Turn the page for an exclusive extract from Jennifer Bohnet’s irresistibly charming story, A French Pirouette!

 

Chapter One

Suzette

Suzette Shelby, the world-famous French ballerina, was soaking her feet in the bathroom of her Paris apartment. Something she did routinely even when she was ‘resting’. Ruefully she lifted her feet out of the water and studied them.

Misshapen old lady’s feet with bunions and callouses stuck on the end of her thirty-eight-year-old legs. Legs that were still shapely with the taut muscled calves and thighs of a dancer. Picking up the soft-as-down large white towel she’d hung over the heated rail, she carefully wrapped her feet in it and gently began to pat them dry. The warmth cocooned her feet. Bliss.

The ballet company’s official chiropodist was always stressing about her feet these days but, aside from emergencies, she refused to let anybody touch them. Removal of the calluses would only give her blisters. The bunions she’d deal with later, when she retired.

Retired. A scary word that had entered her vocabulary in recent months and was threatening to take over her life. It would have to happen soon, she knew, but what was she to do afterwards? She was lucky to have lasted at the top for so long. Many dancers were finished by their early thirties. Usually by then the injuries had mounted up and the RICE – rest, ice, compression, elevation – recovery times were lengthening.

Towelling her feet dry, Suzette grimaced. RICE. Such a funny expression for something that was as much a part of a dancer’s life as barre work, while rice the food, with all its carbohydrates, was forbidden in her low-carb diet. It was a constant battle to keep fit and strong enough to dance but stay fat-free and trim.

The last three weeks had been a mixture of low-key exercises and RICE after that last sprain in Covent Garden. But now it was time to get back on the treadmill again: hours of gruelling dance practice, long rehearsals and the need to network and help publicise the next show. The first of the publicity stints was starting with this afternoon’s recording of a chat show at a TV studio.

Appearing on chat shows was not something that she did routinely, but Malik had assured her that a) these days keeping her name in front of her audience was essential and b) she might even enjoy it. Could even lead to other things when she retired. There was that word again. Retired.

She’d hoped that Malik would be back in Paris to escort her to the studios or at least meet her afterwards, but he was still down in Monaco. After tying things up there for the spring season he’d decided to stay on for a break. He’d asked her to join him but Suzette had said no, preferring to stay up here in town and get her ankle in tip-top condition before going down there to perform in a few weeks’ time.

Malik had been her dance partner until three years ago when, after one injury too many, he retired and became a choreographer. His reputation these days was so good he could be selective and choose the ballet companies he wanted to work with. Suzette loved it when they worked together and was looking forward to their short season in Monaco.

She missed dancing with Malik. They’d fitted together so well. Understood each other and picked up on each other’s vibes while on stage. Since he’d retired from dancing she hadn’t had a regular partner, dancing instead with one of the various top-flight male dancers contracted for the different ballets.

Away from the theatre too she and Malik enjoyed a deep personal friendship. At one time everyone had expected their friendship to develop into something more, but it had never gone beyond the special friendship stage. He was still her best friend in the dance world though. In all her worlds actually. Outside of dancing there were precious few people she could consider friends these days.

Sighing, she stood up and hung the towel on the heated rail to dry. Time to get dressed. The car the studio was sending for her would be here soon. Time to put on her public face and smile for the cameras.

The other guests were already enjoying wine and nibbles when Suzette was shown into the Green Room at the studios. She recognised a well-known actor and one of France’s ageing rock ’n’ roll stars.

The other female guest was a writer who, immediately after they were introduced, asked brusquely, ‘Read my latest?’

Suzette shook her head. ‘Désolé. Murder mysteries aren’t my scene. Prefer a romance. I’m sure it will do well though.’ She smiled at the woman who tutted at her words and turned away.

The show’s format meant that each guest was introduced individually until all five of them were sitting around a table laden with finger food the guest chef of the day had been coerced into providing. Bottles of wine were passed freely around in an effort to create an atmosphere of friends at lunch chatting intimately and enjoying themselves.

Suzette had the actor on one side of her and a young wannabe star from a current talent show on the other. After initial hesitation, talk flowed between them as the experienced presenter drew them all in to the conversation. It was when the subject of hobbies came up that Suzette found herself in the spotlight.

‘Suzette, I know you are a keen photographer but you are also a very gifted needlewoman and accomplished embroiderer. Tell us how you got into that,’ the presenter said.

‘Like all good things, I learnt it at my mother’s knee,’ Suzette said. ‘I find it very relaxing and always have a piece in my dressing room to work on. It helps to pass the time when I’m not on stage.’

‘You were born and grew up here in Paris, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, I grew up in Paris,’ Suzette said, ignoring the first part of the question. ‘I had a happy childhood here – although being at ballet school, it was also a very disciplined life.’ She went on to explain how her world had revolved around ballet since the age of nine. ‘The discipline I learnt there is ingrained in me now.’ She sighed. ‘Sometimes I wish I could just be me.’ Oh, maybe that was not the right thing to say on national TV.

‘Of course I love what I do and hope to continue for some time yet,’ she added quickly. ‘I’m really looking forward to my season here in Paris in the autumn.’ There. At least Malik would be pleased with her for getting their show mentioned. She was relieved when the presenter didn’t press her on the subject of what ‘being just me’ would entail and then, five minutes later, wound up ‘lunch’ and the show was over.

On the way home, Suzette sank back into the seat of the limousine and remembered the way the words about just being herself had come out without her thinking about them. But when she retired and gave up her life of dance altogether that was exactly what she could be. Herself. Whoever she was. And what kind of life would she lead outside the world of dance? Could she even survive without dance in her life?

Thank goodness Malik was due back tomorrow and she could talk to him. The one person left who knew her well – although even he, as close as they were, didn’t know everything about her.

Her local kiosque on the corner of two streets just yards from her apartment was busy the following morning when Suzette went to pick up the current issue of Le Monde. A large photograph of the countryside on the side of the kiosk caught her attention as she stood in the queue. ‘Venez en Bretagne pour vos vacances.’

She and her mother had gone to Brittany once for a holiday when she was, oh, about nine or ten. A long-ago memory of walking alongside a river watching boats and men fishing flashed into her mind. The countryside had been beautiful and she’d longed to stay for longer but, at the end of the holiday, she’d been dragged crying to the train station and they’d returned to Paris. Ballet school had taken over her life and her mother’s finances and there had been no more holidays.

Since then, of course, she’d travelled all over the world but had never been back to Brittany. Maybe when she retired she’d take a holiday there – see if it was as beautiful as her childhood memories had painted it.

Back in the apartment Suzette went through to the small room she laughingly referred to as ‘Le Boudoir’. Originally intended to be a guest bedroom, she’d had it converted years ago into a mini dance studio with a wooden floor, mirrored walls and an exercise barre running the length of the room. After pulling on her ballet shoes and tying the ribbons, she crossed over to the small table holding a CD player and a pile of CDs. Taking a compilation of slow piano pieces, she placed it into the player and pressed the button. Within seconds she was concentrating on the familiar plié exercise routine that had been a part of her daily life –injury time excepted – for as long as she could remember.

