A Riviera Retreat. Jennifer Bohnet

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      Chelsea, at the other end of the house in the ‘Elizabeth David’ room, dropped her backpack on the floor and flung herself down on the bed and lay staring up at the ceiling. She and her guilty conscience were in the South of France. She felt dreadful about leaving Elsie to cope, but Elsie had insisted, saying business was quiet for a week or two and she was quite capable of managing on her own. ‘Unless you don’t trust me?’ she’d said, stunning Chelsea into silence with the animosity in her voice.

      She’d call her later and apologise again for her part in ‘Kit-gate’. Hopefully it was becoming old news now – surely overtaken by another nine-days’ wonder scandal – and the business would survive the calamity of that Friday booking.

      Kit-gate. How stupid had she been? Why and how had she allowed herself to become something she despised – a mistress to a sleazy, cheating, married man. She was so angry with herself over the whole thing, not least because it could destroy their reputation in the food business despite all their hard work over the past couple of years. Elsie insisted she shouldn’t blame herself but, truly, who else could she blame? The signs had all been there from the moment Kit had locked eyes with her. Kit who was as false as his name.

      Away a lot during the week, never around at weekends, could never stay overnight. She’d been just plain dumb. If she were honest, believing she and Kit were an item had suited her. The last thing she wanted was too cloying or demanding a relationship – she enjoyed her freedom, her independence and the prospect of buying her own place. But as much as she told herself she hadn’t known he was married, she also knew she hadn’t dug beneath the surface of his life very deeply. She’d taken the things Kit had told her at face value.

      Chelsea could only pray that Marcia would be satisfied with the humiliating public showdown she’d staged and not punish Chelsea or the business further by telling associates not to use them. It had been a very public and expensive humiliation all round. Chelsea felt she’d had no alternative but to promise Elsie she’d pick up the costs of that fateful lunch. She winced at the memory of just how much the two cases of very upmarket champagne alone had cost her before totting up the price of the actual nibbles.

      Kit-gate had taught her a couple of things though. One: she’d never, ever take anything a man said for granted again, and two: she’d learnt again that life could fall apart quicker than twisting the cork out of an expensive bottle of champagne.

      Chelsea took a deep breath and swung her legs off the bed. She’d promised Elsie she’d enjoy this break away from the fallout. Recharge her batteries, and get ready to concentrate on work when she got home, maybe even think up some new recipes – after all, this was France, a country renowned for its culinary expertise. But above all she intended to try and enjoy this unexpected holiday.

      Standing up to fetch her backpack, she saw a book on the bedside table. Lunch with Elizabeth David – a novel. Elizabeth David, an icon among chefs long before Chelsea was born, had nevertheless inspired her own dreams, making her long to be a good cook. She had a couple of novels on her Kindle for bedtime reading, but they could wait. This one looked far more interesting than those.

      Glancing out through the French doors, Chelsea saw the sun glinting on a large swimming pool and she caught her breath. Of course, a pool was de rigueur down here, but this one looked so inviting. As a teenager, swimming had been her life. She’d spent so much time at the local baths, her mum had laughingly told her if she wasn’t careful she’d grow a tail like a mermaid. Both her mum and dad had proudly driven her the length and breadth of England when she was chosen to represent the swimming club in galas at county level. She’d even been tipped as a possible for an Olympic team. But that was before the accident.

      It was a long time since she’d swum, either competitively or for pleasure, but that pool was so inviting. Grabbing her backpack and turning it upside down, spilling the contents on the bed, Chelsea grabbed a swimming costume. She’d thrown a couple in with her clothes at the last moment, along with her goggles.

      Twenty lengths later and Chelsea felt better than she had for weeks. Swimming had always energised her and cleared her head, like going for a walk or a run did for other people. Unconsciously, decisions were being made as she did her fast crawl up and down the pool. She’d concentrate on growing the business, buying her own place and avoid any relationships with men. Kit-gate would soon be nothing more than a memory. An expensive blip in the scheme of things. And she’d start swimming again regularly.

      She’d swim ten more lengths and then go for a shower before meeting up with the others on the terrace for aperitifs. Having eschewed food since that horrible Friday, existing mainly on black coffee and toast most days, Chelsea suddenly felt her tummy rumble in anticipation.