Return to the Little French Guesthouse

10

‘Is the deed done?’ I asked Rupert when I got back. That chicken hadn’t been far from my mind all day.

‘All done.’

‘Isn’t it hard work?’

‘Certainly is. Don’t go endearing yourself to Madame Dupont too often, will you?’

I made a face. ‘I know she meant well, but why would she imagine I’d know what to do with it? And even if I did, why wouldn’t I just buy one from the supermarket?’

‘Older generation and country ways, Emmy. Fresh birds, hand-raised – why buy from the supermarket when you don’t know where it’s come from and what it’s been fed?’

‘S’pose.’

‘I’m sure she guessed you might not know what to do with it, but she would expect me to show you for future reference. And she would expect you to know how to roast a chicken at your age.’

‘Then she doesn’t know me very well, does she?’

‘But fortunately, I do. And because I knew you were going to Jonathan’s, I have it all ready for you. The chicken is stuffed with lemon and tarragon, there’s a dish of summer vegetables chopped and drizzled with olive oil ready to roast, and another dish with diced potatoes in herb butter. I laid off the garlic on this occasion.’ He gave me a knowing look. ‘All you have to do is put them in at the right time.’ He handed me a piece of paper with instructions scribbled down.

‘You’re a star. Thank you.’

Jittery about my ‘proper’ date with Alain, I showered and chose a sundress, swapped it for linen trousers and shirt, then swapped back to the dress again.

Looking for something to distract me, I checked my e-mails – two of the bands Alain had e-mailed last night had declined my offer. Great. I made another paranoid review check, and finally saw something that pleased me. After all the comments on Geoffrey Turner’s blog along the lines of Sounds dreadful! and Thanks for the heads-up, mate, there was now a lengthy comment from a Mrs S Baxter. I took it through to Rupert in his lounge and read it out.

‘“My husband and I had a thoroughly enjoyable stay at this establishment only a few short weeks ago. I find it hard to reconcile the descriptions in this review with our own experience, which was nothing short of idyllic. I can only assume the Silver Fox has taken an unfortunate experience there and deliberately twisted it to entertain his readers. I can and do wholeheartedly recommend La Cour des Roses to anyone.”’

Rupert applauded. ‘Good old Sheila. She was here after you left. Lovely woman.’

‘Indeed. Now let’s hope he doesn’t remove the comment.’

‘Can he do that?’

‘It’s his blog. If he has any shred of decency, he won’t.’

Rupert grunted. ‘Shame he didn’t have the decency to wear something in bed, then none of this would have happened in the first place. By the way, you’re not going to like this. Apparently there are going to be major roadworks nearby, starting some time next week.’

‘Next week?’ My face fell. ‘Will it clash with the Thomson thing?’

‘It will, if they get started when they say.’

‘Parking’s going to be impossible as it is. We could do without any access issues to add to it.’

‘Not much we can do, other than hope they’re delayed for some reason.’

‘Did you get anywhere with decorators?’

He sighed. ‘Yes. I found someone willing to start on the Saturday afternoon after the gîte’s vacated and work through the weekend and beyond. Charging me extra, of course, but there’s two of them and they’ll work as fast as they can. I told them to do the whole place while they were at it. No point in doing half a job. Besides, there’s still that black smudge in the bedroom where some idiot had a candle too near the wall. They’ll move as much furniture as they can into the gîte next door on the Saturday, and start decorating on the Sunday.’ He narrowed his eyes at me. ‘But if Julia Cooper complains about paint fumes, Emmy, you can be the one to deal with it.’

There was a knock at the door. Alain. My jitters came back in full force.

‘For goodness’ sake, Emmy, put a smile on your face,’ Rupert growled. ‘You’ll put the poor bloke off, looking like that! Besides, this date had better go well – I’ve spent half the day plucking and degutting a ruddy chicken for it.’

I popped a kiss on his cheek. ‘Thanks, Rupert.’

Wiping my damp palms on my dress, I went into the hall and opened the door.

