A waitress appeared with a bread basket, a menu for each of them and the wine list which she handed to Fern as she spoke to her in French.
Listening to the two of them, there was something vaguely familiar about the woman that Belinda couldn’t quite pin down. It wasn’t until the waitress turned to include Belinda in the discussion about which wine they would like to accompany their meal that the name on the neat badge she wore pinned to her pristine black blouse leapt out at her. Sandrine.
Belinda quickly put her head down and studied the menu.
‘Sorry I don’t speak or understand French.’ She gave an apologetic shrug. ‘I’m English. Whatever my friend chooses will be fine by me.’ Rather than acknowledge the stare she sensed Fern was sending in her direction, Belinda reached out for the water carafe and poured herself a glass.
The waitress turned back to Fern, with her pencil poised.
Fern placed their order of two green salads for starters and two roast beef main courses, explaining that as she was driving, a half carafe of the house Bordeaux between them would be fine. ‘Merci,’ and Fern handed back the menus.
Once the waitress was out of earshot, she looked across at Belinda, her eyebrows raised.
‘I know you speak French, so what was that all about?’
Belinda leant across the table and whispered, ‘She was my bête noir at school. I’ll tell you more later. Right now I need a glass of that wine you ordered.’ She took a bread roll from the basket and, breaking a piece off, chewed it thoughtfully, registering as she did so Fern’s shocked look at her words.
Would Sandrine recognise her? If it hadn’t been for her name badge, Belinda probably wouldn’t have realised the woman was Sandrine, she’d changed so much. Yes, there had been something vaguely familiar about her, but the slim blonde she’d known had matured into a middle-aged woman with henna-red hair.
When Sandrine reappeared with their wine, Belinda kept her head averted and looked out of the window.
Fern poured a glass of the wine and pushed it across the table to Belinda. ‘Here you go. I’m intrigued about how you know Sandrine from school, but if you don’t want to talk about it, you don’t have to.’
Belinda picked up her glass and gently swirled the wine around, wondering whether to tell Fern the truth.
‘I’m hoping that she won’t recognise me and dump my lunch in my lap.’ She took a mouthful of her drink and decided the best thing to do would be to tell Fern a shortened, sanitised, version of the truth about how she knew Sandrine. ‘I grew up not a million miles from this place,’ Belinda said. ‘On the way here, we drove down lanes that I used to know every bend and pothole on. I saw cottages that people I knew lived in.’ She took another sip of wine. ‘I should have realised that sooner or later I would come face to face with someone from my past. Shame it turned out to be, not an old enemy exactly, but certainly someone who made my teenage years difficult.’ Belinda bit back on a smile. ‘But then I don’t suppose hers were trouble-free either.’
Fern poured a small amount of wine into her own glass. ‘How come you went to school in France?’
‘I was born in England, but my dad was French.’
‘When did you leave? And why?’
Belinda gave a rueful smile. ‘The day of my last Baccalauréat. As for why…’ She saw Sandrine coming towards them with their starters and fell silent as she reached their table, trying hard to ignore the scrutinising look Sandrine gave her as she placed the salad in front of her. Maybe she did recognise her.
‘Bon appétit,’ the waitress wished them both before walking away.
‘I have to admit I’m surprised Sandrine still lives in the area,’ Belinda said quietly. ‘She was always moaning about the place, saying she couldn’t wait to leave and get a proper life.’ She smothered the thought that she, on the other hand, had never envisaged leaving, she’d loved living in Brittany – before that life had been snatched away from her.
‘She was working here the first time Laurent brought me and that was a good few years ago now,’ Fern said.
Belinda, realising she hadn’t answered Fern’s last question, decided a change of conversation was needed, otherwise her lunch was going to be ruined by ghosts from the past and the presence of waitresses in the present.
‘I’ve been meaning to ask, do you know anything about Bernie? He appears to be a permanent fixture on the campsite.’
