The Little French Guesthouse (8 page)

In the meantime, there were more immediate problems to contend with, namely Rupert. What was I going to tell him?
“By the way, I’m off out with your under-age gardener tonight. Not sure if he’s offering me a shoulder to cry on or a shag, but either way, I’ll be leaving at seven.”

I tracked him down in a small den at the back of the house: a cosy retreat with a large leather-topped antique desk and captain’s chair, a small leather sofa scattered with bright ethnic cushions and a fading Turkish rug across the wooden floor. One wall was lined with ceiling-height bookshelves, stuffed to overflowing. Rupert sat at the desk, a look of open self-pity on his face, which he was quick to hide when I poked my head around the door.

‘Emmy. All right?’

I wanted to ask him the same question, but since he was pretending nothing was wrong, I didn’t feel I should push.

‘Yes, thanks. Your accountant called round again while you were resting.’

‘Oh?’

‘He wanted to know how you are. The local grapevine works remarkably efficiently around here, doesn’t it?’

Rupert nodded. ‘I’ll get back to him soon. It was good of him to call. He’s a nice chap.’

I grimaced.

‘You don’t think he’s a nice chap?’

‘I didn’t say that, but being an accountant is already a black mark against him in my book.’

‘Only in your twisted, bitter, post-rejection world, Emmy. You can hardly hold that against the poor bloke!’

I harrumphed and changed the subject. ‘I threw out the potpourri in the Stewarts’ room and used fresh flowers from the garden. Is that okay?’

Rupert’s brow furrowed. ‘Did you leave a bald patch in the flower beds?’

‘No. I was careful.’

‘Then that sounds lovely. Thank you. Did you manage to find the toiletry stores?’

‘I did.
Eventually.
You know, Rupert, they’re fiddly and small. They can’t be economical, and they’re certainly not environmentally friendly with all that packaging. To be honest...’ I stopped. ‘Sorry. None of my business.’

Rupert gave me a look. ‘It’s your business for the next week. What did you want to say?’

‘Well, I think they’re a bit tacky. Like people are staying in a motel chain or something. Everything else here is so classy, it seems a shame.’

‘What would you suggest?’

I shrugged. ‘Not sure yet. I’ll think about it.’

‘I appreciate it. Any walls you want knocked through? Any furniture that needs replacing?’

‘I’m only trying to help,’ I muttered.

‘And I’m only teasing. Anything else?’

There was no point in putting it off any longer. I tried for a bright, breezy and matter-of-fact tone.

‘Yes, actually. I – er – wanted to let you know that I won’t be around to eat with you tonight. I’m going out.’

Rupert raised a surprised eyebrow. ‘Oh? Anywhere nice?’

‘I have no idea. Ryan asked me out to dinner. I think he feels sorry for me. Not that I told him about Nathan, of course; it’s that wretched Madame Dupont. Anyway, he asked me to dinner and I wanted to refuse, I mean I was going to refuse, and I tried to, but he left before I could...’

‘Emmy. There’s no need to explain. Of course you should go out and enjoy yourself. Ryan’s a pleasant young chap.’ He frowned. ‘Bit young for you, though, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

‘I wouldn’t mind you saying so if it was likely he was looking for a long-term relationship, Rupert, but as far as I know, his intentions only stretch as far as dinner.’ Now it was my turn to frown. ‘I hope.’

Rupert laughed, a loud guffaw that dispelled my nerves. ‘Don’t worry, love. Ryan’s a well-brought-up young man. I’m sure he only wants to give you a bit of company and get you out of the house for the night, not out of your pants. Here, put this in your handbag in case you need to fend him off.’

He reached behind him for an antique sword mounted on the wall over his head. I threw a cushion at him and left.

