The Little French Guesthouse

8

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘No, not really, it’s...’

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

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

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

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

‘You do?’

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

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

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

‘Ryan, I’m sorry. It’s just that...’

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

Who said the youth of today were insensitive?

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

‘Goodnight, Emmy.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Where did he take you?’

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

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

I told him. Anything to shut him up.

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

‘We strolled around town.’

‘Then what?’

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

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

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

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

‘Do you have to be so crude?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Madame Dupont might do some extra hours.’

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

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

‘When is she in next?’

‘Tomorrow, probably.’

I nodded. Tomorrow was good enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I gulped. ‘Ryan?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Goat’s cheese. Like it?’

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

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

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

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

‘Just across the street.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Ah. I see...’

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

‘Well, thank you.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘You get all your friends to do that!’ Rupert laughed and turned to me. ‘He has an informal rota system so no one friend feels too put upon at any one time.’

‘But that’s the problem,’ Jonathan said. ‘I’m getting on now. And I am putting on people. You should set yourself up over here, Emmy. A Girl Friday agency to help out old codgers like me.’

Rupert snorted. ‘What, so you could pay her a pittance to run round after you?’

‘Pretty much, yes.’

‘Sorry to disappoint you, old boy, but Emmy’s already got a job to go back to. And it pays a decent living wage.’

Jonathan let out a melodramatic sigh. ‘I had a feeling she would. Ah, well.’

When Jonathan had satisfied himself that Rupert wasn’t suicidal, and he’d enjoyed some of the juicier aspects of gossip surrounding our mutual dilemma, Rupert and I headed back outside.

‘I had to leave my shopping at some of the stalls ‘cause I couldn’t carry it,’ Rupert announced. ‘Fetch it for me, will you? I’ll sit here and wait.’ He grabbed an empty table on the terrace.

I shot him a glare. ‘Which stalls?’

‘The meat stall over there.’ He pointed. ‘And that veg one there.’

‘And how am I supposed to ask in French?’

‘They’re expecting you. I gave them my name.’

Resigned, I started across the street. When I got to the butcher’s stall, I felt a bit absurd just saying Rupert’s name, so I dredged my memory banks and bravely tagged on ‘Un sac, s’il vous plaît?’ to great success. Dragging the heavy bag of meat over to the veg stall, I tried the same again – and was given two large bags that weighed a ton. I looked inside. Melons, oranges... Rupert and I were going to have words. Lugging them back to the café, I dumped them at his feet without much care for his toes.

‘Rupert, this is ridiculous!’ I snapped. ‘What do you think I am – a weightlifter? You can’t tell me this stuff’s so much better than at the supermarket where you can use a trolley to get it to the car...’

‘I quite agree.’ I jumped at the voice behind me and spun around to find Alain towering over me. He smiled at me and shook Rupert’s hand. ‘You’re taking advantage, Rupert.’

Rupert shifted uncomfortably. ‘Yes, well, I didn’t expect to buy so much. Haven’t been out and about for a bit.’

I shook my head. As if that was a legitimate excuse for giving me a hernia.

‘So I hear.’ Alain settled himself at our table and ordered a coffee.

Rupert ordered us another small one each, and I winced. I was going to be awake for the next forty-eight hours at this rate.

‘I wouldn’t mind hearing the correct version from the horse’s mouth, though,’ Alain went on. ‘So far I’ve only had it fifth-hand, and it’s starting to get a little outrageous and difficult to believe.’

Rupert laughed. ‘Oh, I think you’ll find that outrageous and difficult to believe isn’t so far from the truth.’

As Rupert began on his tale, I studied Alain from the corner of my eye. He didn’t fit the general stereotype of an accountant at all. His casual trousers and shirt were at odds with the suited businessman you might expect. No paunch from sitting at a desk all day. No sign of grey in his brown hair. If I were to guess, I’d say mid-thirties at most.

When Rupert had finished, Alain cocked his head to one side and said, ‘As your friend, I’m sorry for what you’re going through. I wish there was something I could say or do to make it easier. As your accountant...’ He hesitated. ‘Rupert, we need to talk sometime, now Gloria’s left. We ought to look at what might happen if she doesn’t come back, or if she files for divorce.’

I almost shook my head in disbelief. Typical accountant. Two words of sympathy and then straight into bank balances and the bottom line. I bet he was already juggling Rupert’s finances in his head, playing with figures, moving things around to maximise advantage and minimise damage.

Alain looked at his watch. ‘I have a client to see in fifteen minutes. Just enough time to get you and your shopping back to the car, I should think.’

And without waiting for a response, he stood and hefted the two heaviest bags from the floor.

My opinion of accountants as a species went back up a tiny notch.

‘What was all that about?’ I asked Rupert as I manoeuvred the car out of the busy centre.

‘What was all what about?’

‘Bumping into all those people. It was like a meeting of the nations! When I’m out shopping back home, I don’t bump into everyone I know like that.’

‘Market day in a small town, Emmy. Nearly everyone I know goes in on a Monday. And we all know who favours which café. I was bound to bump into someone. In fact, I’m surprised we didn’t meet anyone else.’

