by Klaire, Jody
“I know the purr,” I said, trying to focus on her. “She was flirting.”
Stephanie winked.
“Well,” Rebecca said, slamming her glass to the table. “As you are officially a woman for the evening, Dougie.” She put a cork in her hair like it was a bow. “We’re going to do what women do on these occasions.”
He grinned, looking every bit a schoolboy.
Stephanie snorted. “And what is it you think we do?”
His cheeks got rosier than they already were with the wine. He looked from me, to Rebecca to her and wheezed out a breath. “Nothing I can repeat.”
Stephanie blurted out her laugh and squeezed his knee. “Not this. You hide that you are much like Erique.”
Doug shook his head. “Oh no, I’d rather learn how to keep one woman, any woman, happy.” He leaned onto his fist, a glum downturn to his lips. “I couldn’t cope trying to woo a whole load of them.”
Rebecca raised her eyebrows. At least I think she did. I could only see my eyelashes and not much else.
“Wooing a load is easy,” Rebecca mumbled, squeezing his shoulder. “It’s a lot harder keeping up with one.”
“Especially French ones,” I managed to slur and lifted my glass to toast Stephanie. I missed and slopped a load on the table. “Oops.”
“Pepe, I think this is so with all women.” She giggled as she tried to clean up the mess, missing the wine with the cloth. “I would imagine men are much the same.”
Doug beamed. “I like that.” He sighed. “You need two hearts to be happy.”
We all watched Stephanie making more mess than cleaning up.
“What is Marie like?” I asked. I had been trying to picture her, to get a feel for her.
Doug cleared his throat. “You don’t want to hear it.”
We all nodded.
He sighed and straightened up. He tried adjusting his tie but he’d lost that hours ago. “She laughs a lot, she’s always smiling and cheerful. Everyone around her feels better.” He cleared his throat. “She works hard, and teaches me things... some things about myself I’d never realised.” He stared at his glass, smiling. “She’s interested in everything to do with Britain and she loves doing all the things I’d forgotten I missed so much.” He ran his thumb over the glass and shook his head. “I didn’t expect her to just walk up to me and fill everything with colour but she did. I can’t get her out of my head and I don’t really want to.” He smiled at me. “And...”
“And?” Stephanie whispered, her eyes misting.
“She’s gorgeous,” he blurted and sighed, trying to hold his head up with his hands. “And I’m drunk.”
“Does she love you as much?” I hoped she did. I could see the energy, the feeling pulse through his eyes. The kind of love I felt for Berne. The kind of love I’d hoped he’d find. “Does she?”
“Don’t know,” he said with a shrug. “I thought you loved me, I’m not an expert.”
I reached over—dipping my arm in the wine Stephanie had given up trying to mop— and squeezed his hand. “I did love you. I still love you. You’re a wonderful, wonderful man.”
He grinned a lopsided grin. “You do?”
“I love you too, Dougie.” Rebecca gave him a smacker on the cheek. “And you are a big woman, you know that?”
He smiled. “I take that as a compliment.”
“You should.” She kissed him on the cheek again and hugged him.
“What do you think, Stephanie. Do you love him too?” I hiccoughed in the middle of it so it was more, “do you hiccough him?” Ah well.
She beamed. Her eyes full of twinkle and affection. She stroked his cheek with her thumb and leaned in, kissing him on the cheek. “Bien sûr. This Marie is very blessed to have such love, oui?”
He blinked a few times at her and raised his glass. “This is the best stag do I’ve ever been on.”
Chapter 43
Berne took a breath and looked up as Emilie wandered down the road to her house. What was Emilie doing in Ajoux?
“If she tries to kiss you, I will happily discount any assault, oui?” Erique muttered and strode off around the back.
Berne straightened up, amazed how much better her back felt. She was still limping but it was less pronounced, her muscle felt like it was healing.
“I always wanted to see where you live,” Emilie said with a smug grin. “You look better in the city.”
Berne narrowed her eyes. “I have no patience for you. You hurt her, you hurt me.”
