Chapter 16
Chapter 16
Johnny wasn’t renowned for being prone to fits of spontaneity, so he’d already shocked himself when he’d invited Fran on the sightseeing trip in the first place. Now on their way back, he’d done it again, and was equally surprised when Fran said she was in no rush to return to the hotel, and he took the turning off the main road and began to weave down the side road towards the dilapidated chateau.
When it came into view around a bend and Johnny signalled to pull off the road past the for-sale sign, Fran gave him a sideways glance.
‘A bit different to the Chateau d’Ussé,’ she said.
‘The poor man’s equivalent, I guess,’ Johnny replied.
‘No – it’s beautiful, or rather it could be. I was thinking more about its current state. Someone’s going to have to do a shed-load of work on this place.’
Avoiding a fallen stone planter, cracked and splayed across the driveway with its long-dead foliage spewed onto what was left of the gravel, Johnny pulled the car up as close to the building as he could. From his previous visit, he knew the turning circle was tight in the Mercedes, could still see where he’d shoved at some thorny bushes with the front bumper as he’d had to make enough space to shunt his way around. There was plenty of grass beyond the current driveway, though, it would be easy enough to extend out as necessary.
Johnny frowned as he killed the engine and climbed out. What was he doing, having ideas about how to renovate the place? He might not be totally sure why he’d made the sudden decision to bring Fran here, but he was acting like he was showing someone his new home, rather than … rather than what, exactly?
Fran seemed to be in tune with his messy thoughts as she too climbed from the car.
‘Why have you brought us here?’ she asked, glancing around.
‘I saw it the other day when we were on our way to a local wine producer, and I just loved the look of the place. Thought you might be interested in taking a look, with your eye for restoring things.’
‘Yeah, but that’s bits of vintage furniture, not entire buildings.’ Fran sounded mystified, but she was smiling, and her gaze raked the front of the chateau. ‘God, this place must have been sensational in its prime.’
Johnny smiled. ‘You wait until you see the rest of it.’
Fran turned. ‘I thought you meant you’d just caught sight of it when you were driving past.’
‘I did. Then I stopped in on my way back. Took myself on a bit of a tour.’
‘So, nobody’s living here?’
It was a good point. Johnny had assumed from the utter lack of maintenance that the place was deserted. His cheeks coloured as he had to admit to Fran he didn’t know. ‘I kind of assumed it was empty, to be honest.’
‘Do you think we should call the estate agent and check it’s OK to look, before we get any nosier?’
Leaving Fran admiring the front fa?ade, Johnny walked back up the driveway to take note of the number on the board. He punched it into his phone and had completed a brief conversation with the agent by the time he rejoined Fran.
‘It’s called Chateau des Rêves, and the guy I’ve just spoken to said we can poke about around the grounds all we like. It’s been empty for a while and he seemed very keen to organise a proper viewing to show us the inside.’
‘Probably desperate to get it off his books,’ Fran said, frowning as she moved closer to the building.
‘Yeah. Probably.’
‘Oh, look at these steps,’ Fran said, tugging at dried-up foliage which had cascaded over the stone balustrade on one side of the granite staircase leading to the main doors. ‘Look at this carving.’
Johnny stood a couple of steps below Fran, faces level as they studied the careful work of a long-forgotten stonemason. Weathering might have taken away some of the crispness of the design, but somehow that made it even more appealing, to Johnny at least. And the fact Fran seemed equally interested in something as niche as this staircase was doing something strange to Johnny’s stomach.
Before he could say anything, Fran was gone, dodging debris littering the stairs as she headed up to the front of the building. Cupping her hands to the glass, and with her sunglasses shoved haphazardly onto the crown of her head, Fran peered through the small glass panels of the double front doors. Johnny had done the same when he’d visited before, having to stoop in order to look through the clear panels of the stained-glass panel design. In contrast, Fran was on tiptoes, nose against the aged glass.
‘Have you seen this entrance hall?’ Swivelling to look at him, Fran’s grin of enthusiasm was catching, Johnny smiling back as he took the rest of the steps and joined her.
‘I couldn’t see how far up it goes, but it’s at least two storeys high, don’t you think?’ he said.
‘At least.’
Fran was gone again, threading her way around the side of the building, peering through windows as she went. Johnny caught up with her towards the back of the chateau, her hands cupped on either side of her face again as she peered through the glass in a smaller, far more utilitarian door.
‘That’s a scullery or something, by the looks of it,’ Johnny said. It wasn’t that he’d mapped the whole of the ground floor in his mind on his previous visit, but he’d established a decent idea of where everything was.
‘Yes – but look at those chairs.’ Fran stood back and gestured for him to look inside.
