The Chateau

by Catherine Cooper

  She nods, gripping her mug so tightly that her knuckles have gone white. ‘I understand. But I want you to know that the offer is on the table. We’d be happy to help with the boys as much as you like if you lived nearby. And as I said, I’m sure we could perhaps help financially to some degree if it meant seeing the boys more.’

  Nice. We’ll help you out, but only if we get to hijack our grandsons’ upbringing.

  ‘I don’t think that will be necessary,’ I say, but I feel a wave of despair crash over me. How on earth am I going to manage as a single mother? I was barely coping as it was.

  ‘We’d love to play an active part in their upbringing,’ Penelope adds wistfully. Unusually, given that she almost never touches me, she pats my hand. ‘Think about it,’ she implores. ‘It would be good for the boys to have their extended family around them, in the circumstances.’

  Over my dead body.

  76

  November, Mozène

  Aura

  ‘The default position in French law is that, on the death of a spouse, the children of the couple automatically inherit a proportion of the estate,’ Tiggy’s notaire, who fortunately speaks fluent English, tells me. ‘In your case, as you have two children, sixty-six per cent. From your paperwork it is clear that you did not set up a marriage with the regime de la communauté universelle, or make any other provision to prevent this when you bought the property, so I’m afraid that is the position.’

  ‘What?’ I whisper. I don’t understand. ‘But they’re babies. Can’t we do anything about it? How can they inherit anything? They can’t even write their own names.’ Tiggy reaches over and squeezes my hand.

  The notaire takes his glasses off and rubs his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. ‘You have the right to stay in your current residence as long as you want. No one is going to throw you out, madame, you don’t need to worry about that. However, if you want to sell, I or one of my confrères will have to make an application to a judge so that we can be sure you are acting in the best interests of the children.’

  ‘But all that matters to them is that they’re with me! I will always do the best I can for them! They’re all I have now!’ My voice is high and hysterical.

  ‘Madame. I’m quite sure that is the case. And it is unlikely a judge would refuse any reasonable request when it comes to selling the house, especially because, as I understand, it is in need of a lot of renovation. However, these are the rules here in France, and this is what must be done. When the house comes to be sold at whatever point in the future, if the children are over the age of eighteen, their share becomes theirs to do with as they like. If you wish to sell before they are of age, you need to apply to the correct authorities who will ensure that the children’s interests and rights are protected.’

  ‘And there is nothing I can do about this?’

  ‘It is a great pity when you bought the property that you did not consider looking at your marriage regime. It would have saved you a lot of heartache. I’m very surprised it wasn’t suggested to you.’

  Maybe it was. I don’t remember. I’ve a feeling that because the house in London was bought largely with what I inherited from my mum, and because of how things were with Nick at the time, I felt safer keeping our assets apart. In case I decided that I needed to leave the marriage after all. But that has now backfired quite drastically. I didn’t consider what would happen if one of us died. We’re young. Or, Nick was young. Death seemed so unlikely.

  ‘And if I go back to the UK?’ I press.

  ‘That would be more complicated, but in effect, the same rules apply as the property is owned in France and your husband died while he was living here under French rules. I am sorry, madame. But try not to worry too much, if you want to sell the house, applying for permission is not difficult and can all be done easily by myself or someone like me. It is not like going to court as a criminal. I imagine you will need some time to think about all this, and I have another client arriving now, so unless you have any other questions …’

  I push my chair back, fighting back tears. Tiggy stands up too. ‘No. No questions for now. Thank you very much, you’ve been most helpful.’

  ‘Wow, Aura, that’s tough,’ Helen says over dinner. She has made boeuf bourguignon and it is fabulous. She’s a much better cook than me and I honestly don’t think I could cope with the boys without her help at the moment. I keep worrying about when she is going to leave – she won’t want to stay here forever – but I can’t bring myself to ask her. I don’t know what I’ll do when she eventually goes and it’s just me and the boys here all alone in this scary chateau which is falling down around our ears with weird stuff going on in the night. What on earth was I thinking, bringing us all here?

