Return to the Little French Guesthouse

2

‘I’m so glad you two get along,’ Rupert said fondly from behind us, making me jump.

I spun around. ‘You’re back early. You’ve only been gone a couple of hours.’

He plonked himself down on the grass next to the dog, making me smile. He couldn’t have done that a while back – the ligament he’d damaged falling off a bar stool during the angina attack meant he could barely walk at one point. With his angina under control now, and me here to limit his stress – in theory – he was looking a darned sight better than when I’d left him a few weeks ago. He was leaner, and I presumed walking the dog was good for him. Even his face was slimmer, and he’d begun to grow a short-cropped beard, silver-grey to match his hair, which he was wearing a little longer, allowing the natural wave to show. I wasn’t fully decided about the beard, but it hid his slightly sagging jowls, so I was reserving judgement until I could review the finished product.

‘How’s Gladys?’ I enquired.

‘As we thought. Lightly sprained wrist. That daughter of hers needs locking up. All that hysteria!’

‘I’m sorry I didn’t know the number for the ambulance.’

He plucked idly at the short-cropped lawn, playing with the blades of grass before letting them fall. ‘Don’t worry about it. We should probably have a notice up in the hall. In the rooms and gîtes, too.’

‘I’ll sort it. I might have it printed on my forehead for good measure. Oh, and by the way – Julia Cooper. Thomson booking. September. Airbeds. What’s going on?’

His face was a total blank. ‘Run that by me again.’

I did, but the result was the same. ‘No idea what you’re talking about.’

I relayed my conversation with Julia Cooper as near to verbatim as I could manage.

Rupert shook his head. ‘No. I’m none the wiser. Is it on the spreadsheet?’

‘I looked but I couldn’t see it. I’ll go get the laptop.’

‘Sun’s too bright. Easier to go in.’

In Rupert’s den, he lowered himself onto the captain’s chair at the desk, leaving me to enjoy the little leather sofa, and stared at the screen. ‘Did you ask her what date?’

‘No. She made it sound as though I should know all about it, and I didn’t want to come across as a total idiot. I assumed you’d know.’

He waved a finger at the laptop. ‘No, but there are a few gaps, so a booking would be good – if we knew when the hell it was.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll phone her back and explain as best I can.’

Rupert ineffectually shuffled a few sheets of loose paper around on the leather-topped desk. ‘There must be something here, somewhere. Even Gloria can’t have taken a booking and not written it down, surely?’

I gave him a look. ‘You’re not asking me to place money on that, are you?’ I frowned. ‘When we transferred all the crap from the diary weeks ago, you seemed fairly booked up, but now there are quite a lot of gaps. This month too. Why?’

Rupert sighed heavily. ‘The honest truth? I think Gloria was losing interest big time, Emmy. All that stuff we transferred? Not all of it made sense. I’ve had the odd complaint that we’d never got back to people about enquiries. And some of the bookings Gloria had in the diary as a done deal turned out to be only provisional. I had a couple of no-shows, and when I contacted them, they said they hadn’t had confirmation, so they’d booked elsewhere.’ He shrugged. ‘It isn’t all down to Gloria, though. We’ve had a few genuine cancellations – they’re par for the course in this business.’

‘Okay. Well, I’m here now and I intend to do something about that. We’ll see what we can rescue for this year, fill a few gaps if we can, and it definitely won’t be happening next year. As for this Thomson thing, I know bits of paper were Gloria’s method of choice, but I’ll search the e-mails just in case.’

He nodded, a resigned air about him that I didn’t like.

I decided to risk a little probing. ‘Have you heard from Gloria?’

He grunted. ‘Haven’t spoken to her. She e-mailed to say she was staying in the Kensington flat, which I already knew through you, when you told me Nathan had moved to London.’

‘Ten years of marriage, and she sent you an e-mail?’

‘I could remind you that you had a five-year relationship and only got a note, Emmy.’

‘True. But we’ve spoken since. Or had the odd slanging match anyway. We had to, what with renting out the flat in Birmingham.’

‘Hmmph.’ He moved the antique blotter around on the desk, then a brass paperweight. ‘I can’t believe the two of them are shacked up together in my flat. It makes me sick to my stomach. It’s bad enough, her running off with someone, but to use my own property… Although I don’t suppose it’s my flat any more, is it? Hasn’t been since we got married.’

