The Little French Guesthouse

9

With an exhilarating mix of bravado and defiance, I pulled on tight jeans, a low-cut top – great cleavage with the bra doing the work – and heels. No point in going at it half-cocked, so to speak. I headed downstairs before I could change my mind. When I poked my nose around the door of Rupert’s quarters, the light snoring coming from his bedroom confirmed he was still having a nap. As I’d hoped. No explanations required.

Leaving a scribbled note in the kitchen saying I’d gone out for a drive, I went into the hall to rummage in the desk for Rupert’s address book. I had an idea where Ryan’s parents’ house was from our conversation last night, but the last thing I needed now I’d made my mind up was to drive around the French countryside for hours, only to come back empty-handed. Riffling through the dog-eared pages, I realised I didn’t know Ryan’s surname, but then a streak of inspiration led me to R and, hey presto: Ryan. A mobile number and an address. Bingo.

My hands shook slightly on the steering wheel as I drove along the country lanes past regimented rows of vines, deserted in the middle of the afternoon. I’d never done anything like this before, and I wasn’t sure whether I was excited or petrified.

With one eye on the satnav, I wondered if I should have phoned first, but what would I have said? “Hello, Ryan, will you be in this afternoon, because I fancy having sex?” Too direct, too much laying of cards on tables. He might have changed his mind, and I wouldn’t be able to tell over the phone. If he was out, I would have to turn round and go back for a cold shower. If he was in, I could say I happened to be passing and was curious to see the progress on the barn. Nothing obvious. Keep it casual.

The house stood alone along a narrow lane with a convenient sign at the gate. Turning in, I veered towards the barn, one end still ramshackle, the other in the process of improvement. Ryan’s car was parked outside. Good. No other cars in sight, so his parents must be out. Even better. Adjusting my cleavage, I knocked tentatively on the heavy wooden door, my prepared speech going round in my head on a repeat loop.

Ryan opened the door, bare-chested and in his work jeans, his hair ruffled. He looked dopey, as though he’d been asleep – but as he looked me over from head to toe until I tingled, the dopey expression was replaced by wide eyes and a predatory smile.

‘Emmy. Come on in.’

‘Hi. I was just passing and thought I’d pop in and have a look at the place.’

‘Right. Sure. Do you want a drink? Beer? Wine? Tea?’ The last was said with a tease in his voice.

‘Wine would be nice, if it’s chilled.’ I was beginning to feel hot and bothered – and to second-guess this oh-so-brilliant plan of mine. Cold alcohol wouldn’t go amiss.

He poured two glasses and handed one to me. I took a large gulp.

‘This is coming along.’ I gestured at the room.

‘I’ll give you the tour.’

He did. It took all of two minutes. He was right when he said it was a work-in-progress. The tour consisted of poking my head around the door of the finished bathroom – nicely done in earth-hued country tiles with a walk-in shower – and then back to the main room, which for now had a neat new kitchen area near the door, an old sofa, a TV, and Ryan’s bed at the far end.

‘It’s lovely,’ I said. ‘So far.’

‘So are you. So far.’ Ryan turned me to face him, all trace of teasing gone. ‘Why are you here, Emmy?’

I couldn’t speak. Instead, I took another gulp of wine before Ryan relieved me of my glass, placed it on the coffee table, took my face in those capable, hard-working hands and pressed his lips to mine. I all but melted into the kiss as he backed me up to the bed and lowered me onto it, then pulled away, his expression questioning.

‘No pressure, Emmy. Really. I’m happy to do whatever you want, but I don’t want to take advantage. I’m not that kind of guy. Just a bit of fun, okay?’

He was so sweet. And gorgeous. Shirtless and muscled and mine for the taking if I wanted. And oh boy, I wanted. I’d had enough of pedestrian lovemaking. I wanted my share of passion for a change.

‘I’m sure. Come here.’

Jeans were removed between kisses and Ryan was as gorgeous naked as I’d imagined he would be, his body lean and tanned, his muscles strongly defined – and then those twinkling blue eyes and oh-so-kissable lips.

