The Chateau of Happily-Ever-Afters Page 9

  Suffocation? No, he’d fight back and his muscles are a lot bigger than mine. My muscles mainly come from lifting cake to my mouth. Suffocation would never work… There are a lot of heavy antiques here. One could fall on his head… Or there are probably some poisonous plants in that garden… And there would be no witnesses if he ‘slipped’ out of an upper-floor window…

  I turn on my side and try to pull the bedspread over my head to block him out, but I can’t even do that properly because his weight is holding it down. He takes the movement as a cue to sing louder.

  There’s not even any point in moving rooms. He’s going to follow me. And it’s exactly what he wants. He wants a reaction and I keep giving him one. He wants to spend tonight chasing me around the château making that horrendous noise. My best bet is to lie here and ignore him until he gets fed up himself, and judging by some of the appalling noises coming out of his mouth, it won’t be long before his vocal cords give out anyway.

  Even so, after a few more rounds of ‘Lady Marmalade’ and a quick shift into some Abba, my resolve is weakening. ‘What will it take to make you go away?’

  ‘A half-eaten sandwich and a custard cream.’

  The laugh takes me by surprise and I quickly compose myself. ‘What?’ I lean up on my elbow and peer at him in the darkness.

  ‘It was a rhetorical question, right? I thought you might be upset if you didn’t get a rhetorical answer.’

  ‘Yeah, and you’d never want to upset anyone, would you?’ I turn over again and yank the bedspread so hard that the fabric rips, but Julian grunts as he’s yanked too, and I settle down with a little smile on my face.

  ‘Of course I wouldn’t,’ he says quietly.

  Seconds later, he launches into ‘All That Jazz’ from Chicago.

  A melodramatic donkey being strangled would be a better singer.

  Somehow, I’m tired enough to fall asleep even with the racket going on, because when I wake up, it’s still dark outside and Julian’s snoring beside me. This is my chance to get my own back on him. I turn over to face him, moving slowly so I don’t wake him up, and stretch my arms out, my fingers flexing in anticipation. My hands hover above his back, his sleeping bag smooth under my palms, and then I shove as hard as I can.

  He shouts as he rolls out of the bed, sleeping bag and all. ‘What the… Ow!’

  I grin to myself as he lands on the floor with a resounding thud.

  ‘Did you seriously just push me out of bed?’ he says, his voice sounding sleep-thick and confused. He feels around for the torch on the bedside cabinet and flicks it on.

  ‘This is my house just as much as it is yours,’ I say, deliberately repeating his words. ‘I have a right to choose who invades my personal space. Just because you think you’re being clever by getting into bed with me doesn’t mean I have to put up with it.’

  ‘Touché,’ he mutters, still sitting on the floor. ‘But that wasn’t fair. I was asleep. I couldn’t defend myself.’

  ‘You lying there singing for half the night isn’t fair either.’

  ‘Well, we’re not playing fair, are we? Fair would be accepting that we own half of this place each, not trying to make me leave.’

  ‘You’re trying to make me leave!’

  ‘Only in anticipation of you doing something to me!’

  ‘Well then…’ I give him my falsest smile. ‘You did something to me, I did something to you. Fair play.’

  ‘I’m not trying to physically hurt you.’ He grunts as he heaves himself up off the floor and stands there rubbing his elbow. ‘That could’ve really hurt.’

  The sleeping bag is hooked around his hips and the torchlight reflects on his chest in all the right ways. ‘Yeah, wouldn’t have wanted to damage the money-making bod, right?’ I mutter distractedly, trying to convince myself that he’s not attractive, despite the fact my heart is racing and I’ve gone all warm.

  That smirk is on his face again. ‘I might believe that if you could stop staring at me. My eyes are up here.’

  I’m glad it’s dark enough to hide my blush. ‘Don’t flatter yourself. Any bloke could look like that if he spent twenty-four hours a day in the gym, and all it shows is how empty your life must be to dedicate so much time to something so shallow.’

  ‘It’s not shallow, it’s my job to look like this. I get paid to sell clothes and make men believe that buying those clothes will make their body look like mine.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s not shallow at all. And that’s a terrible marketing plan. Who in their right mind would want to look like you, for a start? You look like Barbie’s Ken after an hour in the oven.’