Emilie cocked her head. “Now what does she say I do?”
“Vandalise the house,” Berne snapped. “Take her business.”
Emilie laughed. It was a cruel laugh. “How could I not after she favours him?”
“You mean Erique?”
Emilie nodded. “Oui, she has always loved him. She pays no attention to me because she pines over him.”
Berne laughed. Of course, she would blame Erique. It was easier than seeing her part in things. “Erique is her friend. You have affairs, many affairs.”
Emilie shook her head.
Berne folded her arms. “This is not what Natalie says, especially when I tell her that she is not the only one fooled by you.”
“Pardon?” Emilie scowled.
“Oui, and do not think I have not noticed how Stephanie’s confidence is eroded by you.” Her voice raised with her temper. Did Emilie think her stupid? “How could you be so disloyal to her when she gave up her career for you?”
“I gave her something more useful.” Emilie leaned against the wall like she was sure she could sway Berne.
“Non, you give her nothing. Everything was for show. I believed you loved her, that you were good to her.” Berne threw her hands in the air. “I trusted you to care for her. You know what she means to me, to Erique.”
“And I mean nothing?” Emilie crossed her legs. “You do not care for me, for my feelings, that my heart aches for you.”
“Aches?” She would have to have a heart first.
“Oui, I have always loved you. I am with Stephanie to be closer to you.” Emilie’s eyes glinted. “Yet, you never look at me. I show you what I can give you, that you can be successful but you become that actress’s lover.”
“Her name is Vivienne.” Berne shook her head. “What you think is successful and what I think are so, do not agree.”
Emilie pushed off the wall. “And successful is spending your energy running around after a penniless Englishwoman who embarrasses you with her tastes?”
“Her tastes?” Berne could hear the calmness in her voice, too calm.
“Oui, you degrade yourself with a woman who anyone can please.” Emilie motioned to the house, disgust in her eyes.
Berne gripped her own arms not to move, not to react. “Degrade myself?”
Emilie waved it off. “Oh come on, you think any of us are fooled that she could please you?”
Her fingertips were white. “Please me?”
“She has no money.” Emilie searched her eyes, a flicker of uncertainty. “What does she have that is so wonderful?”
That was easy. “Class.”
“You think it was classy to leave you and return with a man?” Emilie shrugged. “A man she is in England with now.”
“She left me to protect me, she loved me enough to rip her own heart to shreds.” As she said the words, they finally made sense. She finally understood the weight of loss Pippa must have felt when she ran. She put her hands to her mouth with the pain of it. “And if you will fly planes, it is best to know the difference between England and Wales, non?”
Emilie sucked in her chin.
Berne rubbed over her chest, her thoughts still lingering on Pippa. “You sold the business to prove a point.”
Emilie grunted. “It was never hers.”
“You know it was!” Berne wagged her finger. “She earned that money.”
“She earned me it.” Emilie’s eyes glinted again. “She was foolish to think I would put up with her when s
he was no use to me.”
And there it was. Stephanie, Berne, any woman was there as property. A lover to make her look good.
“Then, you are no friend of mine.” Berne turned and walked inside.
“You come back here!” Emilie stomped after her. “I am not done with you.”
Berne kept walking. She would not answer to such childish demands.
“I love you. Do you not see this?” Emilie grabbed for her arm.
Berne winced with the twisting motion. “And I love Pepe.” She turned and met Emilie’s eyes making sure that she understood her words. “I love her, I have always loved her.”
“What can she give you?” Emilie shook her head. Irritation in her eyes.
“Love.” Berne let out a long sigh as Erique walked down the stairs to her side. “Something it seems you do not understand.”
“What will that get you?” Emilie balled her fists. Yes, she did not like being told no. “What does sentiment do when you have nothing?”
“Get me?” Berne narrowed her eyes then smiled to herself, feeling inspired. “To be blessed with love is feel safe to be who I am and then return it so she may be who she is meant to be. It buys me nothing, and I do not care if others dislike me for it. I feel love, I know love, it helps me to love others.” She held Emilie’s gaze. “And to love someone, to be loved, means I am richer than you will ever know.”
