Chapter 1
1
Connie
I’d been in my pyjamas for three days when my godmother phoned.
I didn’t answer.
Lismay didn’t believe in pyjamas. She thought they belonged on men and children. She used to float about the kitchen in a pale pink negligée as she put the moka pot on the stove and gathered baguettes and unsalted butter and apricot jam to put on the table outside for a summer breakfast. If I shut my eyes I could smell her perfume mingled with the scent of coffee. Givenchy. She bought me my first bottle of perfume for my fourteenth birthday. She took me to Paris and let me choose my own. That’s the kind of godmother she was.
But as I looked at her name on the screen, I felt ashamed. Not just because of what I was wearing, but because I hadn’t seen her for so long. When was it? Over five years ago, when she came over for Mum’s funeral. I’d embraced her, holding her tight and breathing her in, and felt her tears on my cheeks.
‘Come and see us,’ she said, holding tightly on to my arms and looking into my eyes.
‘I’d love that,’ I replied. I meant it, but I didn’t go. My other half Daniel was convinced she didn’t like him.
‘She doesn’t think I’m good enough for you,’ he said. He only thought that because she spoke to me in French when she didn’t want him to hear what she was saying. She had the measure of him, certainly. ‘And that chateau is a bit of a pigsty.’
‘It’s shabby-chic,’ I protested.
Daniel just looked at me with his trademark sardonic eyebrow. His idea of a shower was one with seventeen different settings, even better if it pumped out aromatherapy steam. There was no place in his life for temperamental sanitaryware, and the bathrooms at Chateau Villette were not their selling point. You went there for the ambience, not the en-suites.
Thinking of showers made me wonder when I’d last had one. I couldn’t remember. I sighed, and tried to heave my heavy limbs off the bed. I considered it an achievement that I was on it rather than in it. Yesterday, I’d rolled up my pyjama bottoms, put on a trench coat and made it to the corner shop, where I’d bought a tin of Jolly Green Giant, a packet of strawberry laces and a can of Diet Coke. I’d eaten the corn kernels one by one, picking them out with my fingers. Each one felt like swallowing a rock.
I wondered what Lismay wanted. Perhaps she was in London? Half of me longed to see her. To meet her for lunch at her favourite restaurant, 45 Jermyn Street, then wander around Piccadilly for all the things she wanted to take back to France – soap from Santa Maria Novelli, Fortnum’s tea, books from Hatchards.
The other half of me wanted to hide, because if I answered, I would have to tell her the truth, and then it would become real and I’d have to do something about my predicament rather than taking to my bed.
It was real, I reminded myself. I needed to get my act together. For a start, I needed to find gainful employment. If I didn’t, I was going to be in big trouble. I was capable of it, of course. After all, I’d once been editor of a glossy food and lifestyle magazine, The Heart of the Home , until they pulled it overnight two years ago and I was made redundant. Daniel had told me to take my time figuring out what to do next.
‘This is our time, now the kids have gone,’ he told me. ‘Don’t force yourself to do anything you don’t want to.’
I’d mistaken his generosity for kindness, not realising it was guilt.
I should have got back in the game straight away. Instead, I’d wafted about, getting the garden landscaped and taking on the occasional freelance writing job, fondly imagining that we were a team, and that now I was over fifty it was only right to be winding down a bit, because I didn’t have the energy I once had and it was bliss not to have to get on that train to Paddington from Cheltenham every morning.
Now, I was paralysed with panic. I had no idea what my future held. Daniel, as of three weeks’ ago, was ensconced with the new love of his life, Andrea, in her gleaming house where everything was controlled by phone. Even the curtains. The white velvet curtains with silver sequinned tie-backs. I was imagining those, of course. I couldn’t have done a drive-by even if I’d wanted to, because the house was in an ‘exclusive enclave offering luxury living and the ultimate in privacy’.
The estate agent had been round to value our house on Monday. Her effusive praise made me feel even worse about my situation. ‘What a gorgeous family home. This will be snapped up straight away. It ticks all the boxes!’ I’d made sure it did, from the laundry room that Mrs Tiggywinkle would be proud of to the built-in cocktail bar with mirrored shelving.
Her valuation took my breath away, but it couldn’t make up for the fact that I was going to lose my pride and joy.
When she left, I took to my bed. I had poured everything into this house. My heart, my soul and my redundancy money. I wasn’t sure I could ever forgive Daniel. I knew we weren’t love’s young dream anymore, that our priorities were slightly different, but I’d thought because we lived independent lives and did our own thing a lot of the time, it was the sign of a strong relationship.