Fern nodded. ‘Everyone in the village knows Bernie’s story. He was a surprise menopause baby. His two older brothers had left home before he was born and his parents, particularly his father, were resentful that they were back in the throes of bringing up another child that they didn’t particularly want.’ Fern sighed. ‘And when it was discovered that he had a bit of a problem mentally, they were, let’s say, bitter about it. You know the saying – it takes a village to raise a child – well, that’s what happened here in a way. Everyone used to look out for him and when his father threw him out about six years ago after his mother died, the village rallied around to make sure Bernie always had somewhere to go and something to eat. I think he’s been living on the site for about five years now, since his father died anyway. He’s a very kind, gentle man and absolutely marvellous with animals.’
‘So if I were to insist he has to find somewhere else to live and leave Camping dans La Fôret, I’d be labelled the big bad newcomer. Great.’ Belinda sighed. ‘He only speaks Breton though. How do people communicate with him?’
Fern gave a wry smile. ‘More people than you’d expect still speak Breton around here. And, between you and me, I think he understands basic French. He always seems to understand anything I say to him anyway. I’m pretty sure too that Alain speaks a little Breton.’
‘It doesn’t sound as though his continued presence is likely to cause problems,’ Belinda said. ‘And if it does, I’ll leave Alain to sort it out.’ She looked at Fern and hesitated. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything on the village grapevine about Alain? About why he’s gone to the UK this weekend?’
Fern shook her head. ‘No, sorry, I’ve not heard a thing. Not that I hear much anyway.’
Ten minutes later after they’d both enjoyed their first course a young girl appeared to clear their starter plates, followed by Sandrine, who placed their roast beef main courses in front of them.
Conversation between them ceased for several moments as they both tucked in to their meals. When they both muttered ‘Delicious’ at the same time, Belinda laughed before whispering, ‘Not the same without a Yorkshire pud though, is it? I bet you make wonderful Yorkshire puds.’
‘I do,’ Fern said. ‘I’m renowned for my Yorkshire puds.’
‘Did you ever go to the café on the campsite? I’m curious about what sort of food they offered there. Chips with everything or something more upmarket?’ Belinda asked.
‘I don’t think it even opened in the last two years,’ Fern answered. ‘Campers used Yann’s Bar and occasionally I got a few evening reservations for dinner. What sort of food are you planning?’ She sighed. ‘It’s the kind of place that years ago I would have loved to have taken on. So much potential there.’
‘I’d like to go more restaurant-type food rather than café. It’s such a wonderful setting for functions too. But the site will need a more basic café too.’ Belinda shrugged. ‘We’ll see. Whatever I suggest, Alain is sure to argue against.’
‘You two still not getting on?’
‘We’ve established a fragile truce. Not sure how long it will last, to be honest,’ Belinda said. ‘I’m beginning to feel there’s something under the surface ready to explode, but I have no idea what.’ One thing she did know though was that as an expert in keeping secrets, she could always second guess when someone else was hiding something.
12
The ginger cat was sitting on the top step by the door and mewed at her hopefully as Belinda unlocked the office door early Monday morning. She’d made her way to the campsite at the usual time, stopping i
n the village to pick up croissants and her lunchtime baguette on the way. If Alain didn’t turn up, she’d share the plain croissant with BB and the ducks down on the river.
‘Morning, Ging,’ Belinda said, bending down to give the cat a stroke. She really must ask Alain what the cat’s proper name was.
Ging followed her into the office, jumped onto the desk and curled up in his usual position out of BB’s way. The two of them had settled down well together, even played sometimes, but BB was liable to get overexcited and would receive a sharp tap on his nose when he upset Ging.
While the computer booted up, Belinda made herself a coffee and found herself thinking about the last couple of weeks. The days had gone so quickly, it was hard to believe that this would be her third week at Camping dans La Fôret. Another two and she would be heading home for the Easter holiday rush in the hotels and spending time with Chloe and the twins. She knew Alain was planning on having some of the caravan places and tent pitches open for the holidays as a trial run before the official opening on the first of June. Part of her was disappointed that she’d be missing the arrival of these first visitors, but Belinda was longing to see the family again, even if only for a week. Skype calls just weren’t the same.
