Chapter 4
Chapter 4
Fran pushed a particularly wayward strand of hair behind an ear as she carried the last of the dirty laundry bags out to the laundry service van. It was parked in a courtyard to one side of the chateau, the inner workings of the hotel hidden from the guests by a set of walls which Fran knew had been purpose-built when the place was renovated, but which looked as though they had been mortared into place at the same time as the chateau itself. The guy driving the van had done little to help her with the heavy bags. Instead, he lounged against the side of the van, the sharp tang of tobacco curling in the still air as he smoked a roll-up.
She shoved at the final bag, determined to make it fit into the back of the Citro?n. Her hair slid back across her face, and she blew at it, then mopped at the sweat on her forehead with the back of a hand. God, it was stifling, especially outside.
‘Finis?’ he asked.
‘Yes, that’s the last one.’
Without another word, he slammed closed the rear doors and climbed into the driver’s seat. He looked her up and down, pulling a piece of tobacco leaf from his lip before he started the engine and drove away.
Back in the service area of the chateau, Fran headed for the tiny staffroom. She felt absolutely exhausted. Could do with a full-blown spa treatment to ease her already aching limbs. At the very least, she was desperate for a shower and a change of clothes. But there hadn’t been any mention of a break, of what time she would knock off at the end of the day and have a chance to get properly acquainted with her new surroundings. For now, Fran settled for a glass of cold water.
Frenetic. That was the word for this place. Everything that needed to happen was happening, but nobody seemed to stand still even for a moment. She was exhausted and she’d only been at the chateau for a few hours.
‘Fran – there you are. Question for you. Have you ever waitressed?’ Penny followed her voice into the room, taking one look at the glass in Fran’s hand before she tutted and shook her head. ‘You’re going to need a lot more than water to survive around here. Let me make some coffee. It’s about the only thing we’re allowed to slow down for.’ Grinning, she pulled a stovetop espresso-maker from a cupboard and set about filling it. Once it was bubbling on the hob, Penny repeated her question. ‘Have you done any waitressing?’
‘Why?’
Penny grimaced, then pulled at her long blonde ponytail as her eyebrows arched. ‘We’re down by a couple of waitresses and a sous-chef. Again. I’ve said I’ll pull a double shift – I could do with earning as much money as I can while I’m here – and I worked a couple of restaurants in the UK before I decided to travel, so I know enough. If you could help out too, we’d be golden.’
Fran wanted to ask why the chateau was understaffed. Why it seemed to come as no surprise to Penny that there weren’t enough wait staff, when the girl had only been in the job herself for a few weeks. And Fran wanted to know why the staff were scratching around to source enough help, when everything front of house was expected to be of the highest quality.
‘Louis is on tonight. He’s a great chef, but gets mega stressed so the smoother things run, the better. Last week his bouillabaisse went wrong, and he threw it across the kitchen. It’s just him and Harry in the kitchen tonight.’
‘Harry?’
‘One of the sous-chefs.’ Fran noticed a glint of something in Penny’s eye, the rise in the edges of her lips before she continued, ‘It’ll be challenge enough for the two of them to get everything prepped and out on time without another pair of hands, so if we’ve got the right number of restaurant staff, that’ll help. And you’ll get paid for the extra hours.’ Penny poured the coffee and handed her a tiny, pungent-smelling mugful. ‘Plus, you’re the fresh meat now around here, not me. You might as well get up to speed on day one. Then you won’t begin to expect the luxuries. Like sleep. Time off. You know … that kind of thing?’
‘Seriously?’ The coffee was good, and surprisingly refreshing, but what Penny was saying was ringing warning bells for Fran.
‘Well, I might be exaggerating a bit. Do you know your right from your left?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you remember starter and main course choices for a table of four?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Do you do an impersonation of Julie Walters’ old lady when you carry soup?’
‘Not knowingly.’ Fran’s lack of comprehension must have showed.
‘Comedy skit where hardly any of the soup made it to the table?’
Fran shook her head. ‘Never seen it.’
‘YouTube it,’ Penny said. ‘Absolutely hilarious – and she went on to play Ron Weasley’s mum in the Potter films, remember?’
Fran nodded vaguely.
‘Brilliant actress. Anyway, that’s my checklist complete. You’ve officially graduated from the Penny Scott school of waitressing. Get the orders correct. Serve and clear from the right. Don’t tell any of the guests to fuck off, however annoying they might be. Basically, that’s it. We can work on the rest as we go. So – are you up for it?’
Fran smiled. ‘I guess I am.’
‘Excellent. I’ll let Madame Beaufoy know. Earning “I’m helpful” stars on your first day? You’ll be Beaufoy’s bestie in no time.’
‘Madame Beaufoy doesn’t look like she wants a bestie, to be honest,’ Fran remarked.
Penny grinned. ‘Yeah. Well, maybe bestie is overambitious. Not fired. How about that?’