Waiting for Malik later that day, Suzette picked up the white velvet evening cape she was personalising with some delicate embroidery beadwork. To celebrate his first evening back from the south of France they were due to go to the theatre and have supper afterwards in one of their favourite bistros.

She glanced at her watch. Malik was typically late. She’d so wanted to talk to him before they left for the theatre but that clearly wasn’t going to be an option.

Half an hour later than she’d expected him, Malik let himself into the apartment. ‘Désolé,’ he said. ‘I got held up in traffic. That’s looking good,’ he said, moving closer. ‘Stunning, in fact.’

‘Thank you. I’m really pleased with it,’ Suzette answered. ‘I decided I needed a cover-up to go with that dress I wore for the Cannes Film Festival last year. The one with no back, remember?’

‘The scarlet one that caused such a sensation?’ Malik said, smiling. ‘The one a certain film star was very jealous over?’

‘That’s the one,’ Suzette said, carefully placing the material on the special cloth she wrapped her work in.

Malik bent over to take a closer look. ‘It’s beautiful,’ he said, studying the intricate butterfly, vine and flower layout Suzette was painstakingly creating.

‘It’s meant to be a tribute to Lesage – I adore his designs. I hope to finish it in time for Monaco. Talking of Monaco, how did it go?’

Malik shrugged. ‘I would prefer to be using the Princess Grace Theatre but the Grimaldi Forum has everything we need.’ He glanced at her feet. ‘How’s the ankle?’

‘As good as it ever gets these days,’ Suzette said, glancing at him. ‘Can we talk? I need your advice.’

‘Over supper,’ Malik promised. ‘But now we need to get to the Champs Élysées or we will miss the first act.’

‘And whose fault would that be?’ Suzette gently grumbled at him.

After the performance, it was nearly eleven o’clock before they were shown to a secluded table in the bistro and she was able to begin to voice her worries and fears to Malik about what the future might hold for her.

‘I can’t believe I said that line about just wanting to be me, on live TV,’ she said. ‘I mean, it’s almost as bad as saying “I want to be alone”. Which I don’t,’ she said, laughing at the absurdity of it.

Malik, when she looked at him, wasn’t laughing.

‘It must be all this thinking about retiring getting to me.’ She sighed. ‘The truth please, Malik. Do you think my inevitable retirement from dancing is getting ever closer?’ she said as he poured their champagne.

Carefully he put the bottle in the ice bucket, handed her a glass, picked up his own and took a sip before answering her.

‘You still dance beautifully and are rated as one of the top ballerinas in the world, but I think the injuries are mounting up, which will become more and more a problem for you.’

Suzette sighed and waited. Malik was confirming what she already knew deep down.

‘After Monaco the only date you have is the short season here in town with me for Swan Lake at the Paris Opera, non?’

Suzette nodded. ‘Not even been asked to do The Nutcracker this Christmas.’

Malik reached across the table and took her hand in his. ‘I think, after Paris, ma chérie, you would be advised to think about taking a new direction. Perhaps teach? Choreography? Non! I forbid choreography.’ He wagged a finger at her. ‘I do not need the competition.’

‘As if I would ever be as good as you,’ Suzette said.

‘Maybe I take you on as my assistant, that way you have a new career and I need not worry.’

Suzette shook her head at him before taking a sip of her champagne. ‘So it seems Swan Lake will be my personal swansong. My life over.’

‘Non – you will have a new beginning,’ Malik said. ‘Look at me. I thought it was the end of my world when I had to retire but I’m fine. I love my new career. You will too. I will help you find a new career.’

‘Doing what, Malik? I honestly don’t think I want to go down the choreography route – not even as your assistant. And I’m not at all sure I’ve the patience for teaching – I still remember how horrible my friends and I were to our teachers.’ She drained her champagne glass before continuing. ‘As for dealing with all the pushy yummy mummies who are convinced their little darling is going to be the star of the decade.’ She shook her head. ‘Couldn’t do it.’

She watched as the waiter placed a salad niçoise in front of her and steak and frites in front of Malik. ‘That’s another thing – one day I want to be able to eat what I fancy without worrying.’

‘If it will make you feel better, have a frite,’ Malik said, piercing one onto his fork and holding it out.

‘Thank you.’ Suzette chewed the frite slowly, making it last. ‘Life would be a lot simpler if only I had a family and a patient husband waiting in the wings to whisk me away to live a normal life.’

‘Pshaw!’ Malik said. ‘Who wants a normal life anyway? It would be boring. Something will turn up; you’ll see. Paris is months away yet. You’ve got plenty of time to think and make decisions.’

Bleakly Suzette smiled at him. The trouble was, she realised with a pang, she was starting to yearn desperately for a husband and a normal family life – always had, really, but dancing had taken precedence over everything.

‘Have you truly never wanted to marry? Have a family?’ she asked.

Malik shook his head. ‘Never been high on my agenda, no. I’ve told you before – my home life wasn’t that great. I didn’t see the need to re-create a stressful situation that I was happier without. But then, unlike you, I don’t have a biological clock ticking away.’

‘No, you don’t,’ Suzette said. ‘And you have at least been true to yourself. Whereas I …’ She paused. ‘I have danced my life away, never really listening to the ticking of that clock. Perhaps retiring at the end of the year will be a good thing. I’ll certainly have time to listen to, and maybe, if it’s not too late, do something about the ticking.’ She’d certainly have all the time in the world to just be herself, whether she liked it or not.

She sighed. It was just that the word ‘retirement’ made her feel so old. So past it.

‘OK, guys. Let’s take a short break. Back in fifteen,’ Malik said. Suzette, along with the rest of the dancers, breathed a sigh of gratitude.

The company had arrived in Monaco three days ago – days that had been filled with rehearsals and little else. Today was the final one before the dress rehearsal tomorrow. Opening night would be Friday with Prince Albert and Princess Charlene in the audience.

Back in her dressing room in the Grimaldi Forum, Suzette poured herself some water and did a few stretching exercises to keep herself limbered up. Although initially she’d found Malik’s choreography challenging, she was enjoying dancing this modern ballet now she’d finally broken through and mastered its intricacies.

Her partner, Zac, a young and up-and-coming Russian, was good and Suzette had rapidly felt confident in their onstage chemistry.

A gentle knock on the door before Malik entered. He’d always been considerate – never assuming he could just barge in on her.

‘You ready for the last scene in act three?’

Suzette nodded. It was a long, complicated piece with her doing several grand jetés in mid-air, before an emotional dance with Zac, which involved her jumping into his arms.

‘Think so. Bit worried about doing the splits in mid-air actually,’ she said. ‘My dancing repertoire hasn’t featured them much recently.’

‘Relax. You mastered them fine yesterday,’ Malik assured her.