When I wriggled out of my top, Ryan took in the lingerie with hungry eyes and let out a whistle.

My eyes narrowed with momentary cynicism, unsure if it was meant for me or the underwear, but then the thought struck me that it didn’t matter. He didn’t need to flatter me – I was his already. I smirked. Every penny spent on these damned things was going to be worth it.

Ryan didn’t relieve me of my fancy lingerie straight away. Oh no. We got our money’s worth first as he ran his hands over the lace, then under the lace, until they were finally discarded with a flourish. Even in the desperate heat that followed, Ryan was kind and attentive, roaming my body as though he wanted to explore every inch, and I revelled in it.

Lying together afterwards, I stared up at the high-beamed ceiling, my heart pounding, trying to catch my breath. Spectacular. That was the only word I could think of.

‘Spectacular,’ I said. This was becoming a bad habit, speaking my thoughts out loud.

Ryan hovered over me and smiled, revealing those cute dimples of his. ‘Yes, it was. You are. God, Emmy, there was a store of pent-up energy in there. I can’t say I’m sorry you chose me to release it on.’

I gave an embarrassed smile.

He planted a light kiss on my lips. ‘Don’t worry, I can handle it.’ His hands slid down between us. ‘Want to go another round?’

I did, so we did – another round in the bed, and when I went for a shower in the walk-in, he followed me and we had another round in there amidst the steam and pounding water and fragrant masculine-scented soap. Ryan was insatiable and so, I was surprised to find out, was I.

When I’d dried myself off and was too exhausted for more, I started to dress.

‘Do you want to stay?’ Ryan lounged against the wall, a towel anchored on his slim hips. ‘I make a decent spaghetti bolognese.’

‘No, thanks. I ought to get back. Rupert will be wondering where I am. He thinks I went for a drive.’

Ryan rolled his eyes. ‘You two are developing rather a strange relationship, Emmy. You do know that, don’t you?’

‘Nathan ran off with his wife, Ryan. I don’t want him to worry about me on top of everything else.’

‘You could phone. Tell him you’re safely tucked up in bed elsewhere.’ His smile was slow, lazy... Wicked.

‘If I stay any longer, one or both of us is likely to have a stroke.’ I pulled on my jeans.

Ryan’s dimples flashed. ‘Okay, have it your way. I may be around at Rupert’s tomorrow. Feel free to wear that sexy underwear again. You could pretend it’s a bikini. Sunbathe on the patio in it.’

I shot him a withering look. ‘Rupert already has heart problems. I don’t want to be responsible for adding to them.’

‘Great way to go, though.’

‘Bye, Ryan.’

As I drove home, an image of Ryan standing in his doorway wearing nothing but a towel around his waist still imprinted on my brain, I couldn’t stop smiling. I’d had a great time. I’d rediscovered sex, and the icing on the cake – surprisingly, for a girl who had a complex the size of France – was that I had no trace of guilt to plague my enjoyment.

It was almost seven when I pulled up at La Cour des Roses and glanced in the driver’s mirror. Oh dear. I could probably wipe that smug smile off my face, but there was no mistaking the flush across my cheeks, and the clothing I’d chosen this afternoon for seduction was hardly suitable for my alleged solitary afternoon drive. Rupert was no fool. As I climbed out of the car, I fervently hoped he wasn’t around, so I could scoot upstairs and change.

When I peered around the kitchen door, Rupert had his head in the fridge and was busy rummaging. Cursing my luck, I took advantage of his blind position to shoot past him.

‘Back in a mo. Need a pee,’ I shouted, before he could turn around and catch me in vamp mode, flying through the kitchen and up the stairs at a speed not suited to the height of heels I had on.

Crikey, I hadn’t experienced so much excitement and subterfuge in years.

The next morning, with the sun shining through the curtains, I stretched like a cat. A contented cat that had got the cream.

Nathan may have deserted me, and there may have been many ramifications still to be faced, but for now there was nothing I could do about any of it. I’d had incredible sex – three times – with a hunky gardener; I had the tacit approval of the doyenne of the community, Madame Dupont, something I suspected she didn’t dole out lightly; and I was earning major brownie points in my role as good Samaritan to my host, with whom I was developing a genuine, solid friendship. I’d even managed to deflect his suspicions about my afternoon drive over supper last night. All in all, I felt decidedly chipper.

