Happily Never After, page 8
‘He was a bit bouncy, wasn’t he?’ I agree. ‘I was worried he was going to squash her at one point, but they seemed to settle down well together in the end.’
‘You know what this means, don’t you?’ Liv says with a grin. ‘The universe has spoken and you’re going to France.’
I sigh, knowing I’m defeated. ‘Are you sure you’re going to be all right being in charge of her?’
‘Oh, I’m going to feel horribly guilty dropping her off here in the mornings. But it’ll probably be good practice for abandoning my own children at school when the time comes.’
Liv doesn’t talk about children generally, so I’m intrigued.
‘Would you send your children to boarding school, having been through it yourself?’ I ask.
She grins. ‘That would depend entirely on how annoying they were. Anyway, I’ll use Meg as practice to see if I’m tough enough to do it.’
‘Except she won’t be boarding, and you know she’ll be having a lovely time all day. If you prefer, I can get them to collect her so you don’t have to feel bad about leaving her.’
‘And have her eyes following me as I leave the house? That would be even worse. No. What did you think of Donna?’
‘She seemed nice. She certainly knows a lot about dogs.’
‘And what about the partner, Kate?’
‘What about her?’
‘Business partner, or do you think they’re a couple?’
I smile. I couldn’t help noticing that Liv was very attentive towards Donna. I suspect she may have taken a bit of a shine to her.
‘Business partner only,’ I reassure her.
‘Based on?’
‘Wedding ring, picture on Kate’s desk of her with a man I’d hazard a guess is her husband and two adorable children.’
‘You’re so observant.’
‘I’ve had training from Bella.’
‘What about Donna? Any evidence of family there?’
She’s definitely interested.
‘You like her, don’t you?’ I ask.
‘What kind of question is that?’
‘You were bordering on flirtatious.’
‘No, I wasn’t. I was just listening carefully to what she said,’ Liv bristles, making me smile. She’s so transparent when she gets a crush on someone. ‘I didn’t want to miss a single detail which might affect my darling Meggie, did I?’
‘You’re such a model dog mother,’ I tell her with a laugh. ‘Promise me one thing though.’
‘What?’
‘Actually, two things. One, don’t give Meg so many treats while I’m away that she gets fat.’
‘Deal. What’s the second?’
‘Don’t frighten Donna off. At least, not until I get back.’
‘Why would I frighten her off?’
‘You get a bit… predatory… sometimes, when you like someone.’
‘I do not! Anyway, this is all in your head.’
‘Mm-hm? I know you, Liv. I can recognise the signals, and you were giving off all of them. You were even flicking your hair at one point. Total cliché.’
‘It was getting in my eyes. You read too much into things.’
‘OK. So tell me, hand on heart, that you don’t fancy her at all. I mean, I can’t see why you would. She’s pretty, curvy, fairly no-nonsense about life. Oh, wait a minute. Those are all things you’re really into, now I come to think about it.’
‘You’re funny. You should think about writing some of this stuff down. Fine. I may have noticed her. But that doesn’t mean anything.’
‘I’m just saying be subtle. The last thing I need is for poor Meg to be expelled from doggy daycare because you’re sexually harassing the owner.’
‘I’m not going to sexually harass anyone, thank you. I might ask a few probing questions now and then, but that’s all.’
I laugh. ‘Now I don’t know who to feel more sorry for. Meg, for going to daycare, you for having to leave her there, or Donna for having to put up with your inquisitions.’
‘Pah. Go off and do your writerly thing and stop worrying about us. We’ll be just fine, won’t we, Meg?’
I glance across at her. She might be trying to play this cool, but it’s a long time since I’ve seen her so instantly and strongly attracted to someone. I just hope, for her sake, that Donna doesn’t give her the brush-off. However, I’ve got a bigger problem. I now have no excuse not to go on this bloody retreat.
