One Night at the Château

Chapter 9

9

Connie

It had been a long hot summer, the summer I spent at the Chateau Villette. I’d relished the consistent Provencal heat, used as I was to the fickle English weather, which could limp from damp to chilly to tepid with the occasional scorcher, which would then run off and become a distant memory. Here, the sunshine soaked into my very bones. It made me leap out of bed in the morning, and while I learned to stay out of it in the middle of the day, I made the most of every drop.

It was hard work, for July and August were the busiest times for the chateau, with a constant stream of visitors. Some stayed for just one night, as that was the original premise of One Night at the Chateau, but it was so heavenly that many people stayed for more and that premise soon became redundant. The relaxed, house-party ethos was a huge hit, with people returning year after year. Of course, relaxed conviviality can only be achieved if everything is perfect behind the scenes. Lismay and Piers had got it down to a fine art, but none of us could take our eye off the ball for a second. And I soon learned that being utterly charming to people every minute of the day is very hard work.

But I loved being there. It was heaven, compared to the horror of the job I’d had in London, with its toxic office politics, gruelling social life and constant backstabbing. Here, I could at least be myself. I loved my little room at the top of the tower, I loved the swimming pool where I could snatch a much-needed dip from time to time. I even loved the linen dresses Lismay and I bought from the market which became our uniform, together with espadrilles – flat for running around in daytime, a wedge heel with ribbons round our ankles for dinner in the evening.

As for the food – even a simple dish of ripe tomatoes drenched in olive oil had me in raptures. I didn’t know how I was going to go back to flaccid, grey English food after eating sunshine on a plate day after day. Glistening aubergines, velvet peaches, golden onions – I soon learned to let the ingredients speak for themselves. Cooking with confidence means doing less, not more.

I was aware of the vineyard next door, of course, for we served their rosé as a house wine that was on tap at any time of the day, gratis. Anything more indulgent from Piers’s cellar was paid for separately. The rosé was delicious – pale, light, with a hint of strawberries – and I always looked forward to a glass at the end of the day after prepping for the evening meal. I was always included at dinner, because I was good at making conversation and getting people to mingle.

The first time I met Rémy, he brought over a delivery from the vineyard because we were running out. I was topping and tailing green beans in the kitchen when he appeared in the doorway. I glimpsed a mane of dark hair, strong brown arms clutching two boxes of wine, and long sturdy legs poking out from a pair of very short cut-off jeans.

‘ Bonjour. ’ He grinned at me and I stared back. He had on a pair of aviator sunglasses so I couldn’t see his eyes. He looked like a Greek god-cum-rock-star and was as close to physical perfection as anyone I’d seen. I was swathed in an apron with my hair scraped back and not a scrap of make-up on. Of course. ‘I’ve brought the wine?’

Before I could say anything, Piers appeared behind him and greeted him with glee.

‘Ah! Rémy. You’re a lifesaver. Dump those on the table and I’ll give you a hand with the rest.’

I stared after him, a clutch of beans in one hand and a knife in the other. I threw them back in the colander and ran after them. I had to find out more about who he was. Outside, there was a white van, its back open to reveal more cases. I held out my arms to be given a box.

‘You’re sure?’ Rémy asked me, obviously wondering if I was strong enough.

‘Of course!’

‘Thanks, Connie,’ Piers said to me. ‘Rémy, this is Connie, Lismay’s god-daughter. Actually, my god-daughter too, come to think of it. Honorary.’

‘Hi,’ was about all I could manage.

Between us, we got the van emptied and the cases into the cellar. All the time I was wondering how Rémy could have been on the doorstep without me knowing. But I eavesdropped on his conversation with Piers. He was home for the harvest, which was due to start the following week – earlier than usual, because the summer heat had been fierce and the grapes were plump and sweet with ripeness.

‘Then I’m off to Biarritz.’ Rémy took off his glasses to wipe the sweat away with his forearm, and I got the full force of his gaze.

‘Good man,’ said Piers, clapping him on the back, and I wondered what that meant.