Emilie pulled a face, laughed and stormed out, slamming the door. She hoped that Emilie would understand that someday, that someone would reach her heart.
“That was very profound,” Erique whispered, his voice cracking.
Berne smiled at him. “Maman taught us this, non. We recite it every night.”
He chuckled. “St Francis?”
“Oui, mais I think a little St Ignatius snuck in.” Berne shrugged. “I must have paid some attention.”
“We are very lucky to have them watch over us.” He took her over the kitchen, then pulled her into a hug. “Do not tell anyone I have tears.”
She laughed. “This depends... I need you to find who buys Stephanie’s business.” She chewed on her lip. “We will need Babs to step in.”
He grinned. “Done.”
He dug out his phone and Berne looked back at the house. She tried to be angry with Emilie but couldn’t be. She just felt sad. It was hard to lose a friend she had known for so long but then was she truly ever so?
Chapter 44
Rebecca dragged herself from the shower room and I chuckled as I munched on my breakfast. Fabrice had made it as he was the only one clattering around with a grin on his face. Unlike Doug, Rebecca and Stephanie, I had gone to bed drunk but not hammered so I should have had less of a hangover—Should have had.
“French toast?” Rebecca asked, wandering to the coffee pot.
I didn’t really know why it was called French toast. It was just egg and bread. How as that more French than normal toast?
“How’s the head?” I asked. I’d dosed myself up. It was starting to kick in somewhere beyond the pain.
“Yeah, great.” She only ever had hangovers that lingered until she ate. Then, she’d be fine. Scum, that’s what she was, scum.
“Great enough to win the battle?” I asked between mouthfuls. Fabrice could only make one thing but he was on my chefs list.
Rebecca frowned at me. She had her cup in one hand but poured the coffee over the worktop instead. “I’d forgotten.”
“Doubt that.” I nodded to her mug. “Helps if you fill it.”
She looked down and sighed. “I don’t know if I can.”
“It’s easy, you just place it over the cup not the counter.” I said between chomps. Yummy eggy goodness.
“Funny.” She mopped up the coffee.
“Do you love her?” I asked with my best coach’s voice.
“Yes.” She moved the mug over and poured her coffee, her hand wobbling enough to play a tune with the china.
“Do you love her enough to marry her?” I finished my toast and went to the microwave, pulling out Rebecca’s plate and narrowing my eyes at her. “Do you?”
“Yes.” She frowned, giving me a half-game face, half “give me the food” glare.
“Good.” I shoved it at her. “Go beat your idiot of a dad and get his blessing, then go marry our dynamo.” I grinned at her. “Then... ask for a chocolate wedding cake, please.”
She smiled. “You focused too much on the chocolate but it’s good to know you believe in me.”
I nodded. “Tee-off is in twenty minutes. Move.” Look at me with all the golfing lingo. Go, Saunders.
She raised her eyebrows, slammed back her coffee, shoved her toast in her mouth and scurried off.
I grinned. It wasn’t for another hour really but I thought the shot of adrenaline would help.
She ripped open the door, a scowl on her face. “Pip?”
“Yes?”
She yanked out the dodgy checked trousers. “How do I explain to my dad why I’m wearing trousers with a motif of a French cockerel and English rose?”
“Tell him England and France both want you to kick his derriere.” I wandered to my room. She had me as a caddy. Good thing Doug, if sober enough, was her dad’s.
I didn’t know where Doug slept but I hadn’t heard his snores so it wasn’t within miles.
“I love you, Pip,” she mumbled, her voice wobbling.
I stopped in the doorway and smiled. “I know.”
Chapter 45
Ifollowed Rebecca into the clubhouse at lunchtime. Doug was there, clean shaven and presentable but his eyes were still glossy.
“Glad I’m not the only one feeling rough,” I mumbled as Rebecca strode around, wearing out the rug thing in the foyer.
“Stephanie’s a lot worse. Had to carry her to her room.” He chuckled, eyes twinkling.
