He’d left without saying anything.
The discourtesy only served to enchant Zara Beaumont even more. ‘That’s so his vibe,’ she said with a tolerant shrug. ‘Just part of the mystery. I love it.’
Raven Vale had been polite enough to excuse himself an hour or so ago and even Zara’s content creators had waved a flag of defeat since then. It was left to Sophie to use her own phone to capture a shot in front of the candle-filled fireplace in the foyer before the newly married couple retired to the honeymoon suite for what was left of the night. She and Tilly were finally able to escape before dawn actually broke, hoping to catch a few hours’ sleep before returning to supervise a day of cleaning up.
She stifled a yawn as they walked to where their vehicles were parked. ‘Where on earth am I going to find an old-school apron?’ She sighed.
‘What do you need an apron for?’
‘Zara wants to play in the castle’s kitchen gardens tomorrow. She’s going to pay us to help. She wants to float around with a basket and gather Provençal produce. She might make jam or something in the kitchens.’
Tilly was nodding. ‘Content,’ she murmured. ‘It’s everything, these days,n’est-ce-pas?’
‘Seems to be. Have you seen how many views her Insta posts have collected today? It’s unbelievable.’ Sophie shook her head. ‘And that photograph of the bride in the rubbish.’ She blew out a breath that was a silent whistle. ‘A million likes in less than ten hours? How many people is that per minute? He must be making a fortune.’
But Tilly shook her head. ‘He’s like Banksy. He doesn’t do any sponsored content like ads or brand promotion. Nothing. He would get money from doing a photoshoot and selling prints and he probably gets paid more than Greg but…’ Tilly’s voice trailed off and her next words were thoughtful. ‘I think he does it for the art. For his passion.’
His passion. Unbidden, a voice Sophie hadn’t heard for years echoed in the back of her mind. A whisper that still sounded like a plea.
‘I want something I’m passionate about. Like you guys all have…’
Hannah.
Sophie hadn’t even thought about Hannah in such a long time but it was inevitable that a memory like this would surface today. Losing such a close friend hadn’t been intentional at all. For a while they’d been even more closely united in their shared grief and a hatred for Luc Moreau. But that bond became an anchor because they couldn’t be together without being dragged back into the worst of their past and it made it impossible to go forward. They had drifted apart years ago now and they didn’t even acknowledge each other’s birthdays any longer.
It was another loss that was an ache all of its own but the risk of what might be attached to a reconnection had made it too hard to take that step. And Hannah had never tried contacting her, so it was more than likelyshedidn’t want the reminders either. Did she have any idea of who Luc was now?
Tilly misinterpreted the silence that had fallen between them.
‘It’s good for us, too.’ Her tone was soothing. ‘And I imagine le Château d’Orval will be delighted to have their gardens and kitchens celebrated for the publicity it will give them. Would you like something really authentic for Zara to wear? My mother still has all the traditional costumes she used to wear for the Easter celebrations in Vence. With the aprons and the little shawls that go over the shoulders?’
‘Oh, that sounds perfect. Do you have a white apron?’
‘One of the shawls is white, I think. White lace. The aprons are usually coloured. I seem to remember a blue one and perhaps a dark green one with flowers on it. Daisies, I think. I’ll remember to put the box in my car when I get home and you can choose tomorrow. There are dresses and petticoats, too, but they would be too big and heavy for Zara. I expect she has something prettier of her own.’
Sophie gave her a hug. ‘You’re wonderful,’ she told Tilly. ‘I don’t know what I would do without you.’
‘It’s good that you don’t have to, then,’ Tilly responded, with a smile. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to come and stay with me at my mother’s house?’
‘No. Thank you, but I don’t want to give your mother extra work. And I love my usual villagechambre d’hôtes. I’ll be asleep by the time you get back to Aix.’
‘Sleep well.’ Tilly blew her a kiss as she turned away. ‘À bientôt!’
‘Ouais.’ Sophie’s yawn escaped this time. Yes, they would be seeing each other all too soon. ‘Beaucoup trop tôt.’
* * *
Within only a day or two the Château d’Orval, tidied, cleaned and restored to its normal routine, was hosting tourists who had no idea that a destination wedding had taken place there so recently. Or that a social media star had staged an impromptu domestic goddess type of performance in the gardens and kitchens of the medieval French castle. Wearing a pale lemon dress, a white lace shawl over her shoulders and the green apron with the daisy print, Zara had gathered fresh produce, including an entire basket of ripe raspberries which went into a very rustic cast-iron pot to create a ruby-redconfiture. The final product was a row of pretty glass jars that were each covered with a circle of gingham in shades of red and pink and white, tied on with lengths of rustic brown string. A photograph of a half-empty jar, beside slices of fresh baguette slathered with a generous dollop of jam, had been posted along with Zara’s recipe and its romantic addition of rosewater.
This post hadn’t gone viral. Yet. Possibly because all her followers were still obsessed with every detail of her wedding.
The head office of Marry Me in Provence – which was actually the main living area on the ground floor of Sophie Spencer’s tall, narrow stone house in the little medieval village of Saint Jeannet – should have been equally tidied and restored to its normal routine. It should have been a scene of calm efficiency as they got ready for the next big event on their books in just ten days’ time. Instead, it was bordering on complete chaos.
One of those jars of raspberry jam, which had been a farewell gift from Zara, was being used a weight for some of the papers strewn all over Sophie’s desk. Half-drunk mugs of coffee had gone cold. A landline phone was ringing. A mobile phone was constantly pinging as direct messages landed. The pinging only stopped when a ringtone started. A chat box on the home page of the business website was flashing an alert. On another laptop, Tilly was scrolling through images on Instagram, the original images of the jam jars pushed off the screen long ago. New photos were being added constantly, despite the fact that Zara and her new husband were still on honeymoon. The tiniest details were being shared now, like the microscopic Swarovski crystals at the centres of the delicately painted white blossoms of Zara’s nail art on the big day. So many comments were being added they were scrolling down the side of the screen too fast to read, unless they were as simple as a row of love heart eye emojis, fizzing champagne bottles, or just a few words.
Love love love!!!
I heart this so hard…