Back down in the theatre, Suzette went through her pre-dancing stretching exercises while Malik put the corps de ballet through their routine.

Standing in the wings waiting for her introductory music to play, Suzette felt the shiver of nervous stage fright she always experienced before she danced on stage. This is what she lived for. How would she survive without a regular dose of ballet-filled adrenaline anticipation?

Zac, in the opposite wing, smiled across at her, before striding onto the stage ready for the first of their pas de deux. Five seconds later, Suzette joined him and their bodies synchronised together in the flowing ballet movements and everything else faded away as they lost themselves in the evocative music.

Suzette executed a final perfect allegro when disaster struck. Landing badly, she ended up in a crumpled heap on the wooden stage.

‘Stop the music!’ Malik shouted as he rushed to her side. ‘Get the doctor.’

‘No,’ Suzette said. ‘I don’t need the doctor. I’ll be fine. Just give me ten minutes and a cold compress. Help me up, please?’ She held out a hand to Malik.

Even as Malik gently pulled her onto her feet before placing an arm around her shoulders to steady her before helping her off stage, Suzette knew she was in trouble. Real trouble. Experience told her that this injury was not going to heal overnight.

After the cold compress had been applied, Malik insisted she take a cab back to the hotel. ‘You know it is impossible for you to dance again today, Suzette. Maybe with twenty-four hours rest and ice.’ He shrugged. ‘We’ll see.’

Suzette could tell he was already mentally assessing the options he had.

Once alone back in her hotel room, Suzette gave way to the tears that had been threatening from the second she’d fallen. She knew that final jump had been perfect. How could she have been so stupid as to mess up the landing? And ruin everything? Thank heavens it hadn’t happened on opening night in front of Prince Albert and Princess Charlene. Her shame would have been absolute.

Malik arrived back early evening and insisted she order some food from Room Service before opening the bottle of champagne he’d brought with him.

‘I’m hardly celebrating,’ Suzette snapped at him.

‘This is medicinal –to make you feel better,’ Malik answered, handing her a glass. ‘Suzette, ma chérie, I’m sorry but I’m going to have to give the role to Donna,’ he said quietly.

‘Every understudy’s dream,’ Suzette said. ‘The show must go on.’ She took a long swig of champagne from her glass. ‘Maybe I should have retired like you after Manon at Covent Garden. That was a truly magical production, wasn’t it? Des Grieux was a perfect last role for you.’

Malik smiled and nodded as she continued.

‘Whereas my acclaimed performance of one of the greatest female ballet roles ever is being overshadowed and all but forgotten by all the injuries since then.’ Suzette wiped an escaping tear off her cheek with her free hand. ‘All I’m going to be remembered for is being forced to retire due to injuries.’ She smiled wanly at him as she held out her empty glass for a refill.

‘Not true,’ Malik said, carefully pouring the champagne. ‘People still talk about it, us, and your wonderful interpretation of the role. You’ll always be remembered as one of the best.’

He turned at the sound of a discreet knock and opened the door to Room Service.

Watching in silence as the waiter placed the food on the small table, Suzette sensed the stress coming from Malik. Even as he urged her to sit and eat, she knew what he was preparing himself to say.

‘I can’t stay long, Suzette,’ Malik said, looking at his watch. ‘Donna’s rehearsing right now with Zac. I have to get back down there.’

‘I could be back before the show ends. A couple of days and my ankle could be strong enough to dance.’ Even as she said it, she knew she was lying to herself as well as Malik.

This injury would take weeks rather than days to heal, which meant yet more RICE time before battling her body back into dancing fitness. There was no point either in telling Malik about her bruised and sore arm, which in its own way was as bad as her ankle and would make any port de bras movements difficult for weeks to come.

Malik shook his head. ‘I can’t take the risk.’

‘No, I suppose not.’ Suzette sighed, facing up to the inevitable. ‘Wish Donna luck from me. You’d better get back down to the Forum.’

‘You’ve got everything you need?’ Malik said, clearly relieved she’d taken the news so well.

Suzette nodded. Of course she had everything she needed – except a functioning ankle and an unbruised arm. No doubt the side of her body would be a mass of interesting colours by the morning.

As Malik closed the door behind him, Suzette pushed her salmon salad away untouched before downing her glass of champagne and immediately pouring herself another one. It was one way to drown both the physical and the mental pain. Besides, Malik had said it was medicinal.

Collapsing onto the bed, she switched on the TV and began to flick through the channels. Football, quiz games, reality shows, talk… Hang on, that was the show she’d recorded weeks ago. She recognised the woman crime writer.

The camera moved around the various guests and Suzette saw herself on screen, watched herself uttering those words, ‘Sometimes I wish I could just be me.’

Thoughtfully Suzette muted the TV sound. Had this latest accident just granted her unacknowledged wish? She looked down at her injured leg. Her knee was showing signs of a big colourful bruise while her ankle was already two or three times its normal size. Suzette sighed. She’d been here so many times in the last few years.

But with the understudy now dancing in her place, she didn’t have to try and rush getting fit. This Monaco show had been her only engagement of the year until Malik’s Paris show in the autumn. Malik.

Would he still want her to dance in view of this recent catastrophe? Would he take the risk with her again? He’d already agreed with her that Swan Lake in Paris would probably be her own swansong from the world of ballet. She couldn’t bear it if he cancelled her contract saying she wasn’t fit enough to dance, thus denying her a final performance and all the accolades usually given to a retiring dancer.

Suzette straightened her shoulders. There was a whole summer before then – more than enough time to recuperate from these injuries and get completely fit again. Banish the ‘face it, your dancing days are finished’ demons. One more chance to show them what she could do and then – obscurity.

Carefully she stood up and reached for the walking stick that someone in the theatre had handed her as she left. Leaning heavily on it, she made her way across the room and, after picking up the phone, asked for Reception.

‘I will need some help tomorrow morning, please,’ she said. ‘About ten o’clock? Thank you.’

Thoughtfully replacing the receiver, Suzette began to make plans for the following day. Malik would be busy giving Donna extra coaching and then there was the dress rehearsal in the afternoon so she doubted she’d see him before dinner tomorrow evening. A fact which suited her well in view of the decision she’d just come to.

She sat down at the small desk, found a pen and took a piece of the hotel stationery.

Darling Malik, I felt it best if I left. Hope the show is a huge success. See you in Paris. Love Suzette.

She’d ask Reception to give it to him tomorrow evening when he returned. She knew if she stayed and told him personally, he would try to persuade her otherwise. It was best if she just left Monaco without telling him.

 

Chapter Two

Libby

Discovering the photos of their last holiday as she searched for something in the ‘miscellaneous drawer’ of the kitchen dresser brought the memories flooding back for Libby Duncan. For years she and Dan had holidayed in France, staying at the Auberge du Canal in Brittany. Thoughtfully she laid the photos on the table one by one. That holiday three years ago had been one of their best. Dan had been so full of plans for their future.

