The Chateau

by Catherine Cooper

  ‘Are you doing this?’ I hiss. I know I will regret it, but I’m tired and irritable and can’t think straight. He puts his camera to one side and frowns. ‘Of course not. Why would I want to do that? It’s probably one of the pool workmen messing about.’

  I remember what Seb said before about it being possible to control the Astrid from outside the house. But even if Frank had been doing that, which seems unlikely, he’s dead and I can’t see any reason why Andrew, who now has his father’s phone, would bother with a prank like this.

  ‘Perhaps you’d do it to get yourself some more interesting footage?’ I suggest.

  He pulls a face. ‘I’m quite offended by that, Aura, if you don’t mind me saying so. That really wouldn’t be my style at all.’

  Nick appears next to me at the top of the stairs. ‘Let’s chuck that thing out,’ I say. ‘Now that Frank’s gone, I don’t feel we have to pretend to like it anymore.’

  66

  November, Mozène

  Aura

  We meet Andrew in a café near Frank’s house and have a simple lunch of confit de canard and sautéed potatoes with a carafe of rough red wine, which all costs next to nothing. This is what we came to France for, I remind myself. Because here it’s considered normal for me to sit at a table in a restaurant and have a good, leisurely lunch of three courses and wine instead of a rushed soggy sandwich at my desk or gulped down in between trying to get the boys from one place to another.

  After lunch we go to Frank’s house. Now that it’s empty of people, it feels dark and rather depressing. Andrew has clearly made good progress: the bookshelves have been emptied and pictures taken down from the walls, and there are large cardboard boxes scattered all over the floor.

  ‘I’m pretty much done down here,’ Andrew says, ‘but if you were able to give me a hand with Dad’s bedroom, that would be a real help.’

  We go up the narrow stairs into the room at the front of the house, which overlooks the square. The double bed is immaculately made and there is still a glass of water, a box of tissues and a paperback on the bedside table. There is something tragic about it and I feel a stab of pity for this lonely man, estranged from his family.

  Andrew opens the wardrobe and I see shirts, trousers and T-shirts arranged on hangers, all carefully ironed. ‘Let me show you this box I was talking about,’ he says, removing a wooden chest from the bottom, ‘perhaps you can identify who I might return the things to.’

  He puts the box on the bed and opens the lid. At first glance it looks like a jumble of colourful scraps of fabric and I can’t imagine anyone will be bothered about getting them back, but it seems rude to say so when he is making such an effort.

  Tiggy picks up a handful of patterned silk and frowns. ‘This red scarf looks familiar …’ she says, and then drops it on the bed as if it’s stung her. ‘Shit! It’s mine. I bought it when we were on holiday in Dubai years ago. Why would he …’

  I cast another glance at the box and suddenly my knees feel wobbly. ‘This is mine,’ I say, picking out an aquamarine scarf. Angry now, I rummage in the box and – for fuck’s sake! ‘These are my knickers!’ I explode. They’re bog-standard M&S, so I haven’t missed them but … What the fuck!?

  Andrew looks at me in horror. ‘Oh my God. I’m so sorry. I can only apologize. I didn’t think but … shit, I probably should have guessed.’

  Tiggy is still rummaging in the box and pulls out a couple more scarves. ‘Hermès. These have to be Thea’s.’ She holds them out to Andrew. ‘These are very expensive – I think she might like them back.’

  He slumps down to sit on the bed and puts his head in his hands. ‘For fuck’s sake,’ he mutters, and then looks up at us. ‘The reason Mum and Dad split up, the reason we all fell out with him, was because he would regularly become obsessed with local women. As far as I know, he never took it further than light stalking – in fact I’ve never talked about it fully with Mum but I suspect he may have become impotent. The police had to get involved when a couple of the women complained. I didn’t know that he … took things, though. I didn’t think he’d sink that low, or I’d never have asked you over here to … let him show me up like this. Christ.’

  There is an embarrassed silence. ‘Do we need to … tell anyone about this?’ I ask.

