I wish. Why hasn’t he rung?
Last bit of news – Emily is going out to France!! Apparently, Drew’s got her a job at the hotel – only waitressing, I think, but since she fluffed her A-levels and doesn’t have a clue what to do, she’s taking it. She’s over the moon about being near you; says she has loads to tell you. And she really seems keen to be with Drew – no accounting for taste! But then again, not being with someone you care about is pretty grim.
Lizzie, I miss Charlie so much. I keep being tempted to text him or send an email, but I mustn’t. I’m not going to let this hijack my life. From now on Charlie Bingley is history. I won’t mention him again.
And you mustn’t either. It’s over.
Lol, Jane
Lizzie switched the laptop off and snapped it shut. Grabbing her French horn and a pile of sheet music, she headed down the twisting staircase and across the courtyard to the main building. She wanted to wring Charlie Bingley’s neck. How could he dump Jane like that? And for some twit of a kid who dabbled in drugs and probably was simply out for all she could get.
She stopped dead in her tracks. James. This would be his doing. James wanted Charlie to get it together with Jenna, so that he’d forget Jane. It was all becoming crystal clear – James knew that Lizzie had heard all the facts, the whole truth about his foul behaviour, from George. Knew that he’d done the dirty on a supposed friend, someone who had been doing all he could to stop this Jenna from making a total mess of her life. And he probably had the sense to know that Lizzie would have discussed it all with Jane. And if Jane got the chance to tell Charlie about it . . .
James didn’t want Jane and Charlie together because he wanted Charlie to fall for Jenna and by falling for Jenna, keep the whole dirty secret quiet. Put his own spin on it, cover up what he’d done.
Because of James Darcy’s arrogance and deceitfulness, her sister was going to hell and back.
She couldn’t prove it, of course. Which meant that there was absolutely nothing she could do about it.
The next week was so busy that Lizzie had little time to think of anything that might be going on at home. She observed classes, took notes, played the guitar and sang at all the Rhythm and Bounce sessions; she read loads of books on music therapy from the library in the Centre, and joined Chansons Célèbre, the local folk group. Luckily, because kids came from all over the world, English was the main language, but Madame LeFevre was thrilled with her fluency in French and often got her to translate local folk songs into English. In her free time, Claudine Picout, one of the younger permanent staff members, took her canoeing on the Célé river and introduced her to truffles and saffron in a bistro in Marcilhac. By the following Sunday, Lizzie had fallen in love with Figeac-Cajarc and decided that only one thing would make it totally perfect. George.
One evening, she received a lengthy email from Drew, informing her that not only was Katrina De Burgh at the hotel for the next couple of weeks to oversee the first influx of guests, but that she was singing his praises to anyone who would listen, and that because of his influence, Emily (actually he referred to her as ‘the gorgeous Emily’, which Lizzie felt was poetic licence taken a step too far) had been given a job as a waitress.
A day after this email, as she was struggling to transpose a French folk song into a key that would be suitable for her voice, her mobile rang.
George! she thought instinctively. But it wasn’t George, it was Emily.
‘I’m here and it’s great,’ she babbled. ‘And I so want us to meet up – I’ve heaps to tell you. How do I get to you? Or can you come here?’
‘I don’t know,’ Lizzie said. ‘I have Tuesdays off, but I haven’t a clue about buses or anything and it’s too far to cycle. I’ll sort something and ring you back.’
As it happened, it was all sorted for her. Madeleine LeFevre, the director, called Lizzie into her office the following morning, told her how pleased she was with her progress and assured her that she would write a glowing reference to go with Lizzie’s application to the Guildhall School of Music.
And then she mentioned the dinner.
‘It is to raise funds for the Centre,’ she informed Lizzie in her impeccable English. ‘It will be held at the Château de la Belle Rose, a new hotel – once the home of a very dear friend of mine.’
‘The Château de la Belle Rose?’ Lizzie repeated. ‘The one at Balaguier?’
‘You know it?’
‘I have friends who are working there,’ she replied. ‘In fact, I wanted to go and see them, but I haven’t a clue how to get there.’
