Return to the Little French Guesthouse

8

I’d enjoyed my afternoon with Sophie and Ellie very much – a well-timed distraction – but by the time I spoke to Alain that evening, I was all wound up again over everything that was going wrong and everything I had to do.

We were talking online – it seemed to have become an unspoken agreement after that first time; a kind of graduation from phone calls and on to the next stage – and it meant I couldn’t hide my agitation.

‘Are you still upset about the review?’ he asked with concern. ‘I understand why, but it’s only one man’s opinion, Emmy.’

‘You didn’t see the other one?’ I directed him to the site where Clare’s review sat simmering.

He slipped on his reading glasses to peer closer at the screen. They made him look like some kind of sexy professor in need of loving attention.

Desire hit me like a punch to the gut. ‘God, you look sexy in those!’

Oops.

‘What? I mean, er, really?’ he stammered. It was kind of cute.

‘Yeah. But I didn’t mean to say that out loud.’

He grinned, finished reading Clare’s brief but deadly missive, then took his glasses off, tossing them to one side.

When I put on an exaggerated pout, his lips twitched. ‘I can put them back on again, if you like.’

‘That’s okay. I fancy you without them as well.’

‘Glad to hear it.’

‘So, what do you think?’

‘About you fancying me with or without my glasses on?’

I rolled my eyes. ‘The review.’

‘I think you’re right to do what you’ve done. Smother it with good ones. Once they start rolling in, these will have much less impact.’

‘I hope so. I don’t like their impact so far.’ I told him about the Websters’ cancellation and my dicey conversation with Julia Cooper.

‘But you persuaded her. And bribed her with breakfast goods. Well done, you.’

‘Yes, well, that’s not all she wants. Now there are dogs and a marquee, and she wants me to find her a jazz band from the festival for the party. I tried to look into it this morning, but it meant nothing to me. It’s hopeless!’ The feeling of being overwhelmed that I’d had that morning washed over me in a fresh wave.

Alain gave me a considered look. ‘Tell me what you’ve fixed so far, between you and Rupert.’

‘Who’s in what accommodation and when. The cake. The caterer. Duvets for airbeds. Where the tent and caravans will go.’

‘Well, I don’t think that’s bad going in just a few days, considering you were starting from scratch, do you? What’s left to do?’

‘Marquee. Toilet waste.’

Alain grinned. ‘Let’s leave those to Rupert, shall we?’

‘Dogs not getting on.’

‘Can’t do anything about that till they get there. What else?’

‘This wretched band! I don’t know where to start!’

‘You should start by asking someone to help you. And that someone would be me. I told you, I’ve been to the festival before. Let me bring up the programme.’

On went the glasses again.

Sigh.

‘I can’t say I know all these bands, by any means. But I would suggest that you aim for those in the less popular time slots. They’ll be the ones who’d be keen for an extra gig. So – not those playing Friday night or Saturday night. Maybe the afternoon or Sunday ones instead. And as Julia said, you need a small band. I do recognise a couple of these. Why don’t I go through this later tonight and e-mail you the names I think look most likely? Then you’ll need to look online to see if there are any clips of them playing, so you can judge whether they produce the kind of sound you want blasting through the grounds.’

I watched the breeze ruffling the leaves outside my window, then jumped as the dog came bounding into sight, let loose by Rupert for an evening gambol. I grinned as she raced around the trees like a manic skier on a slalom run. ‘If you like jazz, wouldn’t you be better doing that?’

He shook his head. ‘It sounds to me like the Thomsons might be a mixed bunch – some into jazz, some not, but all getting into it for the sake of the guests of honour. You know nothing about jazz, right?’

‘Damn right.’

‘So you’ll be a good judge of whether it’s the kind of music non-jazz lovers could enjoy as background music at a party.’

I blew out a long breath. ‘Thank you.’ My voice was small. ‘I know it’s not your problem.’