Chairs? He peered inside and saw a pile of dusty wood in a corner. Was that what she meant?
‘Look at the feet on them,’ she said, coming to stand close beside him, tapping on the glass as she pointed them out. ‘Bun feet. Sign of quality. And those arms, look at the patina on them. Beautiful.’
Johnny was amazed she could see any of those details from this distance, or through the layers of dust, but as he stared at the bottom of the chair legs, he could see the outline of the shape.
‘Bun feet? Named after governesses’ hair, or a bread roll?’ he asked, and was rewarded with a grin.
‘Do you know, I have no idea. Just know that’s what they’re called.’
Fran’s grin had intensified, crackling like electricity through the sparkle in her eyes. Johnny had to struggle against his impulse to lean forward and kiss her, fighting instead to catch his breath and hang on to any thread of rationality he could muster.
Fran leant against the door again, peering at the chairs. She pushed off the door frame with a sigh, and as she did so, there was an audible click, and the door swung open a fraction.
They stared at one another, the same idea springing into her mind as it did Johnny’s, if the look on Fran’s face was anything to go by.
‘Do we dare?’ he said, pushing at the door with his fingers. It swung further open.
‘Why, Mr Taylor, are you suggesting I join you in breaking and entering?’
Johnny couldn’t decide whether she was being intentionally flirty, or whether his interpretation was more of a reflection of his own state of mind where she was concerned.
‘I think you did the breaking,’ he said.
‘Not on purpose.’ Fran peered around the door, then looked chagrined. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t.’
‘You’re right, we probably shouldn’t. But I want to. Don’t you?’ He pushed at the door again. ‘What do you say? Partners in crime?’
Fran didn’t reply, instead she nodded, lips pressed together as she tried to quash another smile. This place was amazing, and all thought of heading back to the hotel had evaporated from her mind at the prospect of investigating this building – and its contents.
Miraculously, the chairs appeared untouched by woodworm, the webbing and upholstery all needed major renovation, but the frames were strong. And they were beautiful chairs. Fran trailed a hand across the back of one of them, loath to relinquish her hold on them as Johnny headed into the next room.
From the scullery, they walked through a kitchen still fitted with an enormous stone sink and cupboards which looked as though they’d been in situ since the forties. The flagstone floor was uneven, but cool, and the thick walls of the corridor dividing this utilitarian space from the grander rooms were whitewashed and flaky to the touch.
The whole place smelt of dust and age. Authentically musty and unloved, but with the potential for such beauty, if it was shown a bit of attention. A bit like Red, she thought as she tucked her sunglasses into a pocket and shoved her hair behind an ear. He was unloved and forgotten, too, but was beginning to show her what he was capable of being, given half a chance.
The downstairs rooms were numerous and generous in size, full height sash windows allowed light to pour in, and there was what looked like original parquet flooring throughout. Fran scuffed at the grime and dust and was rewarded with the rich tone of hardwood. The place seemed to go on and on with each room opening onto another. They ran out of superlatives by the time they’d worked their way around and were back in the main foyer. As they’d thought when they’d peered through the front door, this space stretched into a vaulted ceiling a couple of storeys high. A pair of staircases ran up both sides of the space, with a balcony landing wrapping itself around the wall, appearing as though it was suspended in mid-air.
‘Do you think it’s safe to go up there?’ she asked, peering more closely at the construction of the staircase.
‘I’m sure it’s fine.’ The sparkle in Johnny’s eyes was hard to ignore, his enthusiasm to get up those stairs barely under control.
‘Tell you what, you go first, and I’ll wait here. That way, if the staircase goes all Indiana Jones on you, I’ll be able to call the pompadours.’
‘The who?’ He managed to retain his boyish expression of enthusiasm, but it was joined by a definite look of amusement.
‘The fire brigade.’
Johnny grinned.
‘They’re not called pompadours, are they?’
He began to laugh, but it wasn’t unkind. ‘No, they’re not. They’re called les pompiers. Ten out of ten for effort, though.’
She frowned, keen to gauge his level of sarcasm, but there didn’t seem to be any. He seemed genuinely amused, not judgmental. ‘In that case, what’s a pompadour?’
Johnny shrugged. ‘No idea.’
They grinned at one another, and Johnny didn’t appear in any hurry to move. Nor did she, to be honest. Eventually, she glanced at the staircase.
‘Go on, then.’ Fran gestured to the right-hand set of stairs. ‘Up you go.’
The staircases themselves were constructed from stone, and each tread looked as though it was fixed into the very substance of the chateau walls. So, Fran had to concede that unless the entire structure of the chateau was compromised, the staircase should be relatively safe. Johnny tried to wobble the intricate wrought-iron banister as some kind of a safety check; it too seemed rock solid. He began to ascend, gaining confidence the further he went. At the top, he leaned over the railings and gestured at her.
