Return to the Little French Guesthouse

5

I rose at five thirty after bugger-all sleep. What the hell did Nathan want?

Making use of my time, I sat with my laptop at my bedroom window. Still no review on the Silver Fox blog. I e-mailed my Chenonceau page to Nick, then decided that since the website wouldn’t be sorted for a while – poor Nick had paid work to get on with, after all – I should get started on a leaflet giving bullet points of what I intended the agency to be and do, maybe detailing extra marketing services I could offer. It would be useful for Rupert and me to have on us, in case someone showed an interest, and it would be easy to e-mail if necessary.

At seven, I sorted out the chickens and began on breakfast. I would phone Nathan as soon as I had the table ready.

He beat me to it. ‘Em. Where the hell have you been? I tried calling you all last night.’

‘Sorry. I was busy, and then it was too late to call you back.’

‘Busy doing what?’ he asked suspiciously.

‘Working. What’s up?’

‘Well, I’m glad you’re swanning about sunning yourself in France while I’m up to my ears in phone calls here.’

Hearing guests on the stairs, I bit back a response. ‘Hold on a minute.’

Smiling at Pippa and Angus, I told them to help themselves, then apologised and took myself off to the bottom of the garden.

‘What’s wrong?’ I asked him, once I was out of earshot.

‘The flat, that’s what’s wrong. Thank you so much for nominating me as the contact for the agents.’

I took a deep breath. ‘We are both down as contacts, Nathan, but we discussed this. Since you are in the UK, you have to be the first point of call. I can hardly come all the way back to Birmingham for a dripping tap, can I?’

‘It’s hardly a dripping tap, Em. We have no tenants.’

‘What? But it was all agreed! The agent said…’

‘The couple they’d found changed their minds.’

‘They can’t do that!’

‘Yes, they can. They hadn’t signed the contract yet.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake. That agent gave me the impression it was all signed, sealed and delivered.’

‘Well, it wasn’t quite, it turns out.’

‘Will he get someone else?’

‘He’s making it a priority, whatever that means. In the meantime, the mortgage is due, and there’ll be no rent to cover it. Make sure your half is in on time, Emmy.’

I didn’t like his tone. We’d kept an account open for the sole purpose of dealing with the flat, and that involved trust on both sides. ‘I could say the same to you.’

‘I’ll keep up my end of the bargain. I ought to be taking a fee for dealing with all this crap.’

The nerve! ‘Let’s call it quits for the crap you put me through, shall we?’

I clicked off the phone and stood for a long time, staring at nothing.

Oh, this was not good. I’d based my finances on the mortgage being paid by the rent. Now there was no rent, I might have to dip into my savings. What if we couldn’t get anyone? The rental agents had assured us it was a desirable property, but even a couple of months would make a big dent in money I didn’t want to touch.

I thought about what Nathan had said, about me swanning about in the sun. If he’d been standing there in front of me, I might have throttled him. He was earning good money in London and living rent-free with Gloria in a flat that belonged to the man he stole her from. And although I, too, was living rent-free, it was on a far more moderate wage. I simply didn’t have the disposable income to cover mortgage payments.

My stomach felt heavy and sick. I couldn’t afford for the flat to stand empty. If that was going to happen, I might have to persuade Nathan to sell – and who knew how long that would take?

The minute breakfast was out of the way, I shut myself in Rupert’s den to phone the letting agents. The call was as unsatisfactory as I’d thought it would be – a confirmation of what Nathan had said. In a tone that brooked no nonsense, I laid it on thick about requiring tenants as a matter of urgency, or we would have to look at switching agencies or perhaps even selling. They got the message.

‘Everything okay?’ Rupert asked me as I came out. ‘I passed by the den and you sounded rather… forceful.’

No point in hiding it. I told him.

He blew out a breath. ‘Damn. I honestly thought it was a great idea to rent that flat out. A sale is so much more complicated when you’ve just split up, and it takes time. And I thought it would be good for you to stay on the property ladder in the UK, just in case.’