They’d talked so often about moving to France. Dreamed about running a B & B, a gîte, enjoying the Good Life. But somehow something had always stopped them from taking the plunge. First it was Chloe’s schooling – it was never a convenient time for her to change schools. Then it was Dan’s job. A promotion meant more money but less time. Then it was Harriet, Libby’s mum, needing help after a hip replacement.

But on that last holiday, Dan had insisted they started visiting the local immobiliers, looking for their dream home. ‘We’ve got to do it soon, Libby, otherwise we’ll be stuck in a rut for ever.’

Their dreams had been cruelly shattered just two months later when Dan died. Dead from a heart attack at forty-six. Stress, the doctor had said.

Libby and Chloe had clung together and got through the awful time. Now here she was, preparing to face ‘empty nest’ syndrome as Chloe looked forward to college.

Libby knew that, unlike some widows, she was lucky being financially secure – Dan had been well insured – but with Chloe growing up and becoming independent, she was beginning to feel it was time to get her own life back on a course she was happy with. Maybe it was time to sell the house? A new start in a new place. The only problem being, she didn’t have a clue as to which direction she wanted the rest of her life to go.

She picked up a photo of the auberge showing Dan sitting under the jasmine-covered loggia, raising a cool glass of rosé, a happy smile on his face. Libby could almost smell the sweet night air, hear the last of the daytime bees buzzing in the honeysuckle and see the swallows swooping around as Dan savoured the tranquillity of the summer evening.

Outside, the reality of January rain hammered at the windows. Snow had been forecast for the end of the week. Summer seemed a long way off. Deep in thought, Libby put the photo down on the table. Maybe she’d book a holiday for later in the year. It would be something to look forward to. A week at the auberge du Canal with Brigitte and Bruno would be a wonderful antidote to winter – and maybe get her in the right frame of mind to kick-start her life in a new direction.

She and Dan had become friendly with Brigitte and Bruno the very first time they’d stayed with them at the auberge. It was a friendship that had flourished over the generation gap from the moment they’d met, and with two or three visits a year, Brigitte and Bruno were more like elderly family relatives now. They’d even crossed the channel and stayed with Libby and Dan here in Bath.

Brigitte had written her a lovely letter when she’d heard about Dan. Telling her any time she felt the need to get away, she knew she was more than welcome to stay with them. It was an offer Libby had so far failed to take up. Maybe now was the time?

There was a group photo of the four of them taken on a day out exploring the gardens of a restored château. Libby felt a pang of guilt. She hadn’t spoken to Brigitte since Christmas. Tonight she’d put that right and ring. Wish her happy new year. It wasn’t too late to do that the second week in January. French people wished each other bonne année all through the month.

At the same time she’d ask Brigitte about going to stay with them later in the year. Book the gîte next to the auberge for a fortnight’s holiday for her and Chloe. When should they go? Oh, June. June was always a lovely month in Brittany. It would be something to finally look forward to.

Libby crossed to the phone. Why wait until this evening? Having made the decision, she wanted to get it organised. She’d phone now.

The phone rang and rang. Libby pictured the noise ringing around the large old-fashioned auberge kitchen where Brigitte spent most of her day preparing delicious meals. In the off season, even though there were few guests staying, the locals continued to use the restaurant, especially at weekends.

Libby was about to hang up thinking Brigitte was too busy to answer, when a quiet voice in her ear said. ‘Bonjour. Qui?’

‘Brigitte. It’s Libby here. A bit late, I know, but bonne année. Comment allez vous?’

A slight pause. ‘Ça va, merci, Libby. Bonne année à vous aussi.’

Libby, sensing something wasn’t right said, ‘Brigitte, what is wrong?’

‘Bruno. He has broken the arm.’

‘The arm? Oh you mean his arm! Oh poor Bruno. Which one? Not his right one?’

‘No, the wrong one.’

Libby struggled not to laugh at Brigitte’s misunderstanding. ‘His left arm then? Gauche?’

‘Oui. And he drives me mad with his demands. All day he is wanting me to help him. I have people to dinner this evening and he wants me to help him in the garden.’

‘How did he break it?’

‘He fell off the ladder helping me decorate one of the chambres. So, naturellement, he blames me!’ Brigitte said, sighing. ‘And you? How are you?’

‘Chloe and I are fine, thank you. Thinking of coming for a holiday this year if you have room for us?’

‘Always, Libby, but there is un petitproblème,’ Brigitte said. ‘The Auberge du Canal will be up for sale soon. Bruno’s accident made him cross so now he decides to sell. We go to live in his mother’s old house in the village.’

Libby remembered visiting the imposing maison de maître in the middle of the village with Brigitte. With its wrought-iron railings and large double gates separating it from the main village street, the tall detached house had clearly been built by someone of importance in an earlier age.

‘You are welcome to stay with us there, Libby, if we have moved. It has enough rooms. When is it you wish to come?’

‘June?’

‘A good month. Let me know the dates later. Now, I have to go. Bruno is yelling for me.’

‘Okay. I’ll phone you again. Bye.’

Libby replaced the receiver and moved across to the table. It would be strange going to Brittany without Dan. She picked up the photograph of a smiling Dan sitting under the loggia again. Tomorrow she’d buy a frame for this one and place it on her bedside table. It would remind her of happier times and help her believe she would have a future again.

When Chloe got back home later she’d talk to her too about an idea that had jumped into her mind as she talked with Brigitte. A crazy idea. An impossible idea. Wasn’t it?

After supper that evening, Chloe picked up the photographs Libby had left on the table and flicked through them. ‘Dad was so happy on that holiday,’ she said.

‘He was,’ Libby agreed. ‘He adored the process of visiting immobiliers and looking at property. I know he felt his dream seemed to be finally coming within his grasp.’

They were both silent for several seconds before Libby spoke. ‘I rang Brigitte earlier. I wondered if we might go for a holiday in June – before you go off to college.’

‘That would be great, Mum.’

‘You’d like to go again? Sure to bring up lots of memories,’ Libby said.

‘But they’d be good ones,’ Chloe said quietly. ‘Sad but good.’

‘Probably our last chance, as Brigitte told me they’re selling the auberge.’

Libby held out her hand for the photographs and took a deep breath.

‘Chloe?’

‘Mmm?’

‘When Brigitte told me they were selling, I had this crazy idea that I might buy the Auberge du Canal,’ Libby said. ‘Of course I won’t,’ she added quickly. ‘It’s a stupid idea really. Not worth thinking about.’ She put the photos back down on the table and turned away.

‘No it’s not. I think it’s a brilliant idea.’

Libby stopped and looked at Chloe. ‘You do? It would mean selling this house for a start.’

‘It’ll be a bit big for you anyway when I leave,’ Chloe said practically. ‘You’ll need to downsize.’

‘The auberge is bigger! And there’s a gîte.’

‘Yes, but it would be a business. You love having people to stay, fussing after them and cooking.’

‘I so don’t fuss!’