He rolled his eyes. ‘If it makes you look as woebegone as that, then it is my problem. I prefer to see you smiling.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t be sorry. Just take things one at a time and you will get there. I know you’ve had a crap week, and you’re seeing this Thomson thing as negative right now, but it’s not. A group of thirty-four people have chosen La Cour des Roses for one of the biggest events their family will experience. You and Rupert are going to make it fantastic for them. And if they like it, some of them may come back for a proper stay some time.’

There was a child’s shriek in the distance, followed by a loud giggle.

Alain grinned. ‘Bedtime for the little horrors. They’re too excited about Paris tomorrow. Mum and Dad have told them they’ll take them on a boat. I’d better go and see if their uncle can have a calming influence on them.’ He winked. ‘I’ll send you that e-mail later. Night, Emmy.’

‘Night.’

If he worked his calming influence on those kids the way he’d worked it on me, they would be settled in minutes.

He was right. I’d built all the different strands of the Thomson party into one big mountain, without taking stock and realising we’d already scaled quite a bit of it already. The jazz band was the worst hurdle, and when I got his e-mail, I’d do what he suggested and make a start.

Every time I spoke to him, I was reminded that I had a future here to look forward to, if I could make it work. La Cour des Roses, my agency, my language skills... It was a lot to contemplate and to implement, but that was what I’d come out here to do. I wasn’t about to give up yet.

Alain’s promised e-mail was sitting in my inbox the next morning. He’d sent it at one in the morning, bless him, but I couldn’t do anything about it right away. Monday was market day. I did, however, make time for a desultory phone call with the letting agents in Birmingham. No, they hadn’t found tenants yet, and did I realise it had only been three days since I last called them?

‘Are you thinking of going into town today, ladies?’ I asked Violet and Betty over breakfast. The long wooden table was set with all the usual breakfast goodies, as well as bright orange slices of heavenly sweet cantaloupe melon, which Rupert had bought from a roadside stall on one of his walks with the dog. The kitchen windows were flung wide and the bright sun hadn’t yet managed to chase away a light, refreshing breeze.

‘Rupert has promised to let us follow him in, so he can show us where to park,’ Violet told me. ‘We’re worried about it being busy because of the market.’ Her lined brow furrowed at the thought, highlighting the face powder she used so liberally.

I smiled. This was why Rupert’s business was so successful, usually. He didn’t just provide bricks and mortar and good food – he always went several steps beyond what might be expected.

‘No sign of the Jacksons yet?’

I heard a snigger from the direction of the oven, where Rupert was plating scrambled eggs for Violet and Betty. I even thought I heard a giggle from the ladies themselves. Yesterday, the Jacksons had arrived for breakfast at the last possible minute of Rupert’s generous hours – Charles Jackson dishevelled and out of breath, Ruby Jackson’s cheeks as flushed as her name might suggest – proclaiming they had ‘slept in’.

It looked like it could become a pattern. As everyone was finishing up, they did the same again, rushing in with out-of-breath apologies. They were clearly morning people.

When Rupert had settled the dog by the open window in his lounge, we met Violet and Betty in the courtyard. Rupert drove sedately so they could keep up. I looked over at him as we dawdled past a field with a combine harvester growling and grinding its way through a golden crop. I thought about him pottering about, throwing sticks for his beloved dog, laughing with the guests. Since the moment with the wedding dress, he had seemed to be okay. A bit tetchy sometimes, but that was just his way. Even so, he and Gloria had been married for ten years – they’d been in love. I was well over Nathan, but I knew now that I hadn’t ever been in love with him. Could Rupert really be recovering so well so quickly? I wanted to ask, but with Rupert it was best to pick your moments carefully.

We pulled into town and parked on a quiet street further away from the centre than usual so Betty and Violet could park without difficulty. My arm muscles groaned as I thought about the extra distance I would have to carry the bags later.

Like a tour guide, Rupert corralled his charges and led them along the streets to the main square. Violet and Betty were rapt as he pointed out the best shops, cafés and stalls.