‘Did she… Did she say anything about divorce in her e-mail?’

‘No.’ His tone was abrupt. ‘And neither did I.’

That puzzled me. ‘But a few weeks ago, you told me you wanted to know where you stood.’

‘I did. But I think several weeks’ absence and one short e-mail clarifies that on an emotional front from Gloria’s point of view, don’t you? As for the financial front, I’d rather not precipitate anything. If you hadn’t noticed, it’s peak season and I could do without inviting something I haven’t time to deal with. Gloria’s getting free use of the flat for now – as is your delightful ex-boyfriend – and she hasn’t cleared out the joint bank account. As for everything else, I moved it all pretty sharpish, so if she wants more, she’ll have to make it official. And I can put up with the trepidation of not knowing how and when, for now, compared with dealing with the actuality.’

I could understand that. No point in prodding a nest of vipers unless you had to. But I wasn’t sure that was the full story. He looked so much healthier, but he had been a bit quiet since I’d been back. ‘Do you miss her, Rupert?’

He thought about it, but then his face closed. He shrugged. ‘No use crying over spilt milk, as they say. Life goes on, and we have a business to run.’

Understanding this was his signal that he would say no more on the subject, I stood. ‘Right. Let me check the e-mails, and I’ll let you know if I find anything.’

‘Thanks, Emmy. But… airbeds?’ He shook his head. ‘Ah, well. At least you’ll have plenty to tell Alain this evening.’

I smiled. Alain was Rupert’s half-English, half-French, caramel-eyed accountant. A kiss we’d shared in the pouring rain had nothing whatsoever to do with my decision to move to France, of course, but that didn’t stop me being disappointed that he was currently catching up with relatives near Paris. ‘Not tonight. He has some family get-together.’

‘Everything going all right between you two?’

Subtle as a brick. Since Rupert had decided we were made for each other, he’d taken playing matchmaker to a whole new level.

‘Fine, thank you. Within its limitations.’

‘Must be awkward for him,’ Rupert muttered. ‘Playing nicey nicey with his brother when the bastard ran off with his wife.’

‘It was a long time ago. He’s over it, he says – as far as you can get over something like that. He once told me he’d had a lucky escape. I gather Sabine is on the bossy side.’

Rupert snorted. ‘Oh, and you’re not?’

‘Ah, well, he hasn’t had a proper chance to find that out yet, has he?’

A search of the e-mails revealed a small string of correspondence between Gloria and Julia Cooper – filed in Miscellaneous as opposed to Reservations, in Gloria’s usual, haphazard manner. There were a few tentative enquiries from Julia, one referring to phone calls that Gloria had clearly not deemed important enough to tell Rupert about, and a final one from Julia, long and involved, giving me both a fighting chance and a heart attack at the same time.

The good news was that Julia had booked all three gîtes for the middle two weeks of September – although from the looks of the names and dates, they would not necessarily be fully occupied the whole time – and then all four rooms in the guesthouse over varying dates in the middle of that fortnight. From the number of Thomsons, I assumed it was a family gathering of some kind. And the figure Julia confirmed she would pay for the privilege looked pretty generous to me, especially if we were struggling for bookings that month.

The bad news was that there was also a long list of requests and demands, which presumably made sense to Gloria at the time if they had been discussed on the phone, but which made far less sense to me than I would like. They ranged from buffet lunches (which I had never known Rupert to provide) to a cake (for what occasion, it wasn’t made clear), a caterer (why would they need a caterer?) and then mention of the airbeds and travel cots with numbers to be confirmed…

Some of these guests would arrive in only two weeks’ time, the bulk of them just a few days later, and yet I had no idea which of these demands Gloria had actioned – if any – and which were or weren’t to be included in the price quoted.

Gloria’s reply to Julia Cooper? Thank you for your e-mail. No problem. All in hand.

I looked at the date of her reply and my heart sank. It had been sent when Nathan and I were on holiday at La Cour des Roses – and when Gloria had had her hands full with other things. Namely Nathan.