10
‘Are you all right? You look a little lost, if you don’t mind me saying.’ The voice is male and, when I turn to look at him, I’m confronted by a man that I’d guess is probably a couple of years older than me. His blue eyes are bright behind his frameless glasses and his mop of light brown hair is unruly without being unkempt.
‘I am a bit confused,’ I admit. ‘The last time I flew, there were check-in desks, but I can’t see any.’
He smiles, revealing even, white teeth. ‘Welcome to the cut-throat world of budget airlines. You have to do everything yourself. Have you got your boarding pass?’
I show him my passport, which has my boarding pass tucked inside.
‘Great. Let me show you what you have to do. I’m Finn, by the way.’
‘Laura,’ I tell him.
He leads me over to the baggage drop terminal and shows me how to scan my boarding pass, print off my luggage labels and attach them to my bags.
‘Oh, you’re on the same flight as me,’ he remarks as he repeats the process with his own boarding pass. ‘Business or pleasure?’
‘Pleasure,’ I tell him. I suppose the truth is somewhere between the two but, if I tell him the truth about going on a writing retreat, that might lead to loads of questions. It sounds silly, but I always feel like a bit of a fraud telling strangers that I’m a writer. ‘What about you?’
‘A bit of both,’ he replies. ‘I’m working on a project from tomorrow, but I’m taking the opportunity to meet up with a friend who lives in Toulouse first. Right, all we need to do now is feed our bags into that machine over there, and we can go through security.’
‘Really?’
‘Yup. If the dark magic is working, they should find their way onto the right plane.’
‘And if it isn’t?’
He grins. ‘Then you’ll probably never see your suitcases again. There isn’t anything valuable in them, I hope?’
‘No, just clothes. All the important things are in here.’ I tap my cabin bag.
‘Great. Shall we?’
Although I’m grateful for Finn’s help, it does present me with a dilemma, which is how to detach myself from him without seeming rude. He looks like the kind of nice guy who would happily shepherd me all the way to the gate, given half a chance, but I’m not sure I’ve got the reserves to make small talk with a stranger for nearly two hours.
‘Thank you so much for your help,’ I say to him as the bags disappear on a conveyor. ‘I’m just going to pop to the loo before security. I’ll see you on the other side, yeah?’
I don’t need the loo at all, but thankfully he appears to take the hint.
‘No problem,’ he says with a smile. ‘Enjoy your trip.’
I watch with relief as he turns away before heading in the direction of the ladies’. As soon as he’s out of sight, I plonk myself on a bench and wait five minutes before following him. I can practically hear Liv laughing at my social awkwardness, but I’m starting to wonder for the umpteenth time whether this is a horrible mistake. If I can’t do two hours with a single stranger, how the hell am I going to manage a group of them for two whole weeks?
The first thing that strikes me as I step out of the airport building in Toulouse is the brightness. Despite it still technically being summer, the last couple of weeks in Margate have been unseasonably cold and damp, and I can practically feel my skin soaking up the sunshine as I hunt through my bag for my sunglasses. It has felt odd, travelling alone after so many years of always having Angus by my side, but I’m pretty proud of how well it’s gone so far. I did see Finn again at the gate, but he didn’t try to engage with me beyond a friendly wave, thankfully, and our seats on the plane were nowhere near each other. He was right at the front so, by the time the people in my row disembarked, he was long gone.
All that’s left now is to find the kiosk the man at the car hire desk told me should be out here somewhere, pick up some keys and navigate my way to the retreat house, where a richly deserved glass of cold white wine will hopefully be waiting for me. I can practically taste it on my tongue as I push my trolley over the hot concrete. I will confess to being a little nervous about the whole hire car thing. I haven’t driven for a while, and this will all be on the wrong side of the road, but Liv and I agreed that I needed a means of escape in case the retreat proved to be awful, so I swallowed my nerves and booked one. Liv was typically gung-ho about it, pointing out that people hire cars abroad all the time without incident, so it couldn’t possibly be that hard.