  ‘Yep,’ I agree. ‘But there’s nothing I can do about it now, apparently. It is what it is. So at some point or another I have to face the fact that the boys own most of my assets – I just have to hope they’ll be kind to their mum in her old age! Or that I can marry a rich man next time round.’ I laugh, but it sounds hollow.

  ‘You’re young, Aura, plenty of time,’ Helen says. ‘Who knows where you’ll be ten years from now?’

  ‘Probably here, still clearing out junk and covered in dust,’ I say gloomily. ‘It’s so unfair. I feel like I’ve been trapped by the rules. I’m a prisoner. There’s nothing I can do.’

  She pats my arm. ‘Don’t be silly. I know it must seem impossible now, but you’ll get through this. What about the immediate future – what do you plan to do?’

  I sigh. ‘I don’t know. A couple of days ago I was dead set on moving away. But now I’ve found out how complicated it is, I don’t know if I can face it. Plus, where would I go? I don’t want to go back to London. A large part of me would still like to make a life here. Nick’s parents are desperate for me to move to be close to them, but that’s absolutely the last thing I want to do. They’re horrible people and, while I get that they love the boys, I don’t think they’re a good influence on them and I don’t want them having too much input into their upbringing. I wish I could just make it all go away.’

  We both stare out of the window, listening to the rain beating down on the ancient glass.

  ‘I think I know a way we can make it go away,’ Helen says, ‘but I’m not sure you’ll like it.’

  77

  February, London

  Ella

  It’s too warm here in the school hall now with all these people packed in and it turns out my snow-queen outfit isn’t really made for dancing – I’m hot and sticky and I bet my hair is going frizzy too. Jack and Ethan come over. Jack is covered in a sheen of sweat and Ethan’s looking a little wobbly on his feet. ‘God, my sister is such a tart,’ he says, but not without humour, watching her dancing somewhat suggestively with Mr Woods while he keeps his gaze fixed firmly on her forehead. Ethan scoops up a plastic cup of the punch and downs the contents in one. He pulls a face. ‘That is REVOLTING!’ he says. He puts his hand in his pocket and pulls something up, twisting his hand towards me so I can see what it is.

  It’s the top of a hip flask. ‘Want a proper drink?’ he asks me.

  ‘Um …’ I say, thinking back to the last time I got drunk. That didn’t go so well – snogging Mr Dorian in the snow and then all the fallout from that. But it seems to have all gone away now and today is different. And it would be a shame not to celebrate the four of us all being friends again. Plus I could really do with some cooler air – I’m starting to feel a bit dizzy. ‘OK. But not in here. I’ve been in enough trouble lately as it is.’

  He pushes the hip flask back into his pocket. ‘’kay. I’ve got some tonic and stuff to go with it stashed in the art room if you don’t want to drink it neat.’

  ‘I should get Molly. She’ll want to come too.’

  ‘I’ll tell her when she’s finished dancing with Mr Woods,’ Jack says. ‘You can hardly march over now and ask if she wants to come out for a sneaky drink with him there, can you?’

 
Ethan waves his hand. ‘OK. See you in a bit, Jack.’

  Ethan weaves out of the hall and I follow. It’s only then that I realize quite how drunk he is – he can’t even walk straight. ‘Here we are,’ he slurs, bashing the door of the art room open and barging in, ‘Ethan’s Bar.’

  He rummages under a table where it seems he has stashed some plastic cups, tonic and more vodka, sets out two and clumsily pours our drinks.

  He lifts a cup and I take one too. ‘Cheers,’ I say, as we tap them together and they make an indistinct, plasticky sound.

  Ethan takes a large gulp and I do the same. I feel suddenly self-conscious. I don’t know Ethan all that well and I think this is one of the few times we’ve been alone together. Usually either Jack or Molly is with us. I feel weirdly shy, like I don’t know what to say to him.

  ‘So, Ella,’ he continues, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, ‘what’s all this stuff about you and Mr Dorian?’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ I say airily. ‘Someone made it up. Just a lucky camera angle in that stupid picture.’ I can feel my heart thudding in my chest and my cheeks go redder. ‘Why is everywhere in this school so hot?’ I say, flinging open the window and sitting on the ledge. I take another glug of the vodka.