‘I have to go.’ Rémy gave me a final glance. ‘We have a lot to do before the harvest starts next week. And if you have any spare hands, we need all the help we can get.’

‘Connie might help.’ Piers looked over at me. ‘Next week is quiet for us. The summer rush is over.’

‘Sure,’ I said.

‘Great,’ said Rémy, and I felt like the only person in the world as he smiled his thanks at me.

When he’d gone, I returned to my beans, feeling what the French call bouleversé . But who wouldn’t feel bowled over by Rémy? I thought. He was hardly going to be short of admirers. I felt like Cinderella as I went back to my topping and tailing. As if Prince Charming had swooped in but forgotten to get me to try on the shoe.

Piers came back in, grinning.

‘I think you caught Rémy’s eye,’ he said.

‘Me?’

‘He was asking how long you are here for.’

‘Oh.’ My cheeks were as pink as the Gaspard rosé.

‘But he’s not here for long. He’s a professional rugby player. He just signed with a new team.’ Piers gave an approving nod.

Of course. It all made sense now. Those broad shoulders. The powerful physique. I scrabbled for rugby knowledge. Sportswise, I was more of a tennis person. We all played, and took Wimbledon very seriously at home, but probably not as seriously as the French took their rugby.

There was no point in lusting after him. I was going. He was going. But I decided I would help with the harvest next week. It would be good experience. An interesting thing to have on my CV. And there was no harm in looking.

The week of the harvest was even hotter than ever. I learned that choosing when to pick grapes was a delicate decision – too early and the grapes wouldn’t be sweet and ripe enough, too late and they might be shrivelled and dry. A motley crew arrived to make sure this harvest was safely gathered in: a mixture of family, regular pickers who returned year after year, and a few extras like me who had been roped in to speed up the process.

Rémy and his father were overseeing the operation, and I could sense straight away that there would be no time for flirtation. I started to wonder if it was a good idea me being here. I didn’t have the stamina of the seasoned pickers, and I had to cover up to stop myself from burning. But I was determined to do my bit, for there was a strong sense of camaraderie and teamwork amongst the vines as we filled the baskets as quickly as we could.

Rémy was supervising as the baskets of grapes were tipped into the back of the truck, and I watched the easy way he had with the pickers. Somehow everyone picked harder and faster, wanting to please him. He didn’t seem to notice me, with my ridiculous hat to protect me from the rays and layers of sun cream, but maybe he was feeling the pressure. There was a big storm forecast for the end of the week. The vines had to be stripped before then.

It was back-breaking and I didn’t think I had ever felt so exhausted in all my life. I crawled back to the chateau each evening, jumped into the shower and fell into bed. Piers and Lismay were happy to do without me as they only had a couple of guests that week. They liked to wind down at the end of summer, for they made hay in July and August then had some respite.

On the very last day, as the last basket tumbled into the truck and a rousing cheer ricocheted around the vineyard, Piers sent over an invitation for everyone to come and swim in the lake. Everyone raced across the fields as the sun began to set and headed to the water’s edge. I checked to see if Rémy was joining. Yes, there he was, joining in amongst the team of workers, clapping them on the back to say thank you, his smile wide with relief.

I found myself by his side at the water’s edge.

‘Bravo,’ I said. ‘It must always be a race against time.’

‘It is,’ he said. ‘And thank you. How was it? Your first vendange .’

‘Hot.’ I watched as he pulled his polo shirt over his head and threw it on the ground.

‘Tell me about it,’ he said, and nodded towards the lake. ‘You coming in?’

He didn’t wait for my reply, just plunged into the water and headed out into the middle. I wasn’t sure what to do. Going back into the chateau for my bathing costume would be too English for words. My bra and pants would serve as a bikini, surely? And once I was in the water, who would know? I steeled myself, stripped off and jumped in, relishing the cool of the water on my skin.