Mr “happy” Monmouth-Whitely, Rebecca’s dad, strode out of the restrooms as sour faced as always. He was bald now, not ginger, and his eyebrows had gone an odd colour which was neither white nor grey. They resembled speckled feathers more than eyebrows—went with the downturned mouth and the glare.
“You ready, Mr Monmouth-Whitely,” Doug asked, his voice letting through enough hoarseness that I smiled.
Hah, not only had he been drunk enough to be glassy eyed but he’d resorted to singing too.
Mr Monmouth-Whitely turned to Doug and looked him up and down. Then he turned to Rebecca and wrinkled up his freckled nose at her tattoos. “What are they doing here?”
Doug raised his eyebrows. He loved manners as much as me. I could hear him saying “A gentleman talking to ladies in such a tone was not good form, nope, old bean.” Okay, maybe he’d merged a bit with Charles “old boy” but I knew I was close.
“These ladies are your opponents, Mr Monmouth-Whitely.” His tone confirmed my thought. His glare added, “mind your manners or I’ll bop you on the nose.”
Mr Monmouth-Whitely dipped his brow further. “They want me to beat my daughter?”
Doug met my eyes, a flash of irritation showing. “I’m sure Miss Whitely will be more than suitable opposition.” He had his fake smile on. “Like father like daughter, yes?”
“She is nothing like me.” He sucked in his chin. He was right, Rebecca had far more of her mother’s genes. She was attractive for a start.
Doug glanced away, pursing his lips; Rebecca seemed frozen beside me, tension pulsing from her; I tried not to stomp over and smack Mr Monmouth-Whitely across the chops.
“She needed a woman’s touch,” Mr Monmouth-Whitely muttered at Doug as if that made it alright he was being an idiot.
“You can do this, I’m right behind you,” I whispered to Rebecca. I was too, and a little to the left. “Doug is right beside you.” And he was. I was on a roll.
“You won’t leave me, will you?” She whispered back, her face ashen. She sounded like the terrified teenager I’d found on the swings, belongings at her feet after he’d kicked her out. If I could have got away with sma
cking him across the head with a golf club, I would have. However, it wasn’t polite and I’d been brought up to be polite.
“Never,” I whispered back. “Besides, I have a shovel in here somewhere if it gets ugly.”
Her shoulders shook with her snigger and she took a long breath. Doug and I seemed to take it with her. We were getting her through this and in a way that left no doubt about how incredible she was.
Mr Monmouth-Whitely held out his hand. “Rebecca,” he said as though meeting a foe on the battlefield.
“Dad,” she echoed in the same tone, giving his hand a sharp shake.
I stifled my laugh. Doug’s mouth twitched like he was doing the same.
“Miss Saunders,” Mr Monmouth-Whitely said, turning to run his gaze up and down me, pulling his mouth to the side with disapproval. “I wasn’t aware that you had experience.”
Experience? Of what? Did he mean with Doug and Berne or was he talking about wood? I glared back hoping he’d not need an answer.
“One of the best,” Doug chimed. “Lucky to have her caddying.” He raised his eyebrows at me on “caddying.”
They were? I nodded as if Doug wasn’t lying through his teeth. Rebecca tried to force the shock on her face into a look of interest, I assumed, but only managed to appear as if she had toothache, and maybe wind.
“Dad is to blame,” I said in my best arrogant tone. A jolly smile for show. “Golf is in the blood.”
“Old bean,” Doug whispered.
Rebecca clamped her mouth shut until her lips lost their colour. Her eyes glimmered with laughter. Mr Monmouth-Whitely didn’t notice. He nodded to me as if I’d spoken perfect sense. That was a new one.
“Name your prize,” Doug said, his chuckle making his tone wobble about.
A few members from the club gathered around to watch. A couple of older ladies gave us a thumbs up. My dad had explained that “the battle” was some tradition started when someone’s grandmother played their grandfather because she burned the roast... or toast? Wait had she burned it? Maybe it was just overdone? Anyway, I’d drifted off. To me, it was following a dimpled ball on a really long walk—why the intensity?
