Chapter 3
MEGAN
You can spot Chateau du Chèvrefeuille early from the main road, the striking white fairy-tale turrets up on the foothills overlooking the vineyard and out to the sea.
My breath actually caught for a moment when I first saw it from the taxi, as in, I gasped and then couldn’t breathe out, like my brain couldn’t handle processing all the feelings I was feeling at the same time as exhaling, so the air just stuck there in the back of my throat.
I’d hoped I wouldn’t feel much when I saw the chateau again after fifteen years, but I felt lots of things.
Then I felt even angrier at Dad for bringing me back here.
I’m reluctant to get out the car at the end of the long driveway that stretches down through the vineyards and parkland, but the driver has already hopped out and lined up my luggage outside the door, so any longer lingering in his backseat would be embarrassing for everyone involved.
I climb out and gaze up at the white-walled chateau, a lump forming in my throat at the lingering scent of the honeysuckle – from which the chateau gets its name – climbing up the walls either side of the door. I can’t believe I’m here again.
Heaving a sigh, I grab the handle of my case.
‘Well Dad, we’re here,’ I mutter resentfully. ‘I hope you’re happy.’
I step into the building, dragging my case behind me across the marble hall towards the empty reception desk.
I can’t work out if I’m pleased or disappointed to find that nothing much has changed.
The décor is the same – the huge familiar oil paintings hanging on the walls, the faded red velvet chairs positioned in the corners of the room, the wide sweeping staircase.
It smells better, though. My brain may be playing tricks on me, but I remember as a kid that the hall smelt a bit musty, like an old mysterious castle should to a child looking for stories within its walls I suppose. Now, it feels like a hotel.
Standing at the reception desk, I wait patiently for someone to appear.
When they don’t, I look at the bell on the counter with dread.
I really don’t want to have to ring that thing.
There’s something so embarrassing about ringing a hotel bell.
It roughly translates to, ‘Come! Do my bidding!’ I clear my throat loudly in the hope that it gets someone’s attention.
But it doesn’t work. This is a chateau. They could be floors away.
Pressing my lips together, I reluctantly reach out and tap the bell quickly.
I feel my cheeks flushing as the ring echoes through the castle.
Moments later, I hear footsteps on the floor above approaching the stairs.
I take a few steps back so I can see up the staircase, ready to give whoever is coming an apologetic smile about the whole bell thing.
A man appears, hurrying down the first few steps.
As he sees me, he does a double take and then slows down, a smile spreading across his face.
‘Uh . . . bonjour,’ I say, blushing furiously, firstly about the bell, secondly about my dismal attempt at a French accent and thirdly because he is strikingly good-looking. Tall and broad-shouldered, with short dark hair and designer stubble across his square jawline.
‘Bonjour,’ he replies in his silky-smooth accent.
He descends the last few steps and then moves to stand behind the reception desk.
He leans his hands on the counter and, without one ounce of shame, proceeds to take me in.
Like, he inhales deeply through his nose while his dark gleaming eyes fix on me, his grin broadening, dimples appearing either side of his full lips.
Just when I thought he couldn’t get cuter, he reveals those dimples. Fuck’s sake.
I lift my chin pretending not to be floored by his beauty and I’m about to say who I am so he can consult my booking, but apparently, there’s no need.
‘Hello, Megan,’ he says in a way that means he knows me.
Not in a way that means he knows I’m a guest arriving today, I’m talking about a way that means he knows me. I stare at him, baffled, and then I realise. A flutter erupts in my stomach.
‘Nico?’ I whisper.
The deepening dimples tell me I’m right.
Nico, the boy who once made Chateau du Chèvrefeuille my favourite place in the world.
There were so many reasons why I loved it here, why I couldn’t wait to return every summer – it was a magical setting for a kid, a Sleeping Beauty style castle with a vineyard and a pool and a beach just down the hill.
But it was Nico who helped me create the adventures.
He spent his summers at Chateau du Chèvrefeuille with the owners, his aunt and uncle.
We became friends the first summer my family arrived here when I was seven.
I was discovering that there was a disadvantage to being an only child on holidays with your parents.
I did my best to entertain myself, coming up with stupid games like how far I could swim underwater.
Then, one day, when Dad was having a tour of the vineyard and I was reluctantly following him, kicking the dirt with my sandals, I saw Nico.