I shot him an alarmed look.

He immediately patted my hand. ‘Not because I might go bankrupt overnight or sack you for the Backfiring Blogger Balls-up. I won’t change my mind, Emmy. I want you here, and I can afford to pay you what we agreed as long as we keep steadily busy – which, I admit, seems to be a bit of a battle at the moment. But I’m enjoying more time with the dog and less worry and hard work in my old age. I only thought that keeping a foothold in the UK would give you peace of mind, in case you decide you don’t like it out here.’

I glanced through the patio doors at the glorious garden and remembered that Alain’s return was just over a week away. ‘I can’t see that happening any time soon, Rupert.’

‘Well, then. You’ve already been proactive, phoning the agents. Keep at them. I’m sure Nathan will do the same. If they have both of you on their backs, they might make more effort.’

‘I will. Did you get anywhere with the caterers yesterday?’

‘I’ve spoken to several on the phone. They were all unimpressed with the short notice, but I have meetings with a couple later today.’ He slapped his forehead. ‘Although the numbers I gave them will be wrong, what with the ruddy campers, won’t they? How many is that now?’

‘Thirty-four, if you count a baby and a toddler.’

He sighed. ‘Okay. At least I know before I meet with the caterers. No more temporary dwellings she hasn’t told us about?’

I laughed. ‘Not as far as I know. I’ll go into town and order the cake. Any recommendations?’ There was more than one pâtisserie in Pierre-la-Fontaine – there was more than one of anything that involved food in the town – and I could do without trawling them all.

‘The last time I had to order something for a guest, I used the one a few doors up from Sophie’s salon, same side of the street.’

‘Okay. Thanks.’

Full of pioneering spirit, I drove into town, almost swerving the car into a ditch when I noticed a bird of prey hovering over a field, no doubt hoping for a juicy field mouse. Too big for a buzzard. Maybe a kestrel? Not that I was any kind of expert.

I parked up and walked to the main square, where a combination of being pleased with my take on Chenonceau that I’d finished that morning and a desire to put off braving the pâtisserie meant that I spent the first half hour taking photos of the white and cream buildings in the main square, the town hall, the colourful flowers surrounding the stone fountain, and jotting down notes.

Glancing towards the top of the square, I thought about catching up again with Rupert’s friend Jonathan at their favourite café next market day and smiled. I wondered if Jonathan would follow through on his previous threats to claim me as his Girl Friday if I ever came over here. No doubt I would find out soon enough.

Finally out of excuses, I took a deep breath, stepped into the pâtisserie and started my mission.

I managed a confident greeting and to get the idea across that I needed to order a special cake. But it turned out that confectionary could be a minefield in a foreign language. Size, type of cake, type of filling, type of icing, colours, trim, decoration, ribbon… and there I was, thinking I’d been clever because I’d looked up beforehand how to say it was for a fiftieth wedding anniversary and couldn’t have any cream or nuts due to allergies.

The middle-aged lady behind the counter was friendly and unfailingly polite, and the process was mercifully aided by photos she had on a tablet, so I could accept and reject their various features. Her patience was finally rewarded with my order – the price of which did nothing for my blood pressure until I reminded myself it was Julia who would be paying for it – but I left feeling exhausted and rather deflated.

The deficiency in my language skills was beginning to seriously sink in. I got by at the market and in cafés, where they were used to tourists. I barely needed to speak at all at the supermarket. I managed with Madame Dupont because it didn’t matter if I got it wrong – we just laughed and muddled through. But I was still nervous of answering the phone, and my experience in the pâtisserie had shown that I wasn’t anywhere near as competent as I’d hoped.

On the way back to the car, I walked passed Ellie Fielding’s estate agency, wavered for a moment, thought about what Sophie had said, and stepped inside.

Philippe, Ellie’s business partner, was deep in conversation on the phone, but he waved at me.

