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

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      I stand in the imposing entrance room in awe. The ceiling is the highest I’ve ever seen. There’s ornate moulding around the doors, the faded flamboyance of delicate wallpaper, which is now hanging off the walls, upturned furniture, and a draught coming in from multiple broken windows.

      Everything about the place is shrouded in decaying vintage glamour.

      I go up the grand double staircase, my hand trailing along the banister, each wooden bar smooth with a hand-carved rose at the base. The first floor is a maze of hallways and so many rooms that I don’t know where to start. I’ll need a map to find my way around.

      The first room I go to is a bedroom. It feels hollow, even though there’s an empty wardrobe, a chest of drawers, a moth-eaten armchair, and a double bed still made up, a burgundy bedspread covering it, undisturbed for years. The windows are grey with dirt, but even the window handles are ornately carved metal as I push them open. I stand there and breathe in fresh air, warm in the late-August heat, suddenly realising that if there’s one thing this place needs, it’s fresh air. My first task will be to find all the windows and open them. For a moment though, I brush dead flies off the ledge and lean on my elbows to look out. The room is at the front of the château and gives me a perfect view of the driveway. There are trees on either side of the courtyard and their leaves wave in the breeze, overgrown reeds bending over and dragging their tips through the water of the moat, and somewhere nearby, birds are chirping at each other.

      It’s so peaceful here.

      No sooner than the thought crosses my mind, a noise reaches my ears. A car engine. The booming thump of a radio playing too loudly. Squealing brakes as it takes a corner too fast. And then I see a flash of red between the trees. It’s getting closer. This cannot be a good thing.

      I watch from the window as the car turns in, speeding down the driveway towards the château. Any semblance of peace is shattered as the music thumps out, loudly enough to shake the entire building. The car is a sleek sports thing with the top down, and I squint to get a look at the driver. Long-ish dark hair tamed with product and a pair of sunglasses far too big for his head. Oh no. I’d know the smirk on his face anywhere. It’s the bloody nephew-git.

      I should have known. Why didn’t I guess he’d come here too? Of course he would. Men like him are all the same. Money, money, money. He’s got no interest in Eulalie or the château, other than what it’s worth, no doubt. But he’s heard the word treasure, hasn’t he? I should’ve known after all that unfair advantage stuff the other day.

      The shiny red car squeals to a halt in the courtyard with a spray of gravel, and the noise finally stops.

      ‘Yeah, yeah, you’ve got a small willy. No need to advertise it any louder,’ I mutter.

      I watch as he gets out of the car and stretches muscular arms, his shirt riding up at the movement, showing a hint of tight stomach, and I shouldn’t feel so disappointed when he pulls it back down again. I can’t tear my eyes away from how low down the buttons lie on his chest – not until he pushes his sleeves up, anyway, easily redirecting my attention to his tanned forearms. He slides his sunglasses off and tucks them into his pocket, pointing his keys over his shoulder as he walks away from the car. The beep-beep of his car locking brings me back to my senses. Bloody hell, what is wrong with me? The French sunshine must’ve gone to my head. Anyone would think I was ogling the enemy. That pretentious knob with his roofless poser car. No way would I ogle him. As if.

      He stands in the courtyard and looks up and I jump back from the window. He must’ve seen me. Bollocks.

      What am I going to do? I don’t want him here. This doesn’t belong to him.

      He’s going to come in here. I can hear gravel crunching under his feet as he walks towards the house.

      And I’ve left the door open.

      I slip across the landing and half-slide down the stairs in my rush to get to the front doors. I nearly fall out of them rather than close them. As I stumble to right myself, I look up and meet his eyes for one split second as he’s walking up the steps, then I heave the doors together and slam them shut. I twist the key too fast and it makes such a severe grinding noise that I expect it to come out in two pieces. I lean against the doors with a sigh of relief.

      I don’t even realise what I’m doing until he bangs on the other side. ‘Oi! What are you doing? Let me in!’

      I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head, hoping he’ll go away.

      Shutting him out was a silly, childish thing to do. I know that. But I also know he doesn’t belong here. Eulalie wouldn’t want a complete stranger turning her house upside down because of some silly riddle about treasure.

      I didn’t come here because of some half-arsed mention of surely non-existent treasure. I came because Eulalie wanted me to come here. Not for money. He doesn’t care about what Eulalie wanted. He doesn’t care about this house and how much she loved it.

      It feels like everything has spiralled out of control since the meeting with the solicitor, and that key is the only solid thing I have. It’s the only power I’ve got over the man outside. I got here first and I locked him out. Winning.

      Er, probably.

      I hear the crunch of his shoes over the gravel again. Good. He can go back to his fancy car and zoom away with his lustrous hair trailing behind him. I wait for the sound of the engine starting up as he leaves in defeat.

      It stays eerily quiet for a few minutes and I try to figure out what he might be doing out there. He’s probably walking around looking for another entrance. I haven’t had a chance to find out if there’s a back door yet, but hopefully it’s still locked. The place would’ve been ransacked by burglars if there were any unlocked doors. He can’t get in. I just have to keep telling myself that.

      I get more antsy as the minutes tick by. He hasn’t left yet. And I can’t see what he’s doing. I wish these doors weren’t solid wood and had a window to peek out of.

      Just as I’m thinking about going back upstairs and peeping out of the open window, his voice filters in from outside.

      ‘Wendy! Come to the window!’

      I can’t. I can’t go up there and talk to him. I’m not good at talking to people. It’s probably why I’m so bad at my job. Pushing samples of food is mostly about engaging with people, talking them into trying something new and then buying it, and my boss is constantly on my case about poor sales figures.

      If I talk to him, he’s going to want an explanation for why I slammed the doors in his face, and the only one I can come up with is that I’ve temporarily forgotten I’m thirty-three and not an immature eight-year-old.

      ‘I know you’re in there!’

      I leave the wooden support of the front doors and creep up the stairs. Not that creeping makes much difference – everything in this house creaks loudly enough that someone in the next village can probably hear it. I get to the landing and do an SAS-style crawl across the grimy floor so he can’t see me from outside, until I’m lying on my belly under the window.

      ‘You’ve got to come to the window eventually,’ he shouts in his Scottish accent. ‘If you don’t close it, I’m going to find a ladder and climb in, so you may as well just show yourself.’

      Bollocks. I’m only СКАЧАТЬ