79
November, Mozène
Aura
I am shocked. I wouldn’t have thought Helen was the type even to think about doing something illegal like this, let alone go through with it. But she appears to be serious.
And the more wine we drink, the more sense her plan makes.
‘Think about it,’ she says. ‘It’s going to be a nightmare for you trying to get this place renovated by yourself. Don’t get me wrong,’ she says, leaning in closer and waving her finger in my face, ‘I’m not going to leave any time soon. Not while you’re so vulnerable. But we both know I can’t stay here for ever.’
I nod. ‘I know,’ I say, brushing away a tear at the thought of her leaving. Oh God. How would I cope?
Helen pats my arm. ‘Don’t cry. It’s going to be OK. We’re going to sort it. But, going back to what I was saying before, even if you manage to get the renovation done, running a chambres d’hôtes single-handed as well as looking after your two boys? Total nightmare.’
Another tear falls. This time I feel so hopeless I don’t wipe it away. I take another large slug of wine.
‘Or if you sold it,’ Helen continues. ‘For a start, there’s all that bureaucracy to go through. Instructing a notaire. Going to court. And once you’ve bought something else, the boys own most of it, so you can look forward to an old age in penury. Plus, how long is it going to take to sell something massive and ancient like this, unfinished as it is? Brits aren’t buying in France the way they used to, and the locals aren’t interested in these old piles – they want modern and functional with double glazing and central heating. It’ll take ages to sell. Years. Unless you’re willing to accept a pittance for it – and then you’re back to square one. Only poorer.’
I stare at her helplessly, tears still streaming. It’s all so awful. There’s no way out. ‘What am I going to do?’ I wail.
She reaches over to take my hand and looks me straight in the eye. ‘Think about this. If there was an accident – if the house just went – you could claim on the insurance and then do what you like. You’d get way more for it that way than trying to sell it in this state. And who knows? There might be some loophole you can exploit before you buy the next place, which means the boys won’t automatically inherit while you’re still alive. That way you could easily get something to suit you without having to go through the heartache of either selling or renovating this place. Wouldn’t that be better?’
‘Um, yes, it would but …’ Is she really suggesting what I think she is? How would that even work? ‘God, Helen, I don’t know if I could.’
She leans forward across the table, her eyes gleaming. ‘Why not? You and the boys get the life you want, the life you deserve, the life Nick would have wanted you to have. No one loses out apart from the insurance company, and no one cares about them, do they? Haven’t you paid premiums all your life? Like all of us do, getting nothing in return? Now it’s time for payback.’
I’m partly appalled, partly excited. I can’t think straight. My head has been so foggy since Nick died. What she says makes perfect sense. But …
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I’ll have to think about it.’
Helen shrugs. ‘Up to you. But I’m happy to help if you want me to. I don’t want to see those little boys suffer.’
There is no noise that night. The Astrid is long gone, there are no dead animals appearing from nowhere and the bedroom lights stay off. Sorrel has stopped complaining about voices talking to him, and barely wakes during the night at all now he’s back in my bed where he belongs. But even so, I don’t sleep a wink. And by the morning, I have decided. I’m going to do it. It’s the only way out.
Helen and I plot for several days. Apart from anything else, it’s a welcome distraction. And if I ignore the horrifying nature of what we’re planning and its illegality, it’s almost fun. We spend hours googling ‘how to make a fire look accidental’ and ‘signs of arson’ and the like, and Helen shows me how to delete my internet search history.
We make a plan. Given what has happened lately, we decide the best way to do it is to stage me being very drunk and knocking some candles over. ‘A lot of this ancient furniture is incredibly flammable,’ Helen says. ‘And with all this half-rotten wood everywhere, the place will go up like a tinderbox.’
At Helen’s suggestion I go to the doctor for antidepressants, partly because I think they might actually help, but also to make my story of not coping look more convincing.
But there is one important factor Helen and I don’t agree on.
