The Little French Guesthouse (24 page)

H
ow well he knew me
.
Yes, I was, Rupert, but I’ve just chucked it all over myself.

Interesting. Those were pretty much the same words I would have used to describe my own life at the moment.

I bet you have.

I stopped battering my foot against the laminate.

I snorted, and the coffee I was sipping went up my nose, making me choke. Rupert was many things. Humble wasn’t one of them.

I thought I did, Rupert. Now I’m not so sure.

Frowning, I opened the attachment. Reams of figures blurred in front of my eyes. Ugh. This was going to take some time. I made toast and another coffee, then settled down to work out what the old fool was playing at.

It soon became clear that this was Rupert’s ultimate gambit to get what he wanted.

He started with my incomings, outgoings and assets as he understood them. I logged on to banks and building societies to verify, entering my more accurate figures next to his.

Next, he dealt with the likely rent from the flat, confirming it would cover our mortgage and maintenance costs.

The following section concerned what would happen if I moved to France. I looked at the figure he was offering to pay me and almost laughed at how low it seemed compared with my current salary, but only for a moment. With no mortgage, rent or bills, and only my own living expenses and a small car to run, it wasn’t too far from my current disposable income – a fact which surprised me.

The final part concerned setting up my own business. He didn’t presume to tell me what sort of business, but he had asked all his friends what rates they paid for various services they already used relating to their property, and what other services they might be willing to pay for. Did they have a website and who maintained it? If not, would they like one? Did they use an agency to advertise, and were they happy with it? (Not always, it seemed.) He hadn’t stinted on the possibilities and permutations, even though it was all speculative at best.

I realised he must have spent hours on this.

With my shoulders stiff from hunching over the laptop, I dragged my aching bones to the bathroom, ran a deep, hot bath and sank into it, my head filled with figures and projections and possibilities. It was hard not to be influenced by them. Rupert could be convincing with his verbal skills alone – add in hard evidence, and it was damned near impossible not to be drawn into his way of thinking.

It was clear I would be busy helping Rupert from spring through to autumn. The problem was the winter months.

And yet a quiet voice in my head told me to use my imagination. I could use those months to build up my own business. I remembered what Nick said about freelancing. If I was kicking my heels in the off-season, I could look at taking on proper contracts from the UK. Everything was done online nowadays.

The hot bath and the thoughts spinning in my head made me feel slightly sick, so I gave it up as a bad job, made a huge mug of tea, sat back at my laptop and e-mailed Nathan, laying out the arguments for renting rather than selling and even cribbing some of Rupert’s wording and figures.

Wondering if the temperature I seemed to have developed was induced by the bath, I walked back into the lounge and decided there was no harm in getting a few things done. If I was going to contact letting agents, the place needed to look its best.

Slowly and methodically, I cleaned the flat to within an inch of its dreary life, cleared out cupboards (my stuff and joint stuff only – Nathan could sort his own crap out), and decluttered what little clutter there was.

Sorting through the magazine rack – God, did Nathan
ever
read those nerdy tech magazines he insisted on subscribing to? – I came across last year’s batch of holiday brochures and gave a snort. A fat lot of use they’d been! I could only presume the brochure for the Seychelles had been wishful thinking on my part, and the one for golfing holidays in Portugal hidden at the bottom was something Nathan might have been planning without me.

A glossy cottage brochure caught my eye, and I flicked through it. My marketing eyebrow raised in approval. These people certainly knew how to take a photo and write a blurb. Every single cottage came across as a paradise. With professional curiosity, I turned to the front, where they declared themselves specialists in their region of England, offering both homeowners and holidaymakers a service above and beyond. I thought about what Rupert had said in his e-mail about agencies. What I’d said to him at the café about advertising with someone more specialised. Hmmm... Interesting.

The rest of the brochures went in the recycling bin. That one didn’t. It accompanied me to my laptop, where I ate a sandwich whilst composing a thoroughly cheeky e-mail asking if they would be willing to chat to me sometime about how and why they set up their agency and whether they would share some of the nitty-gritty, hastily adding that I had no intention of treading on their toes, or even in the same country.

When I’d finally finished with the flat, I realised I hadn’t been listening to what my body was telling me – or more accurately, screeching at me: that I was really ill. When I stood still long enough to realise I might fall down, I just had time to stagger to the bedroom before nausea and dizziness kicked in with a vengeance, and a headache joined in the fun.

Alternately piling covers on for the shivers and throwing them off for the sweats, I made my way through a restless evening and miserable night, to the accompaniment of cymbals clashing in my head.

B
y morning
, the headache had eased a little and the queasiness was gone, but I still felt hot. And cold. I reached for the mirror on the bedside table and stuck my tongue out to peer at it, but all it told me was that I had no idea why people did that.

I lay inert, staring at the ceiling. The lining paper had a fault and there was a ridge right down the middle of the room. I was surprised I’d never noticed it before.

