‘I just think you’re shallow and obsessed with how you look.’ I snap, instantly annoyed at myself because I’m taking my anxiety over the cakes out on him.
‘And I thought you’d got to know me better than that,’ he says, sounding sadder than he has any right to sound, and making me feel like an arrow of guilt has shot me in the stomach.
‘I’m sorry,’ I stutter, because the more time I’ve spent with him, the more I’ve realised that he’s far from shallow, and I’ve still not seen him look in a mirror once. ‘I didn’t mean that.’
‘It’s fine. You’re right, it’s a shallow industry that’s based entirely around looks, but it’s just a job to me. A job that pays very good money for very little work. It allows me to stay out of the soul-destroying nine-to-five office job, I get to travel, I get to do a shoot or two a week, often less, and it pays me enough to last until the next one. I get to spend my free time exactly how I want to, with no boss breathing down my neck about spreadsheets and Power Point presentations. I worked hard to look the way I do – at least, the way I did before you started cooking for me. Why am I wrong to make the most of that?’
‘You’re not. It’s just… it doesn’t seem like something that makes you excited and scared.’
‘It’s not, but it pays the bills, and it’s better than the job I had before, where I worked in an office on the ninth floor in Glasgow’s financial district with a huge window and spent most lunchtimes considering throwing myself out of it.’
I don’t know if he’s joking or if there’s any truth in it, but it makes me uncomfortable because all I’ve done is make fun of his job, and I don’t want to admit that everything he says makes perfect sense. He seems to have done a string of office jobs, and I can’t imagine him ever being happy stuck in a building all day.
I walk away and grab the dustpan and brush from the cupboard under the sink, because that familiar urge to hug him is back, and I’d have to walk through broken glass and flour to do it, and that’s almost as bad an idea as hugging him in the first place is.
Before I’ve had a chance to start cleaning up, Julian steps over the mess and takes the dustpan and brush from my hands. ‘I’ll do that. You carry on with whatever you were doing.’
‘You don’t have to—’
He elbows me gently in the arm. ‘I don’t have to make six billion perfect cakes by tomorrow morning.’
I go back to sieving flour and try not to watch him crouched down to clean up the mess. He looks good again tonight in his Simpsons pyjamas, his hair tied up in a messy ponytail, and he keeps pushing his glasses up where they’re sliding down his nose because he’s looking at the floor.
‘What does make you excited and scared?’ I ask him before I even realise I’ve spoken.
He’s quiet for so long that I think he’s not going to answer.
‘This place,’ he says eventually. ‘Being here. Staying here.’
I try to hide my surprise. ‘You’re thinking of staying here? For good?’
‘No. I don’t know. Maybe. I only said it to wind you up at first, but the better I get to know this place, the more I don’t want to leave.’
I stop with my bag of flour suspended above the bowl. My throat tightens and my nose burns with threatened tears because he’s put into words exactly how I’ve been feeling. I don’t want to go home. My time here is running out. I’m due back at work in just over a week, and every time I think about it, a feeling of dread settles over me, as cold and damp as the air in my flat when the boiler’s not working. I keep trying to stamp it down and not think about it, but the reality is it’s creeping closer, and I feel a little bit sicker with each day that passes.
‘How would you feel if I stayed here? Maybe not forever, maybe just for a while.’
‘I have no right to dictate how you use this house. We’re joint owners. I have no authority over it.’
‘I know, but I’m not asking as a joint owner. I’m asking as us, as me to you. How would you feel?’