‘You do but in the nicest possible way,’ Chloe said. ‘I definitely think you should think about it seriously.’

‘Really? You don’t think it’s too big a risk at my age – on my own?’

‘Mum. You’re not exactly on the scrapheap yet. Okay, I know you’ve got the big four-oh coming up this year but you’re still in reasonable shape for an oldie.’

‘Oldie?’ Libby said. ‘I’m not old. Besides, forty is the new thirty.’

‘You will be old if you don’t start living again. I know you miss Dad,’ Chloe said. ‘I do too. But you need to do something with your life. Besides, you might meet a sexy Frenchman. Get married again.’

Libby shook her head. She doubted that would happen. She did need to do something with her life though; Chloe was right about that. She was definitely too young to vegetate the rest of her life away.

Chloe picked up a photo of the auberge. ‘It’s such a special place. I could move over with you for a couple of months before I go to uni. Help you settle in.’

Libby held out her hand for the photo. Chloe was right. The auberge was a special place. Just looking at the photos evoked so many wonderful holiday memories. Evening walks along the canal path with the swallows swooping around their heads. Supper on the terrace overlooking the canal. Watching the occasional boat manoeuvre its way through the lock, making its way to a mooring alongside the village quay. The wonderful meals Brigitte had made them. Their dream of living the Good Life. Libby put the photo down on the table.

‘With an offer like that – how can I hesitate? Maybe I’ll ring Brigitte at the weekend and ask how much they want for the place. For all I know, the price will be more than I can afford anyway.’

For the next few days Libby’s thoughts kept returning again and again to the idea of moving to France on her own. Because she would be on her own once Chloe was at university here in England. Holidays in a foreign country were one thing – moving there permanently on her own was totally different.

Time and time again, Libby thoughtfully fingered the photograph she’d framed and placed on her bedside table. Remembering how idyllic it had always been. The way she and Dan had dreamt of moving to France – of changing their lives. Could she resurrect the dream? Do it on her own?

She agonised for days over what to do. So many questions and what-ifs tumbled around in her head. As Chloe had so kindly pointed out, she had a Big Birthday coming up but hopefully she still had a lot of years ahead of her. She had to do something and working at something she enjoyed would be better than doing any old thing. But could she resurrect the dream by herself, for herself? She’d always liked having relatives and friends to stay. Loved cooking special meals for them. Was it up to French standards though? Was her French up to coping?

It was remembering Dan describing how he longed to get out of the rut they were in that decided her. The rut could only get deeper as the years went by. The least she could do was to find out the price of the auberge.

Brigitte, when Libby rang her Sunday morning, was thrilled at the thought of Libby buying the auberge.

‘You would be perfect. I do want it to go to someone I like,’ she said. ‘It will be hard for you alone but I will help you all I can.’

The price, when Brigitte told her, took Libby’s breath away in surprise. She’d forgotten how reasonable property still was in Brittany. Affording it would not be a problem. Dan’s insurance money and the money from the sale of the house would cover it.

Decision time. Could she be brave and do it? Use Dan’s money to fulfil his dream for both of them. Libby took a deep breath.

‘I’ll have to sell here, Brigitte, but yes, I would like to buy the Auberge du Canal.’

It was surprising how fast things happened after the decision had been made. Libby decided against going to Brittany to view the auberge, feeling that she knew the place well enough already. It wasn’t as if she was buying something unseen or unknown.

Brigitte and Bruno agreed to her paying a large deposit and the rest when the house sold. Various official papers passed from France to England and back again – usually in triplicate and signed and initialled in several places. Brigitte also said Libby should move in as soon as possible to keep the continuity of the business going.

The house was put on the market and Libby started on the endless decluttering and packing. Chloe helped and between them they decided on the various bits and pieces Libby should take to France.

Furniture was easy. The auberge was coming fully furnished – apart from the two bedroom owner’s apartment. So the beds and other furniture from both their bedrooms would be needed, as would the sitting room furniture.

It was the personal items that caused the most problems. Paintings, ornaments and books. What to keep and what to take to the local charity shops? Many of the books had been Dan’s on such diverse subjects as fishing, car mechanics, physics and his well-read Wilbur Smiths.

Chloe took what she called ‘an executive decision’ and took all of Dan’s books, except the Wilbur Smiths, down to the Oxfam Shop on the high street.

‘You can put everything else in the sitting room of the auberge,’ she said.

In between the decluttering and the packing, they had several couples view the house before Libby accepted an offer from a newly married couple expecting their first baby, who declared it to be a ‘perfect family house’. From then on, the number of urgent things on her to do list grew.

Eight weeks later, Libby and Chloe drove onto the cross-channel ferry. Libby, with her remaining worldly goods piled around her, on her way to a new life in France and Chloe trying, and failing, to tell her mother about a possible change of plan in her life.

The sound of rushing water woke Libby. It was several seconds before she remembered where she was. As realisation dawned, she smiled happily.

She’d done it. She and Chloe were actually in France.

Last night she’d deliberately opened the bedroom window slightly before closing the shutters so, as she’d collapsed exhausted into bed, the noise of the canal had lulled her to sleep. Lying in bed at either end of the day listening to the water’s rhythmic movement had always been a special part of past holidays. Now it was about to become a part of her future daily routine.

Stretching out her hand, Libby picked up the silver-framed photograph she’d placed on the floor beside the bed last night. Gently she stroked the glass. ‘Wish you were here with me, Dan,’ she said softly.

Since the decision had been made and everything had snowballed into place, she’d been outwardly buoyed up with enthusiasm but, at the same time, she was secretly terrified at what she had set in motion. When Helen, Dan’s sister and Chloe’s godmother, had voiced her concern, she’d tried to explain her feelings.

‘It’s such a big step, Libby. I know it was always a dream of yours and Dan’s to do this together but on your own?’ Helen shook her head, a worried frown on her face.

‘I know,’ Libby said. ‘But I have to do something and I’m a big girl now – I’m sure I’ll cope on my own. Chloe will be there for the summer too, don’t forget.’ She’d smiled reassuringly.

When Helen failed to look convinced, Libby said, ‘Helen, please don’t worry. I can’t tell you how energised I feel about this move. After the last couple of years, I feel like I’m waking up again. I’m ninety-nine per cent certain I’m doing the right thing. If I’m not, and it all goes wrong, I can always sell up and come home, but at least I’ll have tried to do something with my life.’

‘Well, I wish you all the luck in the world,’ Helen said. ‘Can I come and visit?’

‘Of course. Give me a week or two to settle in and you’ll be more than welcome.’

Now, alone in the auberge bedroom, which she and Dan had occupied together so often, she could only pray that she’d done the right thing coming to France on her own. Thoughtfully, Libby put Dan’s photograph back down on the floor. ‘I’ll make our dream come true,’ she whispered.

‘Morning, Mum.’ Chloe pushed open the bedroom door with her foot. ‘Brought you breakfast,’ she said, carefully placing a tray on the bed.

