Return to the Little French Guesthouse

by Helen Pollard

  I went back downstairs. There were some appealing landscapes on the walls, and the mantelpiece and shelves were filled with shells, photos and ornaments. I lifted a few to look at them.

  ‘Mementos from trips,’ Jonathan explained as he handed me a mug of tea, then went back for his. He could only carry one at a time because of his stick.

  I moved on to the photos. One of Jonathan and Bob at La Cour des Roses made me smile. I’d got the impression the last time I was here that Bob spent half his life running around after Jonathan, but they were obviously good mates, too. There were photos of places Jonathan had visited. And one of Jonathan when he was quite a bit younger, his hair grey rather than white, with another man, their heads close together, both smiling at the camera.

  ‘Who’s this?’

  Jonathan smiled. It transformed his face. ‘Matthew. The love of my life. He died twelve years ago. Cancer.’

  ‘Oh, Jonathan, I’m so sorry. How long were you together?’

  ‘Ten years. I met him soon after I moved over here. I knew he was the one, Emmy, from the minute we set eyes on each other in the market square. He was an artist.’ He gestured at the paintings on the walls.

  ‘These are his? They’re beautiful.’

  ‘Yes, they are. He was.’ Jonathan chuckled. ‘We made enough to get by, with him selling his artwork to the tourists, and my pension. We travelled around, enjoyed our time together.’

  ‘You must miss him.’

  ‘More than I can say, Emmy. More than I can say. But we were lucky that we met each other at all, and I have my little house and my friends now. Life could be a lot worse.’

  I nodded. ‘So. What do you need me to do around here?’

  ‘Well, as you can see, it’s only small and it doesn’t take the cleaner long to do a quick whizz round. But she’s getting on and she can’t do anything unreachable or backbreaking. Skirting boards, tops of the kitchen cupboards, mouldy grouting, that kind of thing. Then there’s all that junk in the spare room. I’m not daft, Emmy – I know you didn’t come over here to set yourself up as a cleaner. But I would appreciate a spring clean over the next few weeks. I don’t know who else to ask. I can’t do it myself and... to be honest, it’s beginning to depress me.’

  I glanced around, noticing the layer of glued-on dust atop the skirting boards, the woodwork that needed a good scrub. ‘I’m fine with it, Jonathan. Honest.’ And it would give him some company in his own home that he wouldn’t have otherwise. ‘Shall I start in here today, and see how far we get?’

  Two hours later, thanks to me being on my hands and knees with an old toothbrush and abrasive cleaner, Jonathan’s entire downstairs woodwork was grot-free. His joy seemed disproportionate to the result, if you asked me – but then I’d never been a domestic goddess, so I was hardly the right person to appreciate the improvement. Still, as long as he was happy.

  ‘Tea, lovey?’

  ‘Please.’ I was parched.

  When it was made, he opened the back door onto a little yard. Crazy-paved and enclosed by ivy-topped walls, there was a small table with two chairs, and ceramic pots containing every colour of flower imaginable.

  ‘Oh, Jonathan, it’s gorgeous out here!’

  ‘It’s quite a little sun-trap. I spend a lot of time here, reading and dozing.’

  ‘I would, too. Did you do all these pots?’

  ‘I tend to them, but Rupert helps me plant, because I can’t lift.’

  Good old Rupert.

  When I left, Jonathan reached for his wallet and started to take out notes, but I laid a hand on his to stop him. ‘I don’t want you to pay me, Jonathan.’

  ‘But that’s what we agreed. I wouldn’t have asked you to do this, otherwise.’

  ‘I know, but I’m happy to come round now and again for one-off things like this. Honest. What are friends for?’

  I waited for his reaction, worried I might have offended him, but I didn’t feel comfortable about him paying me for something he was too scared to ask his friends to do.

  ‘Well, thank you, Emmy. That’s good of you and I appreciate it. But you know that means I can’t ask you again.’

  ‘You don’t have to, now, do you? I’ll be round next week some time. Bye, Jonathan.’

  I shot off before he could argue.

  10

  ‘Is the deed done?’ I asked Rupert when I got back. That chicken hadn’t been far from my mind all day.

