The Little French Guesthouse (2 page)

More insidiously, I’d noticed we weren’t really talking any more. After only five years, were we already turning into one of those couples you saw down at the pub? The ones who sat for a whole evening barely saying a word to each other because they’d already talked about everything over the years and there was nothing left to say?

“Did I tell you about Derek’s greenhouse and the...?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

“Marjorie said the vet told Doris her cat would have to have...”

“I know.”

“Right.”

Dinner in front of the soaps, a peck on the cheek at the beginning and end of the day, dutiful attempts to show an interest in something one of us was ecstatic about even though the other couldn’t give a toss.

Didn’t that happen to
older
people?
Much
older people?

G
loria came back
at twelve minutes past three. Still wide awake, I heard tyres – presumably of a taxi – on gravel, a car door slam, a word or two of French to the driver. The crunch of her footsteps, the slam of the front door. The clatter of her heels across the hall. There was no indication that Rupert was with her, and I wondered if he was okay. He must be, I thought, otherwise she wouldn’t have come home, surely?

A few minutes later, I heard another, more ominous noise. The creak of floorboards. A door opening along the landing. Nathan.

I shot out of bed and opened my own door so quickly, I nearly slipped a disc.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’

He spun around, one foot on the top stair. ‘I...’

‘
Don’t
try telling me you needed a midnight snack or a glass of milk, Nathan, because it won’t wash. I heard Gloria come back.’

‘Yes, well, so did I,’ he blustered. ‘So I... I thought I should pop down and check how Rupert is.’

I rolled my eyes. ‘A likely story. You can’t tell me you’re that worried about a man whose wife you were busy having sex with while he had a heart attack!’

Nathan curled his lip. ‘It’s not as if the two things were related, Em. He happened to collapse at the same time we happened to be having sex. The one did not cause the other. Besides, I’ve already told you I don’t want to discuss this tonight. Even less so now that Gloria’s back.’

Curiosity won out – briefly – over anger. ‘Why on earth does that make the slightest difference?’

‘We might be overheard,’ he hissed. ‘We’re not in our own home. It wouldn’t be proper.’

I couldn’t believe his nerve. My blood boiled. You could probably have cooked eggs in my arteries.

‘Proper! I think we already dispensed with
proper
behaviour earlier this evening. Don’t you talk to me about proper!’

He shuffled uncomfortably. ‘Emmy, you’re raising your voice. That’s exactly why I didn’t want to do this.’

I raised my voice another notch for the pure pleasure of increasing his discomfort levels along with it. ‘What difference does it make? There’s nobody here but Gloria, and she’s a whole floor down. Besides, in the event the woman has supersonic hearing, I think you’ll find she’s already in the know with regard to our current situation, seeing as she played one of the leads.’

‘Oh, for crying out loud, Emmy, quit with the melodrama.’

He slammed into his room, leaving me with no apology, no promises, no satisfaction.

Back in my own bed, with both ears finely tuned to any further movement from the landing, I cursed Gloria and her sodding guesthouse. If we hadn’t come here, this never would have happened. I cursed myself while I was at it, since it had been my bright idea. I’d thought a holiday would revive our flagging spirits. Help us relax. Pep things up a bit.

Nathan hadn’t been enthusiastic about the prospect when I’d put it to him, but in my naivety, I’d taken that as an inability to prise himself away from the office.

‘Oh, Emmy, no. You know how impossible it is. I’ve got deadlines. You’ve got deadlines. They never match. We’ve been through all this before.’

Nathan and I had met at work. With him an accountant and me assistant marketing manager at the same firm, it was almost impossible to plan holidays, but this time I had been determined. We
needed
this.

‘Nathan, we haven’t had a proper holiday for ages.’

He frowned. ‘We went to Bath last year.’

‘That was just a long weekend.’

‘And Exeter,’ he added, warming to his theme.

I sighed, exasperated. ‘
That
was a long weekend, too.’ Our schedules had long since led us to give up on proper holidays and settle for exorbitantly-priced mini-breaks instead.

‘Well, they were alright, weren’t they?’ Nathan said, with about as much enthusiasm as me being faced with the prospect of a weekend with his parents.

‘Yes, they were alright, but we haven’t had a
real
holiday since Greece.’ I cast my mind back. ‘Nearly two years ago.’

Nathan grunted. ‘Too hot.’

I forced myself to be patient. ‘We don’t have to go anywhere hot, Nathan, but we do need a proper two weeks somewhere.’

‘Two
weeks
!’ he squeaked. ‘By the time we’ve coordinated our diaries and booked it all, then killed ourselves finishing up before we go, and killed ourselves catching up when we get back, it’s hardly worth the effort.’

