Relaxed against a plump cushion on an extremely comfy settee, Bryony sipped her glass of wine. Bertrand stood proudly with a bottle in his hand, extolling the virtue of the grapes used to make the rather delicious, fruity Muscadet wine.
‘Nantes is the capital of the Muscadet region,’ he explained. ‘And last year was an excellent year for the grapes.’
The wine was making Bryony feel mellow. She’d eaten little during the day and was now beginning to experience the warm, fuzzy feeling of the first stages of being drunk. She focused on the others, blocking out some of Bertrand’s monologue. Jim’s brown, button-like eyes shone. He was no doubt soaking up Bertrand’s every word and committing it all to memory. He had a colossal capacity to recall information. In her opinion, the man was a human encyclopedia and his intelligence far outshone her own. Bryony reckoned she stood little chance of winning each day with Jim as an opponent. She might make it to day four or even five if she was lucky. Worse still, there’d be no Anneka. She felt downhearted at the futility of that part of her plan that had held so much promise. She glanced at Lewis, balanced on the edge of his stool. He too appeared fascinated by Bertrand’s words and his eyes glittered with expectation. She scanned the room, taking in Jim’s and Oscar’s eager faces, and sensed the collective feel of anticipation. She mentally chastised her negativity and tuned back in to Bertrand.
Bertrand was talking about his home, arms outstretched as he gesticulated towards pieces of furniture and wall decorations. ‘Hotel Petit Château is a fine dwelling dating from the time of the Directoire.’ Bryony could not ingest any more facts. She had no idea who or what the Directoire was. Having listened to Jim for most of the journey to France, her brain was now full to the brim with facts. A gong sounded, interrupting Bertrand in mid-flow.
‘I think now, dinner is ready,’ Bertrand declared. ‘We must eat.’ Bryony registered they were moving, her nose picking up on the aroma of roast chicken that now wafted into the room.
‘Biggie, you have to wait here.’ Oscar wagged a finger at the small animal. ‘Sit. Stay.’ Biggie looked dejected and slumped onto the floor.
‘He’s not allowed at the table or to beg for food. He has a strict diet and I don’t want him ballooning up. I’ll never be able to carry him about if he becomes heavy and fat. Besides, it’s not nice for anyone to have a salivating pug staring at them while they eat.’
‘Quite right,’ said Jim. The wine had gone to his head too and he had begun to slur his words. ‘Discipline. That’s the thing. We had plenty of discipline in the army. My, how I missed it when I came out into civvy street. It’s difficult to quit the routine once you leave. And I missed the camaraderie even more. It was like leaving behind a huge family of brothers and uncles.’ A wistful look played across his face. He did not, however, talk at length about the army. Instead he put a fatherly arm around Oscar’s shoulder and complimenting Bertrand on his taste in furnishings, walked ahead with the pair, leaving Bryony and Lewis trailing in their wake.
‘Anyone here need pinching to make sure this is all for real?’ asked a deep voice. Bryony and Lewis turned towards it. It belonged to a colossus of a man dressed in cargo print trousers and an olive T-shirt that stretched over his barrel chest. At about six foot five, he towered over his partner and with his bald head, a large round face and merry, green eyes he resembled a friendly ogre.
Lewis was the first to speak up. ‘I’m Lewis and this is Bryony. Nice to meet you.’
‘Donald and this is my partner, Nicola. She’s not my “partner”, if you know what I mean. We’re not living together.’
‘Heaven forbid,’ replied Nicola, smirking at the big man.
‘She’s my partner for this show. I’m actually happily married to one of her sisters, Eve. Eve and I always hold hands, even after twenty-five years together,’ he said a wistful look in his eyes before adding, ‘If I let go of it she shops.’ His throaty laugh filled the air.
Nicola tried hard not to chortle at his remark. ‘That’s not true and you know it!’
Donald wriggled heavy eyebrows on his craggy forehead. ‘They’re all tough women in their family. Six women! I pity my father-in-law. Imagine what a life he had – all those nagging women to deal with. Even the dog was female. This one,’ he said, pointing at Nicola, ‘badgered me senseless until I agreed to audition for the show with her, then complained when we actually got teamed up. I wouldn’t mind but I know naff all about France. Now, if it was about football…’
‘I didn’t badger you. You were really keen to get away for a few days and skip off work. Besides, it was never a given you and I would get through or be teamed up.’
‘See,’ mouthed Donald, pointing a digit at her. ‘Bossy!’
‘You eating with us?’
Donald shook his head. ‘No, we arrived much earlier than you and went into town, so we’ve already eaten. Thought we’d opt for an early night, ready for tomorrow. Don’t let us hold you up. See you tomorrow.’
