The French for Always (8 page)

‘Hmm,’ responded Karen. ‘And speaking of bonding experiences, it sounds as if you’ve been pretty busy on that front yourself. Is there anything you’d like to tell me?’

Sara paused, still clutching her damp tea towel, her hands on her hips. ‘What on
earth
have you heard? Honestly, the gossip around this place is truly outrageous!’

Karen carried on slotting wine glasses back into the honeycomb cells of the storage crate, nonchalant.

‘Well, funnily enough, when I popped into the bakery this morning, Madame Fournier told me that I’d just missed Thomas Cortini, who’d apparently been doing the Sunday morning croissant run for Château Bellevue in place of Mademoiselle Sara. She couldn’t help noticing that he was wearing his smart shirt and pants, such as might be worn when DJ-ing a wedding party the night before. And apparently he’d been in an extremely good mood, whistling a Scottish tune, not unlike the one you’ve just been humming to yourself this fine morning, Snow White.’

‘And so she put two and two together and made five?’ retorted Sara.

‘No, but she did put one and one together and made two. But don’t worry; I cunningly threw her off the scent by telling her he must have spent the night with one of the wedding guests. And, given that it hasn’t escaped the notice of the good people of Coulliac that this particular function has a particularly gay air about it, that’s given Madame Fournier a
great
deal to think about!’

Sara buried her face in the tea towel. ‘Oh, Karen, you didn’t?’

‘Of course I
could
scotch these rumours by going back and telling her that I’d got it wrong and that I have a categorical admission that he was with a certain girl up here instead...’

Sara hesitated, coming out from behind the tea towel, blushing. ‘All right. I admit it.’

‘Gotcha! I knew it,’ Karen crowed. ‘Oh, and by the way, Madame Fournier already did too. Only a rookie gossipmonger would have believed anything otherwise, and she’s a world expert.’

Sara gasped. ‘Oh, you ratbag! Tricking me like that.’ She flicked her tea towel at Karen’s rear. Grinning smugly, Karen carried on putting away the glasses.

Sara was relieved to turn back to her task, polishing each wineglass with deliberate concentration. She knew she ought to be regretting last night. After all, she’d sworn off men for life (so much for willpower then) and it was probably a big mistake to get involved with someone she worked with. And she blushed to think how quickly it had happened after Gavin’s departure. But who could have resisted the starlight and the champagne, such a perfect setting... such a man. She put it down to his irresistible
joie de vivre
, the life force he’d brought to the two weddings he’d participated in so far... the way the sun came out whenever he walked into the room.
Careful now
, she admonished herself.
You’re not going to fall for him; you know he’ll only leave you and break your heart
. She put it down to a temporary lapse, a fling as a result of a glass of champagne too many and several months of loneliness and frustration. It had felt so good to lie in someone’s arms again, to feel wanted. Maybe even—although she hardly dared think the thought—to feel loved...

Just then, Nicola Carter appeared in the kitchen. ‘Sara, I’m heading back to the
gîte
now. Just wanted to thank you all for making it such a perfect celebration for the boys. We’ve all had a wonderful time.’

‘Oh, can you hang on a sec? I wondered whether you’d like to take some of the flowers from the marquee back with you to brighten up your holiday house. Matthew said they don’t want them—after all, they can hardly take them back on the plane.’ Sara wrapped an armful of the roses in damp newspaper and covered it with a plastic bag.

‘Beautiful, I’d love them. These will certainly enhance the place—thanks.’ Nicola fished in her bag and handed Sara her business card. ‘Here’s my mobile number and email address. Keep in touch. And let me know if I can ever be of help. We might even include Château Bellevue de Coulliac in a feature in
High Society
one of these days...’

After she’d gone, Karen couldn’t resist one last dig. ‘Ah, if only she knew what the owner of the château had been getting up to last night. Then she’d really have something to report in her social pages!’ She grinned broadly, as Sara’s cheeks flushed the colour of the single red rose that lay on the counter before them.

