French Kisses (9 page)

* * *

The following weekend, Rachel met up in town for lunch with Margot and Philippe. They talked about Margot’s sons, Philippe’s shop and their various plans for Christmas but the conversation inevitably turned to Rachel’s dinner date.

When she broke the news that the Number 1 man on their hit list was leaving town, their faces fell.

“No! That is such a shame,” said Philippe, distracted momentarily from his meal. “I thought that Paul Callot would have been just right for you.”

Rachel shrugged. “Who knows. It’s been so long since I’ve been out with anyone, that I find it hard to judge.”

“Really? Surely you felt some sort of . . .” Philippe twirled his glass in the air, searching for the right word. “Chemistry?”

“To jump into bed with someone I barely knew, you mean?” said Rachel, laughing.

Philippe tutted and returned to his monkfish. “I’m trying to be discreet.”

Rachel lent across and gave him a kiss. “You are super discreet and sensitive.”

Margot paused from her mushroom risotto, patted her ruby red lips with a napkin and sat back in her chair. “So tell us how you feel. Are you terribly disappointed?”

Rachel took a sip of her wine. “I’m not going to mope about it, not that I feel like moping, anyway,” she added with a smile, spearing a prawn with her fork. She chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “I’m a free woman, and I can sleep with who I want when I want.”

The young waiter who had come over to top up their wine glasses glance
d at her curiously, clearly intrigued by the conversation. They waited until he had retreated to the bar before continuing.

“
That’s a very sensible attitude, my darling,” said Margot, patting her hand. “We don’t want you getting your heart broken again quite yet.”

Rachel
huffed. “Michael didn’t exactly break my heart. He just jumped all over it and wore it down to the point where I barely feel anything any more. But I’m okay now.”

Her friends exchanged one of their glances. It was clear that Rachel’s feelings towards Michael fluctuated wildly from day to day, and they were concerned that he could still hurt her in his cavalier fashion.

Chapter
13: Open for Business!

Rachel was kept busy over the next couple of weeks with final preparations for the first guests. She had asked some of her neighbours over for a practice run at breakfast, serving eggs in various forms with bacon and all the trimmings to Monsieur Seurat and the Lamberts.

On day two, Monsieur Bertrand turned up with his little dog Fifi who quivered in terror at the cats and had to be soothed with slices of top-of-the-range English sausage
.

Rachel
was hoping that her paying guests would go for the easy option and choose fresh local pastries and cereal, but at least now she was prepared for visitors who opted for the ‘full English’.

The
day before the first visitors were due, Michael turned up unannounced to wish her luck. Against her better judgement and in breach of Margot’s strict rules on the subject, Rachel invited him to stay for lunch. Despite everything, she was fond of the man – when she didn’t want to break his neck.

Her brief encounter with Paul had left her feeling sexy, strong and less dependent on Michael for approval. Being with Paul had shown her that she was attractive to other men and she was beginning to see that she could have a future that didn’t involve her ex-husband.

“I’m very proud of you,” said Michael, raising a glass to her. “You’re going to make a great landlady.”

“Let’s hope so, for the poor innocent souls coming to stay here,” said Rachel, laughing. “Anyway, here’s to new babies and new businesses.”

“And to old friendships, Rach.”

She smiled back at him. “I’ll drink to that.”

* * *

The day had finally come: the Tournesol Guest House was opening for business! Rachel squinted at Madame Piquot’s description of the first guests:
‘M. & Mme Karlsen, 15–23 November, 2nd visit. Monsieur can’t manage stairs.’
The notes had led Rachel to expect a fairly doddery couple, but Mr and Mrs Karlsen turned out to be a very sprightly Swedish pair in their mid-70s.

When they turned up in their hire car, the Karlsens were welcomed by quite an impressive receiving line: Irina was there, plus both children and Rachel herself in a dress that was entirely free of paint. She had decided that there was no point pretending that she was an old hand at the B&B game: Madame Piquot had been typically frank with her guests, advising them that they were being handed over to someone new to the business but who was ‘quite charming’.

Rachel put them into what had become Bedroom 3, overlooking the big courtyard. Thanks to Philippe’s tender ministrations (and the judicious use of chicken wire), the terrace was now edged with colourful glazed pots filled with variegated shrubs and looked quite attractive.

Alice and Charlie had been bribed with the promise of a trip to the cinema if they managed to be polite to the guests and not fight with each other while they had visitors.

After the Karlsens had been there for a couple of days, the next guests arrived. First came two women from the Netherlands who were walking and painting their way around the region. Finally, they were joined by a young Japanese couple who looked perpetually baffled and giggled a lot.

On the evening of day seven, Jilly called round with a bottle of wine to see how Rachel was managing.

“So far, so good – I think,” she said, collapsing onto a chair with her drink. “But I am exhausted.”

“Already?”