‘Those two have a major crush on you, Rupert Hunter,’ I told him when they had tottered off and we bypassed the trinkets and clothes to get to the food stalls at the top end. ‘You’ve got them hanging on your every word.’

‘They’re welcome to have a crush, as long as they don’t try anything on.’ He shuddered. ‘They must be a good fifteen years older than me.’

‘That didn’t stop your wife sleeping with my boyfriend, did it?’

‘Hmmph. Did us both a favour.’ He gave me a sly look. ‘You wouldn’t be whispering sweet nothings over the airwaves with a gorgeous French accountant otherwise, would you?’

‘It’s not all sweet nothings,’ I said defensively. ‘He’s going to help with trying to find a jazz band.’

‘Well, we need all the help we can get with that,’ he admitted. ‘I should have thought of Alain the minute you mentioned it.’

‘Because he’s been to the jazz festival before?’

Rupert barked out a laugh. ‘He hasn’t just been to it, Emmy. He’s played there.’

‘Played there?’

‘Saxophone.’ He gave me a puzzled look. ‘Didn’t you know?’

‘No. He didn’t say. He just said he’d try to help.’

‘Ah. Well, he’s a modest soul, our Alain. He’s never been one to advertise these things. It’s just a leisure thing for him, I think – a way to relax.’

I nodded and smiled at the idea of Alain’s long fingers playing an instrument. Any instrument.

I pulled myself back. ‘So. Which stalls today?’

‘Cheese, sausage and... Oh, you have got to be kidding me.’

I followed his gaze to my favourite market stall – favourite, in that it was fascinating and of an era I’d thought long gone. Girdles, corsets, stout bras and granny pants that I didn’t imagine anyone wore any more. And who was browsing there, paying particular attention to a pair of snug-looking pants with a waistband so high it would reach right up to their matronly bosoms? Violet and Betty.

Sniggering, we shuffled past before they could see us.

Pierre-la-Fontaine was heaving, and the queues at the stalls were long with holidaymakers keen to try local produce, so our shopping was laboured.

But our post-shopping coffee was what I looked forward to most, because we would bump into Jonathan. He was – as ever – propping up the bar inside the café, easy to spot by his shock of white hair.

‘Rupert. And the lovely Emmy. Welcome back!’ He embraced us both.

Jonathan preferred to stay inside, where he could enjoy the down-to-earth company of the regulars. I welcomed the cool interior with its dark wood wall panelling, matching tables and chairs, the TV above the bar, the chatter of locals catching up on market day – but I did insist we sit at a table.

When the barman placed a squat cup of steaming coffee in front of me, I sighed with nothing short of utter contentment.

‘Happy?’ Jonathan asked me with a smile.

‘Mmm. Happy.’ I sipped, glorying in the taste. There was no doubt about it – the French knew how to make coffee.

‘Rupert’s not driving you mad yet?’ Jonathan jabbed his friend in the chest.

‘It’ll be the other way around,’ Rupert pointed out. ‘She’s just getting back into her stride. She’s already ordering me about. Soon she’ll be changing everything, insisting on this, that and the other.’

‘Isn’t that why you coerced her into coming out here?’

Rupert gave me a fond look. ‘Yup. Doesn’t mean I can’t grouse about it, though, does it?’

‘So, now you’re back, any chance of a few errands, Emmy? I’ll slip you a bit of cash.’

Rupert spluttered on his coffee. ‘God. It’ll be like bob-a-job week all over again.’

I stared at him. ‘What the hell’s “bob-a-job week”?’

Rupert and Jonathan exchanged grins, and Rupert explained. ‘When we were lads, Emmy – much longer ago for Jonathan than for me – bob-a-job week was when cubs and scouts went from door-to-door asking if anyone had a job they wanted doing for a bob. That’s a shilling. If you weren’t invited in by some dubious old bloke eagerly anticipating his favourite week of the year, you were used as slave labour by people who thought it perfectly acceptable to get a small child to wash their car, mow their lawn and clean out their tropical fish tank for less than the price of a pint of beer.’

My eyes widened. ‘And your parents were happy about that?’

