Chapter 7 #2
‘Whack-a-mole.’ Sophie groaned, but she was trying not to smile. ‘It’s exactly like that, only there’s a million holes.’
‘Look for the ones where you know who sent them,’ Tilly suggested. ‘There.’ She pointed at a sender’s address that had one of the red exclamation marks beside it. madame.fournier@chateaudorval. ‘That might be important. Madame Fournier wouldn’t flag it otherwise.’
It was both important and urgent. And not in a good way.
They both scanned the email as Sophie opened it in another window.
‘What’s the DDPP?’ she asked.
‘La Direction Départementale de la Protection des Populations.’
For once, the musicality of a language Sophie had come to love so much failed to register. ‘That sounds very official.’ Frightening, in fact.
Tilly’s nod was sombre. ‘It’s like… what is it in the UK? Health and Safety? Environmental concerns?’
‘And Comte Lucien de Varclaire. He’s the owner of the Chateau d’Orval, yes?’
Tilly nodded again.
Sophie could see why the count was upset.
A complaint had been made about the inappropriate storage of the rubbish at the castle which was now the subject of worldwide attention.
There could be no denying where the photo had been taken, given Zara’s other wedding photos, like the drone image that had her walking in a lavender field with the turrets and spires of the chateau in the background.
The housekeeper’s office was forwarding a warning that all future bookings from Marry Me in Provence were very likely to be imminently cancelled.
‘We’ve got three weddings booked there in the next eighteen months.’ Sophie could feel the blood draining from her face. ‘How can I tell those couples they’ve lost their dream venue? Oh, God… if they decide to go elsewhere, I’ll have to pay back their deposits.’
They didn’t have that kind of cash flow.
Not with the outgoings for paying subcontractors like the set-up and cleaning crews and the caterers, the annual insurance bills due and…
Sophie’s breath caught in her throat as her gaze swerved to the whitewashed walls and then up to exposed wooden beams of this main room of a little house she absolutely adored.
It had been the sky-blue door that had captured her at first glance.
A whimsical pop of colour against the honey-gold stone of the building and the greyer shades of the flagstoned street that led through an archway to a balustrade marking the very edge of the village.
The views were spectacular. Forest in one direction, the skyline of Vence with its square cathedral tower in another, and high up, almost leaning over the small town, was the famously dramatic outline of the Baou de Saint Jeannet that was distinctive enough to be easily visible from as far away as Nice.
What lay behind the blue door had not disappointed her.
Sophie had loved the whitewashed walls and ancient beams, the terracotta-tiled and wooden floors and the Juliet balcony on the floor above that provided a little table and chairs as a dining nook off the kitchen and the same views as the street that circled this part of the village.
Sophie had enhanced the refuge of her bedroom on the top floor with crisp white bed linen, an antique French lace bedspread, and soft, fluffy white towels in the adjoining bathroom.
She’d only purchased what was her dream property a year ago.
She’d known that the mortgage payments would push her financial limits at a time when she was trying to grow her business but she’d taken a leap of faith.
This was where she was destined to be. And what she was destined to be doing with her life.
It felt like the dream was about to implode.
And this was Luc’s fault. He had chosen that rubbish as a backdrop.
He’d made it worse than it really was by rearranging it.
He’d actually taken that chicken carcass from a metal bin that was probably intended to contain hazardous waste safely.
Sophie could so easily see this chaos spiralling even further out of control and taking her business with it, to sink without a trace.
Taking jobs from people she really cared about, like Tilly and Florence, Francoise and Greg.
And, how heartbreaking would it be if it took this beloved house of hers – her home – as well?
Who had ever been na?ve enough to suggest that history never repeated itself?
Luc Moreau might very well be capable of destroying her life for a second time.
Sophie had to make an effort to tune back into what Tilly was saying. ‘Monsieur Phénix can deal with this. He can make a public apology and say that he made the mess of les déchets and it has nothing to do with how the kitchen staff dispose of things. Would you like me to contact him?’
‘I don’t have his contact details.’
She could get them, though, couldn’t she? Greg must have known how to make contact with the elusive photographer.
Greg…
‘Oh, putain…’ she swore under her breath.
Tilly’s eyebrows rose sharply. ‘?a va pas? What’s wrong?’
‘Greg’s due to be discharged from hospital today,’ Sophie explained. ‘And I said I’d collect him.’ She grabbed her phone and opened her contacts. ‘I hope I’m not too late.’
