by Karen Clarke
‘Oh, I… no, that wouldn’t be right.’
‘She’s recently reunited with her son.’ Jacqueline seemed as determined as Dolly to persuade me. ‘He’s lived in America with his dad for years, but he’s coming over tomorrow and she’d like to get the place in shape before then.’
‘Tomorrow?’
Dolly gripped my arm. ‘She really needs you, love. She’s having a book launch here tomorrow evening, so won’t have time for much else.’
‘Needs me?’ I looked at Jacqueline, but she was absorbed in persuading Holly to put on her hat because it was cold outside. ‘I’m sure her son won’t care what her house looks like if he hasn’t seen her for years.’
‘No, but Margot cares.’
I narrowed my eyes at Dolly. ‘You’ve already told her I’ll do it, haven’t you?’
‘Of course not.’ She feigned a look of wide-eyed injury. ‘I just said I’d mention it to you, and that you’d pop round once you’d had breakfast.’
My mouth fell open, but nothing came out.
‘Margot was really impressed with Grandad’s front room,’ Jacqueline offered. ‘I think it would make her day if you helped her out.’
I knew I was cornered, but there was a definite tingle in my fingertips at the thought of placing things in their rightful space. Or maybe Dolly’s grip was cutting off my circulation. ‘It sounds like I have no choice.’
Dolly’s hand fell away. ‘You always have a choice, Nina.’
‘No, it would be my pleasure. I’ll go round after I’ve had breakfast.’
‘Great!’ Dolly squeezed my shoulder – I’d be bruised all over at this rate – and another big smile lit up Jacqueline’s face.
‘We’d better get going,’ she said, holding out her hand to Holly, who pulled her bobble hat over her eyes and stuck out her tongue. ‘We’re going to the guest house to pack our things and then we’ll head to Grand-père’s and surprise him.’
‘They’ve been staying at Marie Girard’s guest house,’ said Dolly. ‘Elle’s aunt.’
‘That’s nice,’ I said politely.
‘Grampsy!’ Holly clapped her hands, then tripped over the chair leg because she couldn’t see where she was going. Watching Jacqueline carry her out, I was happy that their Christmas was on track, and hoped they would help Gérard put up the decorations.
Once I’d had some coffee, and a pain au chocolat fresh from the oven, while Dolly made herself scarce (probably worried I’d change my mind), I retraced my steps to Gérard’s street. It was almost a surprise to see cobbles emerging, but a couple behind me were talking about the snow that was due to fall later on. ‘More than this area’s ever seen,’ the man said glumly. ‘We might as well have stayed in England.’
‘You don’t get a view like this where we live,’ argued his female companion, and I had to admit the village was even prettier than I remembered, the colours more vivid against the backdrop of snow still coating the rooftops and clinging to the masts in the harbour.
I took a couple of pictures, taking care to frame them properly, wondering whether to book a boat ride around the island and write up the experience on my blog, but almost immediately spotted a tourist board declaring all trips were cancelled due to the weather. I felt a small ping of relief, seeing the ocean heaving in the distance. Dry land attractions were preferable at this time of year.
I carried on walking until I reached Margot’s house, which was easy to spot as the blue front door was standing open, and a pair of burly removal men were heaving an ornate wardrobe inside.
‘Hello?’ I stepped into the hallway, where taped-up boxes were lined against the wall. The removal men – actually, now I was closer, I realised the burlier one was a woman – were halfway up the stairs, and I recognised a couple of swear words among the huffing and puffing. ‘Margot?’
‘Ah, you are Dolly’s nièce préférée!’ said a husky voice, and I turned to see the woman who’d rejected Stefan’s Christmas jumper at the café the day before, wafting from a room at the end of the hall, absently trailing her fingers along the wall. She had pale smooth skin and high cheekbones, hinting at good genes, and wore a dreamy expression, as though her thoughts were more thrilling than anything in front of her.
‘I’m her only niece,’ I said with a smile, wondering whether Dolly would ever ditch that old joke about me being her favourite. ‘And you must be Margot.’