There was a party atmosphere, everyone mucking about and splashing each other. There was no doubt that everyone’s eyes were on Rémy. The men eyed his physique with envy, for next to him they felt puny and insignificant, and the women surveyed him with longing. He seemed oblivious. He just wanted to play and party and relax at the end of a long day’s work. He treated everybody the same. He was charming to all of us. I couldn’t help staring, at the muscles in his back, the rippling of his shoulders, the water trickling over his chest. I was sure he wouldn’t notice the shy English girl in her underwear, hovering at the edge of the lake.

Though afterwards, as we dried off and ate the trays of pissaladière Lismay brought out for us all to devour, he came and sat by me.

‘The storm will be here in an hour,’ he said, looking at the sky. It didn’t seem possible. The sun was still shining and there wasn’t a cloud to be seen.

‘Really?’

He breathed in. ‘Can’t you smell it?’

I tried to copy him. All I could smell was hot earth. And damp skin. ‘No.’

He laughed. ‘You’re a city girl? London?’

‘I suppose so.’ Of course I was. London through and through. Well, Chiswick.

‘I would love to go to London.’

Was this a cue for me to invite him? There was something about the way he looked at me that made me feel warm. ‘Well, if you are ever there, I can show you around.’

‘You’re going back soon?’

‘Two weeks.’

‘And I am going to Biarritz.’ He gave a little sigh. ‘ Dommage. ’ He paused and my heart swooped. ‘I wanted to practise my English with you.’

Oh. That wasn’t quite what I’d had in mind.

‘Your English is very good,’ I managed, limp with disappointment.

‘I want to be perfect,’ he said.

You already are, I thought. He was lying on his back, still in his wet shorts. I had pulled my trousers back on and was sitting up with my arms around my knees. He reached out and put his hand on my back. A lazy, gentle gesture. I didn’t know what to do. His fingers were running across my skin.

‘You have burned your back, Connie. You need some cream.’

I didn’t dare answer. I didn’t dare breathe. As long as I stayed still he would keep his hand there. And then I felt it. A big fat raindrop. Then another.

‘Oh my God,’ I said, turning to him. ‘You were right.’

Within moments, the downpour was torrential, sheets and sheets of driving rain that would have devastated the harvest if we hadn’t got everything in. Everyone scrambled to put on their clothes and get away. You could barely see two feet in front of you. It wasn’t the kind of rain you did a triumphant dance in. It was biblical. In the chaos, I didn’t know what to do. And I lost Rémy. Though what would I have done? Followed him … where?

Instead, I made my way back to the chateau, falling in through the door, soaked to the skin, exhausted, sunburned and smitten.

‘Bloody hell,’ said Piers. ‘Get out of those wet things and I’ll make you a good old cup of PG Tips.’

The following week, the chateau closed for guests for a week while Lismay and Piers headed off for their annual holiday, leaving me in charge. When they came back, I would head back to London, where I had several job interviews lined up, and they would open again for long weekends only until Christmas before shutting down and reopening at Easter. That had been their routine ever since they opened, a routine that carried on to this day. While they were gone, I did the equivalent of a spring clean, scurrying about airing eiderdowns, taking down summer curtains and replacing them with heavier winter ones, beating the dust out of rugs, restoring order.

They had left me an invitation to drinks at the Gaspards that weekend. ‘They always have a party to celebrate the end of harvest. It’s great fun. Help yourself to whatever you’d like to wear from my wardrobe,’ Lismay told me as she threw her city clothes into a suitcase.

I was both intrigued and excited by the prospect of a party. And of course, the chance to see Rémy again.

The day of the drinks party was deliciously warm, with the heat of an Indian summer settling over the chateau and its grounds, the shadows longer and the light more forgiving without the harsh midsummer sun we’d had during picking. I was filthy, having spent the day emptying the shelves in the larder, wiping them down and putting everything back in its place: tins of anchovies and cassoulet and tomatoes, jars of apricot and strawberry jam and black cherries in syrup, packets of langues de chat and palmiers. Olive oil and vinegars and every kind of mustard. I’d made lists of everything that needed replacing. I was festooned with cobwebs and grime, and by five o’clock was tempted to flop into the pool then get an early night. I’d lost my nerve a bit – Rémy might not even be there. But I was representing Chateau Villette and Lismay and Piers, and it was probably important to show my face.