  He chuckles. ‘Ah, I’ll never get tired of your insults, Wend.’

  I sulk to myself as he pulls his sleeping bag up and lies back down on the bed. Nothing I say bothers him. As far as ideas for how to get him to leave are concerned, I’m coming up blank, and it’s becoming increasingly clear he’s not going any time soon.

  ‘Are you going to push me out of bed again?’

  ‘Are you going to start singing again?’

  ‘No,’ he huffs.

  ‘Then I won’t either. Maybe tomorrow you’ll go and sleep somewhere else.’

  ‘I wouldn’t count on it,’ he mumbles, turning over so his back is facing me. ‘Night, Wend.’

  ‘Night, Knobkettle.’

  I try to block out the sound of his laughter by pulling the bedspread over my head again. The musty smell of something that hasn’t been washed in twenty years makes me gag and I really wish I’d thought to bring half the things Julian has.

  Chapter Nine

  Julian’s gone when I wake up in the morning. Sunlight is streaming in the window and I stretch like a cat and yawn. I could get used to this. Even in August, you rarely get sunshine through the windows in Britain.

  I still can’t get over how peaceful it is as I sit outside on the steps and have a natter with Kat when she comes by. It’s good to see a friendly face, and even better when she comes with a cart full of freshly baked goodies.

  When she leaves, I take my treats downstairs to the kitchen and my mouth waters as I decide what to eat first. Kat is not going to be good for my waistline.

  ‘So, have you found any mod cons yet?’ Julian asks, making me jump as he comes in.

  I swallow a mouthful of croissant. ‘Yeah, modern by Fred Flintstone’s standards.’

  He laughs, sounding out of breath. He’s wearing shorts today, there’s a sweatband around his forehead and his bare chest is glistening in a not-at-all attractive way. ‘Where’ve you been? Let me guess, looking for the nearest gym?’

  ‘Jogging.’ He goes over to the fridge and gets a tall-lidded tumbler out of it that looks like an adult version of a baby’s sippy cup. ‘It’s amazing around here. I’m lucky not to get mown down when I go jogging at home, but the only traffic I saw out here was a horse.’ He nods towards the mug on the table. ‘I’ll know if you’ve nicked a teabag.’

  It had crossed my mind, of course it had, there’s no way he’d know if one was missing, but I decided to be good. I can’t give him anything else to hold over me. ‘It’s instant coffee. I got it in the village yesterday. At least, I think it’s instant coffee. The label’s in French so I can’t read it, but it looks like instant coffee.’ I tip the mug towards him to prove it. ‘Tastes like a boiled shoe. You don’t know what you’re missing.’

  ‘I’m sure I don’t,’ he says, taking a glug of whatever’s in his cup. He looks like he’s struggling to swallow it, and I wonder why he’s drinking it if it tastes so bad.

  ‘I got a fresh loaf and an extra croissant from Kat,’ I say. ‘You’re welcome to it in exchange for a teabag or two…’

  ‘I’m good, thanks.’ He holds his plastic cup up like he’s making a toast.

  God, there has to be something he wants. If freshly baked goods don’t do it, what on earth will?

  ‘I need to unplug the fridge so I can charge my phon
e,’ he says. ‘You haven’t got anything in there that will spoil, have you?’

  I shake my head. It’s quite considerate of him to ask, really. I would’ve been tempted to pull the plug and hope whatever was in there might give him salmonella.

  ‘I’m going to strip the generator today and see if I can improve it, but I wouldn’t hold your breath. Even with a good clean and a fuel refill, it’s never going to be powerful enough for more than a couple of sockets and a bulb or two.’

  ‘Can we replace it?’

  ‘Aye, if you’ve got a spare few grand to pay for it, because I haven’t.’

  ‘Great,’ I mutter.

  ‘Buildings like this swallow money,’ he says. ‘They’re a can of worms. You pull one thread and the whole thing starts unravelling.’

  ‘Great,’ I say again. ‘I don’t have any extra money for this. I only came out here for a break from work and to see what the real place was like. I didn’t expect it to be quite so rundown.’