Up in my room, I showered, slathered on body cream, then screeched to a halt as I hit the perennial problem of what to wear. My holiday clothes stared forlornly out at me from the antique wardrobe, looking lost now that Nathan’s were no longer hanging alongside them. Overriding the sudden wave of misery and loneliness that threatened to engulf me, I rummaged through them. By rejecting anything unflattering or over-revealing or too casual, I was left with two summer dresses I’d packed for the express purpose of dining out with Nathan. Little had I known I’d be choosing between them for a date with a cute gardener.

After much soul-searching, I went with the blue, made my make-up as natural as I could get away with and hurried downstairs. The last thing I wanted was for Rupert to answer the door to Ryan and have them both shuffling uncomfortably around the lounge waiting for me, like an overprotective father with his daughter’s prospective suitor.

In the kitchen, Rupert was munching his way through a salad, and his glass contained sparkling water. Good for him. I raised an eyebrow.

‘Don’t start,’ he muttered, reading my mind. ‘Thought I ought to have an evening off, that’s all.’

‘It’s good to see you’ve decided to be a good boy for a change.’

A horn beeped out in the courtyard and Rupert grunted. ‘Hmmph. Yes, well, you be a good girl, for that matter.’

Blushing all the way from my sandals to my split ends, I shot him my best glare and left before he could embarrass me any further.

D
espite the many
and varied scenarios my anxious mind had dreamed up for the evening, its worst fears remained unrealised.

Ryan had cleaned out the front of his estate car so I didn’t get soil all over my dress (although the back was still a mucky gardener’s paradise). He was charming without being smarmy, and his easy-going manner soon calmed my nerves.

We drove into Pierre-la-Fontaine and dined in a hotel restaurant where I enjoyed the formal waiter service, crisp tablecloths, fanned napkins and, well, the
Frenchness
of it all. The
porc en croûte
oozing mustard butter, served with crisp green beans and potatoes piped into pretty swirls, was heavenly – and the dainty
tarte au citron
was a stratosphere beyond the pale imitations I’d tried back home.

The irony wasn’t lost on me that dining out in France with my own boyfriend had involved struggling to find common ground or any enthusiasm for conversation, and yet here I was with a sun-streaked blonde gardener of tender years who I’d known for less than two days and with whom there seemed to be no problem finding topics to talk and laugh about. Life could be funny sometimes. Funny peculiar, that was, not funny ha-ha.

‘So how did you end up gardening here in France?’ I asked him, over coffee. ‘Was it because your parents have a holiday home here?’

‘Kind of. I started studying landscape design at college but dropped out after a year. Didn’t like the idea of sitting behind a desk when I could be out doing the real thing all day. So I’m self-taught – I picked up a few jobs and learned as I went along. My parents had a smaller holiday home in the area when we were kids – we came out every summer – but three years ago, they sold it and bought somewhere bigger that they could develop and have a couple of
gîtes
to give them some income when they eventually retire. The house needed modernising, but the gardens were totally neglected, so they asked me to come out and do my stuff. People saw what I was up to and liked it, and of course we knew quite a few people from spending our summers over here. I built up quite a client base.’

‘With the Brits?’

‘Yep. They’re not always fluent in French and prefer to deal with someone they can understand – but some of the locals use me, too. I’m reliable and I know what I’m doing.’

‘So what do you do in the winter?’

‘I usually go back to the UK and pick up some labouring work. I have a couple of mates who are in the building trade.’

I nodded, trying hard not to imagine him shirtless in a hard hat.

‘What do you do?’ he asked.

‘I work for a marketing agency in Birmingham.’

‘Creative stuff, I imagine?’

I laughed. ‘Sometimes. But it can be as much about tact and persuasion with clients, and organisational skills with your projects and your team.’

‘You have a team?’

‘Kind of. I’m only the assistant manager, but my boss is happy to take a back seat. He’s not too hot on people skills.’

‘But I bet you are.’ There was a hint of devilment in Ryan’s voice. ‘I also bet you’re sexy when you’re bossy.’

I blushed and rapidly changed the subject.