  He nods. ‘Lucky camera angle?’ he says, with a weird leer. A wave of nausea washes over me and suddenly I feel a little frightened.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, as steadily as I can.

  He gets up and moves to stand in front of me. He is so close that I can smell cigarette smoke on his breath.

  ‘I really like you, Ella,’ he slurs.

  What? Where is this coming from?

  ‘I like you too, Ethan,’ I babble, ‘But not … in that way and anyway, Jack and I have only just split up, I mean we might even get back …’

  He shakes his head and fumbles in his pocket. ‘Jack! My mate Jack. You were never bothered about him!’ he hisses.

  ‘Ethan, you’re being strange. I’m going back to find the others.’ I get down from the ledge and try to head for the door but Ethan stands in my way and says: ‘Wait. I want to show you something first.’

  I’m tempted just to ignore him and push past. But I’m a bit scared to do that the way he’s acting right now, like he’s not himself, so I don’t. Maybe he’s taken something?

  He draws his phone out his pocket and fiddles with it. He pushes the screen towards me. It is so close to my eyes I can’t focus on it. ‘See! You were never bothered about Jack! Look!’

  I move back a little so I can see what he is showing me and as the picture comes into focus, My hand flies to my mouth.

  It’s a picture of me and Mr Dorian in the snow.

  Kissing.

  ‘Give me that!’ I yell, trying to grab the phone from his hand, but he holds it out of my reach.

  ‘I think Jack deserves to know, don’t you? I think everyone deserves to know! That picture I put on Insta was only a taster – this is the main event!’

  ‘Why would you do that?’ I yell. ‘How is this any of your business?’

  He is suddenly quieter. ‘Jack’s my best mate. You were messing him around. And I thought if you weren’t with him, then maybe … maybe …’

  I feel a pang of pity. ‘Oh, Ethan. I thought we were friends.’

  He looks up at me with a glint in his eye and then back at his phone. He starts fiddling with it. ‘What are you doing, Ethan?’ I yell. ‘Please don’t! Don’t send the picture! Tell Jack if you must but don’t ruin Mr Dorian’s life! It was nothing! Really! Just one kiss and we were both wasted!’

  I launch myself at him and wrestle the phone out of his hand. I try to run away from him but there are tables in the way. He grabs me by the waist from behind with one hand and with the other prises my fingers off the phone.

  It falls to the ground as the door flies open. ‘What the fuck are you doing, Ethan?’ Molly shouts. I freeze, as does Ethan for an instant, before letting me go. ‘Leave Ella alone! What’s wrong with you?’

  Molly rushes over and helps me up, before bending down to pick up the phone.

  ‘It’s mine!’ Ethan splutters. ‘Give it to me!’

  I see her glance at the screen,

  Oh God.

  Her face hardens. ‘Is this what I think it is?’ she asks, showing me the screen.

  ‘I wanted to tell you, I really did,’ I wail. ‘But I couldn’t! He made me promise, he said he’d lose his job …’ Tears well and start coursing down my face.

  ‘You promised,’ she says, her voice low and tremulous. ‘You promised nothing was going on, and you promised that you would tell me if it did. And here you are’ – she thrusts the phone in my face – ‘with your tongue stuck down his throat, and all the time you were telling me that nothing was happening! How could you?’

  I lunge for it, throw it to the floor and smash my stiletto heel through it. That photo mustn’t get out. It mustn’t.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Ethan yelps.

  ‘You can’t show anyone that!’ I scream. ‘It … you’ll ruin his life. He’ll get sacked. It’s not fair. On him. Or me. Please, Ethan. I’ll buy you a new phone. Just don’t …’

  He looks at me in disgust. ‘I wasn’t going to share it. I just thought … God. It’s gone now, anyway. No back-up, so you’ve got no worries for your precious Mr Dorian. You’re mental, you are.’

  ‘And a total bitch,’ Molly snarls. ‘The way you treated Jack. What did he do to deserve that? That’s it for you and me. You were never really my friend anyway, clearly.’ She gives me a look of pure disdain, grabs Ethan’s arm as she leaves and drags him along with her, slamming the door behind them.