‘Oui, oui.’ She nodded vaguely, then her perfectly round, brown eyes focused properly on me. She took my elbow and spun me to face the open door, as if she needed to see me in broad daylight. I tried to make my features more appealing, crinkling my eyes and lifting the corners of my mouth as she scanned my face.
‘I ’ave never written about a woman who looks like you.’
‘I’m not typical leading lady material,’ I said. ‘More faithful sidekick.’ I tried to think of the appropriate French word, but she seemed to understand.
‘Often, le copain is more interesting.’ Her smile was whimsical. ‘They like to kick down ze doors.’
‘That’s true.’ I performed a karate-chopping motion with my hands and pulled a fierce face that made her laugh warmly. ‘Congratulations on your new books,’ I said, not quite remembering what genre Dolly had said they were.
‘Merci.’ Margot dipped her head in a gracious acknowledgement, her piled-up, dyed-blonde hair sparkling with accessories. ‘I ’ave been talking to your friend about le métier,’ she said, with a flutter of elegant fingers as footsteps pounded along the landing above. ‘The craft of writing.’
I’d barely processed her words when the furniture handlers thundered downstairs and shot past, with a nod in Margot’s direction, followed by another set of footsteps. They stopped abruptly as the owner clocked my presence, and I didn’t need to look to know who it was. ‘Hi, Nina.’
I turned to see Ryan, holding a painting almost as tall as he was, and for the third time in twenty-four hours said, ‘What are you doing here?’
Twelve
‘That’s starting to sound like a catchphrase.’ Ryan descended the last few stairs with the painting in front of him, so only his face and fingers were visible around the frame.
‘A pretty rubbish one.’ I avoided his gaze, cheeks prickling with heat. ‘Not very catchy.’
‘And it only seems to apply to me.’ It was hard to discern his frame of mind from his tone. ‘Dolly volunteered me to help move some furniture for Margot.’
‘That was nice of her.’ Our eyes collided. In the light from outside, his were a clear sea-green. ‘She volunteered me to help make the place look nice.’
‘She’s obviously in a volunteering mood.’
‘Obviously.’ I fixed my gaze on the painting, where a chisel-jawed man, and a woman with waist-length hair, were holding each other in a gravity-defying clinch on board a spaceship. ‘Nice picture.’
‘It is the cover of my novel, Tempêtes de Pluto,’ said Margot, casting it a passionate glance, as though it was a lover. ‘Storms of Pluto,’ she translated, though I’d roughly guessed the title. ‘Do you not think he has a look of Zac Efron?’
I caught Ryan’s startled gaze and swallowed a giggle. ‘The American actor?’
‘Of course.’ Margot feigned a swoon, pressing a hand to her chest, where a silver heart necklace nestled in her floaty scarf. ‘I find him so handsome.’
‘I suppose he looks a bit like him.’ I half-closed my eyes, trying to see the figure through her eyes, but her imagination was clearly more vivid than mine.
‘I hope he will play Luc in the film.’
‘There’s going to be a film?’
‘My agent is very hopeful.’
‘Well, that’s great,’ I said.
‘She’s been giving me some writing tips.’ Ryan’s voice had lightened. ‘I need to develop a more disciplined routine.’
‘Très important.’ Margot wagged a finger, a smile on her pink-glossed lips. ‘Every morning, I go to the Café Belle Vie, and I will not
leave until I have written two thousand words.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ I said to Ryan.
‘I’ll definitely give it a try.’ He sounded sincere – even though he’d written a bestselling book and probably didn’t need tips. ‘Where shall I put this, Margot?’
‘Oh…’ Margot looked at the painting, then peered at the door behind him. ‘I think, in the dining room, s’il vous plaît.’ As he lifted the picture and turned, his eyes briefly meeting mine, Margot glanced at a bracelet-like watch on her wrist.
‘Now, I must go.’ She wrapped herself in her mustard-coloured, ankle-brushing coat, and swept her laptop bag off the nearest packing box. ‘I am excited to see what you do,’ she said to me, eyes straying to the street outside, where the delivery van was revving away. ‘It will be a wonderful surprise for when I return.’
‘Wait.’ I watched her glide to the doorway, the heels of her brown leather boots barely making a sound on the floorboards. ‘You’re leaving?’