I treated myself to a long bath and headed into Lismay’s room to choose an outfit. Her wardrobe was filled with a rainbow of dresses and skirts and blouses in pastel shades of yellow and lilac and pale blue, delicate and exquisite. A million miles from the tomboyish array of jeans, cargo pants and sweatshirts I’d brought with me. My fingers danced over the silk and chiffon and bouclé, pulling out the garments that appealed to me the most, wondering if I was dainty enough to be able to pull any of them off.

In the end, I settled on a cream silk shirt with covered buttons over a wraparound skirt in a slubby yellow silk-linen. It was much more sophisticated than anything I usually wore, but I loved the way the fabric clung in all the right places, the way the skirt subtly revealed my tanned legs when I walked. I left my hair down – it had been scraped into a ponytail all summer for cooking – and put make-up on for the first time in weeks. I looked much healthier than the pasty, office-bound creature who had arrived in June, my skin now golden and my freckles standing out. My early morning swims had paid off, making my limbs lean and toned. I looked like a different person. Knowing. Sophisticated. And actually, pretty sexy. I undid one more button, slid a string of Lismay’s pearls around my neck and pinched a squirt of scent.

All the while, I pretended to myself I wasn’t dressing for Rémy.

I walked to the edge of the chateau grounds then circumnavigated the vineyard on the boundary as the sun drifted down, throwing shadows through the branches of the vines. I could smell the warm earth and the sharp scent of the leaves as they fluttered in the evening breeze. The Gaspard house was built of the same stone as the chateau but it was much less ornate. A sturdy, practical house built for people who were going to toil the land rather than as an opportunity to show off. It seemed very quiet as I pressed the front door bell. Had I got the right night?

I didn’t have to wait long before I heard the tapping of high heels from inside, and the door flew open. There was Madame Gaspard, resplendent in black lace and very high heels. She was, I knew, the powerhouse behind the vineyard, the one who made the connections and got them their sales.

Madame looked a little uncertain when she saw me, so I stuck out my hand.

‘I’m Connie,’ I explained. ‘From the chateau.’

‘Conneeeee,’ she cried. ‘Lismay said you might come over. I am so pleased to see you. Come.’

She beckoned me to follow her, and we trip-trapped over the tiles of the hall, through a large drawing room and out a set of French windows onto a terrace, where more than fifty people were milling, clutching glasses of pale pink rosé. The terrace looked out over the rest of the vineyard, rows and rows of immaculate vines criss-crossing the landscape as the sun set behind it. I imagined how proud they must feel to look out over their land and felt a lump in my own throat at the sight.

‘You must be so pleased to have the grapes in,’ I told her, as she took a glass from a nearby tray and handed it to me.

‘It is always good to be finished.’ She put a hand to her chest. ‘We can breathe now. But only for one moment. Now, who shall I find for you to talk to?’

I watched as Madame Gaspard scanned the crowds for inspiration and saw her eyes light up. I followed her gaze and the moment I saw her potential victim my stomach fluttered.

‘Rémy,’ she sang, and I recognised maternal pride in her voice. ‘My son will look after you.’

She took my arm and led me through the throng towards him. He was in a snow-white shirt, his mane of glossy dark hair touching his collar. He had a smattering of stubble on skin bronzed by the late summer sun. As Madame drew me in front of him, I felt as if I was being assessed, as if he was seeing me for the first time.

‘Rémy, this is Connie. She is Lismay’s …’ She floundered for the word. ‘ Filleule. Comment dis-tu cela en anglais? ’

‘God-daughter,’ he said, and held out his hand.

I wasn’t ready for the heat that bolted through me as I took it.

‘I remember.’ His voice was husky, and his gaze flickered from my eyes down to my pearls then slowly back up my neck to my mouth. I found myself at a loss for words. ‘ Enchanté. ’

‘Me too,’ I managed to squeak, eventually. ‘ Enchanté , I mean.’

