Chapter 12
‘ OH , MY FUCKING GOOD god,’ said Jamie, standing in front of the chateau.
‘You approve?’
‘Approve? Mags, you complete tart, why’ve you never invited me before? Look at the fucking place! No wonder it’s nicknamed a palace.’
‘ Was nicknamed a palace. It’s pretty tired now.’
‘Nah. It’s charming. I bet they had all sorts of orgies here,’ Jamie added, admiringly.
‘I can’t discuss orgies before midday.’ Maggie waved for him to follow her across the drive. ‘Coffee and the finest croissant that France has to offer?’
‘Perfection,’ said Jamie, wheeling his bag across the gravel behind her. ‘You ever read the Tripadvisor ratings for this place?’
‘No.’
‘They’re awful.’
‘Why were you looking at them?’
‘Just doing my due dil, babe.’ Jamie reached into his coat pocket with his spare hand. ‘I screenshot the best ones. Listen …’
‘Do I have to?’
‘It’s useful feedback. Ready?’ He bent to pick up his suitcase and read aloud. ‘We were expecting five-star service at this legendary hotel but it appears to be past its best. Tired, empty and overpriced.’
‘Happy customer,’ murmured Maggie, pushing open the front door.
‘OK, this one is even better …’
‘Jamie, I really don’t nee—’
‘Dinner was a disaster,’ Jamie went on, following her through the hallway. ‘The chef seemed to be drunk and our dessert never arrived. We won’t be making this mistake again!’
‘I think that’s enou—’
‘No no, just one more. I promise, this one’s the best.’
‘Is it actually?’
‘The rudest waitress I have ever come across, and that is saying something for France. There? Isn’t that lol?’
‘I think I know who that was,’ said Maggie, flicking on the kettle. ‘Dump your bag here, I’ll show you upstairs in a minute.’
‘I like the kitchen,’ said Jamie, taking in the copper pots behind the cooker, the pale-blue dresser and the worn limestone floor. ‘Very cottage-core. Now, first things first, where’s the cute gardener?’
‘What cute gardener?’
‘The one you told me about.’
‘I made that up to get you out here.’
Jamie’s face fell. ‘What? How could you do that? I’m a sad, heartbroken boy.’
‘You don’t sound that heartbroken.’
He flicked his hand in the air. ‘I’m not really. I’ve worked it out with Erik and Ben wasn’t good enough. Isn’t that annoying, when we fall for people we know aren’t good enough in the first place?’
‘I’m married, I can’t remember that far back.’
Erik was Jamie’s extremely expensive therapist. Technically a children’s therapist but Jamie had persuaded Erik to take him on, having met him at a friend’s party, because he fancied him. Maggie was fairly sure this contravened the therapist code of conduct but she was grateful to Erik for his weekly sessions with Jamie because it took the pressure off her.
She loved her friend. Sometimes, she thought guiltily, it might be easier to be married to him than Mungo. Quite often, especially in their twenties after nights out together, she’d wake up in Jamie’s bed, and she’d poke him, and he’d groan and pretend to be furious at being woken up, but then make tea and they’d laugh about the previous night together back in bed. And he’d been there like a shadow after each of her miscarriages. When Mungo went for long walks to grieve on his own from time to time, Jamie would come over and climb into her bed, and pull the duvet over their heads as if they were children themselves, and hold her hand while saying nothing because he instinctively understood that she didn’t want to talk, that she couldn’t find the words.
On the London restaurant scene, he had a reputation for being a ruthless operator who could make or break any new opening with a single review. But Maggie knew he was gentler underneath, and unendingly generous and loyal to those he loved.
Still, she was grateful to share the burden of discussing his love life with Erik, because the discussion never ceased.
‘Come on, Mags, there must be someone here I can fancy. I’ve packed my finest linens.’
She opened the fridge for the milk. ‘There’s a waiter who isn’t bad looking,’ she replied, recalling a man who’d been wiping tables in the Narnesse bar. It was owned by Audrey’s husband, Claude, and she’d stopped in to say hello the previous morning. Claude had held out his meaty hand and gruffly mumbled in French that he was very sorry for her loss while Maggie had tried not to feel self-conscious under the stares of those who’d already come in that day for their first beer. It was a proper locals bar, with plastic seats and plastic tables under which, on Sundays during hunting season, several dogs would lie before their owners took them out to chase wild boar.
‘A waiter, OK, I can work with that. Show me your cock tail menu, s’il vous pla?t . When can I meet him?’
‘We’ll go up to the village after this because I need to buy dinner,’ she added, wondering whether she hadn’t created more work by asking Jamie to stay. The agreed plan was that he’d work remotely for a couple of weeks while getting over his ‘heartbreak’, and help Maggie with the cooking, the deliveries and, in general, provide both physical and emotional support so she didn’t murder Audrey.