A
fter the meal
, we strolled around the quiet streets to work off dinner. Enjoying glancing in the shop windows, I was relaxed enough not to think anything of it when Ryan took my hand to cross the road and kept hold of it as we walked. It was... friendly, that was all.

When we pulled up at
La Cour des Roses
, Ryan turned the engine off. ‘Any chance of a coffee?’

‘You already had one. You’ll be up all night.’ Suddenly I was cautious again.

‘You’re not going to invite me in?’

‘Is there any reason why I should?’ I looked him in the eye. ‘Or why I shouldn’t?’

He smiled sweetly. ‘No to either question.’

I heaved a sigh. We couldn’t sit in the car all night like teenagers. ‘Fine. You’ll have to be quiet, though. Rupert will be asleep and the Hendersons are upstairs.’

He followed me in. I made tea to limit our caffeine intake, and we went through to the lounge. The rest of the house was unnervingly quiet.

‘See? It wasn’t so bad, was it?’ Ryan’s eyes sparkled at me as he settled on the sofa next to me.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, you can stop panicking. I didn’t bite, you didn’t get drunk and pour out your life story, and nobody asked if you were my mother.’

There was I, thinking I’d been so sophisticated all evening, hiding my insecurities, and he’d read me like a book. ‘What made you think I was panicking?’

‘The way you gripped your glass so tight your knuckles went white? All those glances to see if anyone was giving us funny looks? Oh, and how you shifted so far away from me in the car that you nearly fell out?’

I didn’t like the merriment dancing in his eyes at my expense, no matter how hypnotisingly blue they were, and I bristled with indignation. ‘I don’t think...’

‘Emmy, I’m teasing you. Haven’t you heard it said that people only tease people they like?’

‘Perhaps I’m not in the mood to be teased.’

Ryan shifted closer on the sofa. ‘What
are
you in the mood for?’

Staring him down, I tried hard not to laugh. ‘That has got to be the cheesiest line I’ve ever heard!’

He gave me a boyish grin, and I was close enough to notice the tiny dimples in his cheeks. They made my stomach flip.

‘You’re right,’ he agreed. ‘Perhaps I should stop talking.’

‘Isn’t it time you were going?’

‘No. Ever since I first saw you standing at the window in that ridiculous T-shirt, I’ve wanted to do this.’

H
e moved
in until our bodies were touching. I didn’t protest, but I did have misgivings. He was so much younger than me; I was still raw from Nathan’s rejection; Rupert was in the house; what if the Hendersons came down? But the wine I’d had at dinner took the edge off the swirl of thoughts, allowing me to acknowledge them without caring enough to do anything about them.

Ryan tilted my face up to his. ‘Do you mind?’

He didn’t wait for a reply – but since I didn’t mind in the least, I allowed him to carry on. I’d forgotten how wonderful a first kiss could be. After five years with Nathan, our kisses had become... familiar, maybe even a little perfunctory. Don’t get me wrong, we could still be excitable after a drink or two if we were in the right mood – but this was different.

I could feel Ryan’s desire emanating through his shirt – and his jeans – and it was genuine. His lips transmitted that delightful sense of urgency I hadn’t experienced for quite a while with Nathan (not without several units of alcohol inside me, anyway). Ryan began to explore with those dextrous hands of his, and that was okay, too, because it was good to know someone wanted to explore me at all.

But then there was a distant thunk from somewhere in the house, and I jumped back. Ryan put a finger to his lips in a shushing gesture as we waited for further developments – and that was when it all began to unravel for me. Everything about him was so damned
perfect.
His eyes, his mouth, his kiss...

The realisation suddenly made me acutely self-conscious. I knew I was passable for a stressed-out woman in her early thirties – but I also knew I didn’t have the airbrushed glamour of the young, flat-stomached French girls of Ryan’s own age who I imagined he must be used to. Making the comparison with such imagined perfection – and the reality of it sitting right here next to me – caused me to freeze in my tracks.