I
t was not
unusual for the bright yellow post van to call at Château Bellevue de Coulliac. As far as possible, Sara bought supplies locally to support the region’s shopkeepers, but for some of the more exotic requests—heart-shaped helium balloons, for example, and biodegradable delphinium-petal confetti, personalised fortune cookies and glitter-butterfly table decorations—she ordered online from specialist suppliers, resulting in frequent visits by the
facteur
to deliver an intriguing array of cardboard boxes. The postman liked nothing better than to stand and chat for a few minutes, gleaning all sorts of fascinating snippets about the latest bizarre new ways
les Anglo-Saxons
had come up with for celebrating their nuptials. But today there were no boxes to drop off, just a solitary registered-delivery envelope. As she signed for it, Sara was careful to give nothing away, smiling and chatting with the postman whilst the envelope, with her name and address on it in Gavin’s handwriting, glowed radioactively in her hand.

‘There’s a rumour that next weekend there’s going to be a rock concert at Château Bellevue. Is it really true that The Steel Thornes are coming?’

The Steel Thornes hadn’t had a hit record for about a decade, but they still toured, belting out their heavy-metal back catalogue at the lesser venues across Europe. They had an enthusiastic fan base on the Continent, even if the audiences at their gigs were generally a sea of balding heads and bulging paunches nowadays.

Sara confirmed that this was, in fact, the case. She’d managed pretty well to keep it a secret that ageing rock legend Thorne Sharpe and his long-term girlfriend Patti Monahan had booked the château for the coming weekend. But she’d had to go and speak to
Monsieur le Maire
about security (the two rather sleepy local
gendarmes
had been notified accordingly) and to request permission for the sound-and-light show that was planned for the after-party, so it was inevitable that the news would have seeped out.

‘I hope it’s not going to upset people in Coulliac. We’re far enough from our nearest neighbours that it shouldn’t be
too
loud, and they’ve promised that the live music will finish by eleven p.m.’

'Oh no, not at all,’ the postman assured her. ‘In fact the Café de la Paix is putting out extra chairs. The whole village is intending to come and watch from the square—I just hope it’s going to be loud
enough
. It’s not every day we have a real live rock band come to Coulliac! People are coming from far and wide—if the mayor could get away with selling tickets for it, he would.’

Once she’d wished the postman a
bonne journée
, Sara made herself walk back inside and sit down at the table before tearing open the envelope. As she read, the hand holding the sheet of paper began to tremble.

The tone of the letter was cool, and some of the phrases were couched in legalese, which made Sara suspect Gavin had already sought professional advice. Either that or he was trying to scare her into submission: and either way, she was shocked that he was resorting to bullying her like this. The bottom line was that he wanted his money out. He wanted sixty percent of the profits from this season’s earnings, in line with his shareholding in the business, and he wanted the château put on the market straight away, in the hope of selling it by the end of the year so that he could get his investment back.

Of course he was entitled to his share of the profits; Sara would never have dreamed of withholding anything that was due to him. But he also knew full well that more investment in the property was needed if the business was to be a viable proposition in future years. They’d gone through the figures together at the outset and had agreed to plough this year’s profits back in. There were still several major projects in the pipeline—her plans for the garden, a new roof needed on the stable block, the rewiring of the barn—not to mention the re-plastering of the wall in the cottage and the general maintenance that these old buildings constantly demanded.

Sara read and re-read the words on the page, as though their meaning might change if she did, hoping for a glimmer of empathy from the man with whom she’d shared three years of her life. But there was none. She pressed her fingers to her throbbing temples, trying to think straight. She’d need to take some advice herself. She had no idea what the legal position would be here in France and she’d have to speak to the bank manager and the accountant, and then an estate agent most probably.