  ‘All done.’

  ‘Isn’t it hard work?’

  ‘Certainly is. Don’t go endearing yourself to Madame Dupont too often, will you?’

  I made a face. ‘I know she meant well, but why would she imagine I’d know what to do with it? And even if I did, why wouldn’t I just buy one from the supermarket?’

  ‘Older generation and country ways, Emmy. Fresh birds, hand-raised – why buy from the supermarket when you don’t know where it’s come from and what it’s been fed?’

  ‘S’pose.’

  ‘I’m sure she guessed you might not know what to do with it, but she would expect me to show you for future reference. And she would expect you to know how to roast a chicken at your age.’

  ‘Then she doesn’t know me very well, does she?’

  ‘But fortunately, I do. And because I knew you were going to Jonathan’s, I have it all ready for you. The chicken is stuffed with lemon and tarragon, there’s a dish of summer vegetables chopped and drizzled with olive oil ready to roast, and another dish with diced potatoes in herb butter. I laid off the garlic on this occasion.’ He gave me a knowing look. ‘All you have to do is put them in at the right time.’ He handed me a piece of paper with instructions scribbled down.

  ‘You’re a star. Thank you.’

  Jittery about my ‘proper’ date with Alain, I showered and chose a sundress, swapped it for linen trousers and shirt, then swapped back to the dress again.

  Looking for something to distract me, I checked my e-mails – two of the bands Alain had e-mailed last night had declined my offer. Great. I made another paranoid review check, and finally saw something that pleased me. After all the comments on Geoffrey Turner’s blog along the lines of Sounds dreadful! and Thanks for the heads-up, mate, there was now a lengthy comment from a Mrs S Baxter. I took it through to Rupert in his lounge and read it out.

  ‘“My husband and I had a thoroughly enjoyable stay at this establishment only a few short weeks ago. I find it hard to reconcile the descriptions in this review with our own experience, which was nothing short of idyllic. I can only assume the Silver Fox has taken an unfortunate experience there and deliberately twisted it to entertain his readers. I can and do wholeheartedly recommend La Cour des Roses to anyone.”’

  Rupert applauded. ‘Good old Sheila. She was here after you left. Lovely woman.’

  ‘Indeed. Now let’s hope he doesn’t remove the comment.’

  ‘Can he do that?’

  ‘It’s his blog. If he has any shred of decency, he won’t.’

  Rupert grunted. ‘Shame he didn’t have the decency to wear something in bed, then none of this would have happened in the first place. By the way, you’re not going to like this. Apparently there are going to be major roadworks nearby, starting some time next week.’

  ‘Next week?’ My face fell. ‘Will it clash with the Thomson thing?’

  ‘It will, if they get started when they say.’

  ‘Parking’s going to be impossible as it is. We could do without any access issues to add to it.’

  ‘Not much we can do, other than hope they’re delayed for some reason.’

  ‘Did you get anywhere with decorators?’

  He sighed. ‘Yes. I found someone willing to start on the Saturday afternoon after the gîte’s vacated and work through the weekend and beyond. Charging me extra, of course, but there’s two of them and they’ll work as fast as they can. I told them to do the whole place while they were at it. No point in doing half a job. Besides, there’s still that black smudge in the bedroom wh
ere some idiot had a candle too near the wall. They’ll move as much furniture as they can into the gîte next door on the Saturday, and start decorating on the Sunday.’ He narrowed his eyes at me. ‘But if Julia Cooper complains about paint fumes, Emmy, you can be the one to deal with it.’

  There was a knock at the door. Alain. My jitters came back in full force.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Emmy, put a smile on your face,’ Rupert growled. ‘You’ll put the poor bloke off, looking like that! Besides, this date had better go well – I’ve spent half the day plucking and degutting a ruddy chicken for it.’

  I popped a kiss on his cheek. ‘Thanks, Rupert.’

  Wiping my damp palms on my dress, I went into the hall and opened the door.

  ‘Hi.’ Alain was freshly showered, and the contrast of his faded shirt against his tan made me want to lick my lips.

  A proper kiss this time. Mmm.