  Andrew throws his hands in the air. ‘I don’t know. I’ll leave it up to you. Apart from the scarves you mentioned I don’t think these items look valuable, but if you want to tell the police, I’m not going to stop you. That’s it for me. I’ve had it with him. I can’t believe he can embarrass me even from beyond the grave.’

  He looks like he is about to cry. Tiggy puts her hand on his shoulder. ‘I don’t think we need to tell anyone official,’ she says softly. ‘I can’t see that would achieve anything. Would you like me to return the scarves to Thea, though?’

  He nods. ‘That would be very kind, thank you. I don’t think I can face having to explain what he did, but please pass on my apologies.’

  67

  November, Mozène

  Aura

  ‘Wow, that was weird,’ I say, as Tiggy drives us home. ‘I feel sick at the thought that I left the boys with him. He must have taken my stuff then.’

  I see her grip the steering wheel tighter. ‘Yeah. I know what you mean. But I honestly don’t think he’d have ever touched the children. I think he was just lonely.’

  ‘And a bit of a perv?’

  She laughs. ‘Looks that way. It seems we’ve both been his imaginary girlfriends, as well as Thea. And probably some others too.’

  ‘I don’t want to think too much about that box of tissues by his bed.’

  ‘Ewww. Yep. And he may well have been listening to you on that Astrid thing like Seb suggested, you know, as he had your account on his phone. I’m so relieved I wouldn’t let him persuade me to have one of those things.’

  ‘Oh yes! I hadn’t thought of that.’ Something else occurs to me. ‘I didn’t tell you about this, but that must be why he warned me off trusting you – he’d have heard us talking about him through it. But thank God our Astrid was only in the kitchen and not the bedroom!’ Not that much goes on there anyway these days, I think with a pang of regret. ‘Though I’ve thrown it out now anyway,’ I continue. ‘There was scary music from it again last night.’

  Tiggy frowns. ‘Well, it can’t have been Frank this time. Even when he was still here, I can’t imagine him doing that, can you? Doesn’t seem to have been his style. Why would he want to scare you?’

  ‘I don’t think it was him either,’ I agree. ‘I think it was Seb, though he denies it. Or maybe it was just a glitch. Either way, we’ve chucked it away now, so the music thing can’t happen again.’

  With the Astrid gone, there is no midnight music that night. However, our bedroom ceiling lights come on by themselves at two o’clock, four o’clock, and half-past five. ‘I can’t take this anymore, Nick!’ I yell, the third time it happens. ‘I’m calling an electrician in the morning. Dodgy wiring or not, there must be something they can do.’

  As I fling myself back under the covers with Nick mumbling something incoherent, it occurs to me that calling an electrician is the kind of thing I’d have asked Frank to do, given that I don’t speak any French and have no idea who to call anyway. Perv or not, I will miss him.

  68

  November, Mozène

  Aura

  The police are continuing to question everyone at the party, according to Tiggy, but they haven’t got round to us yet. Knowing it might happen at any time is making me feel so on edge that I’m having to take extra homeopathic arsenicum album, but even that is barely helping. And on top of worrying about the prospect of being questioned by the police, all week I’m annoyed about Nick having agreed to go hunting. He refuses to back down.

  I feel like the new breath of life which coming to France was starting to give our relationship is being suffocated. I try to get Helen on my side about the hunting, but she is non-committal and refu
ses to be drawn, saying annoying things like, ‘Obviously it has to be a personal choice, but in the countryside boar do need to be controlled.’ Seb is loving it and seems to magically appear with his camera every time I try to have a word with Nick about it. He’s had Chloe researching the documents they need to be able to go along too to film the action, which is also pissing me off. He reckons the hunt will be the perfect opener to the episodes about us. God knows why – I wonder if he’s doing it deliberately to wind me up to give them more good footage for their programme. Sometimes I wish I hadn’t agreed to this thing.

  69

  November, Mozène

  Nick

  ‘Pretty early morning, eh, Nick?’ Seb says.

  I yawn. ‘Yep. God knows why they have to start when it’s barely light.’

  ‘Totally worth it – you’ll see. I love it. I started hunting when I went to uni, had a friend there who was into it. Great fun. Your wife didn’t seem very interested in hearing about it, though.’