Outside, she could hear voices and car doors slamming as the men working outside and the cleaners arrived. Today, the men were pressure-washing the area down by the café and the cleaners were going to start on the last of the cabins. She’d give both teams half an hour and then wander down and see how they were all doing, make sure they had all the tools they needed as Alain wasn’t here.
The morning passed quickly as Belinda did admin jobs on the computer, checked out a couple of suppliers and did some more work updating the website. She was about to start researching the location of the nearest makers and distributors of pods and tree houses when BB pricked his ears and she heard a car door slam. Alain was back.
But it was a stranger who opened the office door and gave her a cheerful ‘Bonjour’ as he walked in. He held out his hand for her to shake. ‘Hervé Bois.’
‘Belinda Marshall. Bonjour,’ Belinda answered, wondering if she was supposed to know who this smartly dressed and good-looking Frenchman was.
‘Alain out on the site?’ Hervé asked.
‘No. Was he expecting you?’
‘I said I’d pop in sometime to discuss something with him. Any idea when he’ll be here?’
Belinda shook her head. ‘Afraid not. Was it something to do with the campsite you wanted to discuss or something personal? If it’s about the site, maybe I can help.’
‘Has Alain employed you to help run the place?’ Hervé asked.
Belinda gave him a ‘we’re not amused by that remark’ look straight out of her French grandmother’s repertoire. ‘Alain and I are joint managers for the new owners. So, is it business or personal? If it’s personal, then I’m sorry I can’t help, so I’ll say goodbye.’ Her voice sounded sharper than she intended, but she needed to dispel the man’s notion that Alain was in charge here and that she was merely his employee.
‘Desolé. I didn’t realise,’ Hervé apologised. ‘It’s about the vide-grenier we’ve held here in the past in aid of a few of the local charities. Hoping that we can have one again this year now that Alain is back… now that the place is up and running again,’ he amended hastily.
Belinda, having been to many a vide-grenier in the past, knew that they were France’s equivalent of a car boot sale.
‘We?’ she queried.
‘Yann’s Gang. The bar in the village?’ Hervé added by way of explanation. ‘A few of us help him organise a couple of things throughout the year – a village run, lotto night, music evenings, the vide-grenier, that kind of thing, all in aid of charity.’
Belinda opened the computer diary. ‘I’m sure we can help, but I’m going to need more information. Presumably people pay you for a pitch? Do you pay us for the use of the site? Or is it regarded as a charitable contribution from us? How many stallholders usually? That sort of thing.’ She paused. ‘Do you have a date in mind?’
‘First Sunday in May. Ten o’clock until six.’
‘How many people usually come? And, this is a crucial question, how disruptive is it likely to be to holidaymakers staying on site? I’ll provisionally pencil the date in, but I need you to come back with answers to my questions – and anything else you think we need to be aware of – before we agree. It’s early in the season and I have to warn you that there may well be renovation work still going on around the place.’ Belinda glanced across at Hervé and was surprised to find him staring at her, a look of amazement on his face. ‘What? Why are you looking at me like that?’
‘Are you always like this? Efficiently bossy?’ The words were accompanied by a smile that somehow took any suggestion of criticism away. Despite herself, Belinda smiled back at him.
‘In a word, yes, I’m afraid I am. I try to anticipate problems and prevent them happening.’
‘Will you please come and work for me?’
Belinda laughed. ‘No. Once this place is up and running, I shall happily return to my normal job in the UK.’
Hervé looked disappointed for a second. ‘Mais, you are here for a few weeks yet? Peut-être you and I—’
Belinda held up her hand and cut him off in mid-sentence, anticipating what he was about to say. ‘I’ll certainly be here long enough for you to give me the answers to the questions I’ve asked you and a decision to be taken about the vide-grenier,’ she said, her voice cool and her face emotionless as she stared at him. As attractive as Hervé Bois might be, she had no intention of having anything but a business relationship with him. She could count on the fingers of one hand the number of men she’d dated since her divorce and she wasn’t about to add to them with Hervé. A relationship was the last thing she needed.