When I showed Rupert what I’d found, his response was to run a hand across his stubbly beard. ‘Damn.’ He looked again at the reservations spreadsheet. ‘We already have a booking at the guesthouse right in the middle of this. And one of the gîtes is occupied. I added them in after Gloria left. I had no idea that all this should have been blocked out.’

‘You’re not a mind reader, Rupert.’ I straightened my spine. ‘It’s too late to do any more today – we have a guest meal to cook. But we need a division of labour tomorrow. I’ll phone Julia Cooper in the morning to get a better picture of what Gloria’s let us in for. You need to go through the den and the e-mails to ascertain whether Gloria set anything in motion. You’ll know what to look for better than me. As for the double-booked guests, I’ll have to contact them and explain we need to move them if possible – offer to pay any charges they’ll incur changing their flights or ferries.’ I winced. ‘Do you want me to cancel my afternoon with Sophie tomorrow?’

Sophie – my new French girlfriend since my breakdown in her salon after Nathan’s desertion – was desperate to catch up, and she had put aside her precious midweek closing day to take me somewhere nice.

‘No. You haven’t seen her for weeks. A few hours won’t make any difference. But what are you going to say when Julia Cooper asks why you don’t know any of this? Or if she asks you to confirm it’s all underway?’

I made a face. ‘Lie. And if necessary, grovel.’

As I concentrated on the jobs Rupert dared allow me to do in the kitchen – chopping, mixing; things that even I couldn’t get wrong – I damped down panic as I thought about the downturn the day had taken. Geoffrey Turner’s nakedness, Clare’s temper, Gladys’s arm, Geoffrey’s attitude at my incompetence. Julia Cooper, double bookings, Gloria’s administration skills (or lack thereof). Oh God. Geoffrey’s imminent review. And to think I’d woken that morning full of the joys of spring – or rather, summer.

I needed this to work. All of this. I needed to ensure La Cour des Roses was not only the going concern it always had been, but that it could thrive enough for Rupert to pay me what he’d promised. When we’d discussed it, both of us were under the impression the place was on an even keel. The gaps I’d spotted since, and Rupert’s admission that Gloria had been seriously mucking things up – Julia’s call was confirmation of that, if we’d needed it – didn’t fill me with confidence.

Even though I was living rent-free, my salary was only enough to get by and run my car. I was reliant on rent to cover the mortgage for the flat in Birmingham, and I needed to make a start at getting my own business off the ground for additional income. I had some savings to tide me over if that took a while, but they wouldn’t last forever.

I thought about the way my work colleagues had looked at me askance when I’d told them I was passing over a promotion in order to move to France; my mother’s worry that it might not work out for me; Nathan’s response to the news. The idea that I might have to crawl back home with my tail between my legs was not one I relished.

But I’d never been one to crumble in the face of a challenge – even if days like today were not what I’d had in mind for my first week – and Rupert was relying on me to shoulder the workload and relieve his stress. Heaven help me.

Our three guest meals a week usually had a real dinner party feeling, but that night, unsurprisingly, the atmosphere was definitely on the chilly side. Gladys was pale and in pain, while Clare was over-solicitous, constantly making reference to the fall and shooting daggers at Geoffrey as she did so. He, in turn, became more morose as the evening wore on, while his wife looked like she would rather be anywhere else. By the end of the evening, our other two couples looked the same, despite the glory that was Rupert’s baked camembert with French bread, chicken in a creamy mushroom-and-brandy sauce with steamed vegetables, then fruit salad with homemade brandy snaps. It was a relief when everyone decided on an early night.

‘That was a nightmare!’ I told Rupert as we cleared away.

‘Ninety-five per cent of the time, it goes with a swing. Look on the bright side.’

‘That’s not easy when Geoffrey Turner’s involved.’

‘Emmy, you worry too much.’

But I continued to do just that as I trooped around the outside of the house to my room.

I loved the way Rupert had done it out for me. The walls were a restful, creamy yellow, and Rupert had eschewed his usual favouring of antiques – due to lack of time to source them – and gone with simple and modern wooden furniture. Even with a double bed, drawers, wardrobe and dressing table, there was space for a reading nook in the form of a small, upholstered chaise longue by the large window, which overlooked the small orchard. The rugs, cushions and bedding were various shades of calming green. The en suite was plain and white, but he’d added cheery towels and accessories, and I was well suited.