  I laugh, although it sounds false even to my ears. Aura has barely shut up about the hunt for days and there’s now absolutely no chance of us having sex again any time soon. ‘I’m in a lot of trouble for coming along today,’ I agree.

  ‘That’s understating it,’ Chloe adds. ‘On and on and on. So much nagging. I don’t know how you stand it.’

  I open my mouth to say something, feeling like Chloe shouldn’t be quite so rude about my wife, but I change my mind. She’s right, after all. Frankly I’m relieved to get away from Aura for a morning, in spite of the early hour.

  ‘Chloe’s in charge of the filming today,’ Seb says. ‘The experience will do her good and I think she’s ready for it.’

  ‘So fucking patronizing,’ Chloe says, rolling her eyes. ‘What you actually mean is you want to go shooting innocent animals with the boys and fancied the day off.’

  As early as it is, the bakery is open and a group of around twelve Frenchmen, plus Bertie and, I’m surprised to see, Tiggy, are drinking coffee and eating croissants outside when we pull up. I imagined the shoot would be men only, but it looks as if I was wrong.

  ‘So glad you could make it!’ Bertie booms as Seb parks the van and we get out. ‘Thought there might be a chance your good lady wife might force you to stay at home. Glad to see it’s you that wears the trousers after all.’

  ‘I’m very much the trouser-wearer in our house,’ I say, and I notice Chloe smirk and roll her eyes. I hope she didn’t catch that frankly ridiculous comment on camera.

  Bertie introduces Seb, me and Chloe to the hunters and there is a round of discreet nods, handshakes and bonjours. Seb exchanges a few words with the group in impressively rapid French. I have no idea what he is talking about and resolve, not for the first time, to sign up for some language lessons.

  Everyone looks up as the gravel crunches and a Tesla pulls up to the bakery. Thea gets out of the passenger seat and the car rolls away, as silently as it arrived. She is wearing skin-tight camo pants and an expensive-looking hunting jacket. Her auburn hair hangs just so around her shoulders and she is fully made-up. All the men, who range in age from about eighteen to eighty, stop talking and turn their attention towards Thea. Chloe tuts and I look down, pretending to be fiddling with my phone.

  Thea is truly hot though, no one can deny that. I think back to that party at hers and what might have happened if Aura hadn’t flipped out and made us leave. Would we have all swapped partners? I feel a stirring in my pants and distract myself by remembering Aura’s expression of disapproval and contempt as I left the house this morning, and it quickly goes away.

  Fluorescent hats and tabards are handed out to everyone and there is a briefing about where we will be going and who will stand where. Bertie translates for me – my role is to stand silently behind him unless directed to act as a beater. Apparently I’ll be able to have a go at shooting if Bertie feels it’s safe, but I remain Bertie’s responsibility. I suddenly feel nervous – do I actually want to shoot something or not? Yes, yes I do, I tell myself. I’m a man, not a mouse. It doesn’t matter what Aura thinks. I’m going to be the trouser-wearer I claimed to be earlier, at least today.

  Thea seems to have taken a liking to Seb and has not-very-subtly made sure that they will be standing close to each other. It occurs to me that she is the reason he wanted to come along today. He’s younger than her, sure, but then so was Hervé and that clearly didn’t bother either of them. I certainly wouldn’t say no to Thea. Seb is leaning in towards her, too close, as they talk about something, God knows what. She touches his arm lightly and laughs and I feel a surge of jealousy.

  The dogs in the trailers are already frantically barking. Everyone leaves in vans to take up their initial positions.

  70

  November, Mozène

  Nick

  To start with, there is a whole lot of nothing. I stand behind Bertie, feeling stupid in my manky orange hat. It’s cold, misty and starting to drizzle. My legs ache from standing still for so long and – not that I want to admit it to myself – I’m starting to regret coming. Chloe has stopped filming because there is nothing to see and is sitting in the van fiddling with her phone. I wish I could sit in there too, in the warm and out of the wet, but I can’t imagine it would go down well with Bertie. So I carry on standing where I am, wet, bored and freezing cold.