So many things that I can’t even begin to admit to myself, let alone tell him. I hate the idea of him staying here alone, but it’s no longer because I think Eulalie wouldn’t want him here. She’d love him to bits. Not only is he her family, but he’s exactly the type of person she liked. But it’s not just that. If he’s here and I’m back in London, we won’t even be in the same country. He says he comes to London for work, and I keep thinking I’ll still see him. We’ll meet up and, I don’t know, discuss plans for our next holiday over here or something. But if he lives in a different country, it’ll be all about catching the last ferry home and getting back before he has to drive on the wrong side of the road in the dark. He won’t want to discuss holidays with me because he’ll already be here. He’ll be changing things, cleaning things, gardening things. Things will grow and change and I won’t be here to see it. It’ll become his house, not ours, and sharing it with him is nowhere near as bad a prospect as it was a few weeks ago. And I’ll miss it.
I decide to be honest about that part at least. ‘I’d wish I could join you.’
‘Why don’t you?’
I snort. ‘Because I have a job to get back to and a landlord who’s going to be after next month’s rent pretty soon, and without that job, he’s not going to get it. You might be able to, but I can’t just move out here on a whim.’
‘Why not?’
A simple question shouldn’t throw me this much and I stumble over my answer before I snap at him. ‘Because you don’t come to Normandy on holiday and then never go back. It’s ridiculous.’
‘I know.’ He looks up and meets my eyes. ‘But I’m starting to wonder if it’s not equally as ridiculous to go back when I feel like I’m being crushed by a vice every time I think about it.’
Me too.
‘What about your job? Your family and friends in Glasgow?’
‘Friends will keep in touch. My only family is my father, and I think the best thing I could do for us both is put some distance between us. The drive back to London for work is barely longer than the drive down from Scotland. I have nothing to go back for, and plenty to stay here for.’
I go to argue but stop myself because there’s only one thing making me want to argue with him, and it’s jealousy.
‘You could get a job here,’ he says.
‘Oh yeah. I don’t speak a word of the language, Jules. If some big CEO boss type gives me an interview and asks me what I’ll bring to the company, should I just keep chirping “bonjour” and “merci beaucoup” at him? Throw in an “au revoir” for good measure?’
‘I didn’t mean that kind of job. I meant something you love, something you actually want—’ He cuts himself off halfway through the sentence. ‘You know what, it’s got nothing to do with me. I just feel like this is an opportunity that’s been given to both of us, and if neither of us wants to go home then maybe Eulalie’s magical walls are trying to tell us something. All I know is I can’t bear the thought of shutting that door and walking down those steps and out of the driveway and not seeing this place again for God knows how many months.’
It’s all the flour flying around that’s making my eyes water. That’s it. Nothing else.
I squeeze my eyes shut and grit my teeth. What he’s saying is insane. It’s a lovely pipe dream but some people are mature enough to tell the difference between pipe dreams and reality. How could I possibly share a house with him? We might have a few more rooms with an electricity supply now, and it’s fine for a few weeks over the summer, but I couldn’t live here permanently with him. Given half the chance, I’d still push him into the moat. Really, I would.
I don’t say anything else. I force myself to concentrate on mixing what I hope is bicarb of soda from the French label into my sieved flour. Eulalie might’ve been a bit batty with her riddles of hidden treasure and magic in the walls, but he’s an actual madman talking about moving here. You don’t just go on holiday and decide to stay. Spontaneo
us life changes are like relationships – great for other people but they just don’t work for me.
Julian stands up and goes to deposit the dustpan full of floury glass shards in the bin. He returns the pan to the cupboard and I watch him out of the corner of my eye, expecting him to leave, but he doesn’t. Instead he puts the kettle on and gets two mugs out of the cupboard.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Making myself two cups of tea, obviously. I’m extra thirsty after breathing in all that flour.’
I narrow my eyes as I try to work out if he’s being serious or not. I have to ignore him and concentrate on what I’m doing. Eventually he puts a cup of tea down on the unit beside me. ‘Stop a minute and have a cuppa with me.’
‘I don’t have time for a cuppa,’ I say, even as I turn to face him and lean back against the unit, taking a deep, slow breath for the first time in hours.
I pick up my mug gratefully. If there’s one thing you can say about Jules, it’s that he makes a damn good cup of tea.
