Return to the Little French Guesthouse

by Helen Pollard

  Practically helpless with laughter, it was made worse when Sophie tried to drink her wine and was shaking so much that she missed her mouth.

  ‘Well, I’m glad to be able to provide the evening’s entertainment,’ Ellie said wryly.

  ‘So what happens next?’ I asked.

  She looked at me, puzzled. ‘Nothing happens next. I broke up with him.’

  ‘But why?’ This from Sophie. ‘Most women would love a man to offer that kind of affection.’

  ‘Not me. I told him the score when we got started.’

  ‘But why not you?’ Sophie bit her lip. ‘Or shouldn’t I ask? Sorry.’

  ‘There’s no deep, dark secret,’ Ellie told her. ‘No abusive ex-husband, nothing like that. I just learned through trial and error that I haven’t got the patience to be in a stable relationship. I’m selfish, I want to live my life exactly to suit me, and that’s only got worse over the years.’

  Her words reminded me of how Rupert had once described himself when he told me he probably wasn’t suited to married life.

  ‘Don’t mind decent sex now and again though,’ Ellie added, much to our amusement. ‘Anyway, enough about me. Where’s the pizza? I’m starved!’

  During pizza, it was my turn to be interrogated.

  ‘We want to hear all about you and Alain.’ Sophie got straight in there. ‘I saw him in town yesterday and he said he’d decided to come back early. Was that because he wanted to see you? Are you getting on okay? Have you had a proper date yet?’

  I told them about Madame Dupont’s gift for our date, and its fate.

  Ellie laughed loudly. ‘Well, I bet that was romantic – you cinderising that poor bird for your new beau.’

  Sophie gave me a sly smile. ‘I don’t think you need to impress Alain with your cooking, Emmy. He has already fallen for you.’

  Ellie tutted at her. ‘Hopeless romantic.’ When my face broke into a sappy smile, she rolled her eyes. ‘God, it’s catching.’

  Sophie gave a delighted squeal. ‘So are you with Alain?’ she asked, leaning conspiratorially across the coffee table.

  Ellie shook her head in despair. ‘For heaven’s sake, what are we? Fifteen again? Emmy, please inform us as to whether you are having sexual intercourse with our accountant before Mademoiselle Romance here explodes.’

  I spluttered wine.

  Ellie turned to Sophie. ‘I would say that’s a yes.’

  Sophie’s eyes shone. ‘And is he... is it...?’

  I gave her an indulgent smile. ‘Yes, Sophie. He is. It is.’

  Even Ellie grinned.

  * * *

  ‘Do you mind if I pop out for a couple of hours this afternoon?’ I asked Rupert the next day. ‘Ellie’s visiting a couple of properties and taking Bob with her to do the photographs. She suggested I go with them. I haven’t seen him yet, and it would give me a chance to talk to him about photos for my website.’

  ‘No problem.’

  When Ellie called for me, Bob jumped out of the car and greeted me warmly. ‘Welcome back, Emmy. Sorry I haven’t caught up with you yet. Been busy running around after Jonathan.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘Although I gather you’ve been roped in, too.’ He gave me a sympathetic smile. ‘I’m sorry if you’re getting embroiled and didn’t want to be.’

  ‘I don’t mind. What he’s asked me to do is one-off stuff, and I can live with it.’

  ‘I was round there yesterday. You’re doing a grand job. That house has been getting in a state for a while. I thought about offering – I knew he couldn’t afford to have it professionally cleaned – but the one time I hinted, he got quite offended. Said he appreciated the errands and driving him about, but he didn’t expect me to skivvy. Only now you’re having to skivvy. Doesn’t seem fair.’

  ‘The only reason he asked me is because he thought he would pay me. He wouldn’t have asked as a favour.’

  Bob gave me a warm smile. ‘He told me you wouldn’t accept payment.’

  ‘No. He needs his friends. Everybody has to chip in.’

  ‘You’re a soft touch, Emmy.

  ‘That’s what Rupert says.’

  ‘And no doubt why he’s so fond of you.’

  Ellie drove an open-top saloon – very classy – and I enjoyed the fresh air as we raced along the country roads at a rather alarming speed, the fields passing by in a blur.