Ryan sensed it. ‘Emmy, is anything wrong?’

‘No, not really, it’s...’

How could I explain? Ryan was young and full of himself. How could I tell him that only a few short years down the line, he too might be in a clinch with a model-like vision, unable to give in to the moment because he couldn’t compete with his lover’s usual quarry, lacking in confidence because he’d been dumped for what should have seemed a much worse prospect? Why burst the boy’s bubble?

He waited patiently for an answer. I had to come up with something plausible, fast.

‘I’m sorry.’ My mind raced and lit on half-truths that would do. ‘But what with the guests upstairs and Rupert down the hall and...’

Ryan planted a light kiss on the tip of my nose. ‘It’s okay, Emmy. I understand.’

‘You do?’

‘Of course. And I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable. I didn’t mean to. I asked you out because I thought you might need a friend to help you through the rest of your stay. Someone nearer your own age than old Grumpy Boots down the hall.’

I kissed his cheek. ‘I do. Need a friend, that is.’

He stood, and as he straightened his shirt, I experienced a pervading sense of loss – the feeling that an opportunity had been missed. I began to wonder if I should have let it go by.

‘Ryan, I’m sorry. It’s just that...’

‘No.
I’m
sorry.’ He pulled on his jacket. ‘This is more than too soon for you, after Nathan. I only meant to take you out to dinner, not to kiss us both senseless.’

Who said the youth of today were insensitive?

‘That’s okay. I shouldn’t have let it get started.’ I walked him to the door. ‘Goodnight, Ryan.’

‘Goodnight, Emmy.’

With a heavy sense of regret, I watched him walk to his car.

‘
S
o
, how did it go last night? Did you have a good time?’ Rupert wiggled his eyebrows, making me laugh.

‘Fine, Rupert. I had a good time, thank you.’

‘Any exciting nookie I should know about? I require all the gory details.’

I did my best to remain nonchalant. ‘No gory details.’

‘Emmy, my life is distinctly lacking in excitement at the moment, above all in the bedroom department. If I can’t have my own thrills, I need to hear about yours. Come on. Spill.’

I gave him a stern look. ‘There’s nothing
to
spill.’

‘Where did he take you?’

‘The hotel with the cream front off the
Place du
something-or-other.’

‘Very specific, Emmy. What did you eat?’

I told him. Anything to shut him up.

He nodded his approval. ‘What did you do after dinner?’

‘We strolled around town.’

‘Then what?’

‘For heaven’s sake, Rupert. What is this, an inquisition?’ I wanted to tell him to stop being such a nosy bastard, but that would make him think I had something to hide. Besides, there was a chance he’d heard us come into the house – or worse, heard Ryan leaving a good hour after he’d brought me home. That gravel left an awful lot to be desired in the stealth department. ‘He drove me home and came in for a cup of tea.’

‘A cup of
tea
?’ Rupert snorted with derision, which had the unfortunate effect of causing his orange juice to shoot up his nose. The ensuing sneezing and coughing fit was not a pretty sight. When he’d recovered his composure, he gave me the eagle eye. ‘You’re telling me that a handsome young man, who fancies the pants off you, took you out for an elegant dinner, strolled you gallantly around town, drove you to your door, escorted you in – and you made him a cup of
tea? Oh, Emmy, you
are
out of practice.’

I bristled. ‘It’s not a question of being out of practice, Rupert. Ryan is a great deal younger than me, Nathan and I have only just split up and...’

‘You’re not denying he fancied the pants off you, then?’

‘Do you have to be so crude?’

‘Indeed I do. You’re so delightful when you blush.’

Unwillingly, I obliged. ‘I think we’ll leave this discussion alone, thank you. Now, do you want to get off to this market or not?’

H
appy to be
out and about, Rupert directed my driving in typical dominant-male manner.

‘How are you going to cope when I go home on Saturday?’ I asked.