‘Hi.’ Alain was freshly showered, and the contrast of his faded shirt against his tan made me want to lick my lips.

A proper kiss this time. Mmm.

‘Don’t forget that chicken,’ said Rupert, stepping into the hall. ‘And I expect you home by ten.’ I gaped. He winked.

We dutifully gathered the dishes in our arms and ferried them across to Alain’s little car, laying them carefully across the back seat.

He opened the passenger door for me, went around to fold his six-foot-something frame behind the steering wheel of the tiny blue hatchback, and we set off down the lane.

‘We had a couple of refusals from the bands,’ I told him. ‘One was a simple “No, sorry”. The gist of the other seemed to be that they had to leave directly after the festival to get back to work on Monday.’

‘That could be a problem, I suppose – the fact that it’s a Monday night. Don’t worry. We’ll keep at it.’

As we reached the outskirts of town and the groupings of houses got more frequent, Alain turned off the main road, following a series of suburban streets with cream, white or yellow detached houses nicely spaced apart, until he pulled up at the kerb. I glanced at the nearest house. It was small and neat, its surrounding lawn interspersed with clumps of glorious hydrangeas.

I was surprised he lived in a house in the suburbs, but then, he had been married, so perhaps they had bought the house with a view to starting a family.

He could read me like a book already. ‘Sabine and I chose this place when we moved down from Paris,’ he told me as we carried the dishes up the path. ‘When she left, I decided I liked it and it was convenient for work. We hadn’t had time to do much with it, so I did it up the way I wanted it, to make it mine and mine alone.’

‘No bitterness there, then.’

His lips twitched. ‘Not a jot.’

He kicked open the door and we lined up our cargo on the worktops. He peered appreciatively under the foil, with no clue that he might soon be poisoned by roast chicken à la Emie. (Well, à la Rupert – but since I was the one in charge of timing it all, there was still room for manoeuvre in the salmonella department.)

Turning, he looked at me for a long moment, and then he bent his head and his lips were on mine. It felt good – more than good – but I got the impression he was holding back, being too polite. A little devil on my shoulder told me to push. I applied more pressure and got what I wanted. He cupped his hand around my neck and deepened the kiss, backing me against the counter until I had nowhere to go. Not that I wanted to go anywhere.

‘Wow!’ he said when we came up for air.

‘Yeah. Wow.’

He came back down for a second helping, his hand straying to my hips, gripping me possessively, kissing me senseless, until we were both breathing too rapidly for our own good.

‘Okay. So.’ He shook his head as though to clear it. ‘Wine? I was going to suggest an afternoon walk, but I’ve lost interest in that idea.’

‘Wine would be nice, thanks.’

He poured us both a glass.

‘Maybe you should put the oven on so it can warm up,’ I told him.

He turned it on. ‘Why did Madame Dupont insist you cook for me?’

‘She reliably informed me that the best way to win you over is by pleasing your stomach.’

Tasting his wine, he caught me in a long stare over the top of his glass. ‘My stomach isn’t the only part of me you could please to win me over.’

As he put the glass down carefully, his smile was wicked. My stomach did a triple somersault that would have won awards in a gymnastic tournament.

I gave him an innocent look. ‘Oh? And what part would that be?’

He moved in close, pinning me hard against the counter as he brought his lips back to mine, and leaving me in no doubt as to which part of him might require pleasing. His kiss was urgent, heated. I responded in kind, allowing my hands to roam beneath his shirt, splaying my fingers across the firm muscles of his back.

‘How long will that chicken take?’ he murmured against my lips.

‘Not long enough,’ I warned him.

‘God, Emmy, how long do you think it would take us?’

‘It’s not that.’ I waved my hand at the row of dishes on the counter. ‘But I won’t be able to concentrate if I’m worrying about what has to go in when.’

Alain nuzzled my neck. ‘I’m experienced in these matters. I can tell you what needs to go in when.’

I slapped him and gently pushed him away. ‘You know I’m talking about the food. I have it all timed out.’

‘It’ll take fifteen minutes for the oven to warm up.’