  Now and again I hear the dogs barking in the distance but Bertie has explained that if there is any reason to move, someone will call and we’ll jump in the van to go to where the action is. But the longer I’ve been standing here, the less and less convinced I’ve become that I want to see a boar killed. I’ve never seen anything killed before, and have no idea what it would be like. What if the animal is injured but not dead and I have to watch it squealing in agony? Doesn’t bear thinking about.

  And then, just as my feet are going numb and I’ve given up on anything happening ever, Bertie’s phone rings. ‘Oui, oui,’ he says, nodding as he speaks to whoever it is that I can faintly hear jabbering away in French at the other end of the line.

  ‘Right,’ he says, as he hangs up. ‘The woods. They’ve found a boar. We need to jump in the van and get over there ASAP.’ He pronounces it aysap.

  On the short drive over, I feel nervous and sick, not helped by the narrow roads, the pastis that I thought would be rude to refuse when offered from a hip flask this morning alongside the coffee, not to mention Bertie’s too-fast driving. Why did I want to come today? I can’t remember now. Chloe is sitting in the back, filming over our shoulders. Isn’t the windy road making her feel sick too? Doesn’t seem to be.

  ‘Right, here we are,’ Bertie says, pulling over to the side of the road behind a couple of white vans. ‘This is where the action is.’ He gets out and takes his gun from the boot, slamming it closed so hard it makes me jump. ‘You just follow me, for now,’ Bertie says. ‘Stay behind me unless I tell you otherwise, OK?’

  ‘Yup,’ I say, trying to keep my voice steady as I feel a slight tremble in my knees and again, regret coming along. I think of Aura, cosily at home with the boys and wonder what they are doing. Perhaps they are baking, or sitting by the fire playing a game. I mentally shake myself – much more likely she’s fobbed them off on Helen again and is faffing around upcycling something pointless or fannying around with that ‘counselling’ website of hers. As usual.

  ‘You too, Chloe,’ Bertie continues. ‘You stay behind me. And put your orange hat back on – safety and being seen is more important than whether or not it messes up your hair,’ he guffaws. ‘I know what you girls are like.’

  Chloe rolls her eyes and puts the unflattering orange baseball cap back on, pulling a face. ‘Yuk. Wonder how many people have worn this before me,’ she says.

  ‘Right, off we go, stay close,’ Bertie booms. It’s starting to drizzle again. ‘Stay close, and quiet as possible.’ He starts marching across the damp field at a considerable lick, considering his portliness. Chloe and I scurry behind him, struggling to keep
up in the slippery grass. As we near the trees, the orange hats of the other hunters come into view. They have guns raised, pointing into the trees. Bertie slows his pace.

  ‘Right,’ he whispers, ‘I’m going to take my place between Pierre and Jean-Marc there,’ he says, pointing. ‘It looks like the entire group is now here, in position.’

  ‘Then what?’ I ask.

  ‘Then, we wait,’ he says.

  We wait. And wait. And wait. It’s still drizzling and misty. I don’t think I’ve ever been so bored in my life. I’m also now regretting all the coffee I drank at the boulangerie that morning in an effort to wake myself up as my bladder feels almost rock solid. I need to go soon or I’ll wet myself. Plus it will give me an excuse to stretch my legs, ease the boredom a little.

  ‘I’m going for a slash,’ I tell Bertie, ‘won’t be a sec.’

  Bertie nods, but I get the impression he’s not listening; his eye remains trained down the barrel of his rifle. I wonder how he can keep his arms raised for so long – don’t they ache?

  My legs are stiff from standing in the same position as I walk fifty metres or so to find a suitable bush for a pee. Since we arrived in France I’ve noticed that many men here seem to think nothing of having a sneaky roadside wee in full view of whoever might be passing, but I don’t want to do that, especially not in front of a young girl like Chloe. That would be uncouth, and disrespectful.

  Opening my flies, I breathe a sigh of relief as the pressure on my bladder lessens. Just then, the dogs start barking frantically, there’s a rustling sound in the long grass behind me and what looks like a giant pig thunders past. Christ – that’s a boar? I hadn’t expected it to be so huge. I was imagining something more like the micropigs at the city farm I used to take Sol and Bay to sometimes.