He was lurking behind the vines, spying on us.
I don’t really remember how it went from there, but Dad told me that one minute I was dragging my feet behind him, moaning about the boring tour, and the next, I was behind the vines with my new friend, the two of us giggling whenever he and Nico’s uncle glanced in our direction, pretending they didn’t know where we’d gone.
‘Let’s just say MI5 wasn’t going to call you two up any time soon,’ Dad would tell me later.
He liked to remind me of my time with Nico – a conspicuous attempt to have me look back on family holidays fondly, I realise.
He would recall how the two of us would cause havoc, running through the vineyards, tearing around the chateau, begging my parents and his aunt and uncle to please take us out on the boat.
Apparently my leg would shake impatiently the whole way from leaving our house in England to coming down the driveway of the chateau, before I could finally leap out of the car to run in to find Nico.
‘It wouldn’t take much effort to locate him. He’d always be right there in the hallway, waiting for you,’ Dad would say with a secretive smile.
Our friendship started out based largely on hand signals and assumptions due to the language barrier.
That only made things funnier. It was like a long game of charades.
His English got better and better every year.
My French was all right, but not enough to make it our communication of choice.
By the time we were in our early teens, we were proper friends, able to talk about proper things.
I think because we only saw each other for a few weeks each year, our friendship felt more exciting and intense.
He didn’t know what I was like at school, who I hung out with, what my official status was.
For all he knew, I might be popular, fun and cool.
I could say whatever I liked around him, be whoever I wanted.
Whenever I thought about the chateau, I’d think of Nico and wonder how his life had played out. And here he is all over again. Dad really did want me to step back in time, huh.
‘Wow,’ I say, staring at him, my heart thumping relentlessly against my chest. ‘I . . . how are you?’
‘Good. How are you?’
‘Good. I’m good.’
I nod. He nods. The two of us standing there, looking at each other, nodding.
Suddenly, I feel the urge to cry. Which is weird and pointless.
‘I . . . I’m staying here,’ I say stupidly.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I’m glad. It’s nice to see you. It’s been a long time.’
‘Yeah. A . . . really long time. So, you work here?’
Another flair of idiocy. He’s literally standing behind the desk.
‘I run it now.’
‘You run the chateau? Wow, that’s—’ My smile falters. ‘Your aunt and uncle . . .’
‘They’ve retired.’
‘Oh, nice,’ I say, feeling a wave of relief. ‘Well, I’m glad you took the reins. No one knows this place better.’
He glances down at the floor before lifting his eyes to me again, his forehead creased. ‘I’m sorry about your father.’
‘Thank you. Thanks.’ I tap my fingers on the counter, glancing around the hall. ‘He loved it here.’
‘Yes, he did. I feel honoured.’
I swallow. ‘So, I should . . . go to my room.’
‘Of course,’ he says, reaching underneath the desk to find a key that he hands over to me. ‘I have instructions to put you in your old room, so you’re Room Fifteen.’
‘You—’ I frown at the old-fashioned key in my hand. ‘Sorry? I don’t remember requesting that. And actually, I’d rather stay in a different room. Memories and blah blah blah.’ I roll my eyes as though it’s all a bit comical.
‘It was your father who asked,’ he informs me gently, looking a little pained.
I stare at him, my lips parted, no words coming out.
‘He gave me instructions,’ Nico explains.
Pressing my lips together, I lift my eyes to the ceiling. ‘Gosh. How organised. Okay, if that’s what he wanted . . . Room Fifteen sounds great, thank you.’
He gestures to my suitcase. ‘Do you want me to—’
‘No, I’m good. I know where to go.’
‘Breakfast is served between seven and ten in the Morning Room, and if you want to make a reservation for dinner, then you need to let me know that morning by eleven.’
Desperate to be by myself, I move towards the stairs while he’s still talking, thanking him over my shoulder. He watches as I lift my case and begin the climb to the first floor.
‘Are you sure you don’t need my help?’ he offers, leaning on the counter.
‘I’m fine, thank you,’ I wheeze.
‘Megan.’
I stop, my case hitting the step I’m on with a loud thud, before I peer down at him over the banister. ‘Yes?’
‘Welcome back to Chateau du Chèvrefeuille,’ he says, smiling up at me as though he knows something I don’t.
‘Thanks,’ I murmur, before I pick up my case and begrudgingly haul it upstairs.