  ‘I thought you could shadow Bob today,’ she said. ‘See what he gets up to and why his photos do the trick for us.’

  Bob turned to me. ‘Don’t be fooled into thinking it’s my expertise that sells those houses of hers. Once she gets her teeth into a buyer, she doesn’t let go. They don’t stand a chance.’

  I laughed.

  ‘That’s very true,’ Ellie conceded. ‘But it’s the pictures that bring them across the threshold in the first place.’

  ‘That’s what I need to do, figuratively speaking,’ I said.

  Bob frowned. ‘Most agencies would use the owners’ photos.’

  ‘I know, but I need to stand out. I don’t want rubbish photos that someone’s taken on their phone in the drizzle at the worst angle they could have picked. A good photo goes a long way in marketing.’ I gave him a sheepish smile. ‘But I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that.’

  The two houses we visited couldn’t have been more different – one a modern villa with a pool, the other a ramshackle rustic property in need of renovation. I enjoyed Bob’s gentle company and found it interesting to observe the way he worked, how he chose his angles, his patience.

  On the drive home, Ellie said, ‘So, are you going to avail yourself of Bob’s services?’

  ‘I might like his services. I won’t necessarily be able to afford them.’

  Bob gestured at his faded shirt and even more faded jeans. ‘I come pretty cheap, Emmy, if you hadn’t already guessed. I don’t set much store in monetary things. I need enough to live, to run the bike. That’s all.’

  ‘I know, but...’ I told him how, in order to bring lets on board, I wouldn’t earn anything other than by commission, so was unlikely to see any income before next year.

  ‘So if you pay me an up-front fee, you’ll be a long way out of pocket?’ He stroked his scruffy beard. ‘How about this? Pay me once commission comes in for each property I take photos for.’

  ‘You’d be willing to work on that basis?’

  ‘Why not? The better the job I do, the quicker I get paid.’ He held out his hand. ‘Deal?’

  I shook it. ‘Deal.’

  ‘Are you going to the fête in Pierre-la-Fontaine tonight, Emmy?’ Ellie asked.

  I jolted. ‘I’d forgotten all about that! Alain’s coming round to La Cour des Roses for the evening.’

  ‘It’s on tomorrow as well.’

  ‘But I’ll be up to my eyes in gîte cleaning and guest meals tomorrow.’

  ‘Why don’t you ask Alain to meet earlier tonight then? You could go into town for a couple of hours first, then go back to La Cour des Roses. It would be a shame for you to miss it. And it would be something local to write up for your website.’

  ‘That’s true.’ I took out my phone to text Alain.

  * * *

  The square and side streets were crammed. We wandered slowly – it wasn’t possible to hurry – past craft stalls and food stalls, buskers and jugglers. Alain was patient as I took photos and examined tens of pairs of earrings, buying me the pair I hovered over longest. He also bought gifts for his niece and nephew – their names twisted out of thick wire and embellished with beads that could stand on a shelf in their rooms.

  The food smells were conflicting, sweet and savoury, but all tantalising. Sugar, salt, melted butter, spicy meat, chocolate... A child passed us with a stick of candy floss bigger than she was, and I laughed as Alain dodged sideways before his jeans got covered in jammy sugar strands.

  ‘Time for a crêpe, I think, don’t you?’ he asked.

  As we queued, I watched, fascinated, as the
woman behind the stall poured a ladle of runny batter onto a large, round, smooth hotplate, used a flat palette knife to spread it evenly to the edge, then deftly flipped it at just the right moment. When it was a perfect golden brown, she sprinkled it with sugar or drizzled it with chocolate or honey or whatever had been requested, folded it into a quarter and handed it across to the customer in a paper napkin. She must have made half a dozen as we waited, and I marvelled that not one of them burned or stuck. If I’d tried, it would be a mangled, sticky mess.

  ‘Have you had a proper French crêpe yet?’ Alain asked as we reached the front of the queue.

  ‘No.’

  ‘We’ll keep it simple, then.’

  When the hot, sugary, buttery package was placed in my hand, I savoured the smell before sinking my teeth in. It was heavenly. Alain smiled and gave me a light, buttery kiss. Mmm.