  He plugs his phone in and drops it on the unit without looking at it and turns around, leaning against the worktop and swigging from his cup again. ‘Well, the way I see it is this: it’s not that bad. It’s—’

  ‘Not that bad would include a working shower. I don’t know about you but I really need one.’

  ‘There’s a hosepipe outside.’

  ‘A hosepipe…’

  ‘It’s thirty degrees in the afternoons. Spend a bit of time outdoors and you’ll be desperate for a cold shower.’

  I roll my eyes.

  ‘And inside, the house is liveable, if we make do,’ he continues. ‘We’ll have to tape up a few of the broken windows and board up the badly damaged ones, and there’s unsafe brickwork that needs removing, and holes in the plaster, but that’s nothing a bit of filler won’t fix. Some of the floorboards are loose so be careful where you tread. The heating system doesn’t work but I’m not concerned about that at this time of year. I’ll get on to the plumbing in the next couple of days, and then… well, I suppose we go back to England and don’t have to worry about it again until next time.’

  He sounds sad when he mentions going back, and I find myself staring at him, begrudgingly impressed by how calm he is. That sounds like a list of unfixable problems to me, the kind of problems you need money and experts to solve, but he seems… excited. His blue eyes are bright as he talks, trying to explain something about the septic tank system that I don’t understand, but he seems to know what he’s talking about. His voice is firm and reassuring, and for the first time I don’t feel quite so overwhelmed. It’s easy to get lost in the magnitude of the forty rooms and fifteen acres surrounding us, every inch of which seems to be buried under problems, but Julian talks like it’s not something to worry about, it’s just something to deal with, one step at a time.

  ‘Sorry, I’m rambling,’ he says eventually. ‘You’re bored stiff.’

  ‘No, not at all.’ I take a sip of my disgusting coffee. ‘It’s just… why are you doing this?’

  ‘Because I can,’ he says with a shrug. ‘Because this place is amazing and it’s nice to be somewhere my great-aunt loved, because I feel like I’m doing something worthwhile, because it’s actually kind of nice to do this sort of work again out of choice, without my father breathing down my neck. Why’d you ask?’

  ‘I just… it doesn’t matter.’ If he was only here for the treasure, he wouldn’t bother with fixing stuff, would he? I try to nudge that burning niggle out of my mind. I can’t let myself think about believing him. Men always want money. It’s the most important thing to them. He’s no different. ‘You can really do all this stuff?’

  ‘Sure. I’m a bit out of practice, but I have nothing else to do for the next few weeks, and I do love old houses. It’ll be fun to make the best of the one we’ve been given.’

  ‘I’ll help if I can.’

  He raises an eyebrow. ‘You’ll help me?’

  ‘I’ll benefit from you fixing this stuff too. We’re both staying here. If you need another pair of hands, I can help.’

  ‘You’re still not getting my PG Tips.’

  ‘I don’t want your bloody teabags,’ I lie, even though I’m seriously considering offering my body to science in exchange for a cup of tea.

  ‘Ahh, reverse psychology now.’ He taps his nose. ‘Clever.’

  I growl to myself. ‘Why is it so hard to have a reasonable conversation with you? It’s like you can be a normal person for about three minutes, and then you turn back into being a git.’

  ‘You want to know about being a git?’ He flexes his arm and points to a spot above his elbow. ‘See the bruise from where I got pushed out of bed last night?’

  He’s trying to distract me with muscles again. I squint at the spot he’s pointing at. ‘No, I see you being a big baby. And some of us have got a splitting headache from being kept awake most of the night, so fair’s fair.’

  ‘Not my fault you can’t appreciate musical talent.’

  ‘I’d appreciate your musical talent if you were performing it in a box. Twenty feet underground. Preferably on a different continent.’

  ‘Aw, you’d miss me if I wasn’t here, Wend. Your days would be long and boring without me to hate.’

  ‘Well, I do hate you.’ I flash him a false smile, even though, no matter how much I want to, he’s pretty impossible to hate. Until he starts singing at three a.m, anyway.

