She leant against him and they sat in silence for a while, each drawing comfort in the other.
‘We’ll go tomorrow to get a new Ginger,’ Henri finally said, turning to kiss his wife. ‘We’ll take Emmie and Elf and go and fetch our new charm.’ He gazed into her dark eyes so full of love and compassion. ‘Do you know how much I love you, my gypsy princess?’
‘I never tire of hearing it.’
‘Why the hell haven’t you answered my calls?’ Celine hissed into her mobile.
‘I have been busy, Celine,’ Arnaud replied, annoyed at her tone. ‘I have been entertaining a hotelier and a top chef from Paris and I think…’
‘I can’t make this afternoon,’ Celine interrupted him.
‘Ah, well, er, not to worry, maybe tomorrow?’ Arnaud was caught out. He had completely forgotten their rendezvous for this afternoon. He had been daydreaming about expanding his empire, about trips to Paris, a sister hotel and a rather gorgeous proprietor. His meeting with Celine had completely slipped his mind and if he was honest he was more than a little relieved that she couldn’t come.
‘Don’t you want to know why?’ Celine was not impressed with his casual acceptance.
‘I assume there must be a good reason,’ Arnaud replied coolly. Did the woman think he had nothing else on his mind?
‘Papa is ill,’ she snapped. ‘I’m at my parents’ house.’
‘I’m so sorry, Celine, is it bad?’
‘He’ll be out of hospital tomorrow or the day after, I’ll come home then.’
‘I’m pleased to hear that,’ Arnaud lied. ‘Phone me when you get home. I’ve got to go now, cheri, someone is calling me.’ He hung up quickly, aware that she would not be happy.
She was becoming a bit intense. Maybe it was time to ease off. Celine was very beautiful and without doubt she had been very useful. He enjoyed his time with her, she was very intelligent and she was an absolute tiger in bed, his loins tightened at the thought. But there were other beautiful women and into his mind floated an image of Beatrice. If all went according to his dreams he would be very busy in the forthcoming months.
Celine was not best pleased. Without knowing why she felt that she no longer had the upper hand in the relationship with Arnaud and that annoyed her very much. She liked to be the one calling the shots. He had seemed keen enough the other day, what had suddenly changed? What was all this about a hotelier from Paris? She didn’t understand why but vague alarm bells began to ring.
She rubbed her eyes, she was tired that was all. She’d ring him again later and suggest the plan that she’d thought of. Her idea was for him to come and pick her up, she knew of a cosy auberge on the way back. They could stop there for the afternoon, maybe they could stop there for the night, and she shivered in anticipation. She’d been delighted when Claude had suggested driving her, it had seemed that fate was playing into her hands. She hadn’t quite worked out her excuse for him not picking her up but she’d come up with something.
Claude was enjoying the drive back home. It was a beautiful day and as always he was relieved to escape his in-laws’ house. It was like leaving a prison.
Celine’s mother disliked him intensely and made no attempt to disguise the fact. He knew that she thought Celine had married beneath her. She put him down at every opportunity and not once had Celine stood up for him. She merely laughed when he tried to talk to her, telling him he was making a mountain out of a molehill and to be more thick-skinned.
Conversations with his father-in-law were equally stilted. They usually ran out of things to say after a few minutes. Claude hated their snobbery, hated the formal house stuffed with precious antiques and expensive paintings. It was all show, a public parade of their wealth. They didn’t particularly enjoy them or indeed know the origin or background of half the objects. They only knew what they had cost, which was usually a considerable sum.
Emmie hated the house just as much as Claude. As with Claude, her grandparents made no effort to disguise their dislike of her. Her stutter and stammer always became more pronounced when she was with them and they made absolutely no effort with her. She became withdrawn and silent.
Claude and Emmie usually showed their faces once a year and to be honest he never really knew why they even did that. He had driven Celine this morning out of a sense of duty, not because he was concerned about her father. She had barely slept all night and she had actually seemed grateful when he suggested driving her. It had pleased Claude to be needed. It happened so rarely. He had even wondered if they might stop for a nice coffee en route, have a chat about things. But once in the car Celine had put the car seat back and slept for the whole two-hour journey. He didn’t think she would have appreciated being woken up.
He rang Philippe.
‘Ah, Claude how is he?’
‘They are keeping him in for observation but he’ll be out tomorrow. Bit of a false alarm, he was certainly not at death’s door. I think Nadine panicked. Celine is staying the night.’
‘Come over for supper when you get back,’ Philippe said, feeling slightly queasy. He was aware that with Celine away now was the perfect time to ask Claude some probing questions but it was not something he was looking forward to.
‘Is Emmie OK?’ Claude asked.
‘Yes, she’s designing wine labels with Sky. But Claude, that reminds me, she needs some form for a school trip. She says she gave it to Celine, she’s worrying about it, she needs it by tomorrow. Can you try and find it?’
‘Of course.’
Philippe sounded rather strained, Claude thought. Maybe his knee was bothering him. He rarely complained about it but they all knew it gave him considerable pain.
‘It all looks very industrious here,’ Philippe said, walking into the salon where Emmie and I were painting. ‘Can I take a look?’