‘I can’t do it with the boys here,’ I say. ‘Let’s send them to Tiggy’s for a sleepover. We can tell her I need a full night’s sleep without one of them waking me up. I’m sure she’d be happy to help.’
Helen pats my arm. ‘I hear you. But it’s going to look very suspicious if they happen to be out of the way on the night of the fire, isn’t it? Especially when they’re never usually away from you. Any investigator is going to find that fishy. And if the insurance claim is nullified, you’ll end up in an even worse situation. Possibly facing criminal charges. We’ll make absolutely sure they’re safe, I promise. Don’t forget, we’re doing all this for them, aren’t we? So they can have the life they deserve. There’s no way I’m going to put them at any risk.’
I pull a face. ‘Yeah. But I’d much rather they weren’t here when it happens.’
Helen pulls her hand back and frowns. ‘Do you really think I’d let anything happen to them? Don’t you trust me?’ There is an edge to her voice that I haven’t heard before and it makes me panicky. I need her to help me with this. She’s the only person I have to support me, to help me with the boys. I can’t lose her. It’s too late to back out now.
‘Of course I trust you. I just want to make absolutely sure they’re safe.’
‘They will be. We’ll both make certain of it. They are the priority here, after all.’
80
November, Mozène
Aura
This is what we decide. The fire will be started around 10 p.m. in the little lounge I call the snug, which we have only partly cleared and is still crammed with flammable-looking chairs. Because it’s in the centre of the house, close to the staircase, we figure this has the best chance of helping the fire to catch. Just in case, and to speed things up, we plan to soak some of the furniture with vodka and lighter fluid, distributing it carefully so as not to look suspicious. We’ll buy cigarettes and an old-fashioned Zippo lighter, so it will look like I’ve been smoking.
I will light several candles and then use one to set fire to the chairs. By this time, Helen will be waiting outside with the boys, telling them we are going on an adventure. We will both leave our phones in the house, and eventually tell the police they were left behind in our rush to escape, and thus won’t be able to alert anyone to the fire as quickly as we might have.
I will also leave my car keys in the burning room so we will have to walk, carrying the boys, to the next house, which is at least twenty minutes away. We hope that by this time the house should be beyond repair, best-case scenario. And if it isn’t, I can get the work done courtesy of the insurance company and then put a newly renovated chateau on the market instead of a crumbling old wreck. It’s win-win. For everyone.
I am nervous, and keep putting the big event off. Helen, on the other hand, seems excited by the prospect. We eventually fix a date – a Sunday, as we imagine there might be fewer pompiers on duty at the weekend which could perhaps delay their arrival, and choose a day with a decent weather forecast as we are going to have a long way to walk.
Tiggy has come over.
‘You OK?’ she asks. ‘You seem a bit on edge.’
I wish I could tell her. But obviously I can’t.
‘I’m OK,’ I say. ‘It’s just … all so hard, you know? I can’t stop worrying about the boys, how all this is going to affect them. What their future will be like.’
Tiggy takes my hand. ‘But what about
you? How are you doing?’
I shrug. ‘I’m as OK as can be expected, I guess. I saw the doctor and got some pills – Helen pretty much made me go. They’re helping to take the edge off. I find I’m drinking too much in the evenings these days too, if I’m entirely honest. It’s so lonely without Nick.’ Helen asked me to drop this into conversation if I could, to reiterate how badly I am coping and make my planned drunken ‘accident’ seem more plausible. I’m quite pleased that I’ve managed to pull it off.
She nods. ‘It’s understandable – no one is going to judge you for that. And … have you decided what you’re going to do? Did seeing the notaire help to clarify things at all?’
I sigh. ‘I really appreciate you arranging that. And it’s useful to know where I stand. But it all feels so confusing at the moment. I think I’m going to stay put for now, get on with the renovating as well as I can and simply remind myself now and again that it doesn’t matter if it takes longer than I expected.’
I hate myself for lying to her, and her open, trusting face makes me want to cry. Do I really want to go through with this?