‘Goodness,’ Libby said, looking at the fresh croissants on the tray. ‘You’re up and about early.’

‘Did my run to the village.’ Chloe grinned. ‘Where the boulangerie just happened to be open. So I’ve earned my pain au chocolat – you’ll have to work yours off later!’

‘That won’t be hard,’ Libby said. ‘With this place to be sorted. Lots of unpacking to do today. Mmm, I’d forgotten how good these are,’ she added, dunking her pain au chocolat in the bowl of coffee in true French style.

The sudden noisy crowing of a cockerel startled them. ‘Napoleon,’ Chloe said. ‘Wants his breakfast.’

Libby looked at her blankly.

‘You remember, Mum. Brigitte told you she was leaving the hens and ducks for you. Napoleon the cockerel comes with them. I’ll go and let them out if you like, while you shower.’

‘Thanks.’

Libby sighed as Chloe left the room. She was going to miss having her around so much when she left for college, leaving her to live alone for the first time ever. Running her shower and standing under the hot, invigorating water, Libby pushed all thoughts of Chloe leaving away. She wouldn’t start worrying about it now. There was a whole summer to enjoy before she left.

‘Mum! Come here quickly.’ Chloe’s urgent shout broke into her thoughts as she towelled herself dry. Quickly she pulled on some clothes and ran downstairs.

‘Whatever is the matter … ?’ she asked, her voice trailing away as she saw exactly what the matter was. The kitchen was flooded and water was pouring out through the back door and down the steps.

‘Thought I’d put some washing on but water is going everywhere!’ Chloe said. ‘Even though I’ve turned it off.’

‘We need to turn off the stopcock,’ Libby said. ‘And I have no idea where that is. I’ll phone Brigitte. But first I’ll turn the electricity off at the mains … I think the switch for that is in this cupboard by the door. Yes!’ She pushed the big switch on the right down to the Off position.

She picked up the phone and dialled Brigitte’s number. After quickly explaining the situation, she listened intently as Brigitte told her where the stopcock was.

‘Outside by the gîte. I send Bruno to help you. He knows what to do.’

Libby ran outside, found the stopcock under a large metal cover and turned the water off. By the time Bruno arrived carrying his bag of tools, she and Chloe were busy mopping up the water in the kitchen.

Bruno dragged the machine out to reach the pipes behind and pulled out a piece of perished rubber hose. ‘The machine is old. It happens occasionally,’ he said. ‘I fix it for now but a new machine might be better.’

‘Thanks, Bruno,’ Libby said. Looked like her shopping list had just gotten even longer.

Once Bruno had left and she’d tentatively switched everything back on with no mishaps, Libby breathed a sigh of relief. First crisis over.

‘Everybody knows things go wrong when they move,’ Libby said philosophically as she and Chloe began the final clean-up. ‘Could be worse.’

For the next few days Libby and Chloe were busy sorting out the auberge. Together they inspected the whole place, with Libby making notes about everything she would need to buy. She was determined to give it a twenty-first-century makeover, change the slightly old-fashioned style of the place, and to put her own mark on it, all without upsetting Brigitte.

Six double bedrooms, sitting room, dining room, cloakroom and the kitchen. The bedrooms were all pretty much as Libby remembered them. Heavy Bretagne carved beds, four-drawer chests with a mirror placed above each, wardrobes to match the carved wooden bed ends and en suite salle de bains. Even with the large furniture, the rooms were still spacious with plenty of room to add a comfortable chair or two – cane Lloyd Loom ones if she could find some. Also some bedside tables. For some reason Brigitte had never considered it necessary to supply those. Or tea and coffee-making trays.

Brigitte had always insisted that guests were free to use the kitchen and didn’t need to make drinks in their rooms. Libby had often wished she could make herself a warm drink though when she’d woken at three a.m. and didn’t fancy trekking downstairs to the kitchen. Bedside tables with lights and a tray with tea-making facilities were essentials in her book.

‘Love the white bedlinen, Mum, but blankets?’ Chloe said, opening the large armoire on the first-floor landing where all the bedlinen was stored. ‘Mmm, smell that lavender.’

‘Definitely replace with duvets,’ Libby said, scribbling a note. ‘Some toile de Jouy covers and pillowcases would be pretty. Need some more white bath towels too.’

Some of the rooms could also do with decorating, she decided. After his accident Bruno had clearly given up on that front. A fresh coat of paint on the walls to freshen things up before the season began would be enough this year. Next winter would be the time to tackle any major decorating. The first guests were booked in for three weeks time, so no time to do them all. She’d tackle the three on the first floor first. Large tins of paint went on the list.

‘Now for my apartment,’ Libby said as they climbed the final flight of stairs to the top floor and opened the apartment door with its private ‘interdit’ sign. ‘It’s going to feel funny living up here on my own,’ she said glancing at Chloe. ‘Do you realise I’ve never lived on my own before?’

‘Mum, stop worrying. It’s going to be fine,’ Chloe reassured her.

The couple of occasions in the past when Brigitte had invited them upstairs, Libby remembered the sitting room being small and full of large old-fashioned furniture. Now with her own modern furniture left higgledy-piggledy by the removal men, waiting for her to decide where to place it all, the room seemed bigger. Full of possibilities. There was even a little balcony with room for one of those snazzy wrought-iron round tables and a chair. A perfect place to unwind in the evening, overlooking the canal and the woods on the opposite side.

Her bedroom too was a good size – big enough for the king-sized bed and the various other pieces she’d brought with her. She smiled ruefully looking at the unmade bed with boxes of clothes dumped on it. Really she should have left it behind in the UK and bought a new, smaller one in France. But it was so comfortable and she’d gotten used to having the luxury of so much space.

‘Right, you ready to hit the shops?’ Chloe asked, looking at the list in Libby’s hand.

‘I was going to check out the gîte as well,’ Libby said. ‘See what’s needed in there but that can wait for another day. Let’s go.’

Three hours later, Libby called a halt to the shopping, feeling that her bank account had been hit hard enough for one day.

‘Think that’s it for today. Don’t think the car will hold another thing,’ she said. ‘Time to go home and get to work.’

Turning off the main road onto the narrow canal path with the car filled to the roof with boxes and bags, Libby slowed down to a crawl to avoid the potholes. The last thing she needed was to damage her car.

‘At least we’re not likely to meet anything, thank goodness. There’s so much stuff in the car I couldn’t possibly see to reverse,’ she said.

‘Umm, think you’ve spoken too soon,’ Chloe said, indicating a dirty blue estate car in the distance moving at a fair speed towards them.

‘Damn,’ Libby muttered. ‘Do you think they know I’ve just passed a lay-by? I’m going to keep going – I can’t see to reverse properly. I’m sure there’s another passing place further down– hopefully they won’t mind reversing.’

As she continued to edge slowly towards the other car, Libby was relieved to see it finally stop and then begin to go backwards quickly. The sun shining on the windscreen of the other car made it impossible to see who was driving other than it appeared to be a man.