Of course, hindsight was a wonderful thing. I could look back now and wonder whether Nathan’s reluctance had all been down to job devotion. Maybe he simply hadn’t relished the idea of spending two whole weeks away with me.

I’d persisted. ‘I think it
is
worth the effort.’ I was adamant, and he knew it.

‘Fine, if that’s what you want, but you’ll have to do all the donkey-work.’ The resignation in his voice depressed me beyond words. ‘Go ahead and book something. Whatever you want.’ He’d looked up from his laptop long enough to give a cursory smile that didn’t reach his eyes, and then he was back in the land of spreadsheets.

Many women would have jumped at “whatever you want” and booked a fortnight in a five-star hotel in the Caribbean – and I can’t say it didn’t cross my mind – but I’d had a sneaking suspicion that secluded paradise could work both ways. Yes, it would mean being together, nothing to do but relax and talk to each other. But if we found out we had nothing to say, then two weeks of sun, sand and the new-found knowledge that our relationship was a boring pile of old crap could be two weeks too long.

No, what we needed, I had thought, was somewhere quiet and relaxing where we would have the opportunity to open up to each other, rediscover why we fell in love in the first place – and if that failed, some humanity in the vicinity and plenty of sightseeing to fall back on.

And so here we were at
La Cour des Roses
, “a delightful guesthouse in the popular Loire region of France, where you will be welcomed and pampered by your convivial hosts, Rupert and Gloria Hunter. Relax in our beautiful garden or explore the tranquil countryside, colourful local towns, magnificent
châteaux
...”

Sounded great on the website.

T
he morning
after Nathan’s fall from grace, I was up with the larks – or more accurately, with the chickens. I hadn’t thought to close the wooden shutters before I went to bed, and as dawn crept through the voile curtains, I reckoned if sleep hadn’t come during the night, it was unlikely to come now.

Painfully aware of the empty pillow beside me in the bed, I sat up, glancing across at Nathan’s shirt and jeans folded on the small upholstered tub chair in the corner of the room, his wallet and watch neatly laid out on the beautifully grained surface of the antique dressing table. A large matching wardrobe dominated the wall across from the foot of the bed, but the room was spacious enough to accommodate it. The soft blues of the bedlinen and cushions, and of the rugs on the polished wooden floorboards, added a cool, calming contrast to the warm honey tone of the wood.

Pulling on a sweatshirt, I crept downstairs and out to the patio where the chickens and I could commune in peace. The morning was still chilly, so I grabbed a throw from inside and lay on a dew-damp lounger with the warm wool pulled up to my chin like an old lady on a cruise. I stared at the expanse of lawn, its length broken by colourful flower beds and small ornamental trees, old flagstones sunk into the grass leading off to little hideaway corners and arbours amongst the denser shrubs and trees lining the edges of the garden... But I took little pleasure in what should have been a beautiful view.

No matter how lovely this place was, it was clear to me that moving to different accommodation had to be our number one priority. Nathan had strayed. I was entitled to be upset, but things like this happened to couples all the time. Gloria couldn’t possibly mean anything to him. We’d been together too long to throw it all away over a lapse of judgment on his part. And we couldn’t make any progress with the evidence of Nathan’s infidelity under our noses.

I moved on to worrying about Rupert for a nice change of scene. I’d grown quite fond of him over the past few days, although I suspected he was an acquired taste. Nathan hadn’t taken to him at all. Whereas Nathan was quiet (morose at times, now I came to think of it), Rupert was the exact opposite – loud and bumptious, sometimes outrageous. I would have put Nathan’s instant dislike of him down to a simple personality clash if it hadn’t been for the unnerving conversation we’d had the morning after we arrived.

We had been sitting in the garden recovering from our journey, and as I’d blissfully taken in the glory that surrounded us – neat lawns, late spring flowers, lush trees – I had been foolish enough to open my big mouth and voice my thoughts.

‘Glorious here, isn’t it?’ I’d murmured.

Nathan scanned his surroundings, quietly assessing. ‘Hmm. Wonder how much it cost him?’

I propped myself up on one elbow and looked across at him. Ever the accountant. If I put it down to professional curiosity, I could forgive him comments such as these.

‘No idea,’ I said dismissively.

‘Last night at dinner, he said it was a wreck when they bought it, so he probably got it cheaply enough. But it must’ve cost him a fortune to do up.’ Nathan craned his neck to look back at the house where deep green foliage crept up the grey stone walls. The stone looked older, almost crumbling, in some places, and patched in others – but red roof tiles added colour to the façade, and the blue-painted shutters which stood sentry at each window were smart and welcoming. Nathan swept his eyes across the newer whitewashed wing that was Rupert and Gloria’s living quarters, built on the side of the house, with what was left of an old orchard separating it from the road. ‘The renovation of the farmhouse itself. That extension,’ he muttered. ‘The
gîtes
across the way. Can’t be cheap, converting an old barn like that. And the grounds were a wasteland when they moved in, apparently.’