Pausing, she looked at me over her shoulder. ‘You do not need me to watch you.’
‘But I don’t know what you want where.’ I’d confused her, judging by the frown that crossed her forehead. ‘I’ll need guidance.’ I mimed opening boxes, moving furniture and hanging imaginary pictures. ‘You tell me what you like.’
‘Non, non.’ A vague shake of the head. ‘You do like you did for Gérard.’ She nodded encouragement, eyebrows raised. ‘Everything here is what I want to keep, but I am not knowing where to make it go.’ She smiled. ‘You decide and make me a nice surprise.’
‘Well, if you’re sure?’ I preferred to work without interference, so didn’t bother mounting an argument.
‘I trust you,’ she said. ‘Aidez-vous à des rafraîchissements. Coffee, tea.’ She nodded at the door she’d come through earlier, which must be the kitchen. ‘Je reviendrai dans deux heures.’
Back in a couple of hours.
After she’d gone, I closed the door, shivering in spite of my coat. The cold had crept in from outside and the radiator on the wall didn’t seem to be throwing out much warmth – unlike Gérard’s house, which had been boiling. Hugging myself, I entered the front room, which was bright with light from the street, and in a tidier state than Gérard’s had been – perhaps because Margot hadn’t been living here long, and must have had a clear-out before the move.
All the furniture was clumped in the centre of the room, the rest of it cluttered with partially unpacked boxes, but as I looked around, I could easily see how things needed to be arranged to make the most of the space.
I wondered what Ryan was doing and jumped when he appeared in the doorway, blowing on his hands as if to warm them up. ‘I don’t think the heating’s working.’ He glanced about, not looking directly at me. ‘I might go and have a fiddle with the boiler.’
‘Fiddle away,’ I said, matching his businesslike tone. The weight of last night’s phone call from home sat between us, but I was reluctant to bring it up. What could I even say? Sorry you have a family you don’t want to talk to? Hardly appropriate. And both he and Charlie had made it clear he didn’t want to talk about his children. ‘What else do you have to do?’
‘Help you move any furniture you can’t manage yourself.’ He buried his hands in the pockets of his jeans; a different pair, in midnight blue, worn with a dark, hooded top. ‘I’m at your disposal,’ he said.
‘Thanks, but I’m capable of moving furniture around on my own.’
‘That’s what I thought.’ He leaned against the frame, eyes sweeping over me. I was half-expecting a joke about koalas, but all he said was, ‘In that case, I’ll just check out the boiler and get back to the café.’
‘You’re not staying?’
‘Well, I do have a book to write.’ His tone was dry. ‘And you’ve just told me you don’t need my help.’
‘No offence,’ I said. ‘It’s just that I’m stronger than I look.’
‘I didn’t say you weren’t.’
‘By saying you’re at my disposal, you’re implying I don’t look strong enough to move a bit of furniture about.’
‘If you’re saying you are strong enough, I believe you.’
‘Good, because I am.’ I wasn’t. I had very little upper-body strength, and while I could certainly shift the odd piece, I couldn’t manage a wardrobe. Hopefully, I wouldn’t have to. ‘Appearances can be deceptive.’
‘That’s definitely true.’ Ryan’s mouth lifted in amusement. ‘For instance, you turned out not to be a real koala.’
I’d known it was only a matter of time before he brought that up, and when I didn’t grasp his olive branch, he lowered his gaze and turned away.
‘I’ll be with the boiler if you want me.’
The next hour and a half flew by as I became engrossed in reorganising Margot’s living room, making sure there was plenty of space to move around between the sofa, armchair and coffee table. I positioned a small oak desk underneath the window, which looked out at the garden, so that Margot could be inspired to write here, as well as at the café.
After arranging a group of photos of her with various family members and friends, I moved a collection of glass paperweights to an alcove, making sure they were set well back from the window. I’d seen a news report recently about a house fire caused by a paperweight concentrating the sun’s rays onto a pile of books and setting them alight.
Once I’d hung the silky, grey curtains and found a hammer in a drawer in the tidy kitchen and hung up a few pictures, all abstracts in primary colours, I stood back to admire the effect – no love letters lying around this time – and screamed at a sound behind me.