‘Fine, Emmy. Don’t you worry.’ His bluster didn’t fool me. I could read him pretty well by now, and I knew when he was only saying what he thought I needed to hear.

I called his bluff. ‘Stop talking bollocks. I’m serious. You’re going to need help and we have to find a solution. I know the Hendersons leave on Thursday, but you’ve got the Stewarts for a week and the Kennedys on a long weekend from Thursday. Who’s going to help Madame Dupont do the
gîtes
on Saturday? What about next week’s guests?’

‘Madame Dupont might do some extra hours.’

‘Madame Dupont is a good, loyal cleaner, Rupert, not a miracle worker. The woman must be seventy if she’s a day. And even if she did do it all – which would probably kill the poor soul – who’s going to do all your errands? You can’t even drive yet.’

‘I’ll ask Madame Dupont if she knows anyone.’

‘When is she in next?’

‘Tomorrow, probably.’

I nodded. Tomorrow was good enough.

Rupert navigated me into Pierre-la-Fontaine and a very tight parking spot that I would never have dreamed of attempting if I’d been on my own. He had dispensed with his crutches for the trip and was trying to manage with a walking stick. The quiet streets I’d enjoyed on my evening stroll with Ryan were bustling now, and when I saw the market stretching up the main square and branching off onto cobbled side streets, my heart sank and soared at the same time. The holidaymaker part of my soul that had been damped down out of necessity took it all in hungrily – but my common sense reminded me that we were limited by Rupert’s energy and his leg.

I glanced at stalls selling African statues, bohemian floaty linen tops, leather handbags – and one, bizarrely, selling every manner of girdle and corset known to womankind.

I snorted. ‘Does anybody still wear that sort of thing?’

Rupert grinned. ‘They must do. That stall’s here every week. Makes you wonder what Madame Dupont has on under her skirts, doesn’t it?’

I shuddered. ‘If she straps herself into vicious gear like that, I’m amazed she can move or bend at all!’

‘Emmy, if you want to have a look around, I don’t mind,’ he said kindly. ‘Heaven knows, you deserve it. Although if you’re tempted by something from that particular stall, I’d rather not know about it. I’ll just...’

‘Rupert!’ A shout halted us in our tracks as a middle-aged couple headed towards us.

The woman kissed him on both cheeks. ‘It’s good to see you. How are you? We were
so
sorry to hear about everything.’

‘Hello, Brenda. Richard.’ Rupert shook the man’s hand. ‘I’m fine, thanks. I’d like you both to meet Emmy – my guest and, it turns out, my saviour.’

Brenda turned to me and held out her hand. ‘It’s good to meet you, Emmy. Both Madame Dupont and Ryan have been singing your praises.’

I gulped. ‘Ryan?’

‘Brenda and Richard are Ryan’s parents, Emmy. They have a holiday home a few miles down the road.’ Rupert grinned, enjoying my discomfort.

‘How nice to meet you both,’ I said, fighting the urge to bolt down the street.

‘We’ll be going for coffee soon. Will you join us?’ Rupert continued to torture me.

‘Sorry.’ Richard unwittingly came to the rescue. ‘Just had one, and we need to get to a few places before they shut. Some other time, though? It would be lovely to see you properly. Call us if you need anything. Nice to meet you, Emmy.’

I let out my breath, grateful for the glorious continental tradition of businesses closing for lunch that prevented them from joining us.

Rupert nudged my arm as they walked away. ‘That was fun. Do you think they know who Ryan took to dinner last night?’

‘You have a warped sense of entertainment, Rupert Hunter, do you know that?’

‘Yes. It was one of the things Gloria disliked about me. I might develop it further to spite her.’

‘Well, don’t bother today. You have shopping to do.’

Rupert pointed up the street with his walking stick. ‘Most of the food stalls are at the top end. Why don’t you have twenty minutes looking around here, Emmy, then come and find me. You can’t miss it – just follow your nose.’