  ‘Don’t forget that chicken,’ said Rupert, stepping into the hall. ‘And I expect you home by ten.’ I gaped. He winked.

  We dutifully gathered the dishes in our arms and ferried them across to Alain’s little car, laying them carefully across the back seat.

  He opened the passenger door for me, went around to fold his six-foot-something frame behind the steering wheel of the tiny blue hatchback, and we set off down the lane.

  ‘We had a couple of refusals from the bands,’ I told him. ‘One was a simple “No, sorry”. The gist of the other seemed to be that they had to leave directly after the festival to get back to work on Monday.’

  ‘That could be a problem, I suppose – the fact that it’s a Monday night. Don’t worry. We’ll keep at it.’

  As we reached the outskirts of town and the groupings of houses got more frequent, Alain turned off the main road, following a series of suburban streets with cream, white or yellow detached houses nicely spaced apart, until he pulled up at the kerb. I glanced at the nearest house. It was small and neat, its surrounding lawn interspersed with clumps of glorious hydrangeas.

  I was surprised he lived in a house in the suburbs, but then, he had been married, so perhaps they had bought the house with a view to starting a family.

  He could read me like a book already. ‘Sabine and I chose this place when we moved down from Paris,’ he told me as we carried the dishes up the path. ‘When she left, I decided I liked it and it was convenient for work. We hadn’t had time to do much with it, so I did it up the way I wanted it, to make it mine and mine alone.’

  ‘No bitterness there, then.’

  His lips twitched. ‘Not a jot.’

  He kicked open the door and we lined up our cargo on the worktops. He peered appreciatively under the foil, with no clue that he might soon be poisoned by roast chicken à la Emie. (Well, à la Rupert – but since I was the one in charge of timing it all, there was still room for manoeuvre in the salmonella department.)

  Turning, he looked at me for a long moment, and then he bent his head and his lips were on mine. It felt good – more than good – but I got the impression he was holding back, being too polite. A little devil on my shoulder told me to push. I applied more pressure and got what I wanted. He cupped his hand around my neck and deepened the kiss, backing me against the counter until I had nowhere to go. Not that I wanted to go anywhere.

  ‘Wow!’ he said when we came up for air.

  ‘Yeah. Wow.’

  He came back down for a second helping, his hand straying to my hips, gripping me possessively, kissing me senseless, until we were both breathing too rapidly for our own good.

  ‘Okay. So.’ He shook his head as though to clear it. ‘Wine? I was going to suggest an afternoon walk, but I’ve lost interest in that idea.’

  ‘Wine would be nice, thanks.’

  He poured us both a glass.

  ‘Maybe you should put the oven on so it can warm up,’ I told him.

  He turned it on. ‘Why did Madame Dupont insist you cook for me?’

  ‘She reliably informed me that the best way to win you over is by pleasing your stomach.’

  Tasting his wine, he caught me in a long stare over the top of his glass. ‘My stomach isn’t the only part of me you could please to win me over.’

  As he put the glass down carefully, his smile was wicked. My stomach did a triple somersault that would have won awards in a gymnastic tournament.

  I gave him an innocent look. ‘Oh? And what part would that be?’

  He moved in close, pinning me hard against the counter as he brought his lips back to mine, and leaving me in no doubt as to which part of him might require pleasing. His kiss was urgent, heated. I responded in kind, allowing my hands to roam beneath his shirt, splaying my fingers across the firm muscles of his back.

  ‘How long will that chicken take?’ he murmured against my lips.

  ‘Not long enough,’ I warned him.

  ‘God, Emmy, how long do you think it would take us?’

  ‘It’s not that.’ I waved my hand at the row of dishes on the counter. ‘But I won’t be able to concentrate if I’m worrying about what has to go in when.’

  Alain nuzzled my neck. ‘I’m experienced in these matters. I can tell you what needs to go in when.’

  I slapped him and gently pushed him away. ‘You know I’m talking about the food. I have it all timed out.’

  ‘It’ll take fifteen minutes for the oven to warm up.’

  ‘Alain Granger! I have no intention of a quick shag with half an eye on the clock...’