‘Competition,’ whispered Lewis as the couple headed up the stairs. ‘Deliberately being over-friendly when really he wants to beat us.’
‘Really? How did you come to that conclusion?’ Bryony asked.
Lewis tapped the side of his nose. ‘Intuition. Don’t worry. He might be broad and tall, but I have the secret weapon in my team – Brainy Bryony.’ He gave a quiet chuckle and swept her into the dining room. A patterned casserole dish sat in the centre of the table. Next to it stood a polished, silver dish filled with perfectly golden roast potatoes garnished with rosemary. Bertrand lifted the lid of the casserole dish, allowing the aroma of garlic, herbs and chicken to escape. Bryony’s stomach rumbled.
‘This looks delicious but it’s not what I expected,’ enthused Oscar. ‘I thought we might have a traditional French meal, like confit de canard.’
‘Or, cuisses de grenouilles, frogs’ legs, eh?’ replied Bertrand with a smirk. ‘This chicken is from the local farmer and my gardener grew all the vegetables that are in the casserole. This is a typical French meal. However, if you want something very French, I can bring you in some snails from my garden. They keep eating the vegetables so you can have them with pleasure.’
Oscar giggled. ‘I’ll pass on the snails, thanks, Bertrand.’
Bertrand gesticulated enthusiastically at the table. ‘We also have a typical French dessert. It is a tarte Tatin de pommes. It is delicious. My gardener’s wife made it so, of course, it is delicious.’
Lewis raised his glass. ‘To Bertrand and to his gardener’s wife for this super meal,’ he offered.
Bertrand bowed his head. ‘You are very kind.’
Jim helped himself to a large portion of chicken. He breathed in the aromas from his plate. ‘I can definitely detect garlic and thyme in it. I always use thyme, bay leaf and plenty of red wine. Can’t have too much red wine in a fine chicken casserole.’
‘If you make casserole as good as this, I’m going to demand you write down the recipe for Mom,’ Oscar declared. ‘In fact, you should write a cookery book. I’d certainly buy it.’
‘Lewis could give you his world-famous cornflake cake recipe to add to your collection,’ offered Bryony, earning an exaggerated grimace from Lewis.
‘Bryony’s right. People would really want to know how to make those little beauties. They’re very tricky to prepare.’ Lewis took on a voice of one presenting a cookery show. ‘Take one box of cornflakes. Open the box and tip approximately a quarter of the flakes into a large bowl, filling it to the halfway mark. Next, the tricky part.’ His face became mock serious. ‘Place a bar of top quality chocolate in a heat-proof bowl over a pan of boiling water and allow it to melt. Add the melted chocolate to the flakes, and mix in well. Roll small balls of mixture into round shapes using your hands and leave to solidify, then consume at will.’
Jim’s moustache twitched as he suppressed a laugh.
‘Any chocolate will do although I believe adding a rum-flavoured chocolate is not to be recommended, especially when doling out said offerings to small children.’
They all chuckled at his remark. Jim spoke again, more animated now. ‘Cathy suggested the same idea about writing a cookery book but I never seem to have enough time and I can’t see me sitting behind a desk typing all day. I used to spend hours preparing dishes. I especially love cooking pastry dishes or baking bread – I do enjoy that,’ he added with gusto. ‘After I left the army, I went to work in a local family-run bakery. I used to rise – forgive the non-intentional pun – at three o’clock every morning to warm up the bread ovens and prepare the specialist breads: olive bread, rosemary and oregano and so on. We won an award for our steak and ale pies. I came up with that recipe. I added a secret ingredient into them to make them extra-tasty.’
‘What was it?’
‘If I told you, it wouldn’t be secret.’
‘True.’
Jim’s eyes twinkled. He leant forward in a conspiratorial fashion. ‘Guinness. I added Guinness to the pies.’ Satisfied he had impressed his audience, he finished with, ‘I loved working at the bakery. The smell of warm bread or pies always brings back fond memories.’
‘Did you not fancy starting up your own catering business?’ asked Lewis. ‘I’m sure you’d have been successful. You obviously have a penchant for cookery.’
Jim placed his knife and fork neatly on his plate. ‘As it happens, Lewis, I did consider the possibility. I even started to save to buy my own shop. I fancied a small delicatessen that provided lunches. I thought Cathy could serve all the cheeses, breads and meats and I would do the catering in the adjoining restaurant, using some of the produce we had in the shop. Cathy was excited too at the prospect. It became our dream. I would work at that bakery, pummelling the dough and planning what I would cook when I had my own little shop. Then, out of the blue, my Cathy was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. It was a terrible blow, I can tell you. She’s a trooper. She didn’t let it get her down and she fought to stay active but her condition deteriorated all too quickly and I chose to give up work altogether to help look after her. We got by on the savings and my army pension but there wasn’t enough money left for any ambitious plans to set up a restaurant and shop, and besides, none of that seemed important any longer.’ He looked off into the distance for a moment.