Maybe the staffing problems were down to the manager. Was that what Penny was inferring? Anyway, a shift as a member of the wait staff would give Fran a chance to see how things were set up in the kitchen – and, indeed, the dining room. How happy the guests were. Although she did feel a prickle of nerves at the thought that some of the guest satisfaction would depend on her successfully carrying out a job she’d never undertaken before. She’d worked in her local café for longer than she’d care to remember before her latest, and unexpected, change of direction, but Fran wasn’t sure cutting slices of Victoria sponge and making countless cups of coffee for the seaside crowd back in Lyme Regis would stand her in good stead for working fine dining. She supposed only time would tell.
‘I’ll get you some evening uniform and stick it on your bed.’ Penny necked the rest of her coffee and headed for the door. ‘If I were you, I’d get out back with your espresso and take a few minutes to yourself where nobody will spot you.’ She checked her watch. ‘Then can you come and give me a hand with some turndowns? In, say, fifteen minutes?’
Before Fran could agree, thank her – utter anything, in fact – Penny was gone. A fireball of energy. Fran left the room, too, taking the steps from one of the labyrinthian staff corridors out into the shade of a small semi-courtyard on the back quarter of the property. From the other side of the high wall, she could hear hoots and splashes from guests enjoying the huge pool, people blissfully unaware or uncaring about the staff who would shortly be scurrying around to fold back bedlinen for them and leave them a chocolate on their freshly plumped pillow. Fran sipped at her coffee. Maybe she’d made a mistake going undercover. If she’d announced who she was on arrival, she could be in that pool herself, right now, washing away the heat of the day and ordering a pre-dinner cocktail to sip while she reclined on a sun lounger.
Instead, she was sweating into a uniform which was – frankly – carrying far too much polyester in its construction to be compatible with such extreme weather. She did feel better for having had the coffee, though, and as she hugged the shade provided by the rough granite and mortar wall, she wandered all the way to the end of it, to see what lay beyond.
Away from the immediate sounds emanating from the pool, she became aware of other sounds. Birdsong became louder. Shielding her eyes against the glare, she glanced into the pristine cornflower blue of the cloud-free sky and watched specks with wings wheeling and gliding to and fro. This far from the chateau, the gravel underfoot had long since given way to a rough and weedy area of grass.
Tall grassy seedheads waved in what little air moved, brushing at her calves every now and again. That must have been why she didn’t notice it at first. Too preoccupied with the birds to notice another, but different, touch on her skin. Like feathers, or soft down, wrapping itself around her. Like the softest touch from a teasing lover. There but not there, gaining her attention through quiet stealth.
She glanced down at the same time as the cat let out a loud meow, winding its tail around her leg a little more firmly as it stared up at her.
‘Hi there, little guy,’ she said.
The cat replied with a rolling noise which sounded like a purr mixed with his own greeting. Unblinking, the cat stalked backwards and forwards, doing his best strut. Not that he needed to work hard to gain Fran’s attention. His striking fluffy ginger coat, jaggedly marked like a tiger with lines of lighter fur, huge green eyes and the longest white whiskers Fran thought she’d ever seen already had her transfixed. The way the very end of his impressive bushy tail flicked as if the limb had a mind of its own had her smiling.
Fran loved cats. More than that, she loved animals, full stop. As a kid, she’d always wanted a pet but had never been allowed so much as a bowl of guppies. To be fair, her mother, who had enough on her plate raising Fran solo and holding down two jobs, had remained firm throughout Fran’s childhood wheedling, plaintive requests and full-on tantrums. Her mother hadn’t ever softened her stance on pets, even when Fran returned to live with her after everything went to shit with Victor. And when her mother had died, suddenly and dramatically, an unexpected phone call had spiralled Fran’s life onto a completely different plane, one in which constant travel made it impossible to have any kind of pet.
But her current lifestyle had done little to dent Fran’s desire to someday own her own pet, and a cat was right at the top of her wish list.
The cat did another circuit of her legs and on closer inspection Fran noticed the fur looked unkempt, scruffy and matted in places. She bent down to scratch between his ears. The movement must have startled him, though, and he skittered sideways, away from her hand. Staring at her reproachfully, his tail flicked again.
‘Sorry,’ Fran said with a grin. ‘Too much, too soon?’ She straightened and was rewarded with another circuit, another brush from the incredible tail. ‘Have you got a name?’ Aware she was holding a conversation with an animal, Fran grinned harder as the cat meowed again. ‘Did you say “Red”?’
The cat rolled onto its back, shimmied against the grass, then sprang back onto its feet.
‘Well, that’s what I’m going to call you. Think it suits you.’ Fran finished her coffee, congratulated herself on her inventiveness in the naming department, then watched as the cat turned and stalked away, heading for the chateau.
