Escape to the French Chateau

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Fran had been waiting for ages outside the door marked ‘Manager’. Perched on a small wooden chair in the corridor, with her case settled beside her like a well-trained dog, she’d watched the comings and goings with interest. Everything looked serious but smooth. Everyone was moving quickly, but nobody looked overly stressed. No obvious issues so far. Perhaps she should be taking notes as she waited.

Once the idea to pretend to be a casual summer worker had taken root, she’d become more and more convinced it was a great move. She would be able to see the innermost workings of the hotel, without the filter of viewing everything through the eyes of a guest. Without the rapid polishing everything would have been subjected to before she got to have a look.

Although, the longer she waited, the more doubts jostled alongside her shiny ‘going undercover’ idea. Fran wasn’t particularly worried about anyone recognising her, but she had a bigger problem to worry about – who was she going to pretend to be? They were expecting a new chambermaid, so what would happen when two of them turned up? And although she was aware of the agencies who supplied workers from the UK, Fran didn’t know the name of the actual new employee, so she couldn’t pretend to be her. Anyway, that wouldn’t work, not on any level. Identity fraud – not a good idea.

Not that she could use her real name, either. Surely it would only be a matter of time before someone worked out there was a room booked in the same name.

And what would happen about her passport, getting on payroll, work visas …

Perhaps this hadn’t been her finest idea after all.

If she hadn’t already been overheating in the stuffy corridor, she would have blamed the dryness in her mouth on the realisation that her scheme had fewer legs than a one-legged—well, a one-legged anything.

The door opposite her opened with a sudden flourish, an imposing woman beckoning at her with an elegant finger. ‘Yes, you. Come …’

Grabbing at her case, Fran followed the woman into the office, her wheelie sounding outlandishly noisy as it rattled over the uneven tiled floor.

‘Sit. There.’

Fran felt like the well-behaved dog now, as she took a seat on another hardwood chair.

‘There has been some confusion, I think.’ The woman’s French accent was strong, but her English was impeccable. ‘I am Madame Beaufoy, but you are not who we were expecting. We were told there would be a Harriet Hollis, but the agency telephoned earlier to say that the girl was not coming. And yet a girl has appeared.’ There was an edge of a smile on the woman’s lips as she gestured at Fran. ‘Are you Harriet Hollis after all?’

Fran shook her head.

‘And yet, you are here. If I believed in such things, I would suggest a miracle has taken place. We are short-staffed as it is, and you are most welcome. But who are you?’

Before Fran could reply, the mobile lodged on Madame Beaufoy’s desk began to vibrate. She took the call swiftly and efficiently, in a burst of rapid French.

‘Merde, now I am needed at the reception – a problem with a guest check-in.’ She waved a hand in Fran’s direction. ‘As your arrival is unexpected, I will welcome you very warmly to Chateau les Champs d’Or, but I must place you on probation while we establish your skillset. Would that be amenable to you?’

Fran nodded, about to add some details of her work experience, but Madame Beaufoy was already on her feet.

‘Please speak to someone in the laundry room – they will show you the staff quarters and provide you with a uniform. There is always plenty to do around here, you will be busy in no time. And we will speak again later for all the details, yes?’

Fran hadn’t managed to utter a word as the woman swept past her and left the room. Perhaps that was as well. Less chance of saying the wrong thing. In the quiet space which remained after Madame Beaufoy’s sharp exit, Fran considered her options. There was still time to come clean. She could remain here until the woman returned – or follow her to reception – and explain exactly who she was and why she was here. Or she could continue with the deception.

It wouldn’t be impossible to fumble her way through the formal stuff. Pretend she didn’t have the number of her bank account for wages, that she’d mislaid her cards, lost her purse, had her details stolen and so needed to be paid in cash. Bluff that her information must have been lost by the agency. Anyway, she wasn’t here to earn money – she was already in a salaried position with Wilding Holdings, so she could do her best to sidestep those kinds of details for a while, at least.

A tickle of adrenalin butterflied around her stomach, and Fran began to grin. For the first time since she’d taken this job with Wilding Holdings, Fran felt a sense of confidence in what she was about to do. She would be on home ground, as a member of staff rather than being pandered to by members of staff.

Straightening, Fran tugged at the handle of her case and headed for the door. Outside, there was a fifty-fifty decision to make – left, or right? Opting for right, Fran went in search of the laundry.