He shuffled off without waiting for a reply, and once I’d watched him to make sure he was coping with the cobbles, I decided to take him at his word and enjoy myself.

Choosing between the brown handbag or the teal cost me five minutes more than Rupert had allowed me. I caught up with him at a cheese stall, where he was sampling something crumbly and chatting away to the stall owner.

‘Emmy! Try this,’ he greeted me, shoving a morsel in my mouth before I could stop him.

Bravely, I hid a grimace. ‘What is it?’

‘Goat’s cheese. Like it?’

Glancing at the cheese man, I forced a smile. ‘Mmm. Ah. Delicious.’ I swallowed it down with difficulty. Rupert laughed uproariously, as did the stall owner.

‘You haven’t bought any, have you?’ I muttered as we walked away, peering dubiously into his carrier bag full of wrapped cheese mysteries, then glancing up at the next stall. ‘God, how many types of sausage can the world need?’

A great many, it seemed. They dangled on strings like candles – cooked sausages of every variety possible. I gawped as Rupert made his choice and stuffed the package in the bag with the cheese. He looked exhausted.

I took the bag from him. ‘Where do you want to go for coffee? If you don’t sit down soon, you’ll fall down.’

‘Just across the street.’

He led the way at a snail’s pace, limping badly. We grabbed a table outside and I sank down with a contented sigh. Not for long.

‘I recognise that voice,’ Rupert said. ‘Come on, Emmy. I want you to meet my good friend, Jonathan.’

Rolling my eyes, I heaved myself back to my feet and followed him into the dim interior, all dark wood wall panels and tables. An elderly man with a shock of white hair propped up the bar, regaling the owner with some story in what even I recognised was not the best French in the world – but he did it with a flourish, punctuating his tale with dramatic arm gestures and comical facial expressions, and the Frenchman laughed along, clearly able to follow the gist. As we approached, the story-spinner turned towards us.

‘Rupert, my old friend!’ he exclaimed, stretching out his arm to shake hands and then pulling Rupert to him in a tight embrace which Rupert stoically accepted. I pulled a bar stool over and pushed Rupert onto it.

‘Emmy – Jonathan. Jonathan – Emmy,’ Rupert introduced us.

Jonathan beamed and subjected me to the same treatment as Rupert. ‘So
you’re
the angelic Emmy.’

I gave a tentative smile. ‘I’m not sure I’d go that far.’

He waved off my modesty. ‘Nonsense. I’ve heard all about you. And no offence, Rupert, but you’re well shot of Gobby Gloria.’

Rupert seemed to take this in his stride, while I suppressed a smirk.

Jonathan leaned in to me. ‘Between you and me, lovey, she and I never got on.’

Rupert turned from ordering our coffees and something alcoholic-looking for Jonathan. ‘Between you, me and this entire
département
of France, Emmy, I think you’ll find that Jonathan struggles with women in general,’ he said jovially.

‘Ah. I see...’

Jonathan laughed. ‘He’s trying to tell you I’m gay.’ He laid a hand on my arm. ‘But I can still recognise an angel when I see one, and you are definitely one.’

‘Well, thank you.’

‘So, Rupert, how’s it going?’ Jonathan asked, jabbing at Rupert’s leg with his walking stick for emphasis.

Rupert hid a wince. ‘It’s going well, considering, but that’s all down to Emmy here.’

‘So I hear.’ Jonathan raised his glass in my direction. ‘We could do with someone like you on a permanent basis, young lady. A Girl Friday. Someone who’ll muck in and get on.’

‘Oh? Do you have
gîtes
, too?’ I asked him.

Jonathan shook his head. ‘Alas, no. Wish I did. The old pension doesn’t stretch that far. No, what I meant was, it’d be nice to have someone to call on from time to time. You know: when the cleaner’s away, or when the car breaks down and I need a lift, or someone to go shopping on the days I’m not up to it. Maybe keep an eye on the house when I’m away.’