My phone beeped and I jumped. It was a notification to say Lismay had left me a voicemail. I wondered if she’d heard something on the grapevine. Maybe Dad had reached out to her? I hated that expression. Do reach out if you need something. It was what people said when they heard bad news and wanted to feel as if they’d done their bit. I doubted Dad had said anything, though. He wasn’t one to interfere. When I told him about Daniel, he hadn’t said much. I wondered if perhaps he thought it was a good thing we were splitting up, because next morning, he had sent me a brief email with the contact details for a lawyer he played tennis with. ‘You might need some advice. He’s very good, and he won’t rip you off.’ Dad was only friends with good eggs, so I knew Simon Lewin would look after me. But I wasn’t ready for him yet. Nevertheless, I felt comforted.
I stared at the red missed call dot. Maybe Lismay was the catalyst I needed? A jumpstart? She had always been everything I wanted to be. Elegant and capable and full of joie de vivre . I imagined her in the chateau kitchen, at the long pine table, a pile of gleaming tomatoes in a bowl beside her. For a moment, my mouth watered at the thought of their rich ripeness, that pungent earthy scent, and my stomach growled. Those corn kernels had been a long time ago.
With a shaking finger I pressed the arrow so I could hear her message.
I was surprised to hear a wobble in her voice.
‘Connie?’ she said. ‘I need you. Can you ring me, darling?’
For a good ten minutes I lay on the bed, trying to gather the courage to ring her back. I had a fake breezy text I’d send if someone rang – Up to my eyes with work at the mo. Will buzz you when I’m out the other side! – and it seemed to do the trick. But I couldn’t send that to Lismay.
Eventually, I dragged myself to the bathroom. I couldn’t call her looking the way I did. Even though she wouldn’t be able to see me, I would feel seen. I looked both bloated and drawn, somehow, my eyes bloodshot and puffy, my cheeks sunken. My skin had a greasy sheen, as did my hair, my roots dark but shot through with wiry grey, the ends split and overbleached.
It was no wonder Daniel had left me, I thought, as I stared at myself.
Old Me had all but disappeared under the loss of my mum and the job I loved and the nest that had emptied in rapid succession over the past couple of years. I’d expected my children to leave, but not their father too! What had happened to sorted, sassy, dynamic Connie, with her dazzling career, brimming diary and enviable wardrobe? I had burned so bright, I thought sadly, but I’d been extinguished, stamped on until I barely showed a glimmer. There was nothing to prove I mattered. There was no reason for me to get out of bed.
Except Lismay’s call. It was the first thing to galvanise me for days. I scrubbed my teeth and forced myself into the shower, smothering myself in as many gels and shampoos and conditioners as I could, even managing to shave my armpits. Ten minutes later I emerged on a cloud of Occitane and pulled on some clean clothes. Nothing very on-trend or catwalk-ready, because I couldn’t bear anything but soft and stretchy, but at least I smelled fresher. It felt like a huge achievement.
By now it had been half an hour since Lismay called. I grabbed my phone, heading over to the curtains to draw them back and let in some light. I blinked as it hit me, then peered down at the walled garden I’d worked so hard on: the topiary box hedges, the magnolia tree, the beds stuffed with dahlias in chocolate, burgundy and purple so deep it was almost black. Chic, minimalist and a complete waste of my time, I realised now.
I sat on the bed and hit Lismay’s number.
‘Connie!’ Her voice as she answered was filled with relief.
‘I’m so sorry, I was in the shower when you called.’ My lie was glib, as slippery as soap.
‘Thank you for calling back.’ She sounded pathetically grateful.
‘What is it? What’s the matter?’
‘I’m at my wit’s end. I couldn’t think who else to call. But I thought you might know someone …’
‘Go on.’
‘Piers and I are supposed to be coming back to London next week. For his hip replacement. He should have had it done ages ago, but he kept putting it off and putting it off.’ Lismay sighed. ‘The girl who’s been doing the cooking walked out on Friday. So I’ve got no one to do the dinners. The rest of the staff can manage the breakfasts, but not the evenings.’
I felt a surge of anger on her behalf. ‘Why did she walk out?’
Lismay hesitated. ‘Piers was rude to her. I think he did it on purpose. Because he doesn’t want his hip done.’
‘That’s mad.’
‘I know. But he’s a wily old thing. So I’m trying to outwit him. Do you know anyone who could step in? I thought with your contacts you might know someone.’ Her voice sounded strained. ‘We can’t afford to cancel the bookings we’ve got. And he can’t not have his op. He’s in agony. It would only be until Christmas. We’ll be back by then.’
I was silent for a moment. My mind wandered to the Chateau Villette. Those mellow stone walls, the wide steps up to the arched oak door. The air, thick with the scent of mimosa. The silken water of the pool. Wine the pale pink of a baby’s fingernail.
A white shirt, unbuttoned to show butterscotch skin. A husky voice in my ear. I batted the images away. I mustn’t torture myself with the past. That was not going to help my future.