‘You really are incredibly jumpy,’ said Ryan as I spun to face him.
‘I thought you’d gone.’
‘The boiler took longer than I thought to fix, and then I made some coffee and started making notes for my next chapter.’ He waggled the battered-looking notepad in his hand. ‘I was going to make you a drink, but you looked like you didn’t want to be disturbed.’
‘I forgot the time,’ I said, heart palpitating wildly.
He rubbed at his hair. ‘Me too.’
‘It does feel warmer in here.’ I pushed the sleeves of my jumper up. ‘Margot will be pleased.’
‘She’ll be pleased with this room.’ He looked past me, eyes widening with approval. ‘You’ve done a great job.’
He sounded more relaxed; the writing must be going well. ‘Thanks,’ I said, trying to sound cool, but secretly pleased. ‘It’s just a bit of rearranging, really.’
‘You’ve obviously got a knack for it.’ He gave a quick smile. ‘My house is a mess. Untidy, not dirty,’ he amended, as if keen to make the distinction. ‘I think you stop seeing it when it’s your own place.’
‘That’s true,’ I said, to be polite. I only stopped ‘seeing’ a room when things were where they belonged. I tweaked the edge of the curtain, feeling I ought to say more. ‘Where do you live?’
‘In Marlow, not far from where I grew up. By the river.’
‘Nice.’ Expensive.
‘I bought it after my book sold to America.’ He tucked his notepad under his arm and leaned against the doorframe. ‘I was in London for a few years, earning pretty good money as an accountant, but I missed the countryside.’
‘I liked living in Southampton,’ I said. ‘I had a bit too much countryside growing up.’ I wondered whether Nicole and the children lived in his river house, but wasn’t brave enough to ask. He’d probably either clam up or storm out – or both – and I’d end up in Charlie’s bad books. ‘I think I’ve got the city out of my system now.’
‘Me too.’
‘Will you be going back to Marlow?’ Like, tomorrow?
‘Eventually.’ His expression clouded. ‘Chamillon’s nice, I love it here and it’s great to see Charlie and Dolly, but I know I can’t hide out forever.’ He sounded as though he’d quite like to. ‘Once this draft is finished, I’ll go.’
Again, I r
esisted an urge to probe him about his private life, knowing I wouldn’t like it if he asked about mine. Instead, I nodded to his notepad. ‘Looks like you’re getting there.’
‘Talking of which, I’d better get back and type it up.’ He reached for his coat and put it on, jamming the notepad in one of the pockets. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
I followed him into the hall and he gave me a wry look as he opened the front door. ‘Checking I’m really leaving this time?’
I opened my mouth to utter something witty and yelped with fright instead, leaping back as a ginger blur shot past and up the stairs.
Thirteen
‘What the hellfire was that?’ Ryan spun round, tracking the streak of fur.
‘I think it was a cat.’
He headed after it. ‘Where did it come from?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ I said, hot on his heels, heart pounding. ‘Maybe it belongs to Margot.’
‘She didn’t mention having a cat.’
Ryan slowed and half-crouched, advancing crab-like along the landing. He looked like Sherlock Holmes, hunting for clues. ‘Ah, it’s Delphine,’ he said, a smile in his voice as though spotting a long-lost friend. ‘Madame’s Bisset’s Persian, from the café.’
‘Be careful,’ I warned, mindful of Holly saying she’d been ‘scratchted’ by the cat. ‘I don’t think she’s very frien—’ The words died on my lips as Delphine launched herself into Ryan’s arms and rubbed her furry head against his cheek, purring like an engine. ‘Wow, she really likes you.’
‘Apparently, I look a bit like Madame Bisset’s late husband when he was younger.’ Ryan hoisted the cat in the air, grinning as though he’d won a trophy, while Delphine looked deep into his eyes.
‘Suits you,’ I said as she draped herself over his shoulder. ‘My great-gran had a stole like that, only it was a fox fur.’
‘She’s such a big softy.’ Ryan sounded so soppy, I couldn’t help a little smile.
I drew closer but stopped short of stroking the cat’s head. She looked like she wanted to sink her claws into my face. ‘She obviously prefers men.’