‘Merveilleux!’ Madeleine cried (she always reverted to French when excited). ‘Alors, cet après-midi nous irons . . . This afternoon we will go together. I have arrangements to make and you can visit with your friends.’ She beamed at Lizzie. ‘And you will then prepare the entertainment for the soirée,’ she declared. ‘It will be for you the good experience, no?’
‘The children will be allowed to play music?’ Lizzie gasped, thinking what an amazing step forward that would be. ‘Lucien could show off on the drums – he’d love that, and maybe Jules . . .’
‘Not les enfants, ma petite– I’m afraid the guests would not be up for that. No – you!’ Madeline laughed. ‘You will sing to the guests. You will be the cabaret.’
‘I can’t do that,’ Lizzie gasped.
‘You can, ma chère, and you will. Your voice is beautiful.’
‘But . . .’
‘But nothing,’ she replied. ‘I have decided.’
‘Oh, wow!’
Lizzie stared out of the window in amazement as Madame LeFevre drove slowly up the driveway towards the hotel. The building stood on a hill overlooking manicured gardens and a large shimmering lake. In the late afternoon sun, the stone walls glowed like toasted caramel, and the slate tiles on the turrets glistened from the recent shower of rain. To one side of the driveway, workmen were putting the finishing touches on the new nine-hole golf course and, beyond a fringe of walnut trees, Lizzie could see two tennis courts and the half-finished roof of a large gazebo.
‘I remember when this was a family home,’ Madeleine sighed, spinning the wheel and bringing the car to a halt outside the front entrance. ‘Jamie and Johnnie used to jump out of the trees and frighten the visitors – sacré bleu! The times they have almost given me the heart attack!’
She switched off the ignition, opened the door and beckoned to Lizzie to follow her.
‘I will be tied up for a couple of hours, so find your friends and – ah! The dear boys. They are here!’
She ran up the steps, arms opened wide to embrace the two guys standing at the open doorway.
Lizzie froze on the spot. Beaming with delight at Madeleine was a tall ginger-haired guy she didn’t recognise. And a dark-haired one she knew only too well.
James Darcy.
Like a film going backwards at fast speed in her head, it all clicked into place.
Auntie Kay’s in France . . .
James is in a sulk – he should be in France at the family chateau . . .
At that moment, James looked up and caught her eye. It gave Lizzie a certain frisson of pleasure to see just how wrong-footed he was by what was clearly her totally unexpected appearance.
The ginger-haired guy introduced himself as Johnnie Fitzwilliam, a cousin of James who, as a junior partner in a firm of architects, was involved in the renovation of the chateau. ‘I’ve heard heaps about you.’
‘Really?’ Lizzie frowned, following them into the hotel foyer.
‘Oh yes, James was talking about you only yesterday.’
‘In which case you’ll probably have heard all of my faults and shortcomings – James doesn’t like me.’ Lizzie laughed, noting with amusement that James had stopped dead in his tracks and was eyeing Johnnie with obvious irritation.
Johnnie grinned. ‘Right now, I don’t reckon he likes anyone very much,’ he replied, dropping his voice as James turned to speak to Madeleine. ‘He hates the c
hateau being turned into a hotel – which I guess is understandable. It’s kind of the last link with his mother – it was her parents’ home, originally, you know.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ Lizzie murmured.
‘And Auntie Kay made sure it was bequeathed to her – horrid arguments after her death about that. Still, all water under the bridge now.’
He sighed. ‘James loathes change of any sort, you know – hates the new golf course, thinks Auntie Kay is out for money, money and more money . . .’
Before he could say any more, a side door opened and a tall, elegantly dressed woman in a gold and brown silk kaftan and matching turban crossed the hallway and kissed Madeleine on both cheeks.
‘Madeleine, so good to see you again!
‘And you, Katrina – looking as always wonderful!’
So this was the famous Katrina De Burgh, James’s aunt. And Drew’s boss.
As if summoned up by the very thought of him, Drew appeared from the same doorway.
‘Drew, good to see you,’ Lizzie lied. ‘Is Emily —’
‘Not now, Lizzie,’ he hissed. ‘I’m working.’
