A French Affair

by Jennifer Bohnet

  ‘How long did your parents own the site for?’

  ‘About fifteen years.’ The look Alain gave her was defiant. ‘They bought it when they retired and enjoyed running it.’

  ‘Must be difficult for you, seeing how run-down it is now. Did it all just become too much for them?’

  Alain nodded. ‘The fact I wasn’t around for some years made it worse. The so-called manager they employed basically took the money for five years and ran. To say they were pleased when Nigel offered to ’elp—’ He shrugged.

  ‘The thing is, these days most people have homes full of stuff: TVs, computers, dishwashers, power showers, fridges, hot tubs, everything on tap. The idea of coming away on holiday and roughing it—’ Belinda shrugged. ‘Well, that appeals to some people, but there is definitely a market for more comfortable holidays. For being at one with nature in comfort. It’ll still be a great family holiday destination when we’ve updated it – only better,’ Belinda said.

  ‘It’s going to cost tens of thousands of euros,’ Alain said. ‘Not to mention months of work. Much longer than the agreed agenda.’

  ‘Is that a problem for you?’

  For no longer than a split second, a look of discomfort flitted across Alain’s face, gone so quickly that afterwards Belinda wondered if she’d imagined it.

  Alain nodded. ‘Yes. We ’ave to open as quickly as possible. Said that’s why he was sending you over, to speed things up.’

  ‘Nigel is a businessman, he knows it takes time to recuperate an investment. I doubt that he’s expecting this place to turn any sort of profit for at least three to five years. With the amount of money we’re going to spend on new equipment and facilities, personally I’d say it’s probably going to be even longer.’

  Alain muttered something under his breath that Belinda didn’t quite catch, before forcing a smile on his face. ‘You ’ave details in that folder of yours?’

  ‘Yes. Is your plan on the computer?’

  Alain nodded.

  ‘Let’s print it out and then we can take both of them with us when we do a site inspection,’ Belinda said, relieved when Alain opened up the plan on the computer and pressed the print button without grumbling at her.

  Before they started to walk the site, Belinda insisted Alain show her the house she’d seen yesterday. ‘Manager’s house? Is it habitable?’

  Alain nodded. ‘Yes. Needs a damn good clean though.’ He pulled a bunch of keys out of his pocket and inserted one in the lock.

  The house, a typical Breton conversion from an old farm building many years ago, was basic, but Belinda could see its potential. Downstairs, there was a kitchen and a large sitting room with a wood burner. A steep open wooden staircase led upstairs, where there were two double bedrooms, a single bedroom and a bathroom with a big old-fashioned bath and overhead shower. Get the house cleaned ready to live in, was the first thing that went on Belinda’s list.

  ‘We’ll get this place cleaned up ready for you to move in.’

  Alain shook his head. ‘I ’ave no plans to move in until the season starts.’

  ‘Well, somebody needs to be living on site soon and if it’s not you, it will have to be me. Once it’s clean, I’ll move in while I’m out here,’ Belinda said. It wouldn’t be as cosy as the auberge but at least it would save Nigel some money.

  Three hours later, as they made their way back to the office, Belinda’s head was reeling with the knowledge of just how much she needed to organise. Alain had shown her the tent pitching area of the campsite, which was in desperate need of being mown otherwise they’d be making silage there very soon. The area for visiting camper vans and caravans was almost as bad. She’d learnt that the leases on all the cabins had reverted back to the campsite, including the one she’d seen with a bicycle and flowers.

  ‘Why does that one look as if it’s lived in?’

  ‘Because it is,’ Alain admitted. ‘Bernie moved in there a while ago when he had a row with his father. Dad told him he could stay there for as long as he liked. To treat it as his ’ome.’

  ‘Who’s Bernie?’

  ‘A villager who needed somewhere to live.’

  ‘Time to move him out,’ Belinda said briskly, making a note.

  ‘He’s not doing any ’arm living there,’ Alain said quietly. ‘We can leave him there for a bit. He’s got nowhere to go.’

  Belinda looked at him. ‘Nowhere? His parents won’t take him back?’