‘These were times when parents were happy to allow their kids to play in the park and woods for hours on end without word of their whereabouts, as long as they weren’t cluttering up the house,’ Jonathan pointed out. ‘Times when bread and dripping constituted a meal, bananas and custard were an exotic treat and, once a year, you were lucky if you didn’t get a piece of coal as the booby prize in your birthday game of pass the parcel.’

Rupert snorted. ‘Bearing in mind that the party games mainly consisted of kids sitting on each other’s laps and groping each other wearing blindfolds.’

‘Golden times, I’m sure,’ I said drily.

‘In any case,’ Jonathan pointed out, ‘If it was bob-a-job week, our parents were too busy exploiting whichever uniformed little terrors knocked on their door to worry about what we were up to.’

I decided to get back on track, before they could traumatise me with any more tales of their childhoods. ‘So, you were saying, Jonathan? About errands?’

He coughed and cleared his throat. ‘Oh, yes. I know you want to set up your own business, but for now, I thought you could start with the odd errand for me. Can’t pay you much, but...’

‘Well, that wasn’t the kind of business I was hoping to set up...’ I began, but stopped as his face fell. Jonathan already had to put upon his friends, spreading out requests for favours so he didn’t annoy anyone too much. The fact that he was offering to pay something – hopefully more than a shilling – suggested he needed more help than he was letting on. ‘What do you need me to do?’

Jonathan beamed, happy to have his minimum-wage Girl Friday. He wanted to know, could I go round once a week to do some spring cleaning? His cleaner would only do the basics. Could I phone him before I went shopping, in case he hadn’t managed to get out? And if his leg was playing up so he couldn’t drive, could I take him to do his shopping or to an occasional medical appointment? I stopped myself asking why he didn’t get a taxi, because I suspected I already knew the answer – that he couldn’t afford them on a regular basis.

As he talked, I wondered how I’d gone from the prospective owner of my own holiday accommodation site to scrubbing skirting boards and cleaning out cupboards... But if the poor man needed it doing, he needed it doing.

As we left the café, I picked up a colourful leaflet from a table near the door. ‘What’s this?’

‘A fête here in town,’ Rupert told me as we made our way to the car. ‘They hold it every year.’

‘What kind of fête?’

‘Craft stalls, food stalls, entertainment, the usual. It has a really nice atmosphere.’

‘Do a lot of tourists come?’

‘Yes, but that’s not specifically the aim. It’s organised by and for the townspeople, but tourists are welcome to join in and always do. It’s good for local businesses.’

I paid the flyer more attention. ‘Don’t we have a gap next weekend? I’ll check when we get back.’

On the drive home, Rupert asked, ‘Are you okay, doing all that for Jonathan? I know it isn’t what you had in mind.’

‘It’s fine. We’ll see how it goes.’

‘You know he won’t pay you much.’

‘I know, but if I don’t do it, someone else will have to. I get the impression he’s struggling and this is his way of admitting it. I feel guilty about him paying me, but I don’t want to hurt his feelings at this stage. I’m happy to help.’

‘You’re a warm-hearted girl, Emmy.’

‘Ha! You mean I’m a total sap!’

‘That too. I have to say, what you’re planning sounds like a far better use of your marketing talents. Talking of which, quite a few people are impressed by the great job you did updating my website. Some of them haven’t got one, and some have but it’s crap. I said you might be interested.’

‘I could do that kind of thing in the quieter months. But you need to be careful not to oversell me. I’m not a web designer. I managed to titivate yours, but if someone wants a professional job doing, they should go to a professional.’

‘Except that would cost them a professional sum of money,’ he pointed out as we took the turning into La Cour des Roses. ‘Most people aren’t willing to cough up much, so you’d be a halfway house.’

I climbed out of the car, opened the boot and lifted out some of the bags. As I walked to the door, I noticed with sadness that the climbing roses around it had finished for this season, their petals littering the ground beneath. ‘Well, I wouldn’t turn it down at this stage.’