‘Come on up, the weather’s lovely.’ A cheesy line, but there was no mistaking his enthusiasm.
There were a great many steps up to the balcony level. Not surprising, Fran supposed, considering the height of the ceilings in the downstairs rooms. But it wasn’t only about the height of each floor in the building, because each step was also very shallow in depth while every tread was generous in dimension. As though the staircases had been constructed for people who were in absolutely no hurry at all and could take as long as they liked to traverse the steps – as though looking elegant while climbing or descending had been the deciding factor in the staircases’ design.
At the top, she joined Johnny who was staring up at the vaulted ceiling.
‘So, why are we nosing around this place?’ she said. ‘Are you thinking of buying it?’
Johnny brought his focus down from the cornicing, settling his gaze on her instead. His smile faded, replaced instead by a look she hadn’t seen in his expression before. He looked conflicted.
‘No. Not really. It’s more of a pie in the sky idea, I suppose. I don’t even know how much they’re asking for it. Plus, It’s not like I’m particularly flush right now, what with everything …’ He tailed off.
Fran’s cheeks coloured. She presumed he meant his divorce. When Fran had finally got up enough courage to leave Victor, there was never any question she would take with her anything other than her personal belongings. The mid-terrace they’d lived in was his, the car was his, the furniture was all his choice. Fran had been nothing more than another accessory in his life. A naive and foolish one, she’d subsequently come to realise. But the situation must be completely different for Johnny. He had responsibilities he couldn’t just walk away from. And she wouldn’t be here, spending time with him, if she thought he was the kind of man to walk away from his child, or a relationship which had mattered to him.
Johnny’s expression perked up, but he looked as though he was working hard to achieve it.
‘You don’t need to explain,’ she said. Fran hadn’t wanted to make him feel unsettled, the last thing she’d wanted was to bring the mood down. ‘It’s really none of my business. Sorry.’
Running a hand across his chin, Johnny shook his head. ‘No, it’s not that. I just … The thing is, I have so many reasons to keep my life exactly on the track it’s following. I need to work out how I’m going to co-parent Estelle with my ex. And in order to be able to give Estelle what she needs, I should be focusing on Taylor Made Wine – on making our business as successful as possible.’ He pulled in a huge breath. ‘It all makes perfect sense. Except …’
‘Except what?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s nothing.’ Johnny arched his eyebrows. ‘Maybe I’m having a mid-life crisis.’
‘Why? How old are you? You don’t look a day over forty.’ Fran was attempting to lighten the mood, she didn’t think he was anything like that old, but perhaps she’d gone too far. A beat of time passed, punishing Fran for her flippancy, before Johnny smiled.
‘I’m twenty-one. It’s been a hard life.’
‘Well, I’m sixty-two and never done a day’s work in my life,’ Fran retaliated, sauntering along the landing, imitating the walk she’d seen so often over the last few months, ladies laden down by diamonds who held their hands just so, making sure everyone got a great view of the rocks on their fingers.
‘Needed much Botox?’ Johnny asked.
‘Everywhere,’ Fran replied, patting her forehead. ‘Just don’t expect me to look surprised by anything.’
Johnny let out a hoot of laughter, then reached for the handle on the closest door, pushing it open. His laughter faded, and as Fran reached his side and peered into the room, an involuntary gasp passed her lips.
In the centre of the room stood an enormous four-poster bed, festooned with cover-up sheets and cobwebs in equal measure, but Fran could still see the gleam of mahogany from the exposed wood. It was beautiful. Beyond the bed, the view from the sash window was equally amazing, with vineyards flowing away into the distance.
The view didn’t hold Fran’s attention, though. Standing shoulder to shoulder with Johnny in the doorway of this room and staring at the giant bed, she bit hard at the edge of her lip as the same feeling she’d had in his turret room at the hotel chose that moment to flood her body with heat.
Without a word, they turned towards one another. Close enough to touch if one or other of them was to take the smallest step forwards. Johnny’s smile fell away as he stared at her. Fran, chin tipped so she could see his eyes, became aware of every breath she was taking, his too. Her heart rate picked up, her pulse seemed to have taken over her throat, making it impossible for her to speak.
The moment, although it felt like it lasted forever, was just that – a moment. A suspension of time Fran would have happily inhabited for longer. But then Johnny drew in a deep breath, the corners of his mouth crinkling all the way into his eyes as he stepped back.
‘Shall we carry on looking?’
The moment was gone. Evaporated. Had Fran wanted him to kiss her? The base of her stomach had the answer, was shouting it at her. But he hadn’t. He’d chosen not to. And perhaps that told Fran everything she needed to know.