‘No you can’t.’ I covered my drawings with my hands rather like a schoolgirl and Emmie copied me. ‘They’re not quite ready yet.’ I smiled at Emmie. ‘You can’t rush genius, can you, sweetheart?’
Emmie’s little face lit up and her eyes shone behind her glasses. ‘Sky done lots, Uncle Philly, I just done one.’
‘It’s quality not quantity that counts, ma poulette,’ Philippe replied.
‘That’s put me in my place.’ I smiled.
‘Rosa wants to know if you will help her collect the eggs.’
Emmie slid from her chair immediately.
‘Not so fast, cheri. Don’t you need to help Sky clear things up?’
‘No, don’t worry,’ I reassured her. ‘I’ll put everything into my big folder and we can finish them tomorrow.’
‘Thank you for letting her help,’ Philippe said after she had scampered out of the room.
‘She was the one helping me.’ I grinned. ‘She knows a lot about wine.’
‘She’s been in the vineyards with me since she could toddle,’ Philippe said. ‘She used to ride on Belle’s back until she got too heavy. She has a good nose and an excellent sense of smell.’ He chuckled. ‘You should see her tasting the wine, she takes it very seriously, screws her face up, closes her eyes and rolls it around her mouth before spitting it out and giving her judgement, which more often than not is very accurate.’
‘She’s obviously had a good teacher.’ I smiled. He didn’t reply and there was a slightly awkward pause.
‘I hope these are the sort of thing you’re looking for,’ I said finally, glancing at my sketches. ‘I’ve tried to remember everything you told me.’
I had spent a fascinating couple of hours with Philippe, listening as he explained the different wines of Chateau Fontaine to me. There was a smooth, easy drinking rosé, a superior oak-aged Bordeaux, the very one which the Hotel de Paris was serving, another red made from his oldest vines and a delicious sweet white wine.
I had sniffed, swirled and sampled the different grape varieties. He had explained everything in great detail, from picking the fruit to the final blending. I learnt about the terroir, what the ideal w
eather was, what conditions made a good year. I heard how they used natural methods to keep the vines healthy. They didn’t believe in spraying them with pesticides.
It was a complete revelation to me, I’d no idea how complex the whole process was and I was absolutely hooked. I’d vowed that never again would I simply neck wine without giving it a second thought. Philippe had laughed but I could tell he was pleased with my enthusiasm.
I was desperate to create labels that would showcase his wine. They were beautiful wines and deserved something rather special. I was also intending to speak to Henri, Luc and Stephanie and hear their views on what they wanted. They were a team and I wanted everyone to be happy.
As I had told Philippe, Emmie had actually been really helpful too. Her knowledge of wine was impressive and her explanations of each were straightforward. She didn’t waste time with flowery language but described them in simple and direct terms which I found easy to understand.
I began to gather the things up and Philippe sat down with a heavy sigh. I looked over at him. He was frowning. ‘Are you in pain, Philippe?’
‘I am in pain, yes, but it is mental anguish rather than physical.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ I meant it. He worked so hard and he was so passionate about his wine. I hated to think of someone abusing his trust. Especially since that someone was supposed to be family. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know, really, try and establish the facts, I suppose. I mean… it may not be Celine.’
‘It is unlikely to be anyone else,’ Beatrice said, marching into the room and catching the last remark. ‘It’s not Henri or Luc, is it?’ She turned to me. ‘Cheri, Stephanie and I are going into town, do you want to come along? You could have a look at the Maison de Vin, cast your eye over the wine labels?’
‘Yes, I’d love to.’ It would be a good idea to have a look at the competition, see if my labels were up to their standard. It was beyond my usual remit so I was feeling a little anxious.
‘Philippe?’ Beatrice turned to him.
‘No, cheri, I will stay here.’ He frowned. ‘I need to think things through. I have to talk to Claude tonight.’ He pushed his hair back off his forehead. ‘How the hell do you tell your cousin that you suspect his wife of theft?’
‘You do it very gently,’ Beatrice answered ‘You don’t make waves, it’s like tickling a trout.’
Philippe looked at her in exasperation. ‘Like tickling a trout? How the hell is that supposed to help me?’
‘You feel your way, you tickle the underbelly softly.’
‘In Scotland we call it guddling,’ I added rather unhelpfully.
Philippe stared at us in disbelief and I giggled.
‘It is good advice but you don’t have to take it.’ Beatrice was unperturbed.
‘If I understood it, Bea, then I would take it.’
‘I’ve spoken to Tariq,’ Beatrice said, changing the subject completely. ‘He would love to come but he wants to surprise Gail so don’t say anything.’
‘That’s wonderful.’ I hesitated. ‘I feel a bit guilty, though, it was my idea and now you have three extra guests at a time when you may not really want to.’
‘I’m very much looking forward to seeing them.’ Philippe smiled. ‘They may be the distraction we need right now.’
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Claude searched in the kitchen for Emmie’s form but couldn’t find it pinned to the notice board where her school stuff would normally be. He tried ringing Celine but only got her voicemail.
It must be in her office. He rarely went in there, it was her inner sanctum and she didn’t welcome visitors, but Emmie needed the form for tomorrow so he had no choice.