She wondered who he belonged to. There was no collar, no means of identifying an owner. But she shouldn’t assume he was homeless just because his fur was a bit matted, and he’d shown her a modicum of interest. It didn’t make him a kindred spirit. Just because she was struggling to work out where to belong didn’t mean the cat was without a home.
Red picked up speed as he headed for the chateau, and Fran tracked him, wondering where he was going. Too late she realised she must have left the door wide open, and before she could do anything to stop him, the cat sprang up the stone steps and disappeared inside.
Jogging up the steps behind him, Fran paused momentarily as her eyes adjusted to the relative darkness of the corridor, then swore under her breath when she realised the cat had scarpered further into the building.
It was conceivable that the cat might belong to one of the staff, she supposed. Maybe Madame Beaufoy was a cat lover and had smuggled him in when nobody was looking. It wouldn’t have been something Wilding Holdings would have sanctioned, and somehow Madame Beaufoy didn’t strike Fran as an avid pet person. Or a rule-breaker.
Either way, Fran had let the cat into the building and now she couldn’t find him. What if he ended up licking his privates on the Egyptian cotton of one of the guest suite beds? Or shedding hair which could then waft into an unsuspecting soufflé?
Fran headed for the kitchens, reasoning the cat was more likely to zero in on food than sheets with an impressive thread count. However, with heat levels in the kitchen challenging that of a sauna, and with pots and pans making enough noise to rival an out-of-tune steel band, Fran didn’t think Red would have lingered long, even if this had been his destination.
Louis might be an amazing chef, Fran thought as she took another couple of steps into the gleaming, stainless-steel space and glanced around, but he had an intensity which was unnerving. His blade hovered in mid-air as he caught sight of her, and for a moment Fran thought he looked like he might launch it in her direction, punishment for having interrupted his concentration.
‘You need something?’ The chef’s expression softened by a degree, and he lowered his knife onto a partially chopped bunch of coriander. He wiped his hands absently on a towel looped into the straps of his apron as he waited for her to answer. Every inch of him demanded action, an instant answer – his whole frame turned towards her with a barely suppressed irritation at the interruption.
‘Um …’ Fran wasn’t sure how he would react to her asking if he’d seen a cat. Somehow, she thought it might involve his picking up the knife and making a thorough search of his space. More than that, if the cat was in here, she didn’t think things would end well.
‘Les chocolats for the guests are in the far fridge. Truffles. For the turndowns?’ His accent was as rich as the chocolate he was talking about, like his throat was coated in the stuff. Fran might not be good at speaking French, but that didn’t mean she didn’t enjoy the sound of it.
‘You beat me to it.’ Penny breezed past her, heading for the fridge Louis had indicated.
‘No, I wasn’t in here for …’
Penny pulled a box from the fridge, gesturing for Fran to set down the coffee cup she was still holding. She slid it onto one of the gleaming work surfaces and took the box from Penny.
‘Merde.’ Louis was back at his chopping board, waving his knife at the other chef. ‘’Arry, la tasse s’il vous pla?t.’ The irritation was clear in his voice.
‘Hi, Harry,’ Penny said, as the tall, lean sous-chef took his pan from the heat, slid it onto a cooler surface and sidestepped Louis’ rapid coriander-chopping elbow movements.
‘Hi, Penny. You OK?’ Harry gave Penny a lopsided grin as he grabbed the cup Fran had dumped and rinsed it in a sink.
‘Busy. You?’ Penny took another box from the fridge.
Harry laughed. ‘Just a bit. Maybe see you later?’
‘Maybe.’
Penny was still grinning halfway along the corridor. Fran knew that look. Remembered grinning in the same way. Remembered how everything had seemed so perfect. Remembered the smugness which enveloped her, how pleased she’d been to have found her soulmate, how Victor had been everything she’d hoped a partner would be. He’d ticked all the boxes at the start – attentive and handsome, funny. Charming. Reassuring. Even the sex had been great. He’d asked her to marry him. She’d said yes.
How long ago all that felt. She frowned the memories away, concentrating on Penny instead.
‘You like him?’ Fran asked.
Penny shrugged. ‘I guess he’s OK.’
Her casual words and her upbeat expression didn’t match. Fran would put money on the colour in her cheeks having nothing to do with the hot weather. But if Penny wanted to keep her true feelings to herself, that was fine with Fran. She changed tack.
‘Have you ever seen a cat hanging around the chateau?’
‘That scruffy ginger thing?’
‘A ginger tom, yes.’
‘It’s a bugger, that cat. Tries to get in at any opportunity. I’ve had to kick it out so many times. It loves the wine cellar. Suppose it’s cool down there. Strange, really – you’d think it would go for the bins, or the kitchen.’
‘So, it doesn’t belong here?’
‘No, I presume it’s a stray. Why?’
Fran bit at the edge of her lip. ‘Thing is …’