  Alain shook his head. ‘They’re both dead now.’

  ‘Does he work?’

  Alain shook his head again. ‘He’s not the most reliable – unless it involves animals. Then he’s dedicated to their care.’

  ‘Okay, he can stay for a bit, we’ll work around him,’ Belinda said. Evicting this Bernie wasn’t at the top of her priority list right now. ‘I’ll need to meet him though. Maybe we can get him involved with the grounds here? The patch of ground around his cabin is very tidy and well looked after.’

  ‘Peut-être.’ Alain shrugged.

  At least she and Alain had managed to reach a compromise on certain things, although there had been several fierce arguments during the course of the morning when they’d disagreed over what Nigel would want and what was needed. Including one about not only where the three glamping pods were going to be positioned but the kind of pod to install. But Belinda was content to wait until she had enough information to enable her to win the argument.

  There was one thing they were both in total agreement on, however – the whole place needed clearing of all the overgrown shrubs, trees and grass.

  ‘We need to get a team in,’ Belinda said. ‘Too much work here for you to carry out alone. Do you know of a local company? Or should we employ a couple of men and you supervise? We’re going to need a permanent groundsman once it’s sorted as well.’

  Alain nodded. ‘Already organised a team to come in. Now the weather is improving, they’ll ’ave it sorted within a week. The machinery in the hangar is old but most of it works, just needs cleaning and oiling. I’ll let Yann in the bar know and he’ll spread the word about job vacancies. And we can notify the Pôle Emploi that we are looking for seasonal staff.’

  ‘Is that what I’d call the job centre?’ Belinda asked.

  Alain nodded.

  ‘I’ll write out a list of jobs, both immediate and seasonal, like receptionist, cleaners, gardeners. I’ll check with Nigel about whether he wants to rent out the café when it’s ready or whether he wants to employ staff for it.’

  Alain glanced at his watch. ‘I need some food. We go for lunch in the village?’

  Belinda shook her head. ‘No thanks. I’ll work through. I’ll grab a cup of coffee and there’s a croissant left if I need it. I need to phone my daughter too.’

  ‘That decision marks you out as a true Englishwoman. Breaking off work for lunch is sacrosanct round here. No self-respecting French person would even consider taking less than an hour for lunch.’

  ‘And that’s what’s wrong with the French.’ Belinda shrugged. ‘I’d rather get the work done and finish the day early. Too long a lunch makes people lethargic. I’ll spend the time on the computer. Get familiar with the programs you have on there. See if the bookings and payment app is modern enough to cope. I take it the internet connection is good?’

  ‘It’s good,’ Alain said. ‘For rural Brittany. I’ll see you later.’

  Belinda registered the speculative look he gave her as he went to say something before changing his mind and closing the door behind him.

  She made herself a cup of coffee and gave BB a drink before settling herself in front of the computer. It was then she realised what was behind Alain’s look. Everything on the computer was in French and he didn’t expect her to understand any of it. Monsieur Salvin had made another mistake there!

  9

  After Belinda had left for the campsite and her anticipated difficult morning with Alain Salvin, Fern did her usual out-of-season housework routine, making sure the a
uberge was spick and span for any passing tourists.

  It didn’t take long and by ten o’clock she was in the kitchen, making her morning coffee and writing a list for her planned visit to the supermarché, fifteen kilometres away. Since Laurent’s death she’d taken to shopping at the LeClerc at Gourin as she rarely saw anyone she knew there and in those early, strangely, detached-from-reality months, she couldn’t face the kind platitudes people expressed. It was easier to shop amongst strangers. Now it was a habit. A habit that included walking Lady in the nearby park of Tronjoly before heading for the supermarché.

  Half an hour later, Fern pulled into the car park attached to the Chateau Tronjoly. Getting out of the car, she walked to the back to lift the hatchback door for Lady to jump out. Before she could clip the lead on, Lady ran towards the only car parked nearby. A tall, distinguished-looking man who reminded Fern of someone she couldn’t quite put a name to was standing next to a 4 x 4, looking around him.

  ‘Viens ici, Lady,’ Fern called out quickly.