“Yes! Having to be cheerful all the time doesn’t come naturally to everyone, you know. And I have to remember not to swear at the cats and shout at the kids.” Rachel blew out her cheeks. “I mean, don’t get me wrong: it is fun and they are lovely people, but being the ‘hostess with the mostest’ isn’t really my forte.”

Jilly tipped her head to one side, thoughtfully. “Perhaps I could help out now and then.”

“Could you? I’ve got Irina on chambermaid duty but if you could cover for me in an emergency that would be great.”

“Happy to,” said Jilly, with a grin.

Rachel jumped up and gave her a kiss. “You’re fabulous! It’s such a relief knowing that I can go into town without leaving my guests alone and unloved.”

“I thought you were just doing bed and breakfast?”

“So did I, but I seem to have been laying on entertainment, too.”

“How so?”

“Well, the other evening the Dutch ladies and the Swedes arrived back from some huge long walk, so I expected them to be tired. But then the Japanese pair turned up with a load of wine and they all had a boozy picnic in the Karlsens’ room then started playing charades,” said Rachel, pausing to savour a mouthful of Jilly’s delicious rosé wine. “Anyway, I had to dig out a fur rug and a mop head so that Mr Karlsen could impersonate some famous troll or other.”

“That sounds fun!”

“There you are, you see,” said Rachel, patting her hand. “You’re the ideal person for the hospitality business.”

“So, changing the subject,” said Jilly, after a moment. “Have you had any news from Paul?”

Rachel sighed. “No, but then I didn’t expect to.”

“Really? I’m surprised after . . . well, everything.”

“It’s okay, Jilly,” said Rachel, with a shrug.

“If you say so.”

“I do say so. Look, it was fun while it lasted but Paul wouldn’t have been right for me.”

Her friend looked at her doubtfully. “It seemed to me that you had quite a lot in common.”

Rachel snorted. “Yes, like both being married. As Margot would say, it was just a practice run, so don’t you worry about me.” She looked at her half-empty glass. “Would you like to practise your hospitality skills and top me up?”

Jilly laughed and tipped some more of the pale pink liquid into their glasses. “Cheers, Rachel.”

“Cheers, Jilly. And thanks for your support.”

“Any time. So long as I don’t have to dress like a troll.”

Part Two
: December–January

Chapter 14: A Surprise Visitor

Rachel was looking forward to a peaceful night in with no guests to worry about. The Japanese couple, the Karlsens and Els and Sara from Utrecht had gone, leaving warm words in the Visitors’ Book and promising to tell all their friends what a charming place it was to stay.

Wonder of wonders, some brand new guests had arrived from Italy, having found the B&B thanks to the website. After a few days at the Tournesol they
had done a deal – brokered by Claude le Taxi – to hire a minibus and driver so they could do a wine-tasting tour of the area. The four of them were due back at the weekend, but Rachel had a whole two nights free.

On Monday she had taken the kids into town to see the latest blockbuster as promised, but this evening she planned to do absolutely nothing.

After supper with the kids she had enjoyed a blissful couple of hours reading a brand new paperback that had been on her ‘to-read’ pile for at least three months. Lying on the sofa, the warmth from the wood burner made her sleepy and she must have nodded off.

She was startled by a knock at the door. Glancing at the clock she saw that it was well past 11pm. Alice and Charlie had disappeared to bed hours before and the guests had gone off on their jaunt, so she couldn’t imagine who it might be.

Padding over to the door in her socks, she switched on the outside light and peered through the spy hole to see Michael standing there on his own.

Alarmed, she flung back the door. “Michael! Come in. What’s happened? Is everything okay with the baby?” Michael staggered into the room
– his face grey and drawn – and collapsed on the sofa. “God, you look like you haven’t slept for a week.”

He leant forward with his head in his hands. “That’s just it,” he said, throwing his arms out across the back of the couch. “I haven’t! Not for days, weeks, months.” He groaned dramatically and rolled over, hitching his feet up onto the sofa.

Relief that nothing was seriously wrong made Rachel furious. She sprang over, grabbed Michael’s feet and swung them back onto the floor.

“Ouch, mind my back!”

“Never mind your ruddy back. What about my sofa? And your wife?”

“Girlfriend. She’s fine. She can sleep through anything.”

Michael had risen to his feet again and was leaning lopsidedly against the wall, eyeing up the drinks’ cupboard.

“Can I have a whisky, Rach? And half an hour of peace and quiet? Then I’ll go back and face the music.”

He looked at her with his big sad eyes and she wanted to thump him.

“No, Michael. You cannot have a whisky and a lie down. What on earth are you thinking of, turning up in the dead of night and giving me such a fright?” As he turned she noticed a sticking plaster covered in fluff dangling down over his ear. “And what have you done to your ear?”

“Can’t sleep. Horrible noise. Cotton wool.” He clutched his ear and, as he spoke, slowly sank back down onto the sofa like one of those Duracell bunnies running out of steam.