He returned her stare before giving a slight nod. ‘Okay. I’ll see you later in the week with the answers you need. Merci. Au revoir.’
‘If you let us know when you’re coming, I’ll make sure Alain is here too,’ Belinda said as he opened the door. ‘Au revoir,’ she added, but the door had already closed behind him.
Hearing voices and car doors slamming as the workers left for lunch, Belinda realised the time.
Alain still hadn’t shown up when Belinda locked up that evening and returned to the auberge. Fern made her a cup of tea and pushed a plate of shortbread biscuits towards her.
‘What’s up?’
‘Alain’s not returned and I don’t know what to do about it,’ Belinda said. ‘I can’t even phone him as he’s never given me his mobile number.’ She made a mental note to insist when he got back that he gave it to her. ‘I can’t phone Nigel to ask if he’s been in touch, as I suspect Nigel doesn’t know he’s taking time off for personal reasons.’
‘Maybe the weather has delayed the ferry? And don’t forget, there’s still the “gilets jaunes” blocking roads and holding things up without warning. I’m sure he’ll turn up for work tomorrow.’
‘Hope you’re right.’ Belinda swallowed a bite of her biscuit. ‘I met someone called Hervé Bois this morning. Wants to organise a vide-grenier on the campsite. Do you know him?’
‘He was a friend of Laurent’s.’ Fern looked at Belinda. ‘I’ve met him a few times. Divorced. Two grown-up daughters. Successful businessman. He’s good company.’
‘I’m sure he is,’ Belinda admitted.
‘He does have a bit of a reputation as a ladies’ man so not a long-term prospect but could be fun while you’re over here,’ Fern said thoughtfully.
Belinda shook her head. ‘Nope. Not interested even in a short-term relationship. I’m sure he was going to ask me out, but I managed to stop him before he could voice the words. I’m hoping he got the message.’ Talking to Hervé Bois about the vide-grenier was definitely something that she planned on leaving to Alain. Presuming he intended on returning.
13
Alain was already in the office w
hen Belinda arrived the next morning. BB greeted him enthusiastically, Belinda less so.
‘Twenty-four hours late, but you’re back,’ she said, stating the obvious. ‘Your weekend in the UK go okay?’ If she thought Alain was going to explain and apologise for his absence, she was wrong.
‘Yes thanks,’ Alain said and carried on reading his emails.
Belinda busied herself spooning coffee into the cafetière and making the coffee. Alain took the mug she handed him a minute or two later.
‘Thanks. No croissant?’
‘Didn’t bother to buy any. The ducks enjoyed yours yesterday,’ Belinda said, sipping her coffee. ‘Incidentally, we should exchange mobile numbers in case of emergency.’
‘No problems ’ere while I was away?’
‘None that didn’t exist before. The cleaning and clearing has virtually finished, you need to organise people to paint the shower block and the toilets. The cleaners are making a start on the cabins. Oh, and your friend Hervé called in to ask about holding a vide-grenier. He’s coming back with full details. Also, there’s a campsite between Brest and Roscoff that we need to visit together. Apparently they have a couple of pods. We can see how they fit in and ask their advice on which to go for before we order any for here.’
Alain pulled a face. ‘You know ’ow I feel about that. I don’t want to get involved with them. You go.’
Belinda looked at him exacerbated. ‘You have to be involved. You’re going to be the one managing them when the camp opens and I’m back in the UK.’
Alain shrugged. ‘I will worry about it when – if – we get any bookings for them.’
‘We’ll get bookings.’ Belinda stared at him and reached a decision. ‘Right. I’ll ask Nigel to book a night ferry, I’ll meet him at Roscoff, we’ll spend the day sorting Pods out and he can go back on the evening ferry.’
A French Affair Page 7