  He shook his head and moved his hands from my hips, slowly up the side of my ribs, resting at the sides of my breasts so that his thumbs brushed lightly against them.

  My breath caught in my throat.

  ‘How about a quick bout of necking on the sofa?’

  ‘Oh. Well. I think I could countenance that.’

  He took my hand and led me through to the lounge, pulling me onto his lap. Teasing me with tiny kisses at my ear, my neck, my collarbone, he murmured endearments in French as his mouth travelled. ‘Ma colombe... Mon chou...’ I had no idea what they meant but, oh my God, if my pulse beat any faster, I was going to have a heart attack.

  He moved back to my mouth and whispered against my lips. ‘Once that chicken is in, it’s going on a very slow cook. I intend to savour every last millimetre of you.’

  Every last millimetre of me melted as I moulded against him, my mouth to his, my breasts against his chest, my...

  ‘Wait.’ I pushed against his chest. ‘Will the oven be ready yet?’

  Groaning, Alain cursed. ‘Sod it. That chicken is going in now.’

  He pulled away, bounced to his feet and strode purposefully into the kitchen. I heard the oven door slam. He was back before I’d even had time to get to my feet. He held out his hand and I allowed him to lead me upstairs. We stood at the foot of his bed as he took me back into his arms and kissed me thoroughly. When he pulled away, he studied me for a moment.

  ‘I could spend all day kissing you, Emmy.’

  That caramel gaze of his was spellbinding, when I knew it was for me and me alone.

  Alain made short work of my dress. It pooled on the floor at my feet as I tugged at his shirt to make things fair. Impatient, he pulled it over his head, dragged off his jeans, then pulled me down next to him on the bed.

  I ran my hands across the firm plane of his chest and stomach, wondering how he kept so toned, looking after people’s accounts all day. He had a small birthmark just under his ribcage, and with delight, I traced it with my finger, thinking it looked just like a little heart.

  His arm snaked round my shoulders to pull me close. I breathed in the scent of him, lemon and mint. The feel of his skin next to mine was so good.

  ‘Just so you know,’ he murmured into my hair. ‘Knowing you were here in France and not being able to see you? To touch you? It was killing me slowly.’

  I let out a delighted laugh. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  And then his mouth was on mine – no mo
re preliminaries, no messing about. He meant business with that kiss. My hands moved to his face to feel the light stubble there, then down to his shoulders and around to the smooth skin of his back.

  Alain dispensed with the remaining fabric barriers between us. ‘You’re so lovely.’

  I decided to take the compliment graciously as his hands smoothed down my arms, over my back, down my sides to brush my breasts, one hand lingering there while the other moved downwards.

  I gasped. ‘Alain, please...’

  ‘I promised to explore every millimetre, remember?’

  Oh, I remembered, all right. ‘I think that would kill me. My heart’s beating too fast as it is.’

  He smiled and nuzzled my neck. Other parts of him nuzzled elsewhere. Slow lovemaking was no longer an option, as far as I was concerned.

  ‘How about we do all that later?’ I murmured.

  I took his desperate groan as acquiescence, and all talking ceased.

  * * *

  As we lay together afterwards, our bodies slicked with a light sheen of sweat from the day’s heat and our own, I curled into the crook of Alain’s arm, my hand splayed across his chest, in no doubt whatsoever that I belonged there and always had.

  Being a natural cynic, I’d always thought that people who said stuff like that were hopeless romantics or deluded, or both, but experiencing it for myself was eye opening. It made me realise that I should have always known that Nathan and I weren’t right for each other. We’d never had this feeling of... oneness. And other lovers had simply been a stepping stone along the way to this.

  I mentally rolled my eyes. Any minute now, I would be saying that Alain and I were destined for each other in some grand universal scheme, or something equally demented. I snuggled in closer.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he murmured, kissing the top of my head.

  ‘Mmm.’

  I could feel his lips curve into a smile. ‘I’ll take that as a yes.’

  He turned to face me and we lay side by side, almost nose to nose. His hand came up to brush the hair from my face and caress my cheek.

  ‘I’m glad I came back early.’