She squeezes my hand. ‘I think that sounds very sensible. No need to rush into anything, is there? And I’m always happy to help out with the renovating. It will give me something to do. Now that the film crew has gone, you could look at getting in some more HappyHelp people. I know people who’ve had about six at a time. I’m not suggesting you have so many, necessarily, but a few extra pair of hands might be just what you need. It’s not like you don’t have the room for them here. And Helen’s worked out really well for you, hasn’t she?’
‘She has. She’s been amazing.’
‘Have you heard any more from the police? Bertie said all the hunters had been questioned but they still can’t be sure who shot Nick. He feels so guilty he’s seeing a counsellor about it, and he’s still worried he might be prosecuted. Or asked to resign. Even if they can’t ascertain who fired the fatal bullet, in theory he was responsible for Nick as his guest that day.’
‘I haven’t heard any more. That’s pretty much what they told me too, though, and that it was likely to be ruled an accident.’ I pause. ‘But please tell Bertie he shouldn’t blame himself. I hope he’s not prosecuted. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine. It was me that wanted to come here, to France. If it hadn’t been for me dragging us out here, none of this would have happened. So much death – Frank, then Nick. I wish we’d stayed in London and just got on with things.’
A tear brims and rolls down the edge of my nose. Tiggy leans over and hugs me. I meant what I said about Bertie. But I don’t mean what I said about blaming myself. Nick wouldn’t have been shot if he hadn’t gone out chasing innocent animals, and the only reason we had to come here was because of his stupid dalliance with a schoolgirl. But I want to play the grieving widow barely holding it together for Tiggy. I can’t be blamed if I drink too much and get clumsy after all I’ve gone through lately, can I? It’s Nick’s fault I’m in the situation I’m in. Not mine.
81
November, Mozène
Aura
Sunday finally rolls around. The skies are clear and it’s unseasonably warm, just as the forecast said it would be. I’m jittery and nervous all day and Bay won’t stop crying. I guess he’s picked up on my mood. Helen, on the other hand, seems calm as anything. I’m so lucky that she’s so devoted to the boys and is helping me do this. On my own – I’m not sure what I’d have done. Probably sold the chateau for a pittance and gone back to the UK with the boys to live in some poky little flat, which would be all I could afford. Almost no one wants to buy these huge places, as I’ve learnt since I came out here. They’re too much of a tie, too much of a financial drain. We’ve barely even got started and the way it’s eaten through our savings is incredible.
It’s better this way. A new start for us all. Maybe I’ll stay local and buy one of those boxy, modern houses I was so sneery about when we were looking for our dream property. Something where nothing needs renovating and there’s no DIY to do. Something with a small garden which will give the boys somewhere safe to play but that I can easily manage by myself. Maybe with a spare bedroom I can offer as an Airbnb for a bit of extra income. Certainly something much smaller and newer than this chateau, and less expensive so I can invest the rest of the money. Or maybe I could buy a small second property to rent out – they cost next to nothing out here, after all. Perhaps Tristram can advise me – he knows about that kind of thing. Or then again, I might go back to the UK, buy a house somewhere no one knows me for an entirely fresh start. There are a lot of options. But first, this has to be done.
Since Nick died I’ve loved having the boys back in my bed. I never wanted to kick them out in the first place, and now that he’s not here there’s no one to object to us co-sleeping again. Sorrel has stopped having nightmares and hearing voices, and we all sleep much better. I don’t know why I let Nick talk me into making them have their own room in the first place.
The night of the planned fire, I read the boys stories until they fall asleep, as is our routine now. I then lie with them longer than I usually would, cuddling them and smelling their hair. Helen has promised me they will be safe and I trust her, but I still feel like I need to be extra close to them tonight. I’ve given them some homeopathic sleep remedies to help keep them calm.
Later, when I’m ready to set the fire, Helen is going to take them outside and wait with them until it’s done. They will be sleepy and trusting enough not to ask too many questions. Helen will tell them it’s a special game, a treat.