After lunch, I looked at the flyer again and brought up the bookings on the laptop.

‘The weekend of that fête, Rupert, we have a room free.’

‘So?’

‘I wanted to e-mail loyal customers about last-minute vacancies anyway. If I do it today, there might be someone who fancies this coming weekend. I could use this to tempt them.’

‘It’s hardly the tourist attraction of the year, Emmy.’

‘That could be the point, though, couldn’t it? Traditional, small-town French life at its best. Tell me your most loyal customers, and I’ll send them a list of last-minute dates and offer a twenty per cent discount.’

He opened his mouth to object, then closed it again. ‘You’re going to tell me that eighty per cent is better than nothing, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Won’t it encourage people not to book in future? To wait for special offers?’

‘Not if we only target regular guests who know you’re usually busy. But we need to agree which dates are free. I don’t want to send this out and then find out you had something on the back of a shopping list that I don’t know about. And while I’ve got your attention...’

He groaned.

‘I want to speak to you about the guest lounge. Geoffrey Turner hated it, and another reviewer has commented on it. Haven’t you asked yourself why nobody goes in it?’

‘The bedrooms are spacious and comfortable. The garden is glorious. People eat in the kitchen. The rest of the time, they’re out and about. Maybe they don’t feel the need?’

‘Let’s assume there is a need. You’re a guest here. It’s pissing down outside. Your wife has flu and needs to rest quietly in your room. Where do you go?’

‘The lounge is there if they want it, Emmy.’

I dragged him to his den and gestured around the room. ‘Initial impression. Three words.’

‘Cosy. Welcoming. Comfortable.’

I led him across to the guest lounge. ‘Same here. Imagine the rain’s beating down outside.’

‘Large. Formal. Uninviting. Hmm. I don’t suppose I saw it that way before. I don’t come in here much.’

‘Exactly!’ I looked at him curiously. ‘Why is the lounge this way, when the rest of the house isn’t?’

He shuffled his feet. ‘That was down to...’

‘Don’t tell me. Gloria.’

At the sound of her name, Gloria left her basket in the hall and came over to join us.

‘Did you have to call your dog Gloria?’

‘It seemed like a good idea at the time.’

I shook my head. ‘Why did Gl— … your absent wife do this?’

‘She wanted it to be a formal dining room – little tables like they have sometimes in B&Bs back in the UK – but I thought it would be stuffy and awkward, with people not daring to speak above a whisper. I wanted a cheerful atmosphere. So I had the kitchen done the way it is now, even though Gloria disagreed with guests eating in the kitchen.’

For once, I felt a pang of sympathy for his errant wife. And yet Rupert had been proved right. The dining area lent itself to a friendly atmosphere – usually – and it was easier for him than ferrying everything through like a waiter.

‘And this was the compromise?’

‘Yes. If she couldn’t have her dining room, she wanted an elegant after-dinner coffee room.’

I thought about what usually happened – people talking and laughing around the table until late, with no intention of budging. Why would you budge from a room with a great atmosphere to one that had none whatsoever?

I tried to picture it differently. ‘Gloria’s idea wasn’t so terrible in principle.’

Rupert looked surprised. ‘Really?’

‘The trouble with eating in the kitchen is that we can’t start washing up and scrubbing out pans while people are there. We have to sit and play host until the last guest decides they need their bed. It makes it an awfully late night for us.’

‘So you’re suggesting we encourage people to come in here after dinner?’

‘Not while it looks a funeral parlour, no. But if we made it welcoming, eventually we could. Get rid of that ugly sideboard and the torturous seating. Two large sofas facing each other, squidgy and comfortable, with a coffee table in between. And over there, four armchairs in a circle with a small coffee table in the middle. Move the bookshelf from the hall into here. That will make the hall more spacious, too. Plants. Lamps. Rugs. Cushions.’

Rupert winced. ‘My wallet’s weeping already.’

‘You don’t have to redecorate, just refurnish. I bet a lot of guests are disappointed with this lounge. Nathan and I were. I think it would be a good investment.’

