Chapter 3
Chapter 3
‘Towels?’ Fran repeated. The guy looked confused, as though she’d asked him to solve some complicated maths equation and had demanded an instant answer.
It was possible her own expression wasn’t a million miles away from his. She’d been in her new uniform for less than ten minutes before Penny – the member of the housekeeping team Fran had found shortly after leaving the manager’s office – handed her a pile of towels and directed her towards the honeymoon turret.
Contrary to her observations while she sat outside Madame Beaufoy’s office, it was becoming clear the chateau was understaffed. Instead of having time to put her own belongings into the staff quarters, she’d been put straight to work. As a plus, she hadn’t been given any paperwork to complete. She supposed that could work in her favour, might give her some more time to perfect her cover story – which could only be a bonus, as her story had more holes in it than a sieve – but she would have appreciated a cup of tea before she began working. Maybe also the chance to use the bathroom.
As she glanced around the honeymoon turret, everything looked sickeningly perfect. Swathes of sumptuous floor-length cream velvet curtains, held back by metal loops cast into heart shapes. Blood red cushions adorned the three curving window nooks, each one just about wide enough for two people to snuggle into the deep stone windowsill. Fran couldn’t see the view from where she stood, but she knew it would be spectacular from this high up.
Extravagant deep-pile rugs lay on top of polished oak flooring and an enormous bed, with an intricate twisting design carved into the headboard, sat atop the largest rug. No prizes for guessing what dominated the carved design on that headboard. The theme for the room was obvious – overplayed, in her opinion. A frivolous thought landed. Rather than even more hearts, twisting their way through flowery knots and curves, it might have been more on point to have chosen more direct symbolism. Images from the Kama Sutra, perhaps. She swallowed the desire to laugh. Maybe not. Fran reminded herself that bitterness wasn’t a great decision-making tool.
The only aspect of the room that looked out of kilter with the romantic vibe was the man, sitting at the foot of the bed, staring at her. Not only did he look utterly disorientated, but he was also alone.
Fran was probably overthinking things. Maybe his new wife – or husband – was in the bathroom. Or maybe whoever he was here with had yet to come up to the room. Perhaps they were already enjoying the chateau’s amenities.
And yet there was hardly any luggage in the room. Nothing but a single bag lodged at the side of the bed, a leather grip only large enough to fit one person’s belongings. More than that, this man didn’t look as though he was at the start of his honeymoon. There was no joy in his hazel eyes, no excitement in his movement as he drew a hand through his neatly cut toffee-brown hair. Fran noticed a definite slump in his shoulders as he reassessed her and expressed his thanks.
‘I’ll take them through to the bathroom.’ Fran made to head in the direction of the en suite, pausing when he stood and shook his head.
‘No need. Leave them here. It’s fine.’
Fran gripped the towels a little tighter, as if worried he might take them from her, then frowned. It was a pile of towels, what did it matter where she put them? Except Fran had become aware of how some Wilding Holdings guests behaved if asked to do something as menial as hang up their own towels. Fran hadn’t really become used to being the one having her towels artfully arranged for her, but the expectation of perfection in every hotel room had made its mark on her. Luxury and service. Wilding hotels didn’t do either in half measures.
‘I won’t be a moment.’ Fran kept moving, folding and lining the larger towels onto the heated racks, then rolling the smaller towels neatly to sit on the shelving. She double-checked the rest of the bathroom while she was there. No sign of any extra toiletries having joined the ranks of the chateau’s own basket of beautifully arranged L’Occitane products – there were no clues as to who was here with this man, if anyone. She headed back into the bedroom. He hadn’t moved. ‘Unless there’s anything else you need …’
‘Some peace and quiet would be nice,’ he snapped, then shook his head as he stared through a window. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean … That was rude.’
Yes, Fran thought, it was. But unlikely to be the worst behaviour she would encounter over the next few days. She’d spent enough time in the company of people able to afford a stay at a place like Chateau les Champs d’Or to know only too well how some of them treated the staff.
‘Sorry to have disturbed,’ she said, withdrawing from the room and quietly heading down the turret stairs. Maybe he’d been jilted at the altar but had decided to see the booking through anyway. If that was the case, he was in for a rough week. Being reminded of what should have been, but which had been ripped away, was a tough journey. She knew that only too well.
Or maybe she was barking up the wrong tree, maybe he was simply a grumpy sod who’d been given the honeymoon suite by accident.
Either way, he now had towels. Whether or not he enjoyed their fluffy softness and incredible absorbent qualities was up to him.
By the time Johnny had covered over as much of the hearts and flowers designs held in the room as he could, he’d lost interest in unpacking his stuff. He turned a slow circle, happier at least with how the room now looked. He’d hidden the iron hearts by releasing the curtains to hang in front of them, had tossed the bulk of the fancy cushions into the bottom of the wardrobe alongside the counterpane. Housekeeping would probably return them all to their rightful places in the morning, but for now the room would do.