I must have looked a very different proposition from the last time he’d seen me, damp and pink with sunburn. He was still holding on to my hand. I felt his thumb flicker over the tops of my fingers before he took it away. I took a gulp of wine for something to do, and choked a little as I swallowed too fast.

‘Is our wine so bad?’ he asked.

‘No, no, it’s delicious,’ I spluttered. ‘It just went down the wrong way.’

I tried to compose myself as quickly as I could.

‘Excuse me,’ said Madame. ‘I must answer the door again.’

She left us staring at each other. I tried not to look around for anyone who might be attached to him. There was bound to be some elegant creature who would come and reclaim him any moment. An Isabelle or a Charlotte or a Geneviève. I nodded towards the vines.

‘You are celebrating?’

‘Yes. We always have the harvest party. It makes my father happy. But tomorrow I leave to start training. To start training.’

‘Oh yes. Rugby,’ I said knowledgably.

‘Do you play?’ he asked me, and I looked at him in surprise, then realised he was teasing.

‘Not so much these days,’ I countered. ‘I’ve been very busy cooking at the chateau.’

‘And you’re leaving soon.’

I made a face. ‘I’ve got to get a proper job.’

I sounded so bloody English. A proper job. But it was true. I needed to get back on some kind of career path. But at least I had more of an idea what I wanted to do now. Something to do with food. Not telesales. I’d got out just in time, before it completely killed my spirit.

I could see waiters floating past with silver trays of oysters and I reached out to take one, tipping my head back to swallow it. I recognised several people from Barles. I was pretty sure I could see Monsieur le Maire. Everyone was dressed up and looked far more elegant than they did in their everyday clothes. Yet somehow they all seemed to be fading into the background, a distant blur accompanied by indistinct chatter. All I could focus on was Rémy standing in front of me.

‘Tell me, Connie. Is it true Napoleon’s sister used to hide her lovers at the chateau?’

‘I don’t know, but it would be the perfect place to hide a lover if you wanted to.’

‘Do you think?’

He held my gaze and I looked straight back at him, smiling. I knew that before the night was out, something was going to happen between us. I felt bold. The warm air on my skin, the scent of mimosa, the sweet rosé and the salty oyster on my tongue, his voice, low and a little rough, in my ears – all my senses were alive, and something sprang to life deep inside me.

‘Maybe you should come and see?’

He gave a delighted smile, thrilled by my overture. It wasn’t subtle. ‘I must circulate or my mother will kill me. Will you wait?’

Would I wait? I’d wait until the end of time. I’d never felt such an intense connection with someone, which was weird as we obviously had nothing in common, not really. But as we didn’t have the luxury of time, that didn’t really matter.

‘Of course,’ I told him.

I spent the rest of the evening in a daze, moving around the other guests, trying to make conversation. As the sun began to set, lights came on in the garden, and everyone looked even more beautiful in the glow. The noise levels rose, my glass was filled again, I began to relax and enjoy the first party I had been to for a long time.

‘ Les anges à cheval ?’ said a soft voice.

I turned to see who was speaking, thinking it was Rémy again, but it was his father, holding out a plate of canapés: prunes wrapped up in bacon. Angels on horseback. He had on a dark blue velvet jacket and jeans and towered above me like his son. So that was where Rémy got his powerful physique and his husky voice from.

‘ Merci ,’ I said, taking one, careful not to burn my fingers.

‘I hope you like it. You are a good cook, I think. The food at the chateau is—’ He kissed the tips of his fingers.

‘I’m not as good as Lismay. But I am learning.’

‘Ah, Lismay.’ His eyes went a bit misty. Everyone loved my godmother. ‘We are lucky to have such good neighbours.’

‘Well, they love you too,’ I told him. ‘They’re sorry not to be here.’

Over his shoulder, I could see Rémy approaching. I was grateful that the darkness meant his father wouldn’t see my cheeks go pink.

‘Papa,’ said Rémy, ‘I think I will walk Connie back to the chateau. It is too dark for her to go alone.’