‘Emmy!’ Ellie bounced up from her chair, came dashing over and startled me by kissing me warmly on each cheek. ‘I’m so glad you decided to come to France.’

‘Thank you.’

She glanced at her watch. ‘Do you have time for a quick coffee? I have an appointment in half an hour, but I could do with a shot of caffeine. The woman I’m meeting is deluded. She thinks that because of the last recession she can get a house with a pool and acres of land at 1972 prices.’

I smiled. Ellie pulled no punches. ‘I’d love a coffee. Thanks.’

She led me to a nearby café, not far from Sophie’s salon and the fountain. It was crowded, but I liked the buzz. We ordered and Ellie sat back, beanpole thin and towering over me even when seated, the sun glinting off her vibrant red, short-cropped hair.

‘I bet Rupert’s chuffed that he finally got the right-hand woman he was so keen to tempt back?’

I let out a self-deprecating laugh. ‘He might not be so keen at this rate.’ When our coffees were placed in front of us, I filled her in on our naked wanderer.

‘Your idea was sound,’ Ellie said. ‘It was just an unfortunate set of circumstances. Have you seen a review yet?’

‘No. It’s making me a nervous wreck, checking every two minutes. The idea was to have him telling everyone how great La Cour des Roses is, obviously, but I have a nasty feeling that isn’t the way he’ll go.’

Ellie tactfully changed the subject. ‘Our mutual, overly romantic friend Sophie tells me that romance is on the horizon with the town accountant?’

‘He’s not back for another week yet, but maybe. I hope so.’

Ellie laughed. ‘Sophie was rather more definite about the prospect.’

‘Yes, well, I might be wise not to get too optimistic on that score. I could be back home with my tail between my legs at this rate.’

Ellie frowned. ‘What do you mean? You only just got here!’

I told her about Nathan’s phone call that morning.

‘What an arse!’ Ellie declared.

The waiter arrived with our coffees, then scurried off, either run off his feet or sensibly frightened by Ellie’s intent expression.

‘He was with you for five years, and he doesn’t trust you to cough up?’

‘I don’t blame him for worrying about it. I’m worried. A couple of months or so I can live with. I have savings. But it’s not viable in the long term, is it?’

‘What about this business of yours? What did you have in mind?’

I glanced at a holidaying family choosing postcards outside the nearby newsagent’s and smiled as the father happily plucked an English newspaper from a rack, goggled at the price and put it back. A little nervously – Ellie was a shrewd businesswoman – I explained.

‘Sounds good,’ she said. ‘Not too much outlay at the start, other than your time and your brother’s. But how will you get gîte owners to sign up? They might not want to pay if they already use other sites, and if you’re so small at first.’

‘I won’t charge to list, so owners pay nothing up front – only a percentage if they get a booking through the site.’

‘Ah. So new customers haven’t got anything to lose by advertising with you?’

‘That’s the idea.’

‘Only problem is, you could be looking at the early season next year for any income that way.’

‘I know. I didn’t think that mattered. But if we don’t get any tenants soon, it will.’

Ellie thought about it. ‘Can’t do anything about the delayed income. But the sooner you get set up, get people interested and on the books in readiness for next year, then knowing it’s in the bag will make all the difference, surely? Make you feel more secure about your prospects?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Hmm. I might be able to get the word out for you.’

She gave me the predatory smile that used to terrify me, but that I now knew was her potential-business-in-the-offing expression – only this time it was my potential business. She was turning out to be quite a sweetie, Ellie Fielding.

‘Philippe and I have sold plenty of properties to Brits over the years. I can’t pass their details on to you, obviously, but we could send an e-mail extolling your virtues. You know, “Hi there, it was a pleasure doing business with you, by the way, we thought you might like to know that a local businesswoman is starting a new venture that may be of interest to you, blah blah blah.”’

‘That’s so good of you, Ellie. Are you sure Philippe won’t mind?’