He sidled up to Katrina.
‘Mrs De Burgh – the briefing for the new waiting staff . . .’
‘Yes, yes, Andrew, what about it?’
‘Well, it’s five o’clock and I assumed you’d want to be there and —’
‘Andrew, if you are not capable of briefing a handful of staff on how to wait at table, then I’m disappointed in you. You’re not here for the good of your health – now get along and deal with them.’
‘Of course, Mrs De Burgh, absolutely, Mrs De Burgh . . .’
Avoiding Lizzie’s amused but sympathetic glance, he hurried back the way he came.
‘That guy is seriously stupid,’ James commented. ‘Why on earth is he here, Auntie?’
‘I owe his stepfather a favour,’ Katrina replied. ‘And the biggest one I could think of was to remove the boy for a few months. Now, Madeleine, do come along and have an aperitif and we’ll discuss this concert.’
‘Before we start,’ Madeleine said, ‘meet my cabaret! Lizzie sings like an angel and she’s going to – oh dear, what is the English word? – she will bring the room down?’
‘Bring the house down,’ laughed Katrina, shaking Lizzie’s hand. ‘I look forward to it.’
‘You should,’ James cut in solemnly. ‘She does have a beautiful voice. I heard her sing at a church choir festival last month.’
‘You were there?’ Lizzie gasped.
James smiled. ‘I was. You were the only thing that made it worth missing cricket for.’
Before Lizzie could say another word, Katrina butted in. ‘Oh, and Johnnie dear, will you just come through and sort out that wretched computer programme for me – I need to show Madeleine the layout for the evening.’
Johnnie grinned. ‘It’s so easy a five-year-old could do it,’ he teased, turning to Lizzie. ‘I’ll be back in a moment. Don’t disappear.’
James turned to Lizzie as Johnnie left. ‘It’s good to see you, if something of a surprise,’ he said. ‘I heard you were in France, but I didn’t realise you were nearby. Er – um – are your family well?’
‘Fine, thanks – who told you I was in France?’
‘Er . . .’
‘Caroline, I guess,’ Lizzie said. ‘Jane saw her in London the other day. She told you that, I’m sure.’
‘No, why should she?’ James replied curtly, turning with visible relief as Johnnie reappeared. ‘Johnnie, I’m going to have a swim – are you coming?’
Johnnie shook his head. ‘No, I’ve got to go over to the stable block and check on some work being done there,’ he said.
‘Ruining another bit of the property, are they?’ James sighed. ‘Well, I’m going anyway.’
He glanced at Lizzie, took a step towards her and then paused. ‘Er – I hope to see you later? At Madeleine’s fundraising do, at least?’
‘Yeah, right.’ Lizzie’s mind was racing and she jumped as Johnnie touched her arm.
‘Would you like me to show you round a bit on my way to the stables? Pass the time till Andrew and your friend are finished with their briefing?’
‘Great,’ she said, aware that James was still staring at her and looking far from comfortable. ‘Lead on!’
‘This must have been an amazing place to grow up,’ Lizzie said, gazing round her at the woods beyond.
‘It was,’ Johnnie agreed. ‘Not that James and I were here all the time, of course. Just in the holidays. He was at school, first in Scotland and then at Heddingfield.’
‘Were you there too?’
‘Me? Sadly, no – my father didn’t approve of co-ed schools – thought I’d be distracted by all those pubescent girls! Of course, it made things worse; I spent all my free time ogling every girl I saw and making disastrous liaisons in the holidays with totally unsuitable types!’
‘You sound just like James,’ Lizzie said.
‘He’s not as gullible as me.’ Johnnie laughed. ‘Not one to hurl himself headlong into a relationship – in fact, the opposite. Very cautious is our James, takes an age to trust anyone. And from what he was telling me on the way back from the airport yesterday, he’s just saved his best friend from making a total fool of himself with some girl he hardly knows.’
Lizzie’s stomach lurched. This was her chance to uncover the truth. Not that it was rocket science; Jane had said James had seen her, and James had said he hadn’t. And she knew who she trusted.