I thought about texting Kate to reassure her that I was doing better – far better – than she might expect, but I worried it might cost her a fortune to receive or reply from the Maldives. Then I decided her peace of mind was worth the price.

Her reply came back soon after. So glad to hear it, my friend. Wish you were here. Bet you do, too! xx

Smiling, I dressed and followed my nose to the kitchen.

‘Ah, just in time.’ Rupert handed me an espresso.

‘Hendersons out?’ I asked. My communication skills were limited nowadays until the first cup was absorbed into my circulatory system. I had rapidly become addicted to Rupert’s healing brew.

‘Of course.’

Apart from guest meals, the Hendersons had been noticeably absent, invariably leaving soon after breakfast for a full day’s sightseeing, and I worried that this stemmed from the inconvenience of Rupert’s personal difficulties.

‘Are they always like this?’ I asked him.

He gave me a knowing look. ‘You’re worried that all this business with Nathan and Gloria hasn’t gone down too well.’

I nodded miserably.

‘They’re culture vultures, Emmy. You heard what they’re planning to do when they get to Paris – fifty-three museums in a day or whatever. They’ve always been like this. And they always look as though they’ve got pokers stuck up their arses. Don’t worry about it.’

‘But I don’t want you to lose business. And you said they recommend you to all their friends.’

‘They were cheesed off when they arrived, but even they can’t complain that things haven’t run like clockwork around here, thanks to you. I’m not sure they were over-fond of Gloria anyway. They leave on Thursday, thank the Lord, and I’m not going to go bankrupt or die of disappointment if they never cross my doorstep again. Okay?’

‘Okay.’

Since we’d shopped for tonight’s guest meal at the market yesterday, my morning was free – and I had a good idea of how to spend it.

‘Is it alright with you if I go out?’ I asked him.

‘Of course. Anything exciting planned?’

‘I spotted a hairdresser’s in town yesterday. Mine’s a mess.’ I scraped a hand through the split ends for emphasis. ‘I thought I might see if they can fit me in.’

‘Do you want me to phone for you first?’

‘No, thanks. If they can’t manage it, I’ll have a mooch and a coffee.’

‘Good for you. It’s about time you did something for yourself.’

I drove the now-familiar roads past gently rolling farmland into Pierre-la-Fontaine. The streets were more sedate without the market, and as I walked towards the main square, I took time to look at the buildings – so characterful with their cream or whitewashed fronts and red or grey roof tiles, their doorways and balconies sporting colourful containers of bright flowers – pinks, red, yellows. The square, with its stone fountain, was neat and similarly festooned with blooms, lending it civic pride. I peered into a pâtisserie with its glorious tarts and pastries, watching in awe as locals thought nothing of handing over an arm and a leg for a beautifully-boxed gâteau.

When I reached the hairdresser’s, I took a deep breath, then opened the door. A pretty woman somewhere around my age left her customer to greet me. Knowing my French wasn’t up to the task at hand, I pointed dramatically at my unkempt yet somehow still boring hair like a manic mime artist.

Thankfully, her English was much better than both my French and my miming.

‘I’m Sophie,’ she introduced herself with a smile.

I smiled tentatively back. ‘Emmy.’

‘So, Emmy...’

She studied my hair. Between us, we came to the conclusion that I was a disgrace to my nation for not having had it trimmed before I came on holiday, and that my fading highlights left substantial room for improvement. Taking pity on me – I think she saw it as her sworn duty as a Frenchwoman – she told me I could take up a last-minute cancellation if I came back in half an hour.

I filled in the time with a coffee in the square. As I soaked up the morning sunshine, I fancifully imagined I could breathe in the life and noise and history surrounding me. This was what I’d come to France to do, after all. I watched the old men outside the tabac; listened to animated chatter as women exchanged news, a small fussy dog under their arm or in their shopping bag (a strange phenomenon – the French did love their little dogs); and found myself wondering how it was that French women were always so immaculately dressed, even at their most casual. No pottering around the supermarket in paint-covered jogging bottoms and ketchup-stained hoodies like we British. I envied them their casual elegance and their perfect haircuts. At least I would be joining them on one of those counts soon. I hoped.

