The Chateau of Happily-Ever-Afters: a laugh-out-loud romcom!. Jaimie Admans

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СКАЧАТЬ embarrassed to mention my job to her. It doesn’t even seem like a proper job. ‘I’m a sampler in a supermarket. I hand out samples and try to make people buy whatever the store wants pushed on any particular day.’

      ‘Oh, I hate those people.’ She suddenly realises what she’s said. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean that.’

      It makes me laugh. ‘It’s fine. I hate it too. It’s not what I intended to be doing with my life, but it’s a paying job, so why rock the boat?’

      ‘You’re talking to someone who relocated to France on a whim. I’m a big believer in boat rocking.’

      ‘Things go wrong when you start rocking boats.’

      She waves an arm around her. ‘At least you sink in a beautiful place.’

      She’s definitely right about that.

      ‘It must be amazing to cook in your château,’ Kat says. ‘I’ve stood at the gate loads of times and tried to imagine what the kitchen would be like. Is it huge?’

      ‘I don’t know, I haven’t found it yet.’

      ‘I bet it’s huge. You’ll have to give me a guided tour sometime. And bake me something in it. It’s such a beautiful old house. It probably infuses everything that’s made in there with decadent glamour.’

      ‘Well, Eulalie certainly seemed to think it was infused with something.’

      By the time we reach the village, I understand why elderly folks around here aren’t keen to do it often. Even this early in the morning, the sun is hot enough that sweat is beading on my forehead and I’m desperate for a bottle of water. It’s not a hard trek, but it’s uphill towards the end, and the narrow lanes don’t get any wider or safer, although we don’t see any traffic other than a man on a horse.

      There’s a little wooden sign up on a wall surrounding a house that reads ‘Bienvenue à Toussion’. It looks like it’s been burnt into the wood by someone with a magnifying glass in the sunlight. It’s the kind of sign you’d miss if you weren’t looking for it, and as I look at the village spread out in front of me, the same could be said about that. The pavementless tarmac gives way to cobbled streets lined with half-timbered houses, painted in a rainbow of pastel colours around their wooden beams. If the Easter Bunny existed, he would live here.

      It’s a beautiful place, and I feel Kat watching me as I take it all in. ‘It grows on you,’ she says. ‘I worked in the middle of a shopping centre back home, every shop in one place. If you ever needed anything it was right there. I laughed at the idea of trying to live here, but you adapt.’

      I can’t imagine ever adapting. You could fit the whole of this village into one boarded-up shop on my local high street.

      The most noticeable thing is the silence. There’s no traffic, no beeping horns, no yelling. The only sound is a bee buzzing around a red flower in someone’s windowbox.

      An old lady totters down her flower-edged garden path with a sprightly ‘bonjour!’ As she chooses one of Kat’s baguettes, I look around and see an old man watering flowers in his window. He waves and shouts a greeting.

      If I had a book in my arms, I’d be walking around like Belle in the opening scene of Beauty and the Beast. There’s a calmness here, an atmosphere of the village that time forgot. And stepping back in time is exactly what it feels like. The pretty, wooden-framed houses are nothing like the dull, drab bricks in England. Each window has a windowbox underneath it, full of tumbling, colourful flowers, and although I can’t understand the names on the few shops I can see, it’s easy to tell they’re houses-turned-shops and their owners probably live above them.

      ‘The épicerie,’ Kat points out as we wander. ‘That’s the grocery shop. There’s a little cash machine in there but it’s often out of funds. You can pay for anything with your cards though. Did you tell your bank you were coming here?’

      ‘No. I didn’t think they’d be interested in my holiday plans.’

      ‘Well, they’ll probably block your card because they suspect it’s been stolen. You’ll have to phone them and prove you’re you. And that’s the pharmacie, I don’t need to translate that one.’ She points across the road. ‘That’s the boulangerie, the bakery, and not to toot my own horn, but my stuff is much better than his. Further on is the library but you’ll be lucky to find it open. It’s run by a forgetful old bloke who forgets he runs it most days.’

      I look around in disbelief. ‘That’s it? A chemist, a baker, a grocery shop, and a library?’

      ‘What else do you need?’

      ‘I…’

      ‘This village only really comes to life on market days. The streets are lined with stalls and that covered triangular area in the middle is full of sellers.’

      I look at the odd-shaped area between the bakery and the library, hanging baskets full of flowers swinging from each concrete pillar supporting the roof. ‘When’s market day?’

      ‘Tuesday and Saturday mornings,’ she says. ‘I’d love to get a stall but I’d have to get here so early that I’d let my regular customers down. Then again, when you meet Theo, the butter seller, you’ll see why it might be worth it. He’s gorgeous.’

      When Kat leaves me, with a promise of coming round with breakfast tomorrow morning, and me actually having the cash to pay her this time, I watch her green-tipped hair walking away and wonder what I’ve let myself in for coming here. I don’t understand a word of the language, and even though Kat’s taught me to ask ‘parlez-vous anglais?’ in shops, she’s also told me not to count on any locals speaking English. The next few weeks might not be quite the relaxing holiday I was hoping for.

      In the épicerie, the shopkeeper greets me with a bright ‘bonjour’ and comes out from behind the counter babbling in French. After a series of hand gestures and me butchering the pronunciation of the three words I know, he goes back behind the counter and watches me like he’s not sure if I’m a foreigner or a really weird shoplifter.

Chapter Seven

      By the time I get back to the château, I’d sell my soul, my first-born child, and every non-vital organ on the black market for a cup of tea. Kat was right about not being able to find anything that even resembles British tea over here. With my few groceries in a brown paper bag, I don’t see anyone but a woman walking her dog on the way back either.

      The château door is open when I go in and I let it slam shut behind me to let Julian know how annoyed I am. I’ve no idea where he is, but he can’t go around leaving doors unlocked.

      ‘That you, Wend?’ he shouts from somewhere below me.

      ‘No,’ I shout into the empty entranceway, annoyance prickling even harder at him shortening my name like we’re friends. ‘It’s a burglar. I came to steal all your valuables because the door was so conveniently left open, and as your car keys are on the table inside the door, maybe I’ll nick that as well while I’m at it.’

      ‘You’re wasting your time in food ambassador-ing or whatever it is you do,’ he shouts back. ‘You should СКАЧАТЬ