It was pristine and ordered, very different from his own chaotic study. He smiled when he saw the pile of papers secured by the marble paperweight he’d bought her in Italy. She had spotted it in an exclusive and hugely expensive antique shop down a tiny side street. It weighed a ton and it had cost a fortune but he was ridiculously pleased to see it still used.
The form was on the top and with relief he grabbed it, glancing casually at the bank statement beneath. He was halfway down the corridor when he stopped abruptly. He turned around and returned to her office. Picking up the marble weight he studied the bank statement. It was in her maiden name and there was a very healthy balance.
He’d had no idea that she even had a separate account, let alone one with this sum of money. Feeling slightly sick he picked it up. His hands were shaking. He didn’t know what to make of it. Should he confront her or pretend that he hadn’t seen it? No, he couldn’t do that, he had seen it and he needed to know what it was all about.
Maybe her father had given her the money? Claude knew that he handed out substantial cheques from time to time, it annoyed him and it hurt his pride but Celine merely laughed and told him not to be so ungrateful. But if it was money from her father then why would she keep it secret? Why put it in an account under her maiden name? It didn’t make any sense.
Making up his mind he swiftly folded the statement and putting it in his pocket reached over for a pen to sign Emmie’s form. He grabbed the first one that came to hand. Celine adored pens, expensive pens, and Claude was surprised to find a cheap biro on her desk. Turning it around he saw that it had a logo on it and his heart beat a little faster when he read Hotel de Paris.
Emmie greeted him when he arrived at the chateau.
‘Did you got the form, Papa?’ Her eyes were creased in anxiety. Her teacher had been most insistent that she bring it or she would not be allowed on the trip to see the nearby prehistoric cave drawings. She had loved the lesson from her beloved Madame Martinezand was desperate to see the paintings.
‘Yes, Emmie.’ Claude handed it to her. ‘Go and put it in your school bag now, cheri.’
She treated him to a huge, heartfelt smile and then, clutching the paper, raced back into the chateau. Claude smiled, he didn’t see that smile on his little girl’s face very often. At home she seemed to be always tense and anxious. Her big eyes behind the thick glasses permanently round with worry.
He felt as if a huge weight had settled on his chest. He had failed her and he had clearly failed Celine.
Philippe was uneasy throughout dinner. He was dreading the conversation with Claude and the fact that Claude looked as if he had the weight of the world upon his shoulders already didn’t help. How the hell was he going to broach the subject? He could have done with some advice other than tickling the underbelly of a bloody trout.
As if reading his mind Beatrice turned and winked at him. She raised her glass in a silent gesture of solidarity and despite himself he instantly felt better. There must be some mistake, surely Celine would never deceive them. There must be some explanation.
At the end of the meal, just as Philippe was about to ask Claude to come into his study, Henri stood up to announce that the new ginger kitten would be arriving tomorrow.
There was excitement, but there was sorrow as they all realised the implications. Emmie’s eyes immediately filled with tears.
‘No crying, Emmie,’ Henri commanded, conveniently forgetting his earlier tears. ‘Old Ginger is ready to go, he’s tired, you know that.’ She nodded but her lip still trembled. ‘I thought you and Elf might like to come with me to collect him.’
Emmie was delighted and Elf looked stunned. ‘Why me?’ He asked.
‘Why not you?’ Henri smiled gently.
‘Well, I don’t know really.’ Elf looked around the table as if expecting someone to tell him why not, but all he saw were smiles of encouragement. He suddenly felt embarrassingly close to tears. At best he was used to being ignored and at worst taunted or bullied. He had developed a thick hide although the odd sharp missile sometimes pierced his skin – or, as in this case, a kind word.
Not trusting himself to speak he merely nodded. Emmie grinned across the table at him.
Nick turned to Philippe and whispered, ‘So the story really is true?’
Philippe nodded. ‘Didn’t you believe me?’
‘I thought there may be a grain of truth in it but imagined you had embellished it for us all.’
‘A few embellishments, but the facts remain the same.’ He drained his glass. ‘Henri and Rosa take the curse very seriously and therefore so do we.’
‘Wouldn’t do to meddle with gypsy magic.’
‘Wouldn’t do at all,’ Philippe agreed and then in a quiet aside said, ‘I could do with some gypsy magic for my conversation with Claude.’
‘I wish I could wave a wand,’ Nick sympathised, then quickly added, ‘No fairy jokes please.’
Philippe laughed. ‘Nick, you may be gay, but anyone who looks less like a fairy would be hard to find.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it.’ He grinned. ‘In the absence of a wand, would more wine be appreciated?’
Philippe pushed his glass towards his guest.
Handing Claude a large armagnac, Philippe leant against his desk. Ignoring the gentle underbelly approach he plunged straight in.
‘Claude, what do you know of the Hotel de Paris?’
‘Only that its damned name keeps cropping up everywhere.’ Claude felt suddenly very apprehensive. ‘Why?’ he demanded. ‘What’s going on?’
‘I’m not sure exactly, it’s rather delicate.’ He paused. ‘Luc was talking to Michel the other day…’
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