  The cafés were doing a roaring trade and the atmosphere was friendly, with locals and tourists both young and old enjoying themselves. A crowd was gathering outside the Mairie, so we went over to see what was going on, drawn by the sound of laughter.

  Two men were beginning their act, making a comical show of setting up. Dressed in old-fashioned one-piece striped bathing suits, with handlebar moustaches and straw hats, they spoke to each other and the audience in strong accents I struggled to understand, but I guessed it was all part of the act.

  Besides, language wasn’t really needed – they were hilarious. Acrobatics, juggling, playing practical jokes on each other. One stood on the other’s shoulders, deliberately teetering dangerously, juggling unlikely objects suggested by the crowd.

  In an unspoken consensus, the adults all moved back to allow the children to sit cross-legged at the front, some sucking on sweets and lollipops, and one little boy so engrossed in the show that he forgot his crêpe, dripping chocolate sauce onto his bare knees. Every single person there had a huge smile on their face, no matter what their age. Old-fashioned entertainment at its best.

  For the finale, one of the performers held a huge sheet of paper while the other cracked a whip to tear it in two. Then he held up a half... and so on and so on, the paper getting smaller each time and the one holding it hopping anxiously about, his face more and more comically terrified as the whip cracked in his direction.

  I was as gullible as the kids in the audience, my mouth wide open, marvelling at the skill of the bloke with the whip, until the paper got so small that I realised it was impossible and the man with the paper was cleverly tearing it in two with a swift action that made it look real. Duh. I hadn’t laughed so much in a long time. I felt carefree, with Alain’s arm comfortably draped around my waist.

  ‘Can I help you with that?’ Alain murmured, indicating the finger I was busy licking sugar from. Not waiting for an answer, he leaned in for a quick kiss, chaste enough to onlookers but in reality whisking a grain or two from my lips with his tongue.

  Embarrassed, I turned back to watch the performers take a bow, the audience unwilling to let them go without showing their appreciation, cheering and whistling. Across the crowd, I caught a glimpse of Sophie with Ellie, and Philippe with his wife, Martine. I sent a little wave across and got one back from Sophie, but Ellie was too busy to notice, doubled over with laughter. Those boys must be good, if they had cynical estate agent Ellie Fielding guffawing like a five–year-old.

  Back at La Cour des Roses, we sat out on the patio with Rupert. It was a perfect temperature. I lit a citronella candle to keep the insects at bay, and we opened a bottle of local white, the dog enjoying the cooling evening air at our feet.

  Alain demanded I brought out the laptop, and he replied to the accepting band, confirming details.

  ‘Thanks for that,’ Rupert said with sincerity.

  ‘Happy to help. I know these guys a little. I played with them a couple of times, but it was maybe three years ago now. I think they’ll be a good choice.’

  I tried to picture Alain playing at the jazz festival and couldn’t, so I made a mental note to cajole him into playing his sax for me some time.

  ‘If this goes well, maybe we could use the jazz festival next year,’ I told Rupert. ‘We could advertise as a convenient place to stay.’

  ‘You want to repeat the experience?’ Rupert’s horrified expression made us both laugh.

  ‘I only meant using it as a plus point to make sure we’re full in September. I wasn’t suggesting we encourage every man, his dog and a caravan for anniversary parties.’

  ‘I don’t see any harm then. Talking of being full, the couple in the end gîte asked if they could stay on a couple of days, Emmy, since nobody’s due to replace them on Saturday. I said they could.’

  I glared at him. ‘As long as they’re out by Monday. We have the Australians due, and the other two gîtes won’t be useable.’

  ‘That’s what I told them. They’re happy with it.’

  ‘Got a decent set of guests at the moment?’ Alain asked Rupert, sensing my irritation and circumspectly changing the subject.

  Rupert lowered his voice so we wouldn’t be overheard. ‘Depends what you mean by “decent”.’ He made quote marks in the air. ‘Our fun foursome left yesterday, but we now know everything about their dubious youth. And our “late risers” leave tomorrow. I’m not kidding, Alain. Every. Single. Morning. They’re getting embarrassing, frankly.’

  Alain laughed. ‘Are your other guests showing a bit more decorum?’