He was about to kick off his shoes and take the opportunity to stay put in the quiet space for a while longer, maybe lie on the denuded bed and relax properly, when his phone bleated. No prizes for guessing who was on the other end of the call.
‘We’re in the bar. I’ve ordered a couple of bottles of their most popular Chardonnay. Ricky’s already downed a glass so it must be all right. Local producer, but not one we buy from. Might be worth a visit? Get them on the books.’
As Noel continued, reading about the wine’s terroir from the label in a terrible French accent, Johnny flicked a cuff and checked his watch. Barely three in the afternoon and Noel’s intentions were clear. Johnny desperately wanted a shower, a chance to wash away the grime of travel, the accumulated dust and dirt and sweat of the hottest June day in a decade. Time to unwind, and change into something more comfortable than the suit he’d travelled in.
He’d wanted a slower start to the week, maybe even a few hours without any mention of work. But that wasn’t in Noel’s frame of reference. As brothers, they might look alike, and like Noel, Johnny had put his all into making the business a success – but their personalities had always been at opposing ends of the spectrum. Noel was full-on, bullish, determined. Full of confidence. He could charm the birds from the very trees if it suited, never had a shortage of women eager to – as Noel put it – trap him. In contrast, Johnny always felt he was playing catch-up. Always trying to match Noel’s energy levels, his drive. Especially lately. And while Noel wanted to go everywhere at a hundred miles an hour, Johnny wanted to wind down the windows and enjoy the view.
‘Get your arse down here, tell me what you think of this vino while there’s still some left. Ricky’s chugging it like a V8 burns petrol.’
‘I’ll be down in ten.’ Johnny ended the call and stripped, pulling one of the elegantly folded towels from the holder and switching the shower to cold.
He did appreciate Noel’s enthusiasm, even if he struggled to match it. As the cool water cascaded from the crown of his head, the blissful shock of the change in temperature had him pulling in a sharp breath, and from nowhere an image of the woman with the towels flowed into his head, her look of surprise as she’d entered the suite, her long, delicate fingers tightening around the towels as she’d apologised for the intrusion. His unbidden rudeness, as though he wanted her out of the room as quickly as possible. The swing of her short, dark hair as she left.
After shaking the water from his head like a dog and switching off the shower, Johnny towelled himself dry. He pulled shorts and a casual shirt from his bag and dressed quickly. His thought process was random, to say the least. Of all the things he should be concentrating on, a completely standard delivery of towels by a member of the housekeeping staff shouldn’t figure, even if he had been unnecessarily terse with her.
Which left him wondering why he found himself still focusing on the memory, on her, as he clicked his suite door closed and headed for the bar.
Situated to the back of the chateau, with large bifold doors pulled wide to allow access onto a huge patio outside, the bar was humming with activity. Huge fans turned from the ceiling making the whole room look like something out of an illegal watering hole in the American Prohibition of the twenties. Despite the disconcerting vibe, the fans must be surprisingly effective, or were supplemented by unseen air conditioning, because Johnny could feel a flow of cool air even though not so much as a leaf stirred in the oppressive heat outdoors.
On velvet smoking chairs surrounding a low table halfway between the bar and the open doors, Johnny spotted Noel. It wasn’t difficult, he could have pinpointed his brother’s presence with his eyes closed. Noel was holding court, as usual, leaning forward in his chair, tie askew and top button of his shirt undone, suit jacket abandoned on the back of the chair. Ricky and Ed burst into a cacophony of laughter as Noel’s monologue drew to a close, then all three lifted glasses and toasted Taylor Made Wine.
‘Ah, here he is … finally. Glad someone smells fresh; we all stink like a football changing room after half-time. Grab a pew and have a taste. What do you think?’
With a hastily filled glass of Chardonnay in his hand, Johnny sank into a chair. He ran through the habitual checks, colour and perfume, the way the wine coated the glass as he swirled it before lifting it to his lips and taking a mouthful. It was good. Smooth and creamy in texture but light on the palate. Hints of vanilla. It had everything he wanted from an excellent Chardonnay.
‘Aged in oak caskets?’ he asked.
Noel glanced at Ricky, then Ed, his grin widening as he nodded. ‘Told you he’d suss it out, didn’t I? It’s good, isn’t it?’
It was. Johnny lifted a bottle, checking the label.
‘I knew he’d love it,’ Noel said. ‘It’s a total bargain, too. Even in here, at inflated hotel prices. Can’t wait to find out what we could get it for wholesale. We could make a killing on stuff like this.’
‘Can we just enjoy a glass of wine, do you think? Does everything have to be about money?’ Johnny thumped the bottle down, instantly prickling with irritated heat.
‘We are enjoying the wine, Johno. But since when did we pass up a business opportunity? We didn’t make Taylor Made Wine a success by sitting on our arses, did we? Get on the blower and line up a viewing at this vineyard for us. I’ve already looked it up – it’s less than fifty kilometres from here. An appointment tomorrow would do.’
Johnny stifled a laugh. There was no arguing with Noel’s logic, even if he was totally exhausting to be around. He pulled out his phone and made the call.