Thirty seconds later, as she drew alongside to pass, Libby raised her hand in acknowledgement and Chloe wound the window down to say, ‘Thanks.’

‘If you’re going to live here, you need to learn to reverse,’ the man said, wagging a finger at them. ‘See you soon.’ With that he was gone, churning up the road dust in his wake and leaving Libby and Chloe looking at each other.

‘Bit rude,’ Libby said. ‘I’m quite capable of reversing normally.’

‘Wonder who he is?’ Chloe said. ‘He was quite dishy in a laid-back, scruffy French way. Wonder what he meant by see you soon?’

Libby shrugged as she pulled into the parking space outside the auberge. ‘No idea. Can you take this box inside please – it needs to go in the sitting room. I’ll bring the first of the duvets and then I’m going to put the kettle on. I need tea after all that shopping.’

They were sitting in the kitchen drinking tea and making plans to start on the unpacking and sorting things out when Brigitte arrived.

‘I thought I’d pop in to see how you were after the flood,’ Brigitte said. ‘And to offer to give you a hand on Saturday.’

‘Saturday?’ Libby asked, pouring a cup of tea and handing it to Brigitte.

‘The rally tea.’

Puzzled, Libby looked at her.

‘The local vintage car club. Bruno’s a member and we’ve always had the season’s opening rally start and finish from here. It is in the reservations book,’ Brigitte said.

‘I haven’t opened that book,’ Libby said. ‘In fact I’m not even sure where it is. I’d assumed the booking for three people at the end of the month you’d mentioned was the first date I had to worry about.’ She looked at Brigitte. ‘How many people come on this rally? What kind of food do they want?’ She shook her head. ‘I’m not sure …’

‘It’s just sandwiches, cakes and tea. If it’s cold, a bowl of soup is welcome,’ Brigitte said. ‘I think last year there were thirty people.’

‘Thirty! No, I can’t possibly. Who’s the organiser? I’ll ring tonight and cancel. I’m sure they can find somewhere else when I explain I’ve only just moved in.’

‘Mais, Libby, it’s not a problem with me to help this year,’ Brigitte protested. She hesitated. ‘I have told Lucas earlier that it will be OK.’

‘Lucas?’

‘Lucas Berrien. He is the organiser. When he called to see me earlier I promised him there was no problem with you because I would help. He said he’d driven down here to see you but then he got an emergency call so he had to leave.’

‘Emergency? Who is he?’

‘He’s the local vétérinaire,’ Brigitte replied.

‘What kind of car does he have?’ Chloe asked.

‘He has a vintage Delage that is the envy of all but for his work he drives …’

‘A muddy blue estate,’ Libby finished the sentence for her.

‘Oui. You’ve met him?’

‘Only in passing,’ Libby said.

‘So that’s why he said see you soon,’ Chloe laughed. ‘Go on, Mum. You can do it. Think of catering for the rally as your first challenge in France.’

‘The rally will have to be stopped if you cancel the tea. It would be impossible to find somewhere else local at such short notice,’ Brigitte said. ‘Please, Libby. I promise you it is not difficult.’

Libby sighed. ‘I don’t suppose I have much choice really.’ She looked at Brigitte. ‘Okay. You’d better fill me in with all the detail – times, quantity of food, et cetera and we’ll work out a plan of action.’ Talk about being thrown in at the deep end, but at least she’d have Brigitte and Chloe to help.

 

Chapter Three

Brigitte

Standing in the sitting room of the old mas in the centre of the village, Brigitte determinedly rubbed her eyes in an effort to keep the tears she could feel threatening from running down her cheeks.

Bruno might be full of enthusiasm about moving back into the house where he was born but it was the auberge that had meant everything to her. Living in the maison de maître in the village would simply not be the same. Of course she realised things changed and nothing stayed the same for ever. She also knew the auberge had been getting, not too much for her as Bruno insisted, but more old fashioned and in need of updating. Something she’d hoped Bruno would help her do when he retired but instead, after his broken arm, he’d said he wanted more time for them to do things together and insisted on putting the auberge up for sale.

‘We haven’t had a proper vacances in twenty years,’ he’d said.

‘We’ve been to Paris and Venice, several times,’ Brigitte had protested. ‘And London, Barcelona. We even got to Amsterdam.’

‘They were just long weekends – and mainly out of season.’ Bruno had dismissed them almost as non-events. ‘I want a proper holiday, not something snatched between bookings.’ He glanced at her before adding, ‘I’m sure you’d like to spend time with Isabelle too down on the Riviera.’

She hadn’t been able to argue with that. She’d missed Isabelle when she’d married and gone to live down south, with infrequent visits back home because of a busy work schedule. So she’d half-heartedly agreed that they’d sell the auberge, secretly planning to delay it as long as possible. Libby ringing up and saying she wanted to buy the place was something she’d not anticipated.

She’d genuinely tried to point out to Libby how hard she’d find it on her own but Libby had been adamant. Saying she was doing it for Dan. And that it would do her good to have something to focus on. In the end Brigitte had given up and accepted the inevitable changes to her own life she seemed powerless to stop.

Crossing over to the window, Brigitte looked out over the village street. After just two days, she missed the view and the noise of the canal water whooshing over the weir. Listening to people going about their daily business and the traffic trundling through the village did not have the same appeal.

To give Bruno his due though, he had spent a lot of time down here sorting things out while she’d packed up their personal belongings and prepared the auberge for handing over to Libby. The mas had not been lived in since Bruno’s mother died two years ago and Brigitte had made him promise to clean it thoroughly before she moved in. But it still needed a lot done to it.

‘We can decorate and get it to our taste slowly,’ she’d told him. ‘But we need a proper bathroom and I want a new kitchen.’ For years she’d dreamt about having a kitchen designed just for her. Whatever Bruno said, it had to be the first thing – together with a new salle de bains – to be done in their new home. Her reward for leaving the auberge and her life there.

He’d been as good as his word and in the eight weeks it took for all the legal paperwork to go through, a new kitchen and a new bathroom had been installed. If only she felt like using the new kitchen, but somehow cooking was the last thing she felt like doing these days.

Brigitte moved across to the boxes in the centre of the room. Better get on with it and at least try to make the place look a bit more like home.

An hour later, she was putting the last of the books on the shelves when Bruno returned.

‘Everything good at the au … Libby’s?’ She knew that was where he’d been. Something about collecting some tools he’d left in the garden shed, showing Libby the secret places where the hens sometimes laid their eggs. He’d suggested Brigitte went with him, had a coffee with Libby, but she’d declined.

Initially she thought she’d spend a lot of time up at the auberge helping Libby settle in, but she’d realised it wasn’t a good idea for her to hang around up there too much. She knew Libby would always ask if she needed help or advice.

‘You’ve been busy up here,’ Bruno said looking at the empty boxes waiting to be thrown away, their contents now displayed around the room.

‘I need to hang the curtains next. Maybe then it will start to feel cosy.’