  ‘Violet and Betty couldn’t do anything but,’ I told him. ‘Rupert’s having to watch his language. Marcus and James Morgan arrived yesterday, and they’re lovely.’

  ‘Same surname? A couple, or brothers?’

  ‘They didn’t ask for the twin room – not that they could have had it, since Violet and Betty are in there – so I’m assuming a couple. I was worried about how Violet and Betty would react, but I think they’re oblivious, bless them.’

  Alain laughed. ‘How do you know Violet and Betty aren’t a couple?’

  I gave a cynical grunt. ‘They don’t argue enough.’

  ‘Don’t forget our other new arrivals, Jess and Steve,’ Rupert said. ‘She can’t be more than early twenties, and he must be late thirties, I reckon.’

  ‘Rupert, you’re ten years older than Gloria. Alain is five years older than me.’

  ‘I know, but we’re all settled in our skin. Theirs comes across as such a big gap because Jess is almost childlike. You weren’t there at dinner on Thursday, Emmy, but she was hanging on his every word, as though she idolises him.’

  ‘Maybe she does. Plenty of men would love that.’

  ‘Oh, I bet he does. Steve spent half the meal whispering in her ear, if not nibbling on it, and the other half glancing at his phone and jabbing at it as though he was rejecting calls. Numerous calls. He’s hiding something, you mark my words. You get a nose for these things, running a place like this.’

  I smiled as Rupert and Alain laughed together – the laughter of two very good friends – and it made my heart melt that little bit more for both of them, their faces lit by the light shining out from the kitchen and casting shadows at the edges of the patio.

  ‘So how was the family ordeal?’ Rupert asked Alain.

  ‘The usual,’ Alain told him. ‘I’ve got quite devious, nowadays. I offer to take Mum and Dad out to lunch on the pretext of allowing Adrien and Sabine some family time with the kids. Or I offer to spend time with the kids to give Sabine and Adrien a break. The only time it doesn’t work is when Mum and Dad want grandparent time with the kids, leaving me and Adrien and Sabine as an awkward threesome. Although it’s surprising how much work I have to take on holiday with me. How many phone calls I have to make with clients. You were particularly aggravating this time, Rupert. In fact, it’s your fault I had to come dashing back.’

  Rupert laughed. ‘Happy to be of use. How are your niece and nephew?’

  ‘Gabriel’s into cars and planes. Chloe’s on the bossy side. Takes after her mother. And the tantrums are a si
ght to behold.’

  He smiled broadly, and my heart gave a little kick as I pictured him playing with them. I imagined he would be kind and patient and indulgent, and I reckoned it was all credit to him that he didn’t hold their parentage against them. I felt a little light-headed, and wondered if I’d drunk my wine too fast.

  Warm evening, beautiful surroundings, delicious chilled wine and a handsome half-Frenchman. What more could I ask for?

  When Rupert went back into the house to chat to a couple of guests returning from the fête, Alain asked me, ‘Are you okay? You seem a little vague.’

  ‘Just tired, and a bit woozy from the wine.’ I linked my fingers in his. ‘It must be so hard for you, Adrien and Sabine having a family.’

  He shrugged it off. ‘It was at first. Like I said, when Sabine and I moved down here, we were thinking about starting a family. When she left me, for a while I felt like I’d lost that possibility along with her. But imagine if we had started a family, and then she’d left. It would have been so much worse. Anyway, now I get to play and read stories and act the jolly uncle and wind them into a giddy frenzy, then hand them back to their frazzled parents afterwards.’

  I smiled at the image of small children running rings around him and closed my eyes, allowing myself to drift, the wine humming in my bloodstream, the distant murmur of the guests fading...

  A feather-light touch of lips on mine. Mmm. I responded dozily but enthusiastically... until it occurred to me that I had no idea who I was kissing.

  My eyes shot open. ‘Hmm – what – huh?’

  Alain’s face was inches from mine. ‘You’re falling asleep. Rupert’s thinking of turning the hose on you.’

  I looked around to see the threat was real, and wrinkled my nose.

  ‘C’mon, sleepyhead.’

  He hoisted me out of my chair and we walked back up the garden, his arm around my waist.