‘His best friend?’ she asked as casually as she could.
‘Mm – Charlie Bingley,’ Johnnie said. ‘They met at uni – same college.’
‘Do you know this Charlie?’
‘I’ve only met him once – seemed a nice guy, actually – and certainly James and he are like this.’ He held up two crossed fingers. ‘Anyway, this Charlie took up with some girl – really pretty and quite bright, James said, but she was the type who just couldn’t be trusted – we’ve all met them, haven’t we? – and the family! You should have heard him mimicking them – raucous sister, you know, a real chav! And the mother – it was a scream.’
‘Was it?’ Suddenly the sun seemed too bright and the sparkles from the lake felt like needles piercing her eyes and making them water.
‘You know what James said? He reckoned they’d won the Lottery —’
‘Gosh, is that the time?’ Lizzie burst out, determined not to cry in front of him. ‘I ought to go and find Emily – I’m sure she must be out of her meeting by now.’
‘Probably – look it’s been jolly nice meeting you and —’
‘Yes, great. Thanks!’ Lizzie broke into a run, her heart pounding. How dare he! How dare James say that Jane couldn’t be trusted – she was the most trustworthy, caring person in the world. His criticisms of her family were bad enough but at least she could see where a snob like him was coming from – but to slag Jane off! He was without doubt the most vile, hateful, despicable rat she’d ever met.
That settled it, she thought. I am never, ever going to speak to him again. Never, that is, after I’ve told him precisely what I think of him.
And the sooner the better.
Lizzie didn’t see any more of James that evening. It had taken Emily a full half-hour to calm her down and it was only when Drew appeared with a platter of cheese, grapes and baguettes and a bottle of wine (about which he launched into a detailed description, assuring her that he was becoming au fait – he pronounced it ‘oi fete’ – with the local vintage) that she relaxed and began to enjoy being with her friend.
‘He’s a bit up himself, I know,’ Emily said, after Drew had disappeared to replenish the grapes. ‘But you know what? Here I am – in France, with a job and a load of fit guys from the village who come to work here every day. I get loads of free time, Dad’s given me enough euros to feed an army and Drew’s – well, he really fancies me, makes a fuss of me and at last, I’m like everyone else. I’ve got a guy.’<
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‘Not everyone has,’ Lizzie said. ‘Me, for one.’
‘Your fault and no one else’s,’ Emily reminded her. ‘Just because the guy doesn’t yet exist who would be good enough for you . . . although I really thought James had a thing about you.’
‘Emily,’ said Lizzie. ‘Steer clear of any more wine. It’s affecting your brain.’
Two days later Lizzie was in her room reading online, with open-mouthed amazement, the Meryton Chronicle’s account of the latest council meeting. One Mrs Alice Bennet had stood up and chastised the council’s planning department for its ‘shortsighted and arrogant disregard for the health and wellbeing of the county’s children’. Just then there was a knock on the door. Opening it, she was astonished to see James standing there.
‘I know I shouldn’t be doing this,’ he began.
‘It’s OK, I’m off duty,’ Lizzie said, stepping back to let him into the room and gesturing towards the one available chair.
‘I didn’t mean that,’ he said. ‘I’m about to do something that I’ll probably regret, but I just can’t help it.’
He took a deep breath.
‘I know it’s crazy, but I just can’t get you out of my head. Ever since that evening at the Bingleys when you argued like someone possessed, I’ve tried to forget you. And I can’t.
Lizzie was speechless, which didn’t matter much as James was in full flood.
‘I admit, I don’t get it. You’re just not the kind of girl I ever imagined I’d think twice about.’
Here clearly words failed him, but only for an instant. Suddenly, he took a step towards her and grabbed her hand.
‘I can’t help what I feel. There’s something about you, Lizzie – you’re fiery and infuriating, but when I’m asleep I dream about you, and when I’m awake I spend all my time trying to get you out of my head because I know it can’t work. Our backgrounds are so different, your family are, well . . .’
For a moment he closed his eyes and shook his head as if there were no words to describe what he wanted to say.
Love, Lies and Lizzie Page 13