Rupert scrubbed a hand across his face. ‘Okay. Let’s do it.’

I made a face.

‘What’s wrong? I’m agreeing with you, and you’re still not happy?’

‘We’re too busy for that much disruption at the moment. I’ll make it as homey as I can, for now – Julia Cooper will have something to say about it, if I don’t – and you can think about furniture and how much you’re willing to spend, once things quieten down. It’s not an instant fix. We need to get it right.’

I was about to ask him if he knew the whereabouts of my nemesis, the ballerina, but I thought better of it. Rupert had just given me permission to turn this ghoulish Victorian parlour into an inviting space to relax, and I needed to seize the moment. But first...

‘And while we’re on the subject of lounges...’

Rupert looked aghast. ‘It’s a whole subject now?’

‘When Julia complained about Geoffrey’s review, I told her the gîtes’ lounges are lovely.’

‘They are.’

‘Not the middle one, Rupert. Neither Madame Dupont nor I can get those walls properly clean. You can still see the crayon marks.’

Rupert grunted. ‘I knew I should’ve charged that ruddy family.’

I hid a smile. The first time I’d seen the full mural of trains, faded but still evident despite Madame Dupont’s efforts with various cleaning potions, I’d found it as charming as I’d found it annoying. ‘Can we get it painted before they come?’

‘What? You must be joking! It’s booked up till the weekend before they land!

‘I know. But one group doesn’t arrive till midweek. That gives us a few days.’

‘I usually do the decorating myself in the winter,’ Rupert grumbled.

‘I don’t think you can leave this one that long. It looks a mess. We’ve been lucky nobody has said anything so far. But Julia Cooper will, the mood she’s in. Can you get someone in, just this once? You’ve too much on to do it yourself.’

‘And what about the place stinking of paint when the Thomson lot arrive?’

‘Whoever you use can get started that weekend, work fast – and keep the windows wide open. I really think it needs to be done, Rupert.’

He gave a sigh. ‘Okay. I’ll look into it.’

My victory half-won, I moved back to our original topic. ‘As for this lounge.’ I gestured at the bookshelf in the hall. ‘That first.’

‘We’ll never shift that!’

‘No, but I can hear a motor in the garden and I assume it’s attached to a Ryan.’

We collared the poor lad – who I suspected regretted making an appearance – to help us move the bookshelf into the lounge. That done, both he and Rupert made a hurried departure before I could find more heavy lifting for them to do.

When I’d replaced all the books, I took down the two dreary prints and appropriated several nicer pictures from Rupert’s lounge and my own room, borrowing hammer and nails and hoping to God that I didn’t pierce anything electrical. I would have to think of something more permanent later – perhaps something involving Rupert’s friend Bob and his photography skills – but this would have to do for now.

I stole throws from Rupert’s sofa and my room to make the sofa more inviting, and used a lacy tablecloth as a runner for the forbidding sideboard.

Rupert’s lounge was a bit denuded now, but I didn’t think he’d mind. I even peeped into his bedroom to see if there was anything I could nick. The last time I’d been in there, not long after Gloria left him, I’d been horrified by the pink, lace and floral décor she’d subjected the poor man to. So I was pleased to see that he’d treated himself to respectably masculine denim-style bedding, and the walls were now plain white.

Good for Rupert.

Still, he would be losing his bedroom chair and floor lamp to make a little reading corner in a barren corner of the guest lounge.

A couple of extra cushions here, a footstool and a little coffee table from Rupert’s lounge there, and I glanced around with a huge amount of satisfaction. It still had a long way to go, but it was a start.

Tired but satisfied, I created a separate e-mail list of regulars from the names Rupert had given me and sent them our last-minute offers, and after a quick supper, I worked my way down Alain’s list of half a dozen or so bands, researching each online as he’d suggested. As I did so, I thought about his day in Paris, including the family boat trip on the Seine, and sulked.