He’d even had a window converted into a door, so I could come and go as I pleased –the internal door led straight into Rupert’s private lounge, something he couldn’t do much about. But he’d had a lock fitted, for which we both held a key, and we’d agreed it would only be used in an emergency.

I undressed, brushed my teeth, and climbed between the crisp sheets, stretching as the cotton cooled my skin. With Geoffrey Turner and his potential review still preying on my mind, I reminded myself of one of my mother’s favourite sayings: What will be, will be.

If the shriek woke me from a deep sleep, it must have been loud enough to wake the dead in the main part of the guesthouse.

I shot out of bed, slapped on the bedside light and glanced at the time. Two o’clock in the morning. What the… ?

Clattering next door suggested Rupert had also staggered out of bed. A bark from the dog. An admonishment to shut up and go back to bed from her master.

Throwing on a thin robe, I scrabbled in my drawer for the key to our adjoining door. As I raced into Rupert’s lounge, I nearly broke my neck hurdling over the black Lab, camouflaged in the dark room. Repeating Rupert’s instruction to go back to bed, I closed the door on her and took the stairs two at a time, my mind dreaming up all sorts of scenarios. Had someone seen a rat? Perhaps someone had had a heart attack?

There was quite a kerfuffle up on the landing. Everyone had come out of their rooms in varying states of undress, and Rupert was in the middle of the scrum, trying to ascertain what had happened. The commotion was centred around Gladys, and Clare was noisily lambasting Rupert and anyone who would listen.

‘What kind of establishment do you run here that allows people to break into our room in the middle of the night, stark naked, eh? Look at my mother! Frightened the wits out of her!’

‘But who broke in? Who was naked?’ Rupert asked desperately.

‘That pervert down the hall.’ Clare pointed an accusatory finger at the Turners’ closed door.

Taking a quick census, I realised the Turners were the only ones absent. Leaving Rupert to deal with the mêlée, I went along to their door and tapped quietly.

Mary opened it an inch.

‘May I come in?’

She opened the door just wide enough to allow me through, as though she expected a riot of angry guests to barge in after me. I stepped in, glancing at the neat array of toiletries on the polished dark wood dressing table.

‘Where’s Geoffrey?’

Mary was tight-lipped. ‘In the bathroom.’

‘May I ask what happened?’

‘He sleepwalks sometimes. Not very often,’ she hastened to add, her eyes shifting quickly to the closed bathroom door.

‘Isn’t that rather a hazard in his occupation?’

‘It only started a couple of weeks ago. He was put on some new medication and it’s disrupted his sleeping patterns.’ Her chin lifted defiantly. ‘I always lock the door, just in case.’

‘And tonight?’

Her shoulders slumped. ‘I forgot. He must have wandered into the corridor, then thought he was coming back to bed and gone into the wrong room.’

I nodded. I couldn’t imagine a well-known travel blogger would deliberately set out to expose himself to his fellow guests.

‘The thing is, Mary, that might give someone a start, but it wouldn’t be the end of the world if he wasn’t…’

‘I know!’ she wailed. ‘After you saw him at the window, I told him he should wear something to bed. But he doesn’t like to overheat.’

I thought about Clare’s temper overheating, and wondered why she had to have been allocated the room right next to Geoffrey’s.

‘I’ll go and explain.’

Back in the corridor, Clare’s face was pinched, her robe pulled tightly around her, her arms folded defensively across her bust.

Rupert was still trying to calm her down.

‘There’s a perfectly innocent explanation,’ I told them. ‘Apparently, Geoffrey sleepwalks sometimes…’

‘His wife should lock him in, then. We’ll certainly be locking our door from now on!’

‘She usually does, but she forgot.’

‘I don’t believe in coincidence,’ Clare said. ‘Twice in one day? I don’t think so. I want him out tomorrow, or we’ll be taking this further, do you understand?’

At this, Gladys spoke up. ‘Well, I for one have had enough excitement. Let’s drop it for now and let these good people get some sleep, shall we? I’m sorry I woke you all.’

Everyone shuffled off. When they were all safely back in their rooms – the click of Gladys and Clare’s lock ringing out loud and clear – Rupert and I made our way downstairs.

In his lounge, Rupert rubbed at his face. ‘What a night!’