It would be a terrible time to sell. Since they’d bought the château, she was well aware that property prices had fallen further. The recession was grinding on, seemingly inexorably, and the eurozone was wobbling alarmingly on its foundations. Even if she did manage to sell, they stood to lose money; they’d invested so much in the renovations, even if they had managed to buy the château for a knock-down price originally. Her more meagre share would be eaten away significantly, leaving her to limp back to England without enough to relaunch her landscape gardening business in London, let alone afford to live there. Unlike Gavin, she had no family home to go back to. It was a disaster.

She raised her head and gazed out of the window to the garden beyond, where clouds of white gaura nodded gracefully beneath the silver leaves of an olive tree. And suddenly she was overcome by a surge of protectiveness, so fierce that it charged her body with a visceral strength.

She belonged here. It was more than a thought; it was a certain knowledge. This was
her
time to be in
this
place. For the first time in her life she had begun to put down roots, anchoring herself to this limestone ridge as surely as the château itself was anchored here. She had a vision of the garden that she wanted to create here, so vivid that it already felt real. She couldn’t let Gavin destroy her with his cruelly casual selfishness. She had to find a way to stay.

Thomas appeared in the doorway, whistling cheerfully. He’d gone to make sure everything was all right back at the vineyard that morning, to open the mail and check whether any new orders had come in, but now he was back. ‘It may be a difficult year for the vines, but at least the tomatoes are thriving,’ he said, setting down a basket of sun-warmed vegetables from the
potager
at Château de la Chapelle.

Sara folded the letter and stuck it in her apron pocket, turning her face up to meet his as he stooped to kiss her. She wasn’t about to involve him in her troubles, but she was thankful for the reassurance of his smile, in which nothing was written but pure joy at seeing her again.

‘
O
h
, mon Dieu!
I can’t believe you didn’t tell me before now!’ Thomas had just read the programme for the coming weekend. ‘You mean to tell me I’m going to be the DJ at the wedding of Thorne Sharpe? He’s pretty much royalty!’

‘You clearly don’t listen to enough gossip, Tommy-boy,’ laughed Karen. ‘It’s common knowledge on the street in Coulliac.’

‘Well, I was
trying
to be discreet,’ Sara smiled. ‘His production company asked us to keep it hush-hush. My guess is they’ve sold the rights to one of the gossip magazines and so they don’t want any other media staking out the château. Anyway, there won’t be too much for you to do. The band’s playing until eleven at the latest and they only want the disco for about an hour after that. There’s a truck-full of roadies arriving on Friday with the sound system for the band and the light show. The guests will only be arriving on Saturday morning and most are leaving on Sunday. So it’s a short, sharp one this time.’

Thomas sped off excitedly to the barn to prepare some new playlists in honour of The Steel Thornes. ‘They’ve requested a mixture of dance music,’ Sara called after him. ‘It’s a disco, remember! They’ll probably have had enough Heavy Metal once the band’s done their stint.’

Sara immersed herself briskly in the physical exertion that the changeover entailed, thankful for the distraction, and for having the rest of the team there, so excited at the coming celebrity-filled weekend and their own role in it: it helped to take her mind off Gavin’s letter which was burning a hole in her apron pocket. She couldn’t afford to be distracted by it. This wedding was high-profile, no matter how discreet an affair they tried to make it, and it would be a massive boost to the business, as long as everything went perfectly to plan: the pressure was well and truly on this time.

‘Blimey, someone’s had their Vegemite this morning,’ Karen observed when she found Sara scrubbing the bath in the honeymoon suite with cathartic vigour, working off some of her anxious tension.

It wasn’t just this wedding. Try as she might to focus on the business at hand, the uncertainty over her future here was a constant, nagging distraction. Her phone call to the bank yesterday afternoon had been fruitless, the unanswered ring tone echoing in her ear until she had realised that, of course, it was closed on Mondays. She’d have no time to call today, and, in any case, she didn’t want to do it while the others were around. She’d decided it would probably be better to go down in person tomorrow; she should have time, as long as they got as much as possible finished today.

B
y Friday morning
, excitement crackled in the air as the truck rumbled up the driveway and manoeuvred to get as close to the barn as possible. The two hefty roadies jumped down from the cab and began unloading flight cases full of kit.