‘This is a small town. Businesses are happy to support each other. And it never harms us to be able to recommend services if clients are dithering. If someone’s thinking of buying, but worrying about letting out their property, something like that might tip the scales. You’d have to let me know the set-up in more detail, and then I could start recommending you to new clients, too.’

‘The website’s still a work in progress, so I’ve started working on a leaflet summing up what I’m about.’

Ellie smiled encouragement. ‘Well, then, get it finished, woman! Here’s my business card. E-mail it to me ASAP.’ She stood. ‘Right. Better go put this brainless woman in the picture about the current property market.’

As I drove back, I decided three main priorities had come out of the morning.

I needed to get on with the leaflet – I didn’t want Ellie’s offer and enthusiasm to peter out. I could make sure I kept up with writing tourist info for the website. And I needed to do something to improve my French. If I was going to make a proper go of it here, ‘getting by’ was no longer an option.

The minute I walked in, Rupert tetchily informed me that my mother had phoned. Twice.

‘Is there an emergency?’ I asked him, alarmed.

‘In your mother’s eyes, yes. She’s not happy about all this texting, Emmy. Apparently, it’s not good enough. She expects a proper conversation today, or else.’

‘Urgh.’

‘She also wants to know why you didn’t answer your mobile.’

‘I was probably driving or in the shop. Anything else I should know?’

He scrubbed at his beard. ‘Yes. She doesn’t expect to speak to you any less than she did when you were in the UK. There’s no excuse for it, in this day and age.’

I shook my head. ‘When I lived in the same city as her, she was perfectly happy with the odd phone call and the occasional personal appearance. That woman has a selective memory.’

‘A mother’s prerogative. Go and get it done, Emmy, and save us both from any more earache.’

Taking bread and cheese with me, I gravitated to my chaise longue at the open window and did as I was told. A proper online video chat. As Mum required a full rundown of my first week, it was a long session.

‘So, Emmy, any sign of a new romantic attachment yet?’ she enquired nonchalantly.

My brow furrowed. I hadn’t said anything to her about Alain – the woman would put the Spanish Inquisition to shame. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Is a mother not allowed to enquire after her daughter’s love life?’

‘Depends what agenda she has.’

‘My agenda, Emmeline Jamieson, is to ensure that my daughter is well and possibly even happy after her previous boyfriend behaved like a total arse. Is that too much to ask?’

I laughed. ‘No, I suppose not.’

‘So?’

I toyed with denial, but Mum always knew, somehow. ‘There may be,’ I hedged.

‘May be? What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘It means I would prefer not to go into details at this time.’

Mum tutted. ‘You’d make a great politician!’ She waited, and when no further information was forthcoming, said, ‘Well?’

I stared at the familiar backdrop of the family lounge behind her: the sofa that had been the site of a hundred cushion battles with my brother, the twenty-year-old family portrait in pride of place on the wall behind it. ‘I may be starting to see someone soon,’ I admitted.

‘Too cryptic. Who is this someone?’

‘His name is Alain.’

‘Is he French?’

‘Half-French, half-English.’

‘How did you meet him?’

‘He’s Rupert’s accountant.’

‘How old is he?’

‘Thirty-six.’

‘He’s not married or with a partner? And if not, why not, at that age?’

‘Mum! He’s divorced.’

‘Hmm.’ She mulled this over. ‘Children?’

‘No.’

‘What did you mean you may start to see him? Either you are or you aren’t.’

‘He’s away at the moment. We’ve been chatting on the phone and online.’

Uh-oh. Sure enough…

‘Oh, so you can make time to speak to a man you’re not even dating yet, but not to speak to your own mother?’

‘I would have phoned, Mum. It’s been like a madhouse here.’

‘And this Alain. Is he—’

‘No, that’s enough for today.’

‘I was only going to ask, Emmy, if he’s likely to treat you better than the last one.’