The dog came over to lean against him, seeking reassurance as to what all the fuss was about.

‘Nothing for you to worry about, Gloria,’ he told her.

She whined anyway.

‘Great. Now she needs to pee. I’ll let her out. You get some sleep, Emmy.’

Back in my room, I threw myself back into bed to contemplate what the hell I’d let myself in for. At least Geoffrey couldn’t have the cheek to write a bad review after this. Could he? If only Clare hadn’t been, well, Clare.

Lying on my side, I stared at my phone on the bedside table. It would have been so nice to talk to Alain right now. To see if he could stop me worrying and make me laugh. But I didn’t think he’d appreciate a task like that at two thirty in the morning.

Unsurprisingly, everyone was rather bleary-eyed the next morning.

I took orders for hot drinks while Rupert over-compensated by being ridiculously cheery, whistling as he prepared eggs – laid by his own chickens – in whatever style his guests requested. One couple, however, was noticeably absent.

‘Where are the Turners?’ I whispered out of earshot of the others – and most especially out of earshot of Clare.

‘Probably daren’t show their faces. Not after Geoffrey showed everything else.’

‘Not funny, Rupert.’

‘They’ll be waiting until the coast is clear.’

As the table emptied, I glanced at the wall clock. ‘Should I go and see if they’re all right?’

‘Maybe they went out for breakfast, so they wouldn’t have to face anyone.’

I went across to the window. No sign of their car in the courtyard. ‘You’re right. That must be it.’

‘See? I told you not to worry.’

When we’d cleared everything away, I went upstairs to do my daily room check – make the beds, quick dust and sweep, check the flowers for wilting, wipe the bathroom over, lob bleach down the loo. Since I knew the Turners were already out, I started with theirs.

It was empty. Not a single possession.

I went back downstairs to tell Rupert.

He shook his head. ‘That’s a shame.’

‘It’s more than a shame, Rupert. Geoffrey’s blog is read by thousands of people, and he’s been belittled and driven from the place by a fellow guest.’

‘Maybe he should try wearing some ruddy boxer shorts at night, then.’

‘You’re not taking this seriously!’

‘I am, Emmy, and I know you feel responsible, because it was your idea to bring him here. But what happened had nothing to do with us. Maybe we should be grateful he left of his own accord, otherwise we’d have Clare on our backs. And maybe he should sort out his medication before his next port of call.’

Back upstairs, I stripped the bedding and cleaned the bathroom… but despite my efforts, there was an odd smell. I opened the windows, checked the drawers for left items, then opened the large antique wardrobe. The smell was much stronger in there. I sniffed and wrinkled my nose. It smelled of… Oh dear. Gingerly, I felt at the base. It had been wiped, but the wood was still damp.

I went back downstairs. ‘Do you know how to get the smell of urine out of wood?’

Rupert spun around. ‘What?’

‘Geoffrey’s sleepwalking was worse than we thought. He peed in the wardrobe.’

‘What the hell for? There’s a perfectly good en suite in there!’

‘The door to which is next to the large wardrobe door.’

‘No wonder they left! Have you mopped it out?’

‘Looks like they did, but the smell has impregnated the wood. Any ideas?’

Rupert burst out laughing. ‘No idea whatsoever. Maybe Madame Dupont will know.’

And so, when Madame Dupont arrived for her cleaning stint, I took her upstairs to show her the damp patch. Since my French didn’t stretch to bodily functions yet, I resorted to pointing at the bathroom door, the word ‘toilette’ and some crude miming of a Frankenstein-style sleepwalker, followed by a man whizzing. It did the trick.

‘When are the next guests due?’ she asked.

‘Saturday.’

She patted my cheek. ‘T’inquiète pas, Emie.’

Ten minutes later, she had hung bunches of freshly cut lavender from the rail in the wardrobe – why hadn’t I thought of that? – and placed a shallow tray of ground coffee in the base.

‘To absorb the smell,’ she explained.

It was a waste of good coffee, if you asked me. But, like a mind reader, she laughed and told me she’d found the stash of cheap stuff Gloria used to foist on the guests, but which Rupert or I wouldn’t touch.

‘Might as well be useful for something,’ Madame Dupont pointed out.

I grinned, unsure as to whether she was referring to the coffee or Gloria.