Bruno sighed hearing the downbeat tone to her voice, before putting his arm around her and drawing her close. ‘Ma chérie, this has to be for the best. The auberge is too much for you – us – now. Life changes and we have to accept that.’

‘It is not such a big wrench for you,’ Brigitte said quietly. ‘I know you’re looking forward to living in your boyhood home again. But aren’t you a teeny bit sad about leaving the auberge? Our home since the day we married?’ Her new home had been such a change from the old farm she’d grown up on down near Redon. She’d loved the challenge of turning the house first into a family home and then later into the Auberge du Canal. Slowly, over the years, feeding and looking after the auberge guests had become her raison d’être, especially when Isabelle had left home. And now it had been taken away from her.

Bruno nodded. ‘Mais oui. It’s hard for you to leave, I realise, ma chérie, but it was time we retired. Took things easier.’

‘I know, but we lived there for over forty years. All our memories are there. Already I miss it so much after just two days.’ Brigitte wiped a tear away with the back of her hand. ‘I can’t help but be sad about leaving. The only good thing is, that it is Libby who buys. I am very happy about that. It will be good having her living here in France.’

‘We bring the memories with us,’ Bruno said. ‘Then make more here together. Life will be better for us in the village, you’ll see. Less work – more fun. We’ll be able to travel a bit. See more of Isabelle. Enjoy the freedom – and the rest of our lives.’

At the mention of their daughter, Brigitte remembered Bruno’s earlier suggestion of spending time down on the Riviera. ‘Visit her in Antibes? I would enjoy that. Shall we go soon?’ She hugged Bruno back. Maybe there would be some compensation to leaving her beloved auberge after all.

‘Bon. It is agreed; we go soon,’ Bruno said.

Brigitte glanced at her watch. ‘I’d better go and start lunch.’

‘I have an idea, ma chérie,’ Bruno said. ‘Why don’t we have lunch in the village cafe? Less work and peut-être it will cheer you up.’

Two hours later and back from lunch, Brigitte thrust the fork into the weed-infested soil and leaned on the handle, catching her breath. Getting to grips with this overgrown jungle of a garden was proving harder than she’d anticipated.

Gardening at the auberge had consisted mainly of looking after geranium-filled pots, a couple of flower borders and the occasional pruning of the back hedge. Bruno had grown their vegetables in a plot securely fenced off from the ducks and the chickens while the rest of the grounds had been used for guest parking.

Here at the village mas she had both the land and the free time to indulge herself in what she was beginning to suspect could easily become an obsession.

There was a lot of work to be done. Bruno had cut the lawn before they moved in but nothing else had been touched for years. Looking around her now she could see primroses, daffodils and miniature cyclamen all at various stages of growth in the old flower beds. The rambling roses over the old arched pergola were already budding. Closing her eyes she imagined sitting out under its perfumed shade of a summer’s afternoon, enjoying the tranquillity.

The patch of ground she was currently clearing was the sunniest and warmest spot in the garden. A buddleia had spread its branches out along the back wall but there was plenty of space for more trees and shrubs when she’d decided what she wanted. She had to admit to quite fancying an olive tree.

Bruno had promised he’d clean out the old pond and restock it with some fish. Maybe they’d even get some visiting frogs. Many a summer night, Brigitte had gone to sleep listening to the croaking of the canal frogs.

Outside the kitchen door the old granite trough was filled with compost waiting for her to plant it up with the herbs she wanted. Basil, parsley, chives, sage and thyme were all on order down at the garden centre.

‘Brigitte. Ready to go to the pépinière in five minutes?’ As if reading her thoughts, Bruno’s voice startled her out of her daydreaming. She’d forgotten the herbs were ready for collecting today.

‘Better make it ten,’ she said, hurrying indoors to wash her hands and change her shoes.

The garden centre was buzzing as they drove in. Spring-like weather over the past few days had infused people with the enthusiasm for sorting out their winter-ravaged gardens.

While Bruno went to pay for the herbs and put them in the car, Brigitte wandered down through the pépinière to where the large shrubs and trees were. She was standing looking at a willow tree when Bruno found her.

‘Do you think we could plant a willow? It would look wonderful by the pond,’ she said. ‘It would be a real statement in that part of the garden. They’re such an elegant trees. I love the way everything moves in a gentle breeze – like they’re dancing.’

‘Let’s go and find Pascal and see whether he thinks we have the right conditions.’

‘He’s here today?’ Brigitte said, surprised. Only last week they’d attended the funeral of Gilles de Guesclin, Pascal’s father and Bruno’s childhood friend, and one of the biggest landowners in the area. As his only son, Pascal had inherited the estate, which included a small château, a couple of farms and the garden centre, which had always been Pascal’s responsibility. ‘I’d have thought he’d be too busy sorting everything else out.’

Bruno nodded. ‘You know how much he’s always loved this place. Was saying just now how being down here with the plants helps him to think straight. It’s his sanctuary from the world – and his mother I think!’

‘Where is he now? Still in the office?’ Brigitte said.

Bruno nodded and they began to make their way up through an enormous polytunnel to the office area where they found Pascal busy checking off a delivery of plants with an assistant, his small dog Lola watching him from her basket under the desk.

‘Brigitte,’ Pascal kissed her cheek. ‘How are you?’

‘Ça va,’ Brigitte said. ‘You? How are you coping?’ she asked gently. ‘Your mother too?’

‘She’s not good but she copes. Now, what can I do for you?’

When he heard what they were interested in buying he left his assistant to finish with the delivery and walked down to help them decide which willow tree would be the best for their garden.

When they’d settled on a well-established one at about six feet tall, Brigitte said, ‘I have a fancy for an olive tree too. I know it’s a Mediterranean tree but there is a very sheltered part of the garden that gets lots of sun – an olive tree would be just perfect there.’

‘I’m sorry, Brigitte, but I don’t have an olive tree in stock. I can get you one and there is no reason why it wouldn’t prosper in the spot you describe. You’d have to protect its roots in winter from frost, of course, but they can survive temperatures of minus seven degrees Celsius.’

‘How long to wait for one?’ Brigitte asked.

Pascal shrugged. ‘Two, maybe three weeks. Leave the willow tree here and I deliver them both together, yes?’

‘Perfect,’ Brigitte said. ‘Thank you.’

Leaving Pascal to return to work, Brigitte and Bruno made their way back to the car.

‘Such a shame Pascal has never married,’ Brigitte said. ‘He should really have a wife and family by now. He has to think about his own inheritance too. Perhaps his father dying will finally encourage him to find someone. I would like to see him happy.’

‘You’re forgetting about his mother,’ Bruno said. ‘It will take someone special to cope with her. Someone who is strong enough to stand up for herself.

Brigitte glanced at Bruno. Sometimes he still surprised her with his insight. ‘Ah yes, I’d forgotten how she likes to control the lives of the men in her family. Poor Pascal will now be the sole receiver of her attention!’