‘Alain Granger! I have no intention of a quick shag with half an eye on the clock...’

He shook his head and moved his hands from my hips, slowly up the side of my ribs, resting at the sides of my breasts so that his thumbs brushed lightly against them.

My breath caught in my throat.

‘How about a quick bout of necking on the sofa?’

‘Oh. Well. I think I could countenance that.’

He took my hand and led me through to the lounge, pulling me onto his lap. Teasing me with tiny kisses at my ear, my neck, my collarbone, he murmured endearments in French as his mouth travelled. ‘Ma colombe... Mon chou...’ I had no idea what they meant but, oh my God, if my pulse beat any faster, I was going to have a heart attack.

He moved back to my mouth and whispered against my lips. ‘Once that chicken is in, it’s going on a very slow cook. I intend to savour every last millimetre of you.’

Every last millimetre of me melted as I moulded against him, my mouth to his, my breasts against his chest, my...

‘Wait.’ I pushed against his chest. ‘Will the oven be ready yet?’

Groaning, Alain cursed. ‘Sod it. That chicken is going in now.’

He pulled away, bounced to his feet and strode purposefully into the kitchen. I heard the oven door slam. He was back before I’d even had time to get to my feet. He held out his hand and I allowed him to lead me upstairs. We stood at the foot of his bed as he took me back into his arms and kissed me thoroughly. When he pulled away, he studied me for a moment.

‘I could spend all day kissing you, Emmy.’

That caramel gaze of his was spellbinding, when I knew it was for me and me alone.

Alain made short work of my dress. It pooled on the floor at my feet as I tugged at his shirt to make things fair. Impatient, he pulled it over his head, dragged off his jeans, then pulled me down next to him on the bed.

I ran my hands across the firm plane of his chest and stomach, wondering how he kept so toned, looking after people’s accounts all day. He had a small birthmark just under his ribcage, and with delight, I traced it with my finger, thinking it looked just like a little heart.

His arm snaked round my shoulders to pull me close. I breathed in the scent of him, lemon and mint. The feel of his skin next to mine was so good.

‘Just so you know,’ he murmured into my hair. ‘Knowing you were here in France and not being able to see you? To touch you? It was killing me slowly.’

I let out a delighted laugh. ‘Really?’

‘Really.’

And then his mouth was on mine – no more preliminaries, no messing about. He meant business with that kiss. My hands moved to his face to feel the light stubble there, then down to his shoulders and around to the smooth skin of his back.

Alain dispensed with the remaining fabric barriers between us. ‘You’re so lovely.’

I decided to take the compliment graciously as his hands smoothed down my arms, over my back, down my sides to brush my breasts, one hand lingering there while the other moved downwards.

I gasped. ‘Alain, please...’

‘I promised to explore every millimetre, remember?’

Oh, I remembered, all right. ‘I think that would kill me. My heart’s beating too fast as it is.’

He smiled and nuzzled my neck. Other parts of him nuzzled elsewhere. Slow lovemaking was no longer an option, as far as I was concerned.

‘How about we do all that later?’ I murmured.

I took his desperate groan as acquiescence, and all talking ceased.

As we lay together afterwards, our bodies slicked with a light sheen of sweat from the day’s heat and our own, I curled into the crook of Alain’s arm, my hand splayed across his chest, in no doubt whatsoever that I belonged there and always had.

Being a natural cynic, I’d always thought that people who said stuff like that were hopeless romantics or deluded, or both, but experiencing it for myself was eye opening. It made me realise that I should have always known that Nathan and I weren’t right for each other. We’d never had this feeling of... oneness. And other lovers had simply been a stepping stone along the way to this.

I mentally rolled my eyes. Any minute now, I would be saying that Alain and I were destined for each other in some grand universal scheme, or something equally demented. I snuggled in closer.

‘Are you okay?’ he murmured, kissing the top of my head.

‘Mmm.’

I could feel his lips curve into a smile. ‘I’ll take that as a yes.’