A little fizz of apprehension started in my stomach. Alain was coming in less than a week. And while part of me wanted him right here, right now... Was Sophie right – that we were meant for each other? Or had the kiss we shared been just a holiday fantasy? We’d built it up so much, over e-mail and on the phone. Could the reality really live up to the promise? What would we do together? Would we have anything to say?

I jolted myself out of my contemplation and tried to concentrate on the task at hand. I rejected two bands because the clips I found were too loud for my liking, and began to see why Alain had made me do this. If I didn’t like the music, a multi-generational group of guests might not, either. Of the other five, I could only find clips for four, and they were okay, although I was well aware that a five-minute sample wasn’t necessarily representative.

I went to bed exhausted but satisfied.

In the morning, I decided I’d been neglecting my own goals, and since I’d worked until bedtime on the jazz band, I settled down in the cool of my room by the open window to work on the leaflet I’d promised Ellie. When it was done, I e-mailed it to her, then printed it off to show Rupert.

He was in his bedroom, filling boxes with what looked like the clothes Gloria had left behind.

‘Having a clear-out?’ I asked cautiously.

‘Yes. It’s very therapeutic.’

‘I can imagine.’ I noticed the wedding dress stuffed in a box and winced.

He saw me, and gestured at it. ‘When you found that the other day and we were talking about it... It made me realise that even if I don’t want to set anything legal in motion yet, there are things I can be doing. Like this. I know she’s gone, so what’s the point of opening the wardrobe every morning and seeing her stuff?’

I nodded. A man had to do what a man had to do, I supposed. ‘Will you... throw it out?’

‘Not yet. I just need it to be out of sight and out of mind, I suppose. I’ll put it in an outhouse for now. Decide what to do about it at the end of the summer, if I haven’t heard from her.’ He saw the leaflet in my hand. ‘Did you want me?’

‘Yes.’ I showed it to him. ‘What do you think?’

‘Neat. Concise. Sums up the basics and has all your contact details.’

‘I don’t suppose you know a decent printer in town, do you?’

‘There’s a place up near my café that’ll do it for you. You can use the one here, though, if you want.’

‘No, I might as well get them properly done. Thanks anyway.’

I left him to his cathartic clear-out, pleased that he felt comfortable enough with Gloria’s departure to finally decide to move forwards.

I was making progress on all fronts, Rupert was healing, and I was finally feeling close to an even keel. But by mid-morning, I was back to feeling like I was knitting a jumper that the cat kept getting its claws into and unravelling.

The phone rang and Rupert took the call. I wasn’t paying attention, but when I glanced over as he hung up, he looked downcast. ‘Another cancellation.’

I sighed. ‘Don’t tell me – they saw Geoffrey’s review?’

‘Yes.’

‘I would throttle that man if I could! What’s the point of trying to make things better if we’re going to have no guests left at this rate?’

Five minutes later, Rupert took a call from the pâtisserie I’d ordered the cake from. They were extremely apologetic, but their craftsman couldn’t possibly fit in the extra order and they should never have agreed to it. To make up for this error, they had contacted another pâtisserie in town and explained our requirements. The new place was willing to take it on but expected me to visit them in person to confirm my requirements and pay a deposit. Could I go in tomorrow morning?

Oh, joy. I’d had enough trouble with edible gold leaf and organza ribbon the first time.

I snuck away to my room and flopped on the bed, where I tried to call Kate – the best friend I’d inconsolably left behind in the UK – but it went straight to voicemail. I knew Sophie would be working, so after briefly considering pestering Nick (not always clear on how to handle upset women) and then my mum (liable to jump on a plane to come and coddle me in person), I called Alain.

‘I’m actually in the house – can’t we Skype?’ he said.

‘I don’t want you to see me if I burst into tears. I’m not pretty when I cry.’

I told him about the second cancellation, and he consoled me, but I was still feeling pretty beaten up when we said our goodbyes. One step forward, two steps back. I knew I was being too negative, but sometimes it felt as though my whole existence in France was at risk, and each little thing that went wrong pushed me closer to my non-life back in the UK.