By the time I reach the outskirts of Saint-Antonin-Noble-Val, I can’t decide which is more important, the glass of wine or ringing Liv to tell her that, actually, it is that hard. Just getting out of the airport was fraught, as the navigation app kept telling me to switch lanes just as someone was zooming up the side of me, or gleefully informing me I needed to perform a U-turn as soon as possible when there clearly wasn’t anywhere suitable. When I finally made it out onto the main road, the tiny Fiat was buffeted all over the place by huge lorries and my knuckles were soon raw from repeated attempts to change gear with the door handle. The roads did get quieter once I was off the autoroute, but they brought their own challenges, with people pulling out of side roads seemingly without looking and overtaking me on what felt like blind bends. Thankfully, the directions provided by the retreat hosts are very clear and I only make a couple of wrong turns before turning down the track that promises to lead me to L’Ancien Presbytère, my home for the next two weeks.
‘Oh, wow,’ I breathe as the house comes into view. I’ve seen it in the photos, obviously, but they don’t do it justice at all. The tall, arched front door is flanked on either side by lavender bushes, and the exposed stonework positively glows in the late afternoon sunlight. Each dark window is framed by bright blue shutters, hinting at coolness and shade within. The gardens are enclosed by another stone wall and the fields beyond are a riot of sunflowers. As I climb out of the car, all I can hear is the buzz of bees in the lavender and the ripple of water from the fountain in the middle of the courtyard I’ve parked in.
‘You must be Laura. Welcome to L’Ancien Presbytère,’ an English voice says to me as I begin to wrestle my luggage out of the boot. I look up to see a man who doesn’t look that much older than me. He’s deeply tanned, with sandy-coloured hair and a full beard. ‘I’m Hugh, and I’m delighted to meet you. My wife, Cara, would be here to greet you as well but she’s just sorting out an issue with one of the guest bedrooms. Ants are a constant problem at this time of year and, much as we warn guests not to leave food lying around, they don’t always listen. Let me take those.’
He lifts my heavy bags with such ease that you’d think I’d filled them with tissue paper, and strides towards the front door. The coolness as I step into the hallway is welcome after the hot journey, although it takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the comparative darkness.
‘Most of the other guests have arrived already. The final one will be joining us tomorrow,’ Hugh tells me as I follow him towards the staircase. ‘We’ve put afternoon tea and pastries out on the terrace, but you might prefer something stronger. How was your drive?’
‘Interesting,’ I admit. ‘When I booked it, I thought having a hire car would be fun because I could go out and explore, but now I’m not so sure.’
‘Most of our guests use the shuttle service we offer,’ he admits. ‘But this is a beautiful part of France for touring round, so some do prefer to drive themselves so they can explore at their own pace rather than be tied to our excursions. I’d definitely recommend a trip to Cordes-sur-Ciel while you’re here if you get time. It’s a terrible tourist trap, but still worth seeing. Bruniquel is also a very pretty medieval village. This is you.’
He opens a door and stands aside to let me go through. The room is large, with a wrought-iron double bedframe against the far wall. There is also a wardrobe, chest of drawers and substantial dressing table. The colours in the rugs covering the bare floorboards complement the bedspread perfectly, lifting the ambience without making it garish. The windows, under one of which sits a wide desk, look out over the gardens, which are a riot of blooms.
‘This is gorgeous,’ I tell him.
‘I’m glad you like it. The place was pretty run down when Cara and I bought it five years ago, but I like to think we’ve brought it up to date sympathetically. It’s been quite a project, but so much more rewarding than the daily grind of living and working in London.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I was a stockbroker and Cara was a chef in a high-end restaurant. We were doing well financially, but we realised we just weren’t having any sort of a life. So, much to the horror of our friends and family, we chucked it all in and moved here. Best decision we ever made. Cara looks after the food side of things for our guests and I do the garden and boring maintenance stuff.’
‘Including dealing with ants,’ I observe with a smile as the sound of the hoover in the distance shuts off.