When my internal caffeine alarm jangled at my nerves, I toddled blearily through to the kitchen, rejecting coffee in case my stomach rebelled and settling for tea instead. Back in bed, I sat with my knees pulled up to my chest and checked my phone for texts and e-mails.

There was no reply from Nathan... But there
was
an e-mail from Alain. I almost spilled my tea.

I
closed my eyes
. It was hard not to be influenced by the knowledge that Alain was so keen on a relationship – but if I went to France, it had to be because I wanted to experience life in a new country, take up new challenges, make new friends...
Not
because there was a delicious half-Frenchman keen to help me settle in.

Idly flicking back to the photos Rupert sent me for the website, I stared at one taken from the bottom of the garden looking back towards the house. Knowledge of what lay behind each blue-shuttered window in its handsome façade was imprinted on my brain, the plants and shrubs in the foreground still so familiar. It was probably only the lack of proper food over the past twenty-four hours, but suddenly I felt light-headed, as though I was being drawn down a tunnel into a 3D memory of sights and sounds and smells and sensations. They felt so good. So right.

When the doorbell interrupted this psychedelic experience, I ignored it, but it kept on sounding at twenty-second intervals until I crawled out of bed, pulled on my robe and dragged myself to the door.

Mum and Dad. Great.

Mum pushed her way inside. ‘Why didn’t you answer? Were you still asleep? You look awful. Are you poorly?’

I nodded.

She put a hand on my brow and frowned. ‘Hmm. Hot. What else?’

Meekly, I listed my symptoms.

‘Right. Dennis. Sofa,’ she commanded before storming off to the kitchen.

Dad dutifully plunked me on the sofa, propped my head with cushions, fetched the duvet from the bedroom and covered me up like a five-year-old, while Mum bustled back in with mugs of tea and a pot of out-of-date vitamins she’d found at the back of a cupboard.

‘You’re run down, Emmy,’ she declared with a mother’s conviction. ‘You’re tired and you haven’t been eating properly. It’s not surprising you’re coming down with something.’

I marvelled at the way she could sound so sympathetic and so cross with me at the same time.

‘I’ll be fine,’ I said, warming my hands on the mug she handed me. ‘Why are you here? You can’t tell me you
knew
I was ill.’

‘We’re on the way to Aunt Jeanie’s for Sunday lunch,’ Dad put in. ‘Your mother wanted to see if you were alright.’

I plastered on a smile. ‘I’m fine.’ To distract Mum from fussing over me, I told them about Nathan’s visit.

‘To think he had the nerve to waltz in like that!’ Mum declared when I’d finished.

Dad set his empty mug down on the coffee table. ‘But unfortunately, he has every right.’

Mum gasped at her husband’s perfidy. ‘Dennis, how can you say that? He left our daughter for another woman. He moved to London,
for God’s sake!’

Dad laid a hand on her arm to shush her. ‘We’re not talking about morals here, Flo, or Nathan’s lack of them. We’re talking about legality. The fact is, the flat and mortgage are in joint names.’ He turned to me. ‘Did you speak to him about that?’

I shook my head. ‘We were too busy yelling at each other. I e-mailed him yesterday about renting the flat out. He hasn’t replied yet.’

‘But Emmy,’ Mum cut in, ‘Where will you live?’

I chewed my lip. Wasn’t it time I told my own parents that I’d been asked to move to France?

I started to tell them, hesitantly at first, but it soon came gushing out – Rupert’s drunken offer of a life in France, my cynicism, his e-mail yesterday. In the interest of full disclosure, I threw in Carl’s offer of promotion while I was at it. I was too delirious to pick and choose – I just dumped the lot for them to sift through themselves.

When I’d finished, for once Mum was at a loss for words. I’d expected a flood of questions and a very vocal opinion of Rupert’s sanity or mine or both... But no. She simply sat staring at me for a while and then looked to Dad for his reaction.

He smiled. ‘It’s down to me, is it, ladies? In that case, do I get to see Rupert’s figures, or do I have to rely on my crystal ball?’

I scurried off to fetch my laptop. He scrolled through the document without looking up once, whilst Mum and I waited with disguised impatience for our oracle to speak.

Well, my impatience was disguised. Mum didn’t have time for that crap.

‘Oh for heaven’s sake, Dennis. Would it work or not?’ she demanded.

He carefully placed the laptop to one side and steepled his fingers together in business mode. ‘Have you checked any of this, Emmy?’

I nodded. ‘It’s about right.’

‘Well, then. I’m afraid I wouldn’t feel qualified to comment about building a business in France, but as for the rest... If I were to trust Rupert’s judgement – which I’m inclined to – I would say it was feasible, if it’s what you want to do.’ He glanced at my mother, who was still surprisingly quiet. ‘No comment, Flo, love?’

‘Only that I’m proud of you, Emmy, for even thinking about such a brave move. If you do go, we’ll miss you so much. But I’m worried you’re only considering this to get away from everything that’s going wrong here. It’s an awfully big thing to do for the wrong reasons.’