  I pick up the pieces of phone and hurl them as far as I can out of the window. Tears start to flow and I feel sick. I open the window wide and sit cross-legged on the deep windowsill, breathing in the cool, fresh air. I put my head in my hands. I just want to go home. Back to Manchester, where everything was normal and easy. Go out with Tash and Lily. Get my brother to buy me dinner. Just not be here, dealing with all this.

  78

  February, London

  Ella

  A few minutes later the door opens. I hope it’s Mr Dorian, but, of course, it isn’t.

  It’s Jack. I rub my face with my hands. I hold my breath but I can’t help it, another sob escapes.

  He frowns and comes over to where I am still sitting on the windowsill. ‘Sorry, just went for a wazz. What happened? Where are the others? Why are you crying?’

  He touches my arm and more tears come. He moves closer and takes me in his arms. Oh God. It feels so nice. It’s the first time he’s touched me since the whole Mr Dorian thing. But now he’s going to hate me.

  ‘Hey … hey. Don’t cry. What is it?’

  I need to tell him. Ethan is so angry with me. And so is Molly. One of them is bound to tell him about the picture of me and Mr Dorian. Or even show him. He said there was no back-up, but who knows? It’s better he hears it from me.

  ‘Jack … please don’t hate me,’ I hiccup.

  He frowns. ‘Ella – I know we’ve had our ups and downs and I wish you liked me as much as I like you, but I certainly don’t hate you. We’re friends.’

  I shake my head. Oh God. I don’t want to do this. But I have to.

  ‘Come on, Ella. It can’t be that bad. Tell me.’ He is trying to sound reassuring, but I see something flicker across his face which makes me uneasy.

  I steel myself. ‘You know that photo on Insta?’

  He pauses. ‘The Mr Dorian one?’ His voice sounds strangled.

  I nod. ‘I didn’t tell you the whole truth about it. We kissed. But it was nothing. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to …’ I break off and start bawling like a child. I can’t help it.

  His face darkens. ‘You and Mr Dorian?’ he spits.

  ‘I’m so sorry. It was only one time. No, twice, but one time was before …’

  ‘You had sex with him?’ he shouts.

  ‘No! No! Nothin
g like that. We just … we just kissed. I know it doesn’t make it OK, but we were really drunk.’

  For a few seconds he stares at me with total contempt. ‘You got with him? On the skiing trip? Like the Insta said? Like you categorically denied?’ he asks coldly.

  I nod miserably. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I sob, ‘if I could go back and change things, I’d—’

  He moves his face close to me. ‘So you wouldn’t let me touch you, didn’t want to do those things with me because you were doing them with him,’ he hisses.

  ‘No! I didn’t do anything with him, I—’

  Jack roughly grabs one of my boobs and I yelp, trying to push him away but he doesn’t move. My head spins. I’ve drunk too much. ‘Did he do this?’ he sneers.

  ‘Jack, you’re hurting me! Please, let me go!’ I beg, ‘I’m sorry! I didn’t mean …’ I uncross my legs to try to get down from the windowsill, to get away from him but I can’t get past him – he is too close.

  Still holding on to me, he presses his mouth on top of mine and forces his tongue deep in, biting at my lip. I wrench my face away.

  ‘No, of course not. You’d rather do that with him than me, wouldn’t you?’ he leers, pushing his body against mine. I try to put my hand behind me to steady myself but the window is open and there is nothing there.

  ‘I’m sorry!’ I yell. ‘Please, let me go.’

  ‘Be quiet!’ he screams back at me. ‘Whatever you do for him, you’ll do for me!’ He takes a handful of my hair in each hand pulls it tight.

  ‘No!’ I scream, trying to wriggle away. ‘Let me go!’

  ‘Stop screaming!’ he shouts, letting go of my hair with one hand and ramming it up under my skirt, so hard he pushes me backwards. I try to kick him away but as I lift my legs the movement unbalances me and suddenly I am falling. My calves are scraped by the edge of the ledge as my bodyweight pulls me over and there are a couple of moments of panic, and then nothing but pain.