‘But of course,’ said his father. ‘You must.’

‘Thank you for a very lovely evening,’ I gabbled, yet again realising how ridiculously English I sounded as Rémy took my arm and led me across the terrace. I wondered if everyone was watching us go, knowing exactly what we each had planned. My head was swimming with rosé and anticipation as we left the house and plunged into the darkness of the vineyard, following the same path I had taken here. It was very different in the dark.

‘I’m sure I’d have been all right to walk home,’ I said, nevertheless.

‘No. There is dangerous wildlife. Sangliers .’

I shivered, not liking the thought of being savaged by a wild boar.

‘And probably owls,’ I added, imagining one swooping down and getting its talons tangled in my hair.

‘And skwiwews .’

‘ Skwiwews ?’

He frowned. ‘Little red animals with big tails?’

I laughed. ‘Squirrels!’

‘Yes. Skwiwews . That is what I said.’

I couldn’t stop laughing. He pretended to be cross and pointed at me. ‘OK. You say écureuil .’

I tried it, but it sounded as if I was swallowing a bunch of vowels, and he laughed even harder than I had, doing an imitation of my terrible pronunciation.

‘What about hedgehogs?’ I said. ‘Say hedgehog.’

‘Edge-og.’

‘H-edge. H-og.’

‘H-edge. H-og.’ He sounded like an asthmatic doing a breathalyser.

We didn’t stop laughing all the way back to the chateau. As we slipped into the garden, it appeared before us, silver in the moonlight. I was glad to have him with me all of a sudden, as the night breeze whispered around us, and the leaves rustled in the trees. What was going to happen? We walked up the steps without saying anything, and as we got to the door he put his hand in mine. We stepped over the threshold together as I led him into the kitchen, putting on the lamps rather than the overhead lights. I found two glasses and a bottle of Calvados, pouring us each a shot.

We stood, staring at each other, sipping at the fiery liquid. And then he put his glass on the table and his hands either side of my head, weaving his fingers through my hair, and I sighed, slumping against his broad chest. I could feel his heart beating underneath his soft shirt.

‘Connie,’ he whispered.

‘We only have one night,’ I told him.

He sighed. ‘I know. Tomorrow I must leave.’

‘This is it. One night. Nothing more.’

I looked up into his face. We both understood. Neither of us wanted to walk away.

I took him upstairs to my room.

I had never known a lover like Rémy. Despite his strength and his size, he was so very gentle, shushing me and slowing everything down. I was used to English boys, overeager, always in a rush, and somehow I always got caught up in their enthusiasm and their rather frenzied approach. I always ended up in a breathless, sweaty mess, not necessarily satisfied.

Making love with Rémy was like a dream. He laid me down on the bed and his fingers danced over my skin as they had by the lake, featherlight, making me shiver. I closed my eyes and let my breathing deepen as he explored every inch of me, not allowing me to touch him back. As I gave in to him, I realised that his mouth had replaced his fingers, his warm lips caressing the inside of my elbows, the back of my neck, my hipbones, my inner thighs. And then his tongue – oh God. Slow and deliberate. Then quick. Teasing. A delicate flicker. I pushed against him, suddenly urgent, and I felt his laugh reverberate inside me, his pleasure at my desperation as my fingers tangled in his hair. And something split me into a million stars, taking me on a journey to infinity that I never wanted to come back from, and then suddenly he was inside me and we were together, and the stars were still there, shimmering, glittering, sparkling, exploding. And I sobbed, because I knew I would never feel anything like this ever again, that it was a once-in-a-lifetime moment, that tomorrow he would be gone.

And he was. I woke up just after dawn and the bed was empty. I knew it hadn’t been a dream, because I could feel every muscle ache, smell him on my skin, his sweat and his cologne. I slid under the blankets to try and get warm, shivering not from cold but the shock to my system and the turmoil of being turned inside out and upside down. I knew I wouldn’t hear from him again. That had been the deal, and I had agreed to it willingly.

One night at the chateau. A night that would stay with me for the rest of my life.