‘I know.’ I gave her a small smile. ‘But I think it’s time for me to do
something
, don’t you?’

She nodded. ‘Whatever you choose, we’ll back you all the way, you know we will.’ She batted my father on the arm. ‘Come on, Dennis. Jeanie’s roast will be drying out.’

With a peck on the cheek, they were gone, and I honestly felt much better – whether from the moral support or the expired vitamins, I had no idea.

T
he vitamins
obviously weren’t potent enough, because when I woke on Monday morning, I knew there was no way I was going to work. I phoned Carl, who was predictably unimpressed, but my voice was croaky enough for him to admit I sounded awful. That done, I made myself a large mug of tea. By the time I’d finished it, my voice was back to normal. Oops.

At nine o’clock on the dot, I phoned two letting agents and arranged for them to come early that afternoon, keeping fingers crossed that I could remain upright long enough to show them around. I slept the rest of the morning away, crawling out of bed just in time to get dressed before they landed.

Both told me the flat was a desirable rental property due to its position on a commuter route into the city and its decor. No clutter or personal touches. People didn’t like to feel they were intruding in someone else’s home.

Nathan and I had spent over three years in this flat, yet apparently we’d left no mark on it at all. Our first home, our pride and joy, reflected so little of our personalities that it was ready for strangers to move in at a moment’s notice.

I thought of
La Cour des Roses
and its clutter. The mish-mash of modern gadgetry, expensive antiques and tasteful old tat. Rupert making pastry at the scrubbed pine table. The glorious, shiny coffee machine. Wandering down to the chicken run, clutching a strong espresso and breathing in the scent of the flowers, the dewy grass between my toes. The den with its antique desk and squishy cushions and eclectic selection of books.
La Cour des Roses
was a home. It could be
my
home.

Still, it was all very well getting the thumbs-up from the letting agents. What I needed was a thumbs-up from Nathan. I checked my e-mails – and found one from Ryan.

I
smiled
. Ryan was a good friend, giving me the news as it was, not how he thought I would want it to be.

As for Rupert, the cheeky bastard was already sorting out a room for me! I didn’t know whether to be touched by his faith or pissed off with him for being so sodding presumptuous and stubborn.

N
athan phoned that evening
, waking me from a fitful doze.

‘I got your e-mail about the flat,’ he said, by way of a greeting. ‘I took the weekend to consider.’

I tried to think of something pleasant to say that might heal the hurtful rift of Friday night, but my mind was a blank. ‘Thanks for phoning back,’ was the best I could do.

‘If we did let it out, when were you thinking of?’ he asked.

‘As soon as possible.’

‘You don’t waste time, do you? Got another boyfriend already?’

I imagined his sneer at the other end of the line, and it made me sad.

‘No, Nathan, but I do have a life to lead and I want to get on with it. What do you think, then?’

‘It makes sense. I can’t afford to buy you out. Especially now I’m in London. You wouldn’t believe the cost of living down here.’

Perhaps Gloria was already leading him a merry dance on the expenses front. I sincerely hoped so.

‘What about the furniture?’ I asked awkwardly.

‘I don’t have any use for it at the moment. How about you?’

I couldn’t stand the stuff. ‘No.’

Nathan’s tone was brisk. ‘We could let it out furnished, then. Are you happy to sort out the agents if I deal with the legal side?’

This took me by surprise. How could he be so calm and business-like just a few scant days after asking me to take him back?

‘Er – okay. Thanks.’ I failed to hide the puzzlement in my voice.

Nathan sighed. ‘I’m not stupid, Emmy. You made yourself clear on Friday. I thought it was worth a shot and I lost. You said you want to get on with your life. That’s fine. I have a life to get on with, too.’

With Gloria
. The words floated unspoken between us.

‘What about the car?’

‘You keep it for now,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a company car.’

‘Okay, thanks.’ I wasn’t going to argue.

There was an awkward pause. ‘Where will you move to?’ he asked. ‘Somewhere smaller, nearer work?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said honestly. Then, for devilment mainly, ‘I might move to France.’

‘To
France
? Are you mad?’

‘No, Nathan, I am not mad.’ My tone was icy steel. ‘
You’ve
seen fit to leave me, give up a good job without a reference, move to London to shack up with an older woman...’

‘Oh, and I suppose moving to France to shack up with Rupert is no different?’ His voice was ugly and bitter.

‘Actually, it’s
very
different. If I do go, I’ll give proper notice at work, retain the right to a reference and put my life in order. And I would not be shacking up with Rupert. I would be working for him whilst setting up my own business – but I would
not
be sleeping with him. It’s called friendship. You might like to try it sometime.’ I clicked off the phone and let my aching head fall back onto the cool pillow.

Drugged up to the eyeballs with painkillers and still sporting an exciting fever, I drifted in and out of sleep.

What if I went to France and it turned out that Rupert had written the whole thing while drunk and it was a load of twaddle and I ended up penniless and homeless?

At one in the morning, I was sweating so much that the wet sheets were making me cold. I got up to change the bedding.