He turned to face me and we lay side by side, almost nose to nose. His hand came up to brush the hair from my face and caress my cheek.

‘I’m glad I came back early.’

‘Me, too.’

We dozed and kissed and dozed again until I realised something was bothering my senses. My mind struggled through a mist of sleepy post-sex euphoria, trying to get to grips with what it might be.

‘The chicken!’ I shot out of Alain’s arms and out of bed, tugging on my sundress as I made for the stairs.

In the kitchen, there was a distinct smell of burning. I yanked open the oven door to a billow of smoke, grabbed oven gloves and pulled it out.

The smoke alarm went off. Alain, tugging on jeans as he followed me into the room, unlocked the back door and opened it wide as I stared at the blackened object in front of me, and my chin wobbled.

‘Don’t get upset, Emmy. It’s just a chicken.’

‘But it’s not just any chicken! It’s Madame Dupont’s chicken! And now it’s died for nothing!’

Alain paled a little, but he was highly impressed that I’d been gifted one. ‘That old lady must be fond of you.’

‘Yes, well, you’d better tell her how delicious it was if you bump into her, or my life won’t be worth living,’ I mumbled.

He kissed away my misery. ‘I’m sorry we got so distracted that we forgot about it.’

‘Are you?’

He burst out laughing. ‘What do you think?’

Velvet soft, his laughter was infectious, and I had to join in. He took the bird outside, where it could finish smoking before being binned, then came back in and took the foil off the other dishes.

‘Roasted veg and potatoes? Gives us time for a glass of wine outside first.’ He picked up the oven gloves. ‘Take a proper look around while I sort it out, if you like.’ When I hesitated, his lips twitched. ‘You know you want to.’

He was right. I’d been too distracted earlier to take much notice of my surroundings, but now my curiosity was niggling at me, so I went off to inspect his lounge. Perhaps because he was an accountant, I’d anticipated an element of the clinical, but there was nothing of the kind. His space was inviting and comfortable – cream walls, slouchy sofa and armchair with cream covers and coffee-coloured cushions, warm wood bookshelves, a large lamp with a driftwood base, a wooden coffee table scattered with newspapers and books.

The dining area held a small square table and chairs, currently playing host to the entire contents of his briefcase by the looks of it. I was touched that he hadn’t over-tidied before I arrived. I took that to mean that he was comfortable with me and didn’t feel the need to impress. I liked that.

A glass-fronted shelf unit held a few knick-knacks, including a photo of a couple around my parents’ age – presumably Alain’s parents – and another of a young boy and girl smiling at the camera, who I guessed must be Alain’s niece and nephew. No photo of the children’s parents – hardly surprising, under the circumstances.

I went back through to the kitchen, a soothing space with sage green and pale blue tiles, white units and grey worktops, and he handed me my wine.

‘So. Do you like what you see?’ There was a twinkle in his eye.

I had a twinkle in my eye. ‘You know I do.’

We sat at the back of the house amidst the hydrangeas, with a glorious view across farmland. To the right, there was a profusion of colour in the distance.

‘What’s that?’

Alain lapsed into French. ‘Roses. They grow a lot of them around here. The region’s well known for them.’

‘Crikey. It’s a hell of a view.’

‘In French.’

I made a face, but I did it anyway, after a fashion. He asked what else I could see, and I managed to describe the fields and the trees. The road in the distance. What the guests had been up to.

After a quarter of an hour, he smiled. ‘You did really well this evening.’

‘Thanks.’ He had no idea how well. Concentrating on speaking a foreign language was hard enough, but it was twice as hard when all you wanted to do was kiss the guy teaching it to you. ‘Do I get a reward?’

‘You had your reward in advance. Anyway, I’m hungry. A man can’t perform on an empty stomach.’

We ate outside. ‘That was delicious, even without the chicken,’ Alain said as he finished. ‘Thank Rupert for me, will you?’

‘What makes you think Rupert made it?’ I asked him, indignant.

He laughed. ‘Emmy, I’ve known Rupert a long time. I know his cooking when I taste it.’