At first, she tried to persuade me to start the fire while the boys were still in the house and insisted we go up and get them right after the fire was lit.
‘The closer we stay to the account we’re going to give, the better chance we have of not being caught out,’ she’d said. ‘Especially as Sorrel might remember what happens and say something he shouldn’t afterwards.’
But I refused, adamant that the boys must not be put at risk. It was too dangerous. The fire would blaze quickly if everything went as planned – the boys would be dozy and confused and unlikely to notice that Helen was taking them outside before the fire started. And even if they did, they’re too young and incoherent for anyone to take much notice of what they say. They are very small – neither is particularly easy to understand at the best of times.
After I’ve finished reading to the boys, I go to find Helen in the kitchen. She’s waiting with a bottle of vodka.
‘Here you go,’ she says, pouring large measures over ice cubes into two glasses, ‘get stuck in.’ She squeezes some lime juice into each glass and hands one to me.
We clink glasses and I take a sip. Ugh. I’ve never liked vodka. ‘I thought you said you’d stay sober tonight?’ I remind her.
‘I will,’ she says. ‘Just one for Dutch courage. You, though, need to be visibly blotto so that when we go for help, your drunkenness is convincing. I imagine they’ll give you a blood test too, or at the very least, a breathalyser. So, down the hatch!’
I drink it as quickly as I can, along with stuffing a handful of nachos in my mouth now and again.
‘It’ll have a faster effect if you don’t eat,’ Helen says, frowning.
‘I won’t be able to keep it down if I don’t eat something,’ I counter. With one more large gulp, I drain my glass and bang it down on the table. I’m already feeling the effects. ‘Same again then, I guess,’ I say, and Helen pours me another, even larger than before, plus a smaller one for herself.
‘That’s the spirit,’ she says. ‘Let’s take these through to the snug and we can start setting the scene.’
The snug would have been a lovely room when it was finished, but now, it never will be. I’d envisaged it as a cosy little reading room once the chambres d’hôtes was up and running, a place for guests to read with a glass of red wine by a roaring fire on a winter’s evening. I feel a pang of regret. It would have been gorgeous.
The cosy
if somewhat dilapidated room is conceivably somewhere I might choose to sit and wallow in self-pity. We have left an ancient, moth-eaten chaise longue in here as well as two manky old armchairs with the stuffing coming out. Both look extremely flammable as they are, but we’ve added some lighter fluid as planned to speed things up. It’s also one of the only rooms that still has curtains, which we figure will help with the flames.
A few days ago we went out and bought a batch of cheap scented candles with holders – tall, thin ones (both candles and holders) which could be easily knocked over. I chose purple candles in white holders, not that the colour matters, of course. We set them out all along the mantelpiece, as well as several on the small, spindly-legged table by the chair which I am going to pretend to have sat in for my drinking and crying.
I down my drink and Helen pours another, before chucking some of the vodka left in the bottle over the same chair. After all, it’s more than conceivable that I would spill my drink in my drunken state, isn’t it? She puts the bottle on the table and I stumble a little as I place the final candles and holders in position. My head is spinning and I feel sick.
‘OK, I think we’re nearly ready,’ Helen says. ‘Let’s get the candles lit and then I’ll go and get the boys.’
We light the candles with extra-long matches bought especially for the occasion. We don’t speak, and it feels almost like some kind of religious ceremony. My vision is blurred and my hands are shaking. I only manage to light two or three candles while Helen efficiently lights the rest.
Forgetting that it is wet, I flop down into the vodka-soaked chair and feel the liquid seep into my clothes. Ugh. I think about standing up but it feels like too much effort. ‘I’m not sure I want to do this anymore,’ I whisper. It seems too huge – to burn down this chateau which has been here for hundreds of years. The chateau that we were going to renovate and make beautiful again. Restore it to its former glory. That was going to be our happy forever home. That the children were going to spend their idyllic childhoods in. That Nick and I were going to enjoy our newly fixed marriage in. What happened to all that?
The Chateau Page 24