‘Yes, well, I’m glad we didn’t. Partly because my bladder couldn’t have coped with any more coffee and partly because you said we were just nipping to the market. We’ve been gone for hours, and you’re knackered. It’s done you no good at all.’

‘On the contrary, Emmy, I may be physically tired, but I have been socially and mentally stimulated and I enjoyed it very much. Leave me alone.’

Back at La Cour des Roses, Rupert – despite his protestations – was too tired even for lunch. He headed straight for bed, while I snaffled some fruit and yogurt and took them out to the garden, seeking out my favourite spot under the lilac. Hidden away out of sight and sound of the house, here I was enclosed on three sides by shrubs and hedge. The small patch of lawn I could see from my hideaway led to the end of the garden and the chicken run. I breathed in the scent of the lilac flowers draping over me like a canopy and sighed with pleasure.

The Hendersons were out – as usual. How did they keep up the pace? I was surprised we hadn’t bumped into them at the market along with everyone else. A sudden vision of straight-laced Mrs Henderson trying to seduce her husband by wearing a skin-coloured girdle and suspenders popped into my mind, and I nearly choked on my yogurt.

The chickens were quiet, there was no noise from the gîtes, no Ryan doing his manly chopping and digging. Had I hoped he would? That would be ridiculous. He was easy on the eye, and there was no doubt it was enjoyable to lounge around watching him work and sweat, but I couldn’t expect him to be here again today. Besides, I’d had my chance last night. It had been there for the taking – he had been there for the taking – but I hadn’t been ready for it.

Now, as I lay on the lounger with the afternoon sun warming my skin and melting my tired, stressed-out bones, all I could think about was the feel of Ryan’s hands running over me, his lips demanding... Demanding what?

Too restless to sit still, I went back up to my room with no sense of purpose. A warm bath to soothe? A cold shower to punish? Sexual frustration coursed through me like a torrent now, and I didn’t know whether to kick myself for not scratching the itch last night, or give myself a pat on the back for showing such heroic restraint.

Opting for the happy medium of a warm shower, as I stood under the spray, I wondered what Ryan was thinking. Had he already forgotten about it – would’ve been nice, but never mind? Did he still pine for my body? (This, I appreciated, was the least likely scenario.) Or was he offended by my sudden withdrawal? He’d seemed understanding, but I didn’t like to think he might be feeling insulted or rejected. We’d had a good evening, something I wouldn’t mind repeating before I went home, and I didn’t want an atmosphere between us for the rest of the week, both for my sake and Rupert’s.

Coming out of the bathroom, as I crossed to the dressing table for fresh underwear, I realised I ought to do some washing. There wasn’t much left except... Scrabbling to the back of the drawer, I pulled out a matching bra and briefs set and stared at them in surprise.

It had completely slipped my mind that I’d brought these. Hidden away from Nathan’s prying eyes, they were my seduction gambit, their purchase prompted by dismay as I’d packed my motley collection of white (and off-white) underwear for the holiday. Realising such garments were hardly conducive to unbridled passion, I’d felt guilty and to some extent responsible for our physical cooling-off of late. I may not have been at the granny-pants stage yet – I liked to think I was a good decade or two away from that inevitable decline – but there had been a slow and unnoticed creep into an era of sensible cotton pants and plain T-shirt bras.

Staring into my half-packed suitcase, horrified by how much I’d let things slide, I’d felt compelled to dash out to the extortionate lingerie shop on the nearest high street and splash out on this little set. Handing over my credit card, I’d imagined waiting for the right moment – after a meal in a restaurant; coming back to our room mildly intoxicated; peeling off my dress to reveal the sexy underwear and a tan. Nathan’s surprise and appreciation. His enthusiasm. A much-needed spark.

That moment had never come. Instead, Nathan had had his moment with Gloria, who no doubt made a habit of spending Rupert’s money on expensive Parisian underwear and thought nothing of showing it off to paying guests. Was hers lacy and black, like this? Satiny red? Or did she have the gall to go for pure and innocent white? Perhaps Nathan had seen her in all three by now.

Flooded with sudden emotion, I sat down on the edge of the bed to finger the delicate black lace and tiny red rosebuds. Self-pity turned to anger and then defiance. Discarding my towel, I pulled on the pants, wriggled into the balcony bra and braved the results in the mirror.

With these on, I had curves mostly in the right places, the balcony bra creating more where I wanted them and the pants giving enough coverage to hide those I could do without. They did what I’d wanted them to do when I’d bought them – they made me look and, more importantly, feel sexy. Trouble was, the person intended to admire me in them wasn’t here any more.

His loss. He might no longer find me attractive, but there were others who did. Ryan, for starters.

What a stupid expense.

Or was it? The underwear was bought and paid for. The body wearing it was desired, judging by last night’s kiss. It would be a shame to let it all go to waste... Wouldn’t it? I thought about how Ryan had looked at me last night – the way I’d felt when he’d kissed me, run his hands over me – and it was enough to make me squirm. Just because Nathan and I didn’t have that spark any more didn’t mean I was ready for the scrapyard. If he could feel free to rekindle his love life with someone unsuitable, then so could I.