‘And how do you know he didn’t just tell me how to do it?’

‘Did he?’

‘It was my chicken,’ I said sulkily.

‘“Was” being the operative word.’ He glanced across at the blackened remains next to the dustbin. ‘Can you stay tonight?’

‘I...’ I remembered that I didn’t have my car. Or any toiletries. Or a change of clothes.

‘I can lend you a toothbrush. Anything you need. We’ll get up at the crack of dawn and I’ll get you back to La Cour des Roses in time for you to change.’ When I didn’t answer, he asked, ‘Worried what Rupert might say? That man has made it his life’s mission to get us together. He’ll be thrilled.’

‘Okay. I’ll stay.’

‘Good.’ He relaxed a noticeable fraction. ‘If we have to get up early, we ought to get to bed early, don’t you think?’ He gave me a top-to-toe appraisal. ‘And I seem to recall that you shot out of bed so quickly, you forgot to put any underwear on under there.’

I let out a long, slow breath as he led me upstairs. And then my mind turned to mush as Alain slowly made a start on fulfilling his earlier promise, using his hands and his mouth, until my body hummed with desire.

He’d said every millimetre – and he’d meant it.

The alarm on my phone went off at the godforsaken hour I’d set it for, but I was already waking with the light coming through the window. We’d left the shutters open during the night to allow some air in.

Alain grunted and rolled over, but he wasn’t getting off that lightly. I rolled over too, my arms around his waist, my breasts against his back.

‘You’re playing a dangerous game, Emmy,’ he murmured sleepily.

I trailed kisses across his shoulders. ‘I like a little danger sometimes.’

‘Oh, you do?’

In a split second, he’d spun around and pinned me against the mattress. ‘I thought you needed to get back early.’

‘Early’s a flexible term.’

‘I’m a flexible kind of guy...’

Afterwards, I looked at the clock in a panic, leapt out of bed and began to dress.

Alain dutifully dragged on shorts and a T-shirt.

‘You’re not going to work like that?’

‘Hardly. I’ll have a run after I’ve dropped you off, then shower and change for work. God knows, it’s early enough.’

‘Is that how you stay so fit?’

‘Yup. I run every morning, cycle at weekends sometimes. And I do my own garden. It keeps me fit enough.’

‘It certainly does,’ I agreed, openly admiring his physique as we went to the car.

‘When can I see you next?’ Alain asked me as we drove. ‘Are you free Friday?’

‘Yes. But I don’t think I can come to yours again, or stay over. I don’t want Rupert to think I’m deserting him because you’re back. Does that make sense?’

Alain gave me an easy smile. ‘It’s okay. I understand. How about if I come over to La Cour des Roses? I ought to spend some time with Rupert anyway.’

I sent him a grateful smile. I loved that he wasn’t complaining. ‘Thanks.’

Back at the guesthouse, our kiss was easy, relaxed, his lips soft on mine. I let myself into my room, threw myself in the shower and quickly dressed. By the time I got to the kitchen, I was a little flustered and Rupert had started on breakfast. Several guests were already at the table.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ I said as he made me an espresso. ‘The... alarm didn’t go off.’

‘No worries.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Alarm, my arse, Emmeline Jamieson. Did you have a good time at Alain’s?’ His eyebrows wiggled.

I opened my mouth to deny, but I was so filled with euphoria at the way things had gone with Alain that no words would come out. I closed it again and simply smiled and nodded. Rupert was a good friend, and at that moment I could have told him anything, but even I realised that telling a bloke thirty years older than me about a long evening of glorious sex with his accountant was possibly over-sharing.

I didn’t need to say anything. My face must have said it all.

‘I’m glad. It’s about time you two got it together. Your eyes are shining, Emmy. If I didn’t know better, I’d have said you’d been at the dog’s vitamins.’

But despite his light tone, I thought I detected a sadness in his eyes. I was moving on from Nathan and Gloria’s actions, and I’d thought Rupert was too, but perhaps he was still somewhere in limbo.