Rachel went over and hauled him roughly back upright. “Come on. I’m making you tea then I’ll damn well drive you home myself, if I have to.”

“But I need to slee . . .”

“You’re not sleeping here! Call Amelie now. She’ll be worried sick.”

As she waited for the kettle to boil, she could hear Michael’s soft murmur into the phone. When he came into the kitchen, she stirred the tea and plonked it down in front of him.

“Thanks sweet. . . Sorry. Look, you don’t need to drive me home,”
– the word hung heavy between them – “I’ll be fine when I’ve had this. Nice cuppa, by the way.”

If looks could kill, Michael would have been dead that instant. How Rachel stopped herself throwing a mug at him, she didn’t know. She sat down at the table and they sipped their drinks together.

“You go to bed, Rach. I can let myself out.”

“No chance! I don’t want the kids to come down here in the morning and find you crashed out on the sofa.”

A wistful half smile came over Michael’s haggard face and she almost felt sorry for him. She stood and released the empty mug from his hands. “Now go. Go home.”

He pulled himself heavily to his feet and rubbed his scalp, nodding. “Thanks Rachel. Goodnight.”

She watched him lumber down the drive and into Di-Di, not closing the door until she was sure he had left. The encounter had totally shattered her peace, she thought as she washed the tea things. It was nearly midnight, but there was no way she could settle after Michael’s ridiculous performance. She decided to read for a while, hoping that that would calm her down before going to bed.

She was stretched out on the sofa flicking crossly through one of the TV magazines
– who were all those so-called ‘celebs’ anyway? – when there was the unmistakeable sound of a car on the drive followed by a timid knock at the door. She raised her head and listened for a moment.

“No, it can’t be . . . .” The knock came again, more insistently this time. “I’m going to kill him,” she muttered under her breath, chucking the magazine down on the sofa and stomping over to the door just as the knock came again.

“For heaven’s sake,” she said, pulling back the heavy latch and throwing the door open. “Bloody well go home!”

“Sorry. I mean, er,
pardonez moi
. I was looking for the Tournesol Guest House.”

The dark bearded man on the doorstep, who was obviously not Michael, held out a piece of paper in front of him like a mediaeval beggar asking for alms. Behind him, Claude le Taxi gave Rachel a cheery wave, turned and crunched back down the road at speed.

“Oh! Sorry. No, I mean, yes. That’s us.” She racked her brains for who this person could be, but nothing came. “I’m sorry, but you are?”

“I’m Josh Perry. I have a reservation,” he peered over his glasses at the paper. “Or at least, I thought I had a reservation.”

“Perry?” The cogs whirred and clicked into place in Rachel’s brain. “Professor Perry? Yes! Please come in.” Rachel saw the register in her mind’s eye and stepped back to let him in. “I’m sorry, I thought you were someone else. I mean, we were expecting you, of course, but not until tomorrow. And you’re so young, for a professor I mean.”

Professor Perry looked longingly over his shoulder at the empty space left by the taxi, then at his watch, which showed just after midnight. “Well I guess it is tomorrow. Kind of,” he added doubtfully. “If it’s a problem, I can always stay somewhere else tonight.”

Rachel couldn’t help a snort escaping from her mouth. “I’m afraid this is your only option in Pelette!” Realising that she was not making the best of impressions on her new guest, she pulled herself together. “Look, let’s start again. I’m Rachel,” she shook his hand. “Welcome to the Tournesol Guest House! Let me show you to your room.”

She offered to take the smaller of her guest’s two bags, but as this was still slung over his shoulder it proved rather impractical, so she led the way as he banged along the narrow staircase to the top bedroom.

She switched on the standard lamp just inside the door. “
Et voilà
, as they say in these parts!” She wafted a hand around the room, indicating the rough stone wall, the heavy armoire, the armchair and the bed with its ornate headboard. “There’s no en suite, but you have your own private bathroom at the end of the corridor.”

As she opened the door, Josh Perry frowned slightly, but was evidently too tired to argue about the absence of facilities. He grunted
– favourably Rachel hoped – as he saw the big bath and the pile of fresh towels and caught the scent of the locally made lavender soap in its brown paper wrapper.

“Well, if there’s nothing else, I’ll bid you goodnight.” Rachel backed out of the room with a grin frozen on her face. In her own room, she collapsed onto the bed and groaned.

‘I’ll bid you goodnight?’
Why she had started speaking like a Dickensian landlady? And how could she forget a booking? She got up to brush her teeth and looked at herself in the mirror: she was wearing one of Michael’s old cardigans over a yellow sundress and jeans, with her hair tied back with a rubber band.

She groaned again as she loosened her hair and attempted to yank a comb through it.

“I’m really not sure we’re in the right business,” she said to the cat on the window sill. The look she got was not encouraging. “Well, it can only get better, eh Mousey?”