Greg sounded remarkably cheerful as he picked up the call almost instantly. ‘Sophie… how are you, lassie?’
‘That’s what I rang to ask you,’ she said. ‘Where are you and do you need me to come and get you?’
‘No. My son’s here. Liam. He flew out from Scotland yesterday. We’ve been talking nonstop since he arrived.’
‘Are you still being discharged today? Are you okay?’
‘Aye… they’re sending me home. They’re packing up the suitcase full of pills I’ve got to take from now on.
And I’m feeling like a new man. I just have to take it easy for a while.
’ His sigh was audible. ‘If I can change my diet, limit my alcohol and reduce stress levels I might live another twenty years.’ His huff of laughter wasn’t amused. ‘But will it be worth it?’
‘Of course it will,’ Sophie chided gently.
‘I’ve seen what’s going on online,’ Greg said. ‘My word… you couldn’t ever afford to buy that much publicity, could you? Are you getting a flood of enquiries?’
‘Enough to keep us in business for the next twenty years.’ Sophie tried to sound upbeat. She wasn’t about to give Greg the kind of stress he was supposed to be avoiding right now.
‘I sent a text to Phoenix to thank him for covering for me. I haven’t heard back, though. He’s probably turned his phone off to get away from everyone trying to book him. Who the hell gets a following that’s bigger than the population of most countries in Europe?’
‘It’s crazy,’ Sophie agreed. Did Greg not know Luc’s real name? And yet he’d known him well enough to be able to ask for such an enormous favour.
Where had Luc Moreau been for the last ten years? What had he been doing?
Or perhaps the real question was why he’d felt the need to hide his real identity.
‘I’m glad you’ve sent him a thank you,’ Sophie added. ‘It’s something I should have done already myself. Our bride was over the moon at having someone that famous doing her photos.’
‘You can still thank him yourself,’ Greg said. ‘I’m sending you his number as we speak. Say hi to him from me.’
In the split second that Sophie wondered how to admit that she didn’t want Luc’s number, it became too late. She had already seen the text message light up on her phone screen as a notification. A visible link. A bridge between herself and Luc that she had no intention of using.
It was a new connection that she thought she’d managed to walk away from, relatively unscathed, after the wedding, without having it dragging behind her like…
… like what?
An invitation?
A way back?
No… Sophie didn’t want that. Not in a million years.
She had to push the thought away as the concerned tone in Greg’s voice became apparent.
‘Can you cope, do you think?’
Oh, help… what had she missed?
‘With me heading back to Scotland?’ he continued. ‘I have to admit this has shaken me up, lassie. And Liam, too. We both think it’s time for me to head home and spend some time with my grandies. Maybe it’s time to think about retiring.’
‘Of course it is.’ Sophie’s agreement was genuine, despite the depth of dismay that was flooding her body. ‘That’s the best place for you to be. I’ll miss you, though. So much…’ A knot of tears was caught in her throat.
‘Goes both ways, love. And I hate to be leaving you in the lurch like this. You’ve got two weddings almost back-to-back and that second one’s nearly as big as Zara’s. I’ll help you find someone good to fill the gap.’
They both knew how impossible an ask that was. Photographers with the kind of reputation that inspired confidence in clients were generally booked up eighteen months in advance, but Sophie wasn’t going to let Greg shoulder guilt any more than stress.
‘I’ll sort it,’ she told him, with a certainty that she knew perfectly well was no more than wishful thinking. ‘No offence, but I’ve got someone in mind already. You just focus on your recovery. And having some quality family time with those adorable grandchildren of yours.’
There was a moment’s silence. When Greg broke it, she knew she’d failed to convince him that she wasn’t sinking under the chaos. Or that she wasn’t terrified that she might be about to lose everything that mattered to her.
‘Call Phoenix,’ he said quietly. ‘He’ll help you.’
* * *
The keys were old-fashioned.
Heavy.
The weight of the task he’d taken on was a lot heavier, however. Luc could feel it pressing down on him as he unlocked the front door of the dilapidated mansion he had just purchased.
The contracts had been exchanged yesterday after a last-minute change of heart from his bank – largely thanks to the healthy injection of cash via his shell company from covering Zara Beaumont’s wedding.
Or, rather, from the sale of authenticated, limited edition, Le Phénix prints of the bridal couple.