‘We share the ants,’ he agrees. ‘Don’t worry, we haven’t hoovered them up. It would be pretty pointless as they’d just march straight back out again. She’s just making sure there aren’t any crumbs to tempt them and then we’ll spray peppermint oil around the room. Ants hate peppermint oil.’
‘And are all your retreats for writers?’ I ask.
‘Goodness, no. We do all sorts of different ones. Writers are generally the easiest because they just need somewhere to work and meet together. Cara does cookery courses sometimes, and they’re very popular, but we usually need a week off afterwards to get over them as they’re pretty intense. We also do wellness retreats, art retreats and so on.’
‘And you run all these yourselves?’
He laughs. ‘No. We don’t have the first idea about writing, art or any of that stuff. We just provide the venue and an expert. Thinking of which, I’ll introduce you to Tess later. She’s the mentor for this retreat.’
‘I wasn’t planning on using a mentor,’ I tell him.
‘That’s fine, but she’s there if you want her. She’s lovely, actually. She’s a freelance editor now, but she’s worked for quite a few of the big publishing companies and knows the industry like the back of her hand.’
Our conversation is interrupted by the arrival of a slender, dark-haired woman wearing a white T-shirt and dungaree shorts.
‘Ants banished,’ she says to Hugh, evidently not having noticed me. ‘I’ve also reminded bloody Gina about not taking food to her room. Honestly, you’d think she’d know, the number of times she’s been here.’
‘This is Laura,’ Hugh tells her, obviously trying to cut her off, although I’m rather enjoying the rant. ‘Laura, this is my wife, Cara.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ she says with a blush as she turns to me. ‘I didn’t know you’d arrived already. How was your journey?’
It quickly becomes apparent that, minor indiscretion aside, Cara is absolutely lovely. Her eyes sparkle with pride as she shows me round the rest of the house, which is just as beautiful as my room.
‘What we’ve tried to achieve here is to give you all the mod cons, but in a traditional setting,’ she tells me as she leads me out onto a terrace where three women appear to be in the middle of enjoying afternoon tea. ‘Ladies, this is Laura, who’s just arrived. I’m sure you’ll make her welcome. Gina, Suzie and Grace are regulars of ours,’ she explains to me before turning back to them. ‘How many years have you been coming now?’
‘This is our third year,’ the oldest one says with a sniff. ‘We come twice a year, so it’s actually our sixth visit though. Laura, is it?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And are you a writer, Laura?’ There’s something in her tone that I can’t quite pin down, but it’s definitely not friendly.
‘I am, yes.’
‘And what do you write?’ All three ladies are staring at me now, and I feel a little bit like I’m being interviewed.
‘Crime fiction,’ I tell them. This is obviously the wrong answer, as I swear I see the chief interrogator’s lip curl a little.
‘I see,’ she says after a pregnant pause. ‘I’m afraid I don’t get the attraction of that type of thing. It seems’ – she pauses dramatically as if searching for the right word – ‘a little sordid, if you don’t mind me saying.’
‘Gina’s just signed a deal with a publisher,’ one of the other women explains in a tone that implies that such an honour confers instant deity.
‘Oh, congratulations,’ I say to her. ‘What’s the book?’
‘It’s a Tudor saga,’ the other woman says once more. ‘Such a tall order to bring that world to life but, if anyone can do it justice, it’s you, Gina.’
‘Thank you, Suzie, but I don’t think a writer of Laura’s calibre would appreciate my oeuvre,’ Gina says haughtily. I may only have met her a few minutes ago, but I’ve already decided that I really don’t like her. She’s literally epitomising everything I said I didn’t like about the idea of writing retreats, and I’m not at all sure about her two sycophants either. Thankfully, before the conversation can get any more stilted, we’re joined by two other women.
‘Tea and pastries!’ the shorter one exclaims excitedly, advancing on the table where everything has been laid out. ‘Would you like something, Tess?’
‘Just a cup of tea, thank you, Lynette. One thing I’ve learned from running retreats at Hugh and Cara’s is to pace myself. The first time I came, I swear I went home a stone heavier.’