  The man glanced across at Fern before bending down to pet Lady. ‘Pas de problème.’

  ‘Désolé,’ Fern said, quickly clipping the lead on Lady.

  ‘N’est-ce pas un bel endroit?’

  Fern nodded. His accent was different and she guessed French wasn’t his native language.

  ‘Yes, it is very beautiful,’ she answered in English. ‘Are you American? Your accent is…’

  The man laughed. ‘That bad? That’s not good. Yep, I’m American. Scott Kergoëts.’ He held out his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, ma’am.’

  ‘Fern LeRoy.’ She shook his hand, surprised by how firm his shake was.

  ‘Now that’s a French surname,’ Scott said, looking at her. ‘But you’re not French, are you?’

  She smiled. ‘No, I’m English. I married a Frenchman.’

  ‘And who’s this?’ Scott asked, crouching down to stroke Lady again, who immediately sat and looked at him.

  ‘Lady. Whom I’m about to walk around the park.’

  Fern sensed his hesitation before he asked. ‘Maybe I could walk with you? I sure could do with some company.’

  ‘Why not. I usually go this way,’ and Fern set off down the path that led past the chateau and around the lake. This was a public place and there were other people around and although this man was a random stranger, she didn’t think for one moment that he was a threat to her. She’d learnt to sum people up at a glance and to be a good judge of character running the auberge and had been known to turn people away that she instinctively didn’t trust. ‘How long are you here for?’ she asked.

  Scott shrugged. ‘For as long as I want really. My ticket is open-ended. I retired a few months ago and there’s nothing urgent back home waiting for my attention.’

  ‘Where is home?’

  ‘New York City. I’m really here to check out how your Statue of Liberty compares with our Liberty Island one,’ Scott answered.

  Fern laughed. ‘It’s a miniature version, that’s for sure.’

  Scott flashed her a disarming smile. ‘At least I can stand up close without having to pay.’

  ‘Are you staying in Gourin?’

  ‘Not at the moment. I’ve rented a gîte on the outskirts, but, to be honest, it’s a bit isolated and I think I’d prefer to have company nearby. I’ll probably find a hotel, maybe even an Airbnb in town, when my jet lag finally clears. I only landed three days ago and it’s taking time to wear off.’

  Fern nodded sympathetically.

  ‘You live locally I guess?’ Scott said.

  Fern shook her head. ‘Not really. I’m fifteen kilometres away. Carhaix–Plouguer direction. I run an auberge.’

  They continued to walk in companionable silence for a while before the front of the restored chateau came into view.

  ‘Wow. I wasn’t expecting it to be quite so splendid,’ Scott said, stopping in the middle of the path. ‘I’ve seen paintings and photos of the place, but…’ He shook his head. ‘Seeing it in the flesh, so to speak, it’s completely taken me by surprise.’

  Fern, standing at his side, had to admit the old chateau was looking particularly beautiful in the sunshine, with the spring daffodils, primroses and the many camellia shrubs in flower.

  Scott appeared to be transfixed by the scene. When Lady pulled on her lead wanting to move, Fern broke into his reverie.

  ‘It is rather splendid. Easy to imagine how lovely it must have been to actually live in it. Scott, I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to walk – Lady is getting impatient. It’s been lovely meeting you and I hope you enjoy your stay in Brittany,’ and she began to walk away.

  ‘Sorry, I was miles away there,’ Scott apologised and he fell into step alongside her once again. ‘Is there anywhere here I can buy you a coffee?’

  ‘Thank you, but I don’t think there is a café here – maybe in the summer but not right now,’ Fern said, thinking it would have been nice to have stopped for a coffee. ‘And I have to get to the supermarché.’

  Scott looked disappointed but didn’t argue as they walked back to the car park in silence.

  Fern pressed the remote lock on her car and quickly bundled Lady into her basket in the back. When she straightened up, Scott had opened the driver’s door and smiled at her as she slipped into her seat. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Would you and your husband like to join me for dinner one evening?’ Scott asked. ‘A bit of entente cordiale?’