Sara was amused to note that, whilst they weren’t officially on duty today, the whole team just happened to have turned up, drawn by the lure of Château Bellevue’s first ever rock concert-come-wedding: they’d all be there tomorrow as well, the opportunity to have ringside seats at a celeb-spangled party—and the kudos this assured within the local community—too exciting to miss. Karen’s husband, Didier, a lifelong Steel Thornes fan, was also coming, and Karen had reported that he’d even dug out an old denim jacket with the band’s logo on it, which fit fine—just as long as he didn’t actually try to button it up over his age-thickened midriff.

Thomas was buzzing with his role in it all and he was on hand today to help with the set-up. Over a lunch of bread and cheese, washed down with several bottles of beer, the roadies regaled them with stories of life on the road with the band.

‘Where was it we did that concert in the old Mig hangar?’ Stan prompted Andy, drawing hard on his cigarette.

‘Kazakhstan, wasn’t it? Or—no, Poland I think. Was it after Berlin or before?’

‘Dunno. It all blurs into one when you’re on tour. We’re in a different venue every night and sleeping on the tour bus on the way to the next concert most days. ’Course, usually it wouldn’t be us driving the truck, let alone setting up the kit. But we’ve been with the band for ten years now; we’d do anything for them. They’re like family really. It’s such a small party this time, so we agreed to do it. Thorne insisted on keeping it that way, didn’t want it to be a full-on gig like his label would’ve liked. It
is
supposed to be him an’ Patti’s wedding after all. And if the rumours are true and she really is, you know—’ Stan’s hand described an even more rounded belly in front of his already generous girth—‘then it’s not surprising.’

Around the table, they all digested this juicy nugget of gossip and Sara hoped, against hope, that it wouldn’t be in general circulation on the streets of Coulliac within the hour.

‘So how many trucks would you normally have on tour?’ Thomas hung on the roadies’ every word, enthralled.

‘’Bout a dozen normally. Maybe a few less for festivals. We’ve just brought the bare essentials for tomorrow, yeah? Speakers, amps, a basic lighting rig, sound desk, lighting desk. Some staging. Drum kit. One laser.’

‘A laser! Where’s that going?’

‘It’s a Skytracker. It’ll be beaming into the sky above the château. Production assistant’s checked with air traffic control so it won’t interfere with any aircraft. She said she was sorting out a gennie from the local hire-place—have they delivered it yet? And the pyro guy’s turning up this afternoon, yeah?’ Andy checked with Sara.

‘If a “gennie” is a generator then yes, that’s here. And if “pyro” means fireworks then yes to that as well: we’ve got a local specialist coming—he should be here at two.’

‘Okay, we’ll need to co-ordinate with him. Does he speak English?’

‘I’ll translate for you,’ Thomas volunteered eagerly.

Sara grinned at him. He had the unselfconscious enthusiasm of a child, which combined most attractively with his natural confidence and sunny exterior. But she recalled their conversation by the river a couple of weeks ago, when a shadow had momentarily crossed his face as he spoke about being like his mother. She suspected he hadn’t shared that with anyone else; everyone around here knew him simply as the happy-go-lucky younger son at Château de la Chapelle, where he belonged.

As she cleared away the lunch things, she watched him through the kitchen window where he was helping run lengths of cable from the barn to the generator which would provide the power for the show.

So much for thinking it was probably just a one-night fling. They’d spent every night together since that first starlit evening last weekend, and it felt so natural being with him. She hadn’t thought at all about where their relationship might be going; it was a novelty simply enjoying their easy lovemaking in the tiny cottage up on their hilltop fortress, tucked away from the rest of the world. It felt like time out of time. Losing herself in the smell and the taste of him, letting her body respond reflexively as his hands moved over it, she’d blocked out thoughts of the uncertainty of the future for them both: would she still be here in a few months’ time? And would Thomas already have set off on his travels?