Husband material, Eulalie would’ve said. If you find a man who knows how to make a cup of tea right, grab him and hold on tight. Apparently it took years of training for her husband to make a decent cup of British tea. ‘Thanks,’ I mumble.
‘You’re welcome.’ He leans back against the table and grins like he knows exactly how good his tea is. ‘So, how’s it going? What have you got left to do?’
I go to snap an abrupt answer, but stop myself and take a breath. His question makes me assess how it’s actually going. ‘Well, two lots of blackberry bakewells and blueberry and lemon muffins are made, it’s just these last couple of batches. I wanted to make something special but I don’t make special things very well.’
‘I beg to differ.’ He winks at me. ‘Want a taste tester?’
I shouldn’t be so happy about the guy who only poured protein shakes down his throat a few weeks ago wanting to eat raw cake batter. ‘If you want to stay here while I make this much mess, it’s your choice.’
He takes a sip of his tea and grins at me over the mug. ‘I can’t think of anything better.’
I wish he’d stay closer as he walks away. He hoists himself up on the unit on the opposite side of the kitchen. He doesn’t say anything and I try to secretly watch him as he sits there swinging his legs.
I hate the idea of him living here alone. It’s so isolated and… he’s a big boy, he can take care of himself. I have no idea where this protectiveness has come from. Why should I care about him in the slightest? This was probably his plan all along. To lull me into a false sense of security and then do something to steal the château out from under my nose.
I’m not concentrating on what I’m doing, and instead of carefully measuring out sugar, an avalanche shoots out of the bag at once, making the old-fashioned mechanical weighing scale’s hand swing around the dial, creaking in protest under the sudden weight.
‘You cook all the time. Why are you so nervous?’
‘Have you seen the cakes in the window of the boulangerie in the village? That’s what people are expecting, not the haphazard things I throw together.’
‘No, it’s not. Those are artisan creations and they have an artisan price tag. No one who goes to the market stalls is expecting that. That’s easy enough to see from every time I’ve been there. They go to the markets because they like local produce and want to support local businesses.’
I grunt.
‘No one’s expecting Parisian patisserie delights that cost the same as a family holiday to Disneyland. They want to pay a couple of euros and get decent, tasty food in exchange, which you excel at. My expanding stomach is proof of that. You’re making this a much bigger deal than it is.’
I know I am. And the fact he knows it too makes me stop in my tracks.
His accent makes everything he says sound warm and comforting. I close my eyes in the middle of spooning the sugar flood back out of the bowl and try to focus on his words. I can feel the panic building inside me. I know I’m making mistakes because I’m worrying about it, and the more I worry, the more mistakes I make.
‘This is no different to any of the other things you’ve baked,’ he says. ‘Just imagine that it’s only me you’re making them for, and we both know how much of an obsession you have with feeding me.’
I breathe slowly and let his words wrap around me, breathing in the vague hint of his aftershave, which I can smell even with all the baking smells in here. It makes me wish he was sitting nearer, but even from across the room, his presence settles the part of me that’s panicking. He’s got such a calm and steady response to everything, nothing ever ruffles him, and I feel his serenity leaking into the kitchen and washing over me too.
Baking is never something I panic about. It’s what I do to relax after a long day, when my boss makes me feel about as valuable to the instore bakery as something he’s recently trodden in, when customers turn their noses up and have a go at me for getting in their way or trying to peddle products they don’t want. Being a sampler is trying to be a hardcore salesman in the nicest way possible, and customers see through that and they aren’t happy about it. When I come home after a tough day, I go to the kitchen to remind myself that I still have value. When Eulalie was alive, her reactions to whatever I’d made were enough to boost my confidence, and it’s been nice to bake for someone again, for Jules and Kat, and I’ve felt my confidence growing over the past few weeks, but I’ve never sold anything I’ve made before, and the idea of my bakes reflecting on Kat’s business has been enough to rocket my confidence down to zero again.