  Fern froze. She hadn’t been expecting that. She should have remembered how hospitable some Americans were. She shook her head. She had to get away. Scott was a nice man and she didn’t want to upset him by bursting into tears because he’d unwittingly mentioned her husband.

  ‘Not possible, I’m afraid. Laurent, my husband, died in an accident eighteen months ago.’ She stared out over the dashboard of the car rather than look at him as she spoke. She switched the car engine on and prepared to drive away.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you,’ Scott said, instantly contrite. ‘You take care – have a nice day.’ To Fern’s relief, he closed the car door and moved back.

  Driving out of the car park, Fern glanced in her rear-view mirror to see him standing there watching her leave. At least she’d managed to keep the tears that were now coursing down her cheeks at bay in front of him. Tears were never very far away when she had to share her story with strangers, even after all these months.

  She stayed in the car for several moments once she reached the supermarché, taking deep breaths and generally calming down. She managed to repair her make-up, add another slick of lipstick, comb her hair and give herself a quick squirt of perfume.

  And berate herself for being so frightened at the thought of having dinner with a man on her own.

  That evening, as she and Belinda enjoyed the poached salmon, new potatoes and early tender asparagus she’d cooked, Fern looked at Belinda as she handed her the hollandaise sauce. Could she tell Belinda about her reaction to Scott’s invitation? Having a girlfriend she could talk to in her own language and know she would understand was something that Fern had missed in the last few years. Both she and Laurent had made new French friends here in Brittany but she’d slowly lost contact with her old friends in the UK. After Laurent died she’d started to avoid their mutual friends, wanting to spare them the embarrassment of facing a grieving widow. She and Belinda might have only met recently, but she sensed that they were going to be good friends.

  ‘I met an American today, Scott Kergoëts, while I was walking Lady.’

  ‘And?’ Belinda looked at her. ‘Was he a nice American?’

  ‘I got the feeling that he was a real gentleman. Obviously well educated. Easy to talk to.’ Fern picked up her wine glass and took a sip before saying quietly, ‘He asked if “my husband and I” would have dinner with him one evening.’ She glanced at Belinda. ‘I told him Laurent was dead and then basically ran away, fast. I feel so stupid. I’m fifty-four years old, my kids behave more grown
-up than I do.’ Fern gave a heavy sigh.

  ‘Ah,’ Belinda answered, a thoughtful tone to her voice. ‘Moving on is hard, isn’t it? I found it difficult being alone after my husband left me and I couldn’t shake the apathy off for months. Nigel and Molly giving me a job was my saving. I had to get out of the house and go to work. It must be even harder after a bereavement to pull yourself back into the world.’

  ‘True. My first marriage, which ended in divorce, was different. It was my decision. I did the right thing for me and the children and I got on with life. But I never expected to lose Laurent like I did.’ Fern bit her lip knowing tears were dangerously close again.

  ‘Do you like running the auberge on your own?’

  ‘Honestly? Laurent and I were a team. It was fun opening our home and entertaining people. We really enjoyed it.’ She sighed. ‘On my own, it’s different. Harder. I love it when I’m busy in the summer with guests, cooking and gardening, but I’ve learnt that the majority of holidaymakers prefer to drive south in search of the sun. It’s rare all six rooms are filled. And, as you can see, from November to April, it’s dead around here.’

  ‘Does the auberge give you a good life?’ Belinda asked.

  ‘Yes, but being solely responsible for everything, with no one to talk through problems with is a drain. I rather fancy working for someone else and not being the person in overall charge.’

  ‘And how’s the social life around here? How many times this winter have you been out for lunch or dinner with friends?’

  ‘I have lunch once a month with my brother-in-law,’ she said. ‘And Laurent’s son, Fabian, comes for dinner occasionally. That’s about it.’ She shrugged. ‘I walk Lady a lot. So plenty of fresh air.’

  ‘No girly natters with friends? No Ladies Wot Lunch around here?’

  Fern laughed. ‘If there are, I’ve never met them.’

  Belinda regarded her thoughtfully. ‘Speaking as a very new friend, you’ve got to get to grips with life again. Would you consider selling this place and starting somewhere new? Or does it hold too many happy memories for you to leave?’