I glanced over at the rows of lavender lining the courtyard between the house and the
gîtes
, a long building with a rough exterior of cream-and-grey stone and three wooden doorways, each surrounded by clambering grapevines. ‘Well, they made a good job of it,’ I said admiringly.

Nathan gave a cursory nod. ‘Yes, but where did he get the money, Emmy, eh? He never said what he did for a living before they came out here.’

‘Not our business, though, is it?’

Nathan curled his lip in an unpleasant sneer. ‘Posh accent. Probably born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Doesn’t look like the type who’s ever had to work for a living.’

I raised an eyebrow in surprise. This was a side to Nathan I wasn’t familiar with, and I wasn’t at all sure I liked it.

‘They must have worked pretty hard to create this,’ I defended them, sweeping my arm to encompass our home for the next two weeks.

‘I doubt he knows the meaning of hard work,’ Nathan grumbled. ‘I bet he paid other people to do it all while he just lounged around and watched. Jammy bastard.’

I frowned at him. ‘Why does it matter? You’d be complaining if we were paying all this money and it
wasn’t
nice here. Can’t we just enjoy it?’

Nathan flopped down on his lounger in a sulk and I lay back too, my good mood dissipated.

I wondered if we would have been better off in one of the
gîtes
, thereby minimising Nathan’s exposure to Rupert, but
that
thought didn’t last long. I knew from bitter experience that Nathan’s idea of self-catering was to grumble his way around the supermarket glaring at all the foreign brands, then stay out of the way while I did all the cooking and clearing up.
Self
-catering was the operative word. The first time it had happened, in Spain, I’d been so smug and self-satisfied with my newly-caught man that I hadn’t noticed the one-sidedness of the arrangement. Not so in Greece, where we had a studio apartment so small, it would have been lucky to be classed as a bathroom in most hotels. After a fortnight of tripping over Nathan’s feet as he lounged on the sofa bed while I cooked in a kitchen the size of a cupboard, I’d sworn I’d never put myself through it again. Here at the guesthouse, our booking included daily breakfast and three dinners a week, leaving us free to discover the local restaurants the rest of the time, and I thought that a happy medium.

Rupert did all the cooking at
La Cour des Roses
, and as I lay in my stupor the morning after his collapse, I wondered what would happen now. We were the only house guests at the moment, but more were imminent. Would Gloria take over? Casting my mind back over the past few days, I began to wonder what Gloria actually did – other than seduce other people’s boyfriends. She was more your meeter-and-greeter than your do-er, looking decorative in a tight-jeaned, low-topped sort of way, fluttering and faffing. I suspected she was more skilful at the appearance of being busy than the real thing.

At least they had a cleaner. She was a tiny, elderly, weather-beaten woman who worked like a demon and chattered continuously at you, incapable of understanding that your French hadn’t been used for years and had been inadequate in the first place.

Sounds began to drift across the courtyard from the
gîtes
– a toddler crying, a car door opening, a woman calling for her husband to bring in the map, the coffee was ready – and I felt a stab of envy. That should be Nathan and me, relaxed and ready to explore.

Heaving a sigh of self-pity, I levered myself up. That disembodied mention of coffee had woken my caffeine alarm. Like a sleep-deprived zombie, I ventured inside in search of a fix.

Gloria, all full make-up and backcombed bleached blonde hair, put in an appearance as I fumbled with the shiny technical wizardry that was the coffee machine.

‘Here, let me,’ she said, shoving me aside. She pushed buttons and twiddled knobs until jets of steam plumed up to the raftered ceiling, then handed me a cup. It was sludgy and tasted like something scraped from the bottom of the chicken house. Rupert was clearly the coffee whizz – another downside to his absence.

Squaring my shoulders, I prepared to tackle her over her coupling with Nathan. Such a time-honoured confrontation should have taken place the night before, of course, but Rupert’s inconsiderate medical emergency had scuppered that.

It would have been nice if Gloria had made the first move and proffered an apology. After all, if she’d broken my necklace or insulted my favourite aunt or even trodden on my toes, I imagine she would have said sorry. Yet there she stood after having had rampant sex with my boyfriend, and not a sniff of one. Unbelievable.

Even so, I couldn’t ignore the fact that the woman’s husband was in a hospital bed. I reined myself in. First things first.

‘How’s Rupert?’

There was a flicker in her eyes, something icy and cold, but it was gone before I could decipher it. ‘I phoned the hospital,’ she said. ‘They’re discharging him this morning.’