‘So, what do you want me to do?’ Sophie asked when I was back and settled in the chair.

‘A trim? Highlights?’

She tutted in a Gallic manner and shook her head with disapproval. ‘I think we need to do a lot more than that, don’t you? Layers. Lots of them. Three different highlights. Light blonde, gold, darker blonde. Very... What’s the word?’

‘Colourful?’ I suggested in alarm.

‘Subtle. What do you think?’

I stared at the mess in the mirror and compared it with Sophie’s wavy, highlighted blonde bob. ‘Fine. Do your worst.’

‘My worst?’

‘Just an expression. I’m happy to go with whatever you think.’

Delight lit her face. She rushed off to mix her magic potions and got to work with brush and foils. ‘So, Emmy. I will do my worst and you will soon be very chic. Very sexy. Very French.’

I gave a disparaging laugh. ‘Hardly.’

Sophie patted my shoulder. ‘You wait. You will see.’ Her eyes twinkled. ‘You said you are on holiday. With a friend or a boyfriend?’ she asked as she worked.

‘I was,’ I muttered. ‘Not any more.’

She frowned. ‘No? What happened?’

‘My boyfriend slept with another woman and left me.’

I gasped before she did. It had just popped right out of my mouth. What was it about hairdressers? They were like psychiatrists – five minutes in their chair and you were telling them all your darkest secrets. Maybe this was why I tried not to visit one too often.

Sophie met my look of horror in the mirror with a reassuring smile. ‘Tell me about it. Tell me everything.’ When I shook my head, she asked, ‘Have you talked to a friend from home?’

‘I phoned my best friend,’ I admitted.

‘What about your maman?’

I shuddered. ‘If you’d met her, you wouldn’t ask me that.’

Sophie laughed. ‘Then tell me. You can pretend I am your best friend from home and that you are sitting next to her here at the salon, having your hair done together. It will make you feel better,’ she insisted. ‘You know it will.’

I doubted that, but even so, I found myself pouring out the entire tale – well, everything except rolling around with Ryan. I felt I was entitled to keep that to myself.

Sophie was right – it did make me feel better. She provided all the proper girly understanding and sympathy and moral outrage I needed. She gasped in all the right places, let out a French swear word or two when required, and above all, she was wholly sympathetic to the point where, when I’d finished the tale, I burst into tears. Tutting, Sophie passed the tissues, clicked her fingers at her junior to fetch me a cup of tea and waited until the waterfall dried up.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I stuttered, mortified.

‘Don’t be. You needed to do that. But you did not have someone to do it with. A phone call is not the same. I am pleased that I could be that person for you.’ When I looked up, she too had a tear in her eye.

The doorbell tinkled as a customer entered. Sophie looked around and greeted her, then turned back to me.

‘Sit for forty minutes for the colours. Here are some magazines.’ She dumped a pile in my lap and winked. ‘If you can’t understand all the words, you can look at the pictures.’

She whisked off to deal with her next customer – a middle-aged woman whose hair already looked perfect – while I pulled myself together and braved the mirror. The sight was not pretty – red eyes, blotchy face, hair wrapped in squares of tin foil sticking out at all angles. I was mortified by my outburst, but it seemed I had needed a proper cry, and since Sophie didn’t mind being the one to set me off, perhaps I shouldn’t mind either. And since I was never going to see her again, it didn’t matter that I’d spilled my life story or made a fool of myself.

I flicked through the magazines. Fabulous fashions, fabulous interiors, celebrities I’d never heard of ... I tried reading a paragraph or two and was pleased to get the gist here and there. By the time the junior took me to the sink, I’d regained my equilibrium, and when Sophie waved off her immaculate customer – now even more immaculate – and came back over, I was ready to face the world.

‘Why is your English so good?’ I asked her as she chopped and snipped.