‘Sounds good. Is this the sugar?’ asked Jamie, stretching his hand towards the dresser.
‘No! Don’t touch that. That’s Phil.’
Jamie snapped his hand back and stared at Maggie.
‘It’s her ashes, that’s her urn.’
‘You’re keeping your dead auntie in the kitchen?’
‘I haven’t decided what to do with her, so until then I thought she’d like to be here. It was her favourite room.’
‘Not sure that’s very health and safety, Mags. Where’s the sugar?’
‘They don’t care about health and safety in France. And that one.’ Maggie nodded at a pot beside the urn.
‘What’s the Wi-Fi password? Can you share it with me?’
‘Hang on. Let me make this and then I’ll …’
The door swung back with a loud crash.
‘Ah, and here’s Audrey,’ Maggie said, smiling at her in the doorway before turning and mumbling to Jamie, ‘France’s rudest waitress.’
‘ Quoi ?’ snapped Audrey, looking suspiciously between them.
‘Audrey, please meet my friend Jamie, who’s come to help for a couple of weeks. To help me in the kitchen,’ Maggie added quickly, in case Audrey took his arrival as an excuse to ignore the bedrooms and do even less.
‘Wonderful to meet you, babe. Love the shirt.’
Audrey looked down at her t-shirt in surprise. Today, Meatloaf was straining across her bosom, holding a guitar.
‘Audrey, are you OK to do the rooms if I take Jamie shopping?’ Maggie went on. ‘I’ll get everything for dinner if you can make the beds.’
She narrowed her eyes as if considering the office. ‘ Oui ,’ she said eventually. ‘And there was a phone call earlier.’
‘A phone call? What do you mean?’ Maggie felt in her back pocket for her mobile.
She stuck her thumb over her shoulder, towards the hallway. ‘ Non , the phone on the desk.’
‘Who was it? Please don’t say it was the bank.’
‘It was an American asking to come and stay tonight.’
‘What? I hope you told him no. We’re not taking anyone who hasn’t already booked.’
According to Phil’s emails, the people checking in that night were the two best friends, Liz and Tina (Tina was the one recovering from breast cancer), and Leonard, who was hoping to propose to his girlfriend, Chloe.
Audrey shrugged again. ‘I say yes, and it was a woman.’
‘Oh, Audr—’
‘It is just for one person so I thought it would be OK, since we are ’aving guests anyway.’
‘How long’s she staying for?’
‘I do not know.’
‘You didn’t ask?’
Audrey glared. ‘I did not have the time. She just said did we ’ave a room and was the ’otel private, so I said yes, we did, and yes it is private, and she said OK, and hung up the telephone.’
Maggie took a mouthful of coffee so large it burned her throat. The American woman sounded like trouble. ‘Right, so five guests this weekend. Five guests, four rooms to make up, five dinners to prepare. Plus the photographer’s coming tomorrow.’
‘Photographer?’
‘Mungo’s got someone coming to take photos, for the sale details. Guy called Julian, so in the morning, Audrey – Audrey? Are you listening? – in the morning, after the guests have had breakfast, can you make sure the dining room is tidy? Clean?’
A few days earlier, Maggie had waved the Bancrofts off (after a long and exhausting conversation with Lord Bancroft about which of Phil’s cookery books he should take to show his dealer in London), and been looking forward to a brief rest between guests. But just as their car vanished, Mungo had called to announce that Julian was booked to come to the hotel that weekend when the weather looked brightest. ‘No time like the present and all that, darling. The sooner we get pictures done, the sooner the sale can get going.’ Maggie had reluctantly agreed while pushing away the sadness she felt in her chest at the speed with which things seemed to be progressing. To distract herself, and with almost no help from Audrey, she’d then dusted every room, cleaned every window, and tugged some of the ivy away from the shutters, until one vine had pulled away a chunk of the chateau’s plaster with it. The garden still looked forgotten, but she was hoping Julian could shoot it in a way that seemed wild and charming, instead of overgrown and depressing. Rewilding was fashionable now.
‘When do the guests arrive?’ asked Jamie.
‘This afternoon. And one of them’s proposing to his girlfriend so dinner has to be good .’
‘Calm down, Nigella. You’re cooking it. ’Course it’ll be good. Let’s have our coffee and then we’ll go shopping. I love a French supermarket.’
‘We’re not going to the supermarket. I need to go to the boulangerie for more bread before it closes, and then the vegetable man. Oh, and the fromagerie . I need to write a list.’ Maggie sat and dragged her notebook across the table.
‘Don’t forget the handsome waiter,’ added Jamie, reaching across the table for the rattan basket filled with croissants.
‘And the waiter,’ Maggie replied wearily, writing ‘waiter’ on her list.