It was surprising what a bout of spectacular sex could do. The fact that it had been with someone I felt could become someone very special was just the icing on the cake.

I was on a roll. Not one but two bookings came in to fill last-minute vacancies, both from the e-mail I’d sent to Rupert’s loyal customers and one of them for the coming weekend.

And I had an e-mail from Ellie. I told Rupert about her offer to help and showed him her proposed e-mail to clients, to which she would attach my leaflet.

‘That’s good of her. I always knew she had a soft side underneath that intimidating front she puts on.’

‘I know. I’ve seen a different side to her lately.’ I fired off a reply, telling her it looked great and thanking her profusely, then brought up the reservations. ‘I’ve filled two vacancies already,’ I told him, showing him the spreadsheet.

‘Really? Well done!’

‘Don’t you ever get any French people staying here? These are nearly all British names.’

‘Mainly British. Some Dutch – who always speak perfect English – and a smattering of other nationalities. But no, I rarely get any French.’ He laughed. ‘Think about it, Emmy. A Frenchman allowing himself to be cooked for by a Brit? He’d rather starve!’

I’d had another no from another band, but since I was on a high, I decided that was a positive, in that it was narrowing down our field.

I phoned the letting agents to harangue them again. They said they had one couple who might be interested. I told them to make them more interested.

And then – the moment I’d been waiting for – a yes from a band. I asked Rupert to make sure my French comprehension skills weren’t playing tricks on me.

He replied with a hug. ‘You did it!’

‘Ha! With a little help from my jazz-loving friend.’

‘Did you get him to play for you?’ he asked curiously.

‘I… er... forgot all about it. There was the chicken to worry about and then...’

Rupert snorted with laughter. ‘No need to explain. I get the picture.’

I cleared my throat. ‘Right. One victorious e-mail to Julia Cooper coming up!’

‘Er. Before you do that, Emmy...’

His sheepish expression made me nervous. ‘What have you done?’

‘I agreed to do a barbeque for them on the Thursday night.’

‘You what? When was this? Why didn’t I know about it?’

‘She phoned yesterday when you were otherwise occupied at Alain’s, and asked if it would be possible. She’s worried that they’ll be tired and emotional and it would be a shame to all eat separately on the first night that everyone’s together. I agreed to it.’

I shook my head in despair. ‘You’re soft and daft. Are you expecting any profit? We might as well just write Julia Cooper a cheque and be done with it!’

‘Don’t worry, Emmy. Julia will pay the food bill. We’re only doing the shopping, the cooking and the clearing up afterwards.’

‘Oh, is that all?’

‘And we’ve agreed to keep it simple. Meat, bread, salad. Bought desserts. That’s it.’

‘For thirty-four people.’

He ruffled my hair. ‘Cheer up, Emmy. It’ll be fun.’

I didn’t bother to argue. What would be the point? It was a done deal.

I sent my e-mail about the band to Julia, and got a highly congratulatory one back. Along with notification of three vegetarians and a vegan. And since we were now providing breakfast for all the guests, could we also extend the buffet lunches for the three days of the festival to all the guests? (At an extra charge, of course.)

Rupert’s head was back in his hands. ‘I may retire. Preferably before the Thomson weekend.’

I punched his arm. ‘Don’t you dare desert me now, Rupert Hunter. Right. We need to do a little planning. I can feel a sizeable internet supermarket order coming on...’

My phone rang. It was Sophie.

‘Emmy! Wine, pizza, my place with Ellie tonight? Please say you can come.’

‘Oh, Sophie, I’d love to, but I can’t. We have a guest meal and...’

Rupert frowned and indicated that I should hand him the phone. Startled, I did.

‘Sophie? Rupert here. Yes, she can come. No, I’ll manage, but she can’t be there till at least half seven, if that’s okay? And she’ll need to be back by eleven or so. Okay. Bye.’

I gaped. ‘What did you say that for?’

‘You can help me prep and get the guests settled. I will entertain them. And you can help clear up when you get back. Now, do you want to discuss this feeding of the five thousand or not?’