‘The most precious thing we have is time, isn’t it? I didn’t want to spend all of mine working. Spending quality time with Cathy became my priority. It still is. I can’t imagine my life without her. We go out every morning if she’s feeling strong enough, and then in the afternoon, the little ones come around. It brightens our day. They always make us smile. I love seeing Cathy happy.’ He paused for a moment; the memories of his grandchildren made his eyes shine.
‘Our daughter, Susan, is looking after the old gal while I’m here. Cathy understands how much I enjoy a good quiz or game show. She insisted I audition for What Happens in… I get lots of quiz-like practice at home, watching the television and doing various puzzles while she’s resting beside me on the settee. I suppose quizzing has become my hobby these days. Keeps my brain active.’
He picked up his knife and fork once more.
‘Sorry to hear about Cathy,’ said Lewis. Oscar and Bryony nodded earnestly.
‘We’ve learnt to live with her condition. If I could win some money, then I’d really like to take the old gal to the coast for a long holiday. Maybe stay in a posh hotel. Treat her. Some sea air would do her good.’ He blinked away tears and continued, ‘Oscar, tell us about ballet dancing. I read somewhere that a male dancer lifts over one to one and a half tons’ worth of ballerinas during some performances.’
‘They certainly keep you on your toes.’ Oscar snickered at his own pun.
The conversation moved on to France, the show and what they might expect in the morning. With full stomachs it was not long before they began to feel ready for bed.
Jim was the first to make excuses to leave. ‘I’m not as young as I used to be and I usually turn in about nine o’clock. At my age, I need my beauty sleep. I had a super night thanks to you all. Thank you. It was good to chat and very nice of you to listen.’ He tugged at his moustache – a nervous gesture. Behind the disciplined, military man was a shy one. Bryony felt the urge to hug him.
‘It was a pleasure, Jim. You’ll have to give us some of your recipes before we part company, especially for your steak and ale pie.’
‘I’ll walk Biggie around the garden and come up in a minute, Jim. I won’t be long. We’ve got a big day tomorrow. Night, everyone.’
Bryony and Lewis plodded up the stairs. From the room near theirs came the sound of someone panting and groaning. Bryony maintained a poker face and said, ‘Probably someone doing late-night sit ups.’
With pursed lips Lewis agreed, all the while wrestling with a smile. He unlocked the door and they raced inside as the noise reached a crescendo and French voices moaning in ecstasy reached their ears.
‘Or they’re performing very energetic star jumps,’ offered Bryony.
‘I suppose that’s a possibility. I once knew a bloke who would hang upside down off a bar in his bedroom for fifteen minutes every night before he went to sleep. He claimed it was good for his circulation. There’s a saying that comes from the north about people being odd: “there’s nowt as queer as folk”. It seems to be accurate,’ replied Lewis.
‘I didn’t know you were from the north.’
‘I’m not but while I was living in London I once worked for a woman from Yorkshire. She had all sorts of little sayings and words that amused me.’
Bryony dropped onto a chair and removed her shoes. ‘I have no idea what it is you actually do for a job. I’ve spent loads of time with you and know next to nothing about your actual life. Melinda told me you were into acting or something similar but that can’t be the case. Even though you were accomplished at acting when we played the murder mystery game,’ she added. ‘You seem to return to London a fair bit, and didn’t you go to some exhibition recently?’
‘There’s not a lot to tell you. Being a male escort isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.’
Bryony dropped a shoe in surprise. ‘A male escort?’ she repeated.
‘I accompany wealthy women who need a partner for an event such as a charity gala dinner. They usually require the strong, silent sort who won’t show them up, are polite, can look good in a dinner jacket and don’t slop soup down their tuxedo.’ His face cracked into a mammoth grin. ‘Not really. I design websites. Nowhere near as exciting. I work from home which until recently was in London.’
‘You almost convinced me then.’
‘Almost?’
‘You spilt a dollop of gravy down your shirt tonight. Male escorts wouldn’t be so clumsy.’
Lewis pulled at his shirt, hunting for the gravy stain.
Bryony spluttered in glee. ‘Ha! Got you back. You didn’t spill any gravy.’
‘Touché! I deserved that. Nice to see you smile. You’ve been unusually quiet this evening.’
‘Sorry. Tired, I guess. I’ll get ready for bed.’
‘You sure you’re okay about me sharing the bed?’
‘Yeah, it’s fine. You don’t mind, do you?’
‘I’m chill. As long as you don’t snore or I’ll have to ask you to decamp and join Biggie Smalls.’