Jules doesn’t say anything else, but he doesn’t need to. He seems to understand that there are no words that will magically boost my confidence, but just having him here is enough. I’m sure there are a million other things he could be doing, but instead he’s just sitting on the unit watching me work. It makes something feel warm inside me that he cares enough to stay. He hasn’t even gone to get a book or anything, he’s just here. For me.
When I’ve got the mixture into cases, I go over and hand the empty bowl to him with a spoon to scrape it out. He takes it off me with a knowing smirk, an understanding of the universal truth – the uncooked cake batter scraped out of the bowl is always the best bit.
‘Thank you,’ I say so quietly that it’s almost a whisper. I don’t know what I’m thanking him for really, couldn’t find the words if he asked, but he doesn’t. He meets my eyes and smiles one of those genuine wide smiles, the kind that opens up his eyes and makes him look like a cross between an excited toddler and a jaded old man, a true glimpse into the real person he hides under big hoodies and layers of muscle and hair gel.
Julian might have confidence in his looks but the more time I spend with him, the more I wonder if his looks are the only thing he has confidence in. He’s a gorgeous guy, but his body is a suit of armour that hides the person in those rare unguarded smiles, and that’s the person I don’t know how I’m going to say goodbye to next week.
Chapter Twenty-Three
It’s barely daylight when Julian and I trudge through the tiny street of Toussion village, heading for the covered market area. Well, I trudge – he’s abnormally chirpy at this time of day. The residential houses are still in darkness but the market area is abuzz with hushed activity. In the street, sellers set up their stalls with quiet efficiency, being careful not to wake the surrounding households without sacrificing speed. Things are quieter under the cover of the market area, where the stalls stay set up during the week and the sellers only have to bring their goods. Here, they’re all standing around nattering over cups of coffee.
There’s apparently a shedload of permits and paperwork to sell your wares here, which we’ve got around with Theo’s spare lease, and I expect the other traders to be frosty towards us, but everyone we see gives us a smile.
Theo is already at his butter stall next to us. ‘Ahh, Monsieur Julian!’ he cries, and I like the way Julian’s name so
unds in his French accent. They greet each other with a manly hug and a pat on the back. ‘Mademoiselle Wendy,’ Theo says, taking my hand and kissing the back of it, which simultaneously makes me want to lamp him one and makes my stomach go a bit fluttery, mainly at the way Jules’s eyes darken as he watches.
We’ve got baskets of my baked goodies and a box full of specialty breads that Kat brought over early this morning. We’re far from the only stall selling bread, but most of the others are doing sticks of crusty baguettes, whereas we’ve got Kat’s most popular loaves, from her olive bread to a rosemary bread with shards of red onion sticking out the top of it. She must’ve been up all night baking, because it needs to be fresh, and her normal round starts so early. For the first time, I realise how hard she works to fill her cart every day and not let her regular customers down. What I did last night must be a fraction of what she does in the early hours every single day. I shouldn’t be complaining about helping out just this once.
‘What’s that?’ I ask as Julian tapes a sign to the front of our table. It says something about Le Château de Châtaignier but I can’t translate anything else.
‘It says “handbaked at the château”,’ he says. ‘Given those photos we found, I figured some of the villagers are more than old enough to remember Eulalie and her husband. I thought it might encourage people to come over. Some of the old ‘uns will undoubtedly remember it in its glory days and want to know who we are and why we’re there.’
‘And hopefully they’ll buy cakes if they come over to talk to us.’
He looks up from where he’s crouching in front of the table and grins at me. ‘Exactly.’
‘Don’t you dare go anywhere,’ I say, suddenly filled with nerves at the idea of anyone who knew Eulalie trying to talk to me in a language I don’t understand.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll stay stuck to your side like glue.’
‘I didn’t mean that literally.’ I remove Julian’s arm from around my shoulders for the fourth time.
The Chateau of Happily-Ever-Afters Page 22