‘I learned it in school, of course, but when I was eighteen, I went travelling around Europe with friends. I met a boy in England – a student – and stayed with him for a few months. Naturally, his French was not very good, so we spoke English all the time.’

‘What happened with him?’

Sophie caught my eye in the mirror. ‘I found him in bed with another student.’

I stared at her in horror. ‘Oh God, Sophie, I’m so sorry!’

She patted my shoulder. ‘It was a long time ago. And my story is just as dramatic as yours, you know. The student he was in bed with was a boy.’

I spun my head around, but she firmly twisted it back into place and carried on cutting.

‘Apparently, he needed to “experiment”.’ She made quote marks in the air with her scissors and comb. ‘I came back to France with much better English and a much worse opinion of men.’ She bent to whisper in my ear. ‘But I got over it. And so will you, my friend.’

‘It may take a while. I could have understood it if he’d left on his own – but with Gloria! He barely knew her! And it’s upsetting – her being older than him. She’s so artificial, so... made up.’ My voice hitched. ‘Do you think that was the problem? That I didn’t do all that? I wear make-up for work and going out, but on evenings and weekends, I tend to slob around in baggy jogging bottoms and sweatshirts. I didn’t think it mattered – I didn’t think we needed to impress each other any more.’

Sophie gave a cynical snort. ‘And what did Nathan look like at weekends?’

I managed a laugh. ‘Unshaven, with holes in his socks.’

‘Well, then. Why should it be different for you than for him?’

‘He used to tell me my bed hair was sexy. That my old pyjamas with the sheep on were cute. But this woman... I never saw her with a hair or an eyelash out of place.’

Sophie tutted. ‘If that was all that bothered him, then he didn’t care enough about you, Emmy. And anyway, I am going to make you look fabulous now – more fabulous than you already look – and that will serve him right.’

With that, she turned on a supersonic hairdryer and, through necessity, the conversation ground to a halt.

When she’d finished, I gawped in the mirror at the result. She’d worked wonders with a shorter, choppier cut, and the three different tones of highlights made my newly-tanned face glow.

‘There. You see?’ Sophie surveyed her handiwork with an expert eye. ‘Chic, sexy and almost French.’

At the till, my credit card wept a little, but I owed her for so much more than a hairdo.

Sophie scribbled a number on one of her business cards and handed it to me with my receipt. ‘This is my mobile number. Now give me yours.’

When I looked quizzically at her, she reached out and touched my arm. ‘You might feel like some company while you’re here, and I enjoyed yours today. Maybe we could have coffee or a drink sometime.’

‘Oh. I...’ I was about to decline when I realised that I would like to meet this kind, bubbly woman again. ‘That would be lovely. Thank you.’

I gave her my number, realised that meant I would have to actually charge my phone, turn it on and carry it with me, and added the number for La Cour des Roses.

She smiled. ‘À bientôt, Emmy. I will phone, I promise.’

I left the salon a new woman. Glancing in the shop windows on my way back to the car, I couldn’t stop smiling, and I drove to the house in a daze of self-admiration, using each junction and traffic light as an excuse to preen in the driver’s mirror – so much so that I nearly missed the turning. With a manoeuvre worthy of a local, I swerved in and parked up with a spray of gravel.

‘Great hair, Emmy,’ Rupert commented the second I walked in.

I grinned. ‘Thanks. Sophie had a cancellation.’

Rupert raised his eyebrows. ‘You’re on first names with the hairdresser?’

‘Why not? She’s lovely. We had quite a chat.’

There was a pause before Rupert nodded. ‘Well, as long as it’s done you good, love.’

I winced. Rupert and Sophie had never met, but I suspected he would rather she didn’t know the blockbuster version of his recent woes. I opened my mouth to say something reassuring, but Madame Dupont bustled through from the hall, pulling on her old cardigan.

When she saw me, her eyes opened wide and she made an expansive gesture. I expected a gabble of unintelligible French, but what I got was a compliment I understood, followed by ‘Where did you have it done?’

With Rupert looking on, an amused expression on his face, I haltingly provided a version of the morning’s events in mangled French.