‘Did they say what was wrong?’

‘It wasn’t a heart attack.’ Gloria shot me an accusing look, as if to criticise my incorrect diagnosis that had so rudely interrupted her extramarital activities last night. ‘It’s angina. They’ve given him some medication. He’ll have to be more careful about what he eats and drinks.’

Rupert wasn’t a light drinker, and I had a feeling this would be a bone of contention between them.

‘Will he have to rest?’

‘Apparently so. They think he damaged a ligament in his leg when he fell. He can barely walk.’ Again, that hint of accusation, as though I’d somehow let everyone down by not throwing myself across the kitchen to catch a six-foot, fourteen-stone bloke all by myself.

‘Well, I’m glad he’s alright,’ I said truthfully. And now on to the main attraction... ‘Time for you and me to have a little chat, then, don’t you think?’

The hint of shock in her eyes suggested she thought she’d got away without a confrontation. ‘Oh?’

I found her brazen attitude astonishing. ‘Don’t you have
anything
to say for yourself?’

She shrugged as though she couldn’t care less, but there was a wariness in her eyes. ‘Shit happens, Emmy. You weren’t supposed to see what you saw, but you did. I’m not sure what you want me to say.’

Flabbergasted, I slapped the undrinkable coffee down on the granite counter with so much force, I heard the cup crack.

‘Maybe you could start by apologising for sleeping with my boyfriend?’

She folded her arms across her chest, a gesture which had the unfortunate effect of wrinkling the tanned skin above her cleavage so it looked like leather.

‘There were two of us, Emmy – you saw that for yourself. Yes, I had sex with Nathan. And
he
had sex with
me.
Maybe you should look to him for an apology.’

‘Nathan and I have already had words, thanks, which is more than I can say for you and Rupert. I presume you’re going to tell him when he comes home?’

‘Then you presume wrong.’ Her eyes narrowed in threat. ‘Nor do I expect
you
to tell him.’

I was impressed by her nerve. ‘Don’t you think you should discuss this vow of silence with all relevant parties first, rather than assume it?’

‘I would have thought that even you would agree it won’t do him much good to find out something like that. You wouldn’t want to be responsible for a relapse, would you?’

She had me there. No matter how furious I was, I couldn’t risk Rupert’s fragile health just to get my revenge on Gloria. But being backed into a corner by her made me see red.

‘You didn’t seem so bothered about Rupert’s health and well-being last night!’

‘Are you suggesting I don’t care about my husband?’

I barked out a strangled laugh. ‘Let’s just say that sleeping with the guests is a funny way of showing it.’

‘Sleeping with
a
guest, Emmy.
One
guest. Get your facts straight.’

‘You want me to get my facts straight?’ I counted off on my fingers. ‘You’re married. You slept with my boyfriend. You’re nearly old enough to be his teenage mother. There. Is that straight enough for you?’

Her mouth twisted in contempt. ‘If your relationship is so solid and I’m so geriatric, then why did your boyfriend rip off all my clothes like a wild animal while you enjoyed your middle-aged reminiscences with my husband downstairs?’

I had no answer to that. Fortunately, I didn’t have to find one. As I desperately searched my besieged brain for a biting riposte, the phone rang in the hall and Gloria shot past me to answer it.

I remained standing in the kitchen, dazed. Gloria’s parting shot had hit its mark. Was our sex life really so deep in the doldrums that Nathan had felt the need to do this? Up until yesterday, I wouldn’t have said so. I would have said we were probably the same as any other hardworking couple. We were often too tired, too busy, too stressed – but we still made love. Not as regularly as we used to. Not as passionately as we used to. But surely not many relationships could sustain the passion of a couple first getting together? I suddenly realised that I had assumed a gradual decline like that was normal. Even acceptable.

It seemed Nathan hadn’t felt the same way.

N
athan made
himself scarce the first half of the morning by pretending to sleep in, then moving all his stuff to his new room – something I only discovered when I went upstairs to see where he’d got to. The sheets and blanket I’d thrust at him last night were back on my bed, and when I peeped into his new accommodation, I saw that he had a full new set of bedlinen – which meant a) he had to have spoken to Gloria already and b) he didn’t seem to be thinking along the same lines as me with regard to us moving somewhere else.

I couldn’t say I was happy about either of those things, but with Herculean effort, I curbed my temper and impatience until we could be alone. Gloria had already had intimate knowledge of my boyfriend last night. What was left of my pride didn’t want her walking in on a heart-to-heart and getting intimate knowledge of our relationship’s failings as well.

The minute she drove off to the hospital, I collared Nathan at the bottom of the garden, where he appeared to be studying the habits of the chickens in minute detail.