‘I think I know just the person.’
‘I knew you’d be able to help. I’m so grateful, Connie. Would you ask them?’
‘Consider it done.’ I wasn’t going to tease her any longer. ‘I’m on my way.’
‘You?’ Lismay gasped in delight. ‘You’re coming over?’
‘Of course I am.’
‘Oh, Connie. But what about work?’
‘I can do my writing while I’m there,’ I said blithely. Not that I was snowed under with commissions.
‘And won’t Daniel mind?’
‘Of course not. I’m a free agent now the kids have gone.’ I tried to keep the edge from my voice. She didn’t need to know my story right now. She would shift her focus onto me immediately if I so much as gave a hint of what had happened.
Instead, she heaved a huge sigh that was part relief, part resignation. ‘I can’t tell you how much that means.’
‘I’ll head for the Tunnel first thing tomorrow.’
‘You must stop on the way though. You can’t do it all in one go.’
‘Of course I will. Don’t worry. Call if you need me in the meantime. I’m going to get cracking.’
It was extraordinary, my transformation from supine lump into whirlwind. Within two hours I’d booked a Eurotunnel ticket and a cheap hotel just outside Dijon for a stopover, packed a suitcase, tidied up the house, changed my bed linen and made sure the house was secure so I could leave the next morning. I was in ‘get shit done’ mode. It’s funny how it came back to me now I was motivated.
I drove to the garage, filled up my car, and bought a few provisions from the little M&S. Back at home, I had the first proper meal I’d had for a long time. Lismay’s call had jolted me out of my torpor. I went to sleep that night full and clean and determined.
Before I drifted off, I opened up the box file of cuttings I kept for inspiration. I still had subscriptions to all the rival magazines I’d kept an eye on when I was an editor. I unfolded a cutting from a feature in a wine magazine. I’d recognised his face straight away when I turned the page. The last time I’d looked into his eyes, I’d been all of twenty-three. They were still the same: warm, filled with humour. Age had, if anything, made him more handsome, his dark locks streaked with just a touch of silver, laughter lines wreathing his mouth, what looked like a very expensive cashmere sweater clinging to his broad shoulders. I felt a rush of lust, my pulse flickering at the memory.
I was surprised. I thought I’d shut down on that front since Daniel’s departure. It had been like a bucket of cold water on my libido. I read the words again, even though I knew them pretty much by heart.
Renowned fly-half Rémy Gaspard has finally retired from rugby coaching to come back to his family vineyard near Barles in Provence. There, he has plans to shake up the rosé production and launch some exciting new lines. He’s investing heavily in a new winery and a punchy new team. ‘Wine has always been in my blood, but for many years rugby took over and sadly there wasn’t room for both. But now with my father taking a back seat I am looking forward to putting a fresh spin on the amazing wines we already have. I want to make something sexy and irresistible that will knock the socks off other high-end rosé brands. And you know I like to win!
I shut my eyes with a sigh. I was a fool, torturing myself. My future did not lie in my past. I’d wasted enough of my life mooning over a man I’d known fleetingly more than twenty years ago. OK, so Rémy Gaspard had burned himself into my memory that summer and I’d never met anyone like him since, but I wasn’t fit for a romantic entanglement, mentally or physically, so I had to put a stop to my fantasising there and then.
I was going to the Chateau Villette to rescue my godmother. Nothing more.
I bounced out of bed at six o’clock the next morning. I grabbed the case I’d packed, my handbag and my car keys, and bounded down the front steps, pausing for a moment to look back at our house. It still gave me goosebumps. I had to hand it to Daniel, he’d excelled himself when he’d found it. I remember him texting me the details, telling me we had precisely four hours to make an offer before it went on the market. I texted him straight back – Do it . I still remember the thrill of walking up the stone steps of Collingwood House for the first time. Four storeys of high-ceilinged, light-filled rooms looking out over the park in the middle of Cheltenham. It was in a terrible state, and had taken us eight years to fully restore. For Daniel, it was a status symbol. For me, it had been, and still was, a beloved home.
And now we were having to sell it. I blinked back tears and turned away, walking quickly towards my car parked on the side of the road, pointing my keys and hearing the blip blip as it unlocked.
Two things occurred to me as I opened the boot and threw my case in.
I hadn’t bothered to tell my ex where I was going.
(Ex. I was trying to get used to both the word and the concept.)
And all I’d needed to get myself out of bed was … to feel needed.
I slid into the front seat and set the satnav. In just over twenty-four hours I would be with Lismay and Piers at the Chateau Villette. The place that changed their lives, all those years ago, when they got the news they had been dreading and ran away to France.
Maybe, just maybe, it would change mine.