I bristled. ‘I wouldn’t be thinking about getting involved with him if I didn’t believe that, would I?’ But then I relented. Anything for an easy life. ‘Alain is a genuinely nice bloke. But don’t read anything more into it than that at this stage, okay?’

‘I won’t.’

A likely story. By the end of the evening, my father, brother and Aunt Jeanie would be in the picture, at the very least.

With that ordeal out of the way, I made my regular check of Geoffrey Turner’s blog. I was so used to doing it with no result that I hadn’t even bothered to steel myself this time.

I nearly choked on my cheese.

THE SILVER FOX TRAVELLER

at

La Cour des Roses, near Pierre-la-Fontaine, Maine-et-Loire

#WishYouWereAnywhereButHere

La Cour des Roses is in a swoon-worthy spot, a natural sun-trap nestled amidst the rolling farmland and vineyards of the Loire Valley. Its gardens are beautifully planted with mature oaks, weeping pears, delicate willows, fragrant herbs and colourful annuals in bright pinks, purples and oranges. The welcoming patio is well maintained with potted geraniums and plenty of space for all. From the roof terrace, you can gaze upon the bucolic view, sipping iced tea in the hot sun or a rich red wine under a star-filled night sky. The guesthouse itself is a typical converted French farmhouse of creamy stone and blue-painted shutters.

But I’m afraid, dear readers, this is where my praise ends. Let’s step inside.

Hulking antiques are at odds with dreary, cheap prints of generic French countryside and assorted kitsch such as decorative eggs and anorexic ballerina figurines, no doubt purchased at a local flea market by a decorator with a split personality disorder.

The guest lounge is uninhabitable, with no redeeming features. Frankly, it defies the Trade Descriptions Act. The chairs are stiff and uncomfortable, the décor is as above, and there’s an added hint of the Arctic. How any French room manages to be so cold in August, I do not know.

In contrast, our room may as well have been sitting over the fiery pits of Hades. The electric fan provided was noisy and inadequate, and even with all possible measures taken to keep cool, sleep was elusive. Our mattress was too soft, and the voile curtains – besides affording little privacy – had no blackout ability, forcing us to close the shutters at night, rendering the room stuffy.

Yes, they gave us darkness, but don’t think we got a lie-in with the army of chickens clucking from the crack of dawn. Speaking of nuisance animals, La Cour des Roses is also home to a giant, malodorous Labrador, who lumbers about communal areas being ‘friendly’ to the unsuspecting, frightened and allergic.

The complimentary bathroom toiletries were in large glass bottles – no doubt a twee attempt to make them look homemade. Judging by the smell, they had been filled with the cheapest supermarket rubbish imaginable. I didn’t enjoy smelling like a marzipan fruit basket.

And on to the dining… The host, Rupert Hunter, provides breakfast daily and three guest meals a week, supplying recommendations for local restaurants on other nights. I suspect the average tourist might not mind his gastronomic offerings. But while it was not traditional British fare, it was not très français, either. Perhaps Mr Hunter is aiming to cater to everyone’s taste by trudging along the middle ground, but the result has a dismaying lack of identity. If I stay at a French guesthouse, I expect skilled French cuisine, not some half-baked cross-channel hybrid. At one point, I was served some kind of fish mousse and thought I’d slipped through a wormhole back to the 1970s.

Mealtimes are – most unfortunately – a communal affair, and Mr Hunter presides with his own brand of verve and humour, although I warn you, his overbearing personality may not be to everybody’s taste. I’m sure the idea is everyone will get along famously in a jolly holiday atmosphere, but our personal experience of clashing personalities – vociferously clashing personalities – made us most uncomfortable, to the point where we had to leave early. The proprietors seemed reluctant to intervene in the matter.

On the subject of ineffectiveness, I was dismayed to witness a request for an ambulance delayed because Ms Jamieson had no idea how to call for one. It beggared belief.

In summary, La Cour des Roses should, in theory, be a charming enough place to visit, but in practice… the risk is yours.