‘No. We booked four suites. Four. Not three.’ Noel was becoming louder every time he spoke. Which was impressive seeing as his volume dial was already turned all the way up. With one hand laid proprietorially on the welcome desk, the other looped its way around his head as he gesticulated wildly – four fingers splayed for added emphasis. He glanced around, locking eyes with Johnny before he could look away. ‘Thank God we’re out.’ Balling his free hand, Noel pretended to cough into it. ‘Brexit.’

Johnny rolled his eyes. ‘For God’s sake, Noel. Calm down.’ Now was not the time to remind him that a British company owned Chateau les Champs d’Or, or that the CEO of Wilding Holdings, Bill Wilding, was someone in the business world whom Noel held in a God-like reverence. Or that Brexit had caused untold problems for businesses such as this, not to mention their own, both inside and outside the UK.

‘There are four of us, comprendez? We need four rooms. Four beds. How hard can this be?’ Noel’s attention was back on the unfortunate member of staff behind the desk, whose nametag, brushed steel engraved with ‘Pierre’, glinted in the reflected light from the ostentatious chandelier hanging above their heads. ‘We booked four of your standard suites. We need four suites. End of.’

Johnny would put money on the small, immaculately dressed receptionist suddenly wishing he’d pretended he had absolutely no English at all, rather than smiling at them and offering them a warm greeting when they’d first bundled through the chateau doors.

Ricardo and Ed had managed to separate themselves and were standing at a discreet distance while Noel blew off the worst of his tantrum. Johnny did his best to ignore his brother as he focused on an increasingly nervous Pierre.

‘I’m sorry,’ Johnny said to the man behind the desk. ‘But we do need four rooms. Are you sure there are only three booked for us?’

Pierre tapped at his tablet, a grimace of apology as he began to nod. ‘It seems so. The manager is coming, she will be able to help.’

‘Surely you can just allocate us another room.’

‘My problem is that we are almost fully booked. There is only one suite available, and …’ Pierre glanced past them, a look of relief flooding his features as a woman swept across the foyer. ‘Ah, here is Madame Beaufoy.’

As Johnny waited, a rapid conversation took place in French. For a moment, Johnny was tempted to explain his natural aptitude for languages, how he could understand everything they were saying. But sometimes it was useful to feign ignorance.

It was fair to say Johnny could agree with much of the sentiment of their conversation. If he’d been the one dealing with Noel, Johnny would probably think his group looked like trouble, too – British businessmen more than likely in search of alcohol and other associated distractions. Johnny could appreciate the last thing the hotel manager wanted was to give one of them their newly refurbished and superior quality (which equalled more expensive) turret suite, especially for the same money. That the last thing they wanted to do was to have to clear up after the inevitable drunken damage which might follow, particularly in such a beautiful room. He wanted to tell them that he and his compatriots really weren’t going to be that badly behaved. Johnny glanced at Noel and revised his thoughts. Probably wouldn’t be that badly behaved. Plus, they were here now, and they each needed a room in which to sleep.

Johnny, for one, had absolutely no intention of sharing a room with anyone – not his brother or a work colleague, or for that matter any ‘alcohol-related distraction’. Now, or possibly ever again.

Mention was made between Pierre and Madame Beaufoy of the error someone had made when the booking was taken, the difference between the charge per night for a standard suite and the turret rooms, the loss the hotel would have to absorb.

It seemed the turret suite was the only solution, however, and with a particularly Gallic shrug, Pierre acquiesced to Madame Beaufoy and turned to the group.

‘I have good news,’ he said, re-establishing his smile. ‘We are able to offer one of you a suite in the west turret, at no additional cost.’

‘I should bloody well think not.’ Noel was back at the desk. ‘This trip is an arm and a leg job as it is. OK, who wants the turret room? I don’t. More stairs between me and the bar.’

‘Don’t look at me,’ Ed said. Recently out of plaster following a nasty car accident and still limping, he didn’t look excited by the prospect of a spiral staircase. And Johnny presumed there would be a spiral staircase – what self-respecting French chateau turret came without one?

‘Ricky can have it,’ Johnny said. ‘I genuinely don’t care where my room is, so long as I don’t have to share with any of you.’

‘Charming,’ his brother said. ‘But probably just as well, you do snore like a warthog.’

And that should have been an end to it. Except that after the porter had shown Johnny to his suite, and before he’d even managed to close the door, Ricky was back down the corridor, shouldering his way into Johnny’s room.

‘It’s the bloody honeymoon suite,’ he said.

‘What is?’

‘The west turret. It’s their honeymoon suite. There are hearts everywhere you look, even carved into the cornerstones.’

