the market are packed, and people can’t seem to get enough of them. I only have a few days to prepare cakes good enough to sell. What have I let myself in for?

  Later that afternoon, I’m upstairs in the library looking for any hint of a recipe book. I don’t usually use recipes at home, most of the things I make are wild guesses and crossed fingers that flavours go well together, but the French are used to artisan patisseries from gorgeous boulangeries, and the people who shop at that market will be expecting better than the random things I used to cobble together to share with my little old neighbour.

  Eulalie could bake amazing things. I’m just crossing all crossables and hoping against hope that she might’ve left a recipe book or two in this library.

  I’m halfway up the sliding ladder when the lights come on. It makes me jump and I struggle to keep my balance as I slide off the wooden rungs in excitement. He must’ve fixed the generator.

  ‘Jules! It’s working!’

  He’s walking across the courtyard when I get to the bottom of the steps, and without even thinking about it, I hug him. To be honest, I kind of launch myself at him and throw my arms around his neck. He makes an ‘oof’ noise but lifts me easily off the ground and turns us in a circle.

  Why am I hugging him? Even as his arms slide around my waist and his fingers squeeze my hips, I don’t know what’s got into me. I’m not usually a hugger, and it’s been a long time since I was close enough to a guy to want to hug him. Not that I want to hug Julian, obviously. It’s just overexcitement at suddenly having electricity. That’s all it is. Light-bulb overload.

  His hands are splayed out on my back, and even though my top is white and his hands are undoubtedly as dirty as they were earlier, I can’t make myself care. The skin of his arms is warm from the early evening sunshine, and his body is solid where he’s squeezing me against him. I can feel every curve of muscle through his T-shirt, marble-strong and just as perfect, his stubble surprisingly soft where it brushes against my neck, and it all combines with the familiar smell of his woody aftershave to make me not want to let go.

  What am I talking about? Of course I want to let go. He’s Nephew-git McLoophole. I don’t want to stand here cuddling him. I really don’t. My arms disobey my brain as they tighten around him and I cling on for a few extra seconds, before I force myself to disentangle my body from his arms and step back. I miss his closeness instantly. It’s just the breeze, I tell myself. There’s a nip in the wind today. That’s all.

  ‘You fixed it,’ I say as I take a step away from him, mainly because I can’t hug him again with a bit of distance between us, and I shouldn’t be hugging him again, ever. ‘You’re a genius.’

  He gives me a self-deprecating grunt. ‘I’m not, I didn’t do anything.’

  We look up at the château together, every window now glowing with light.

  ‘Well, I guess I must’ve done something,’ he says. ‘But I have no idea what. I was just tightening everything up when it kicked into action. If it was going to start working because
of something I’ve done, it should’ve started days ago.’

  I look up at his face as his eyes scan over the house. There’s a smear of grease on his cheek. ‘Well, I think you’re a genius.’ It takes every ounce of willpower not to reach up and wipe the grease off. I can’t touch him like that. We’re barely even friends, let alone at a stage where I can rub my thumb against his face. And nor do I ever want to be, not with him or anyone else.

  ‘I’m really not. I didn’t do anything to the generator. It just started working. Like that plug socket in the kitchen. I’m half convinced the place really is haunted. Maybe it’s the ghost of whoever installed the electrics here and he’s still hanging around because he feels guilty over what a mess he made of it.’

  I laugh but stop myself abruptly. ‘You are joking, right?’

  He looks at me but his face doesn’t give anything away. ‘Look, I don’t believe in ghosts or magic in the walls, and while you calling me a genius is a welcome change from what you usually call me, I didn’t do anything that would’ve made the generator randomly start up like that. And no, I’m not pulling your leg, and I’m not going to get into bed tonight and mention electrician ghosts, but if I did do it then I don’t know how.’

  ‘Well, you’ve been out there all day, you must’ve done something.’

  ‘Guess so,’ he mutters with a shrug, but the look on his face as he looks up at the rows of windows towering above us is anything but sure.

  Is he having me on?

  This whole thing could be a part of his plan. Convince me the place is haunted, or magical, or that I’m crazy or imagining things. And play the nice guy while he’s at it. You see people get taken advantage of like this, don’t you? A so-called friend convincing a victim of something that isn’t true and making themselves the shoulder to cry on, all as part of a sneaky plot to get exactly what they want. Been there, done that, fallen for someone who wasn’t what he said he was, and I can’t be fooled again.