  When his phone is charged, he unplugs it and gives it a cursory glance before sliding it to the back of the unit and leaving it there. ‘Plug’s free,’ he says as he walks away.

  I grab my dead phone and go to plug it in… bollocks. Two-pin plug.

  I can feel his eyes on me from across the room. ‘Don’t tell me, you didn’t know they had different plug sockets so you didn’t bring an adapter.’

  ‘Of course I didn’t bring an…’ My eyes go to the white square thing his phone lead is plugged into. ‘Is there anything you didn’t bring with you? Is there even anything left in the whole of England now?’

  ‘It never hurts to be prepared. In case you didn’t know, that means realising that some countries have things slightly different than what you’re used to, things like teabags and plug sockets. I know you don’t like the outdoors, but have you ever actually left the house before? Because I’m starting to think this might be the first time. You’ve definitely never been on holiday before.’

  ‘I don’t like holidays, all right?’

  ‘How can anyone not like—’

  ‘I don’t like the people you meet on holidays.’ I nod at him pointedly.

  ‘Well, it’s not really a holiday if you own the place, is it?’

  I hate that he’s got an answer for everything.

  ‘So, let me guess your next sentence…’ He puts on a high voice to mimic me. ‘Juliaaan, can I borrow your European plug adapter, pretty please with a cherry on top?’

  ‘I don’t talk like that,’ I mutter as an idea lights up in my mind. ‘And no, actually, I don’t need yours, I’ll order one on Amazon. They’ll still deliver out here. They probably sell PG Tips too.’

  ‘Ah, but there’s the small matter of needing your phone charged before you can get online to order anything.’

  I grind my teeth as I look at him. ‘Fine. Please, Julian, will you let me borrow your plug thingy just this once?’

  ‘Why should I let you borrow anything of mine?’

  It’s a fair point. If I had something he needed, I wouldn’t just give it to him, I’d leverage it in exchange for teabags. Of course, there’s no bloody chance of that, as he’s got everything. ‘Because I’ll do something in exchange for it.’

  He raises a suggestive eyebrow.

  ‘Cake!’ I say as inspiration strikes. ‘I’m good at cake and there’s an Aga over there that I’m dying to use. I’ll make you a cake to show my appreciation.’

  ‘No, thanks. I don’t like cake.’

  I stare at him. �
�Good God, what’s wrong with you? What kind of person doesn’t like cake?’

  ‘The kind who likes being fit and healthy.’

  ‘Yeah, but… I mean, come on… There’s fit and healthy and there’s having no reason to live. How can you not like cake? I’ve never met anyone who doesn’t like cake before.’

  ‘Well, new experiences are good for people.’

  I shake my head in disbelief. Doesn’t like cake. Eulalie would roll over in her grave and groan if she heard him say that. She’d definitely question his heritage. ‘You can’t be Eulalie’s nephew and not like cake. She’d disinherit you for that.’

  ‘For what? Crimes of treason against Mary Berry?’

  It makes me giggle and I don’t cover it quickly enough for him not to notice. He’s not nearly as funny as he thinks he is. He’s really not.

  ‘Pie, then?’ I ask, composing myself. ‘I saw an apple tree from the window that’s laden with apples. Eulalie always used to like my apple pie.’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  I throw my hands up. ‘What do you want then? What do you like?’

  ‘I’m not interested in food.’

  ‘Would you like me to polish up all the mirrors so you can admire yourself in them? Find something heavy to replace your usual gym weights? A new vat for you to mix your hair gel in?’

  His mouth is pressed together and his shoulders are shaking as he tries not to laugh.

  ‘I wasn’t being funny.’

  ‘I know,’ he says. ‘I just don’t know why you think superficial insults from someone who doesn’t know me will bother me. Are you hoping for some kind of Shakespearean tragedy where I die from verbal wounds like arrows through the heart?’

  ‘I’d never get that lucky.’

  We stare each other out until he huffs and looks away, sounding exasperated. ‘You know what, just use the adapter. No bargains or conditions. Don’t forget to plug the fridge back in when you’re done.’

  ‘Why? What do you want for it?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing nothing? Or the kind of nothing that’s going to come back and bite me in the arse later?’