‘So?’

‘I can’t stay in a honeymoon suite without Belinda. She’ll never forgive me. And it kind of feels a bit weird, when we’ll be doing it for real in a few months anyway. Disrespectful, somehow. You know?’

‘It’s just a room, Ricky. Who cares what they’re calling it?’

‘Then you won’t mind swapping with me, will you?’

‘Are you being serious?’

Ricky was dead serious. And before Johnny had a chance to protest further, he and his bag found themselves in the honeymoon suite, the key card hastily pressed into his hand and the door firmly closed by the departing Ricky.

After his marriage to Natalie became the opposite of Estelle’s DVDs, irreparably ungluing itself at the seams, Johnny had secretly promised himself he would never go back – either to Natalie, or to that kind of a situation. Never have the need to spend time in a room such as this again. Because he knew what followed it. And never again did he want to feel such an overwhelming sense of disappointment, or sadness.

He might not be the best catch on the planet, Johnny was well aware he was far from perfect. Yes – Noel was correct, he did snore, and had long since recognised a tendency towards melancholy which nobody had any time for. At least, that’s what he’d always been told by those closest to him. But regardless of his personal shortcomings, he never wanted to feel that kind of pain ever again. That sense of being utterly untethered. Of having everything you thought you knew for certain ripped out of the ground and thrown to the winds.

He’d known things with Natalie weren’t great, hadn’t been for a while – and however hard they tried, the stresses of his work schedule, her job, and the arrival of Estelle had all played a part in the way they found it increasingly challenging to be around one another as a couple – but he’d always believed they’d find a way through it. That they’d find a way to stay together as a family. Right up until the moment she’d told him that in an attempt to find solace she’d been unfaithful, but flatly refused to tell him who with.

Johnny had gone from having everything – however imperfect it might have been – to having nothing. And he wasn’t going to do that ever again. Which was why finding himself in the honeymoon suite of the Chateau les Champs d’Or was utterly surreal.

Doing his best to ignore the hearts – and Ricky hadn’t been exaggerating, they were everywhere – Johnny dumped his bag, then folded the counterpane and shoved it into the bottom of a wardrobe. The last thing he wanted to do was to slide beneath that every night of this trip, with its intricate self-coloured embroidered lovebird pattern repeated across the creamy silk. The plain white duvet below would do just fine.

Perching on the edge of the huge bed, he dropped his head into his hands and closed his eyes. Here at last was the moment he wanted to himself, a few minutes to be quiet and still.

His brother had always been the firecracker out of the pair of them. Younger by three years, louder by three decibels, and more driven than Johnny by about three hundred per cent, Noel always managed to put Johnny in the shade. Not that Johnny craved the spotlight particularly, and not that Noel could have achieved for the business what he had without Johnny’s input – they were both fully aware of that.

But somehow, lately, the tickle of inferiority Johnny had always done his best to ignore had morphed into something else. It was as though someone had shackled a weight to his ankle and had been adding to the load while he wasn’t looking. Maybe it was nothing more than the mental load from the breakdown of his marriage – after all, Noel had been an absolute rock throughout, it was unfair of Johnny to lay any of the way he was feeling about that at his brother’s door. Nevertheless, something had shifted in their relationship, and he wished he could work out why.

He shook his head, rubbing vigorously at his cheeks. It was probably all in his imagination, nothing more than a reaction to the conversation he’d had with Natalie shortly before leaving for the airport. She’d finally mentioned the d-word. Suggested it was time to consult with solicitors and get the ball rolling. She was probably right. There was no way back for them as a couple. Johnny had known this was where it would end the moment Natalie told him she’d slept with someone else.

The irony was that while she’d blamed his rigorous work ethic, the fact he spent all hours making the business a success, he’d only done it for them. Maybe he had been obsessed, but it had only ever been with making Taylor Made Wine as successful as possible to bring in enough money to give Natalie and Estelle a safe, secure life.

And no matter how hard they’d tried to pretend none of it had happened, had tried to find a way through, her revelations had been like a serpent, winding around the throat of their life together and squeezing until everything had turned black.

‘Shit.’ The oath was little more than a breath, as his face sank back into the cradle of his splayed fingers.

When the knocking started, Johnny presumed it was Noel. He had no idea how long had passed, with his eyes closed and everything blissfully quiet until that moment. He was disorientated when he heard the door being opened, footsteps, a woman’s voice.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry – I didn’t realise anyone was in here. I brought towels.’