Nodding, she painstakingly corrected what I’d said and encouraged me to repeat it, smiling broadly when I did so. Then she told me she had no need of a hairdresser because her daughter-in-law did it – which was why she had to wear it in a bun. I think.

‘Your French is getting better, Emmy,’ Rupert commented as Madame Dupont left.

I was going to make a self-deprecating comment, but stopped. He was right. It was improving.

A car drew up in the courtyard. As I went out to help the Stewarts with their luggage and we introduced ourselves, I breathed a huge sigh of relief. A quiet, self-effacing couple in their late forties, they couldn’t have been more different from the Hendersons if they’d tried, thank goodness.

When I’d helped them up to their room with their bags, I took them back downstairs to show them the guest lounge and the dining area of the kitchen.

‘There’ll be a welcome meal for you here this evening at seven,’ I told them.

‘How many other guests are there?’ Mr Stewart asked.

‘Just one other couple at the moment. Mr and Mrs Henderson.’ In case they were put off by their fellow guests at dinner, I added, ‘They’re due to leave in a couple of days,’ to give them light at the end of the tunnel.

They were delighted with every aspect of the guesthouse, and I felt inordinately proud on Rupert’s behalf – but when I took them out to the garden, Mrs Stewart sighed. ‘Oh. Oh dear.’

‘Is anything wrong?’ I asked her, alarmed.

Quickly, she shook her head. ‘No. Not at all. It’s just that...’ Her gaze took in the loungers on the patio, the pots of lilies, the neat lawn, the blossom on the small fruit trees. ‘I thought I was keen to visit all the châteaux, but now all I want to do is sit here and never budge!’

‘Take a seat if you like. I can bring you a cup of tea?’

Mr Stewart shook his head and smiled. ‘Thanks, but we haven’t had lunch yet. We’d better get off, explore a bit. We can unpack later.’

Rupert and I agreed to convene in the kitchen at four, and he went for a nap while I went to lie in the shade on the patio. The early June sun was pleasantly warm, insects hummed, roses wafted their gorgeous scents my way. Paradise. Closing my eyes in contentment, I started to doze, but as the minutes ticked by, a small storm cloud started brewing in the recesses of my mind, half-thoughts and unformed worries swirling and eddying until I sat up in alarm. My breathing was fast and shallow.

Reality hit me like a thunderbolt. I was due to go home in a few days’ time. I’d been so busy with Rupert and the guests and the work – and Ryan – that I hadn’t thought much about it. Now, it struck me that I would have to navigate to Calais all by myself and drive the car onto the ferry without veering off the ramp and plunging spectacularly into the Channel. That could cause me sleepless nights all on its own.

If I managed that, there was the drive back to Birmingham. Facing the empty flat, or worse, Nathan. Filling people in. As for work... How could I walk past Nathan in the corridors, bump into him in the break room? People would find out we weren’t together any more. What would I tell them? More to the point, what would he tell them? There would be questions and gossip and people talking behind my back. Resentment towards him bubbled up like acid in my throat. It was bad enough that he’d slept with someone and left me for her, but I loved my job, and now he was ruining that, too.

And then there was Rupert. He was still getting used to his medication and although his leg had eased, he wasn’t fully mobile yet. Apart from his little foray to the market yesterday, which had worn him out, I was doing all the shopping and errands and half the chores. Even with Ryan doing the garden and Madame Dupont’s ministrations with bleach and polish, I couldn’t see how he would get by.

As if to prove my point, if not batter me around the head with it, the phone rang and I shot indoors to answer it before it woke him. My prayer that whoever was on the other end of the line spoke English was answered. As I riffled through the diary to answer their enquiry about dates later in the summer, cursing under my breath as an avalanche of loose pieces of paper and receipts fluttered to the floor, I was both gratified and shocked to see how booked-up La Cour des Roses was over the coming weeks. I added the caller’s provisional booking for August with mixed feelings. It was great to know this season would be a success for Rupert after everything that had happened, but it could all come clattering down around his ears at this rate.

As I headed back outside, Ryan was lugging his kit through the gate.