This. Is. Art.
Tilly looked over her shoulder. Was she picking up that Sophie was very close to the end of her tether? She closed her laptop. Then she got to her feet, lifted the landline receiver and cut the call, leaving the receiver off the hook as she put it down. She swiped the screen of Sophie’s phone to dismiss another call and put it on silent. Then she stood behind Sophie, who had clicked off the business website to open the inbox of her email.
Yesterday they’d received nearly a hundred emails, the majority of which had yet to be responded to. Overnight, the number had doubled and Sophie was staring, mesmerised, as they just kept rolling in, with a new message almost every second or two. Some of them had red exclamation points to signify urgency. Maybe one in every few dozen caught her eye because she knew the sender.
Zara had tagged Le Phénix in all her posts. She had also tagged Marry Me in Provence. She’d started trending and had then gone viral. Her wedding and the generous credits to both her photographer and her wedding planning team had reached every corner of the globe with internet coverage. It felt like it was now exploding into Sophie’s life and it was… totally overwhelming.
‘Oh, my God, Tilly,’ Sophie whispered. ‘What are we going todo?’
‘Breathe,’ was Tilly’s response. She reached past Sophie to close the lid of her laptop. ‘It will calm down. Let’s just take a minute to breathe.’
Sophie covered her face with her hands. ‘I stayed up half the night trying to answer the queries. I made a response saying that Le Phénix is not our usual photographer and it’s very unlikely that he’ll be available again but to please get back in touch if they’re still interested in using Marry Me in Provence and we’ll be delighted to hear from them. I cut and pasted it until it was all a blur, but by that time the abusive messages were already starting to land. Accusing us of false advertising and saying they wouldn’t dream of using us if they can’t haveexactlywhat Zara Beaumont had.’
‘I know…’ Tilly shook her head. ‘I read some nasty messages sent to the website and on social media. I deleted as many of them as I could but it’s like… what’s that Japanese arcade game where the little animal comes out of the holes and you have to bang it on the head but it just pops up somewhere else?’
‘Whack-a-mole.’ Sophie groaned, but she was trying not to smile. ‘It’s exactly like that, only there’s a million holes.’
‘Look for the ones where you know who sent them,’ Tilly suggested. ‘There.’ She pointed at a sender’s address that had one of the red exclamation marks beside it.madame.fournier@châteaudorval.‘That might be important. Madame Fournier wouldn’t flag it otherwise.’
It was both important and urgent. And not in a good way.
They both scanned the email as Sophie opened it in another window.
‘What’s theDDPP?’ she asked.
‘La Direction Départementale de la Protection des Populations.’
For once, the musicality of a language Sophie had come to love so much failed to register. ‘That sounds very official.’ Frightening, in fact.
Tilly’s nod was sombre. ‘It’s like… what is it in theUK? Health and Safety? Environmental concerns?’
‘And Comte Lucien de Varclaire. He’s the owner of the Château d’Orval, yes?’
Tilly nodded again.
Sophie could see why the count was upset. A complaint had been made about the inappropriate storage of the rubbish at the castle which was now the subject of worldwide attention. There could be no denying where the photo had been taken, given Zara’s other wedding photos, like the drone image that had her walking in a lavender field with the turrets and spires of the château in the background.
The housekeeper’s office was forwarding a warning that all future bookings from Marry Me in Provencewere very likely to be imminently cancelled.
‘We’ve got three weddings booked there in the next eighteen months.’ Sophie could feel the blood draining from her face. ‘How can I tell those couples they’ve lost their dream venue? Oh, God… if they decide to go elsewhere, I’ll have to pay back their deposits.’
They didn’t have that kind of cash flow. Not with the outgoings for paying subcontractors like the set-up and cleaning crews and the caterers, the annual insurance bills due and… Sophie’s breath caught in her throat as her gaze swerved to the whitewashed walls and then up to exposed wooden beams of this main room of a little house she absolutely adored.
It had been the sky-blue door that had captured her at first glance. A whimsical pop of colour against the honey-gold stone of the building and the greyer shades of the flagstoned street that led through an archway to a balustrade marking the very edge of the village. The views were spectacular. Forest in one direction, the skyline of Vence with its square cathedral tower in another, and high up, almost leaning over the small town, was the famously dramatic outline of the Baou de Saint Jeannet that was distinctive enough to be easily visible from as far away as Nice.
What lay behind the blue door had not disappointed her. Sophie had loved the whitewashed walls and ancient beams, the terracotta-tiled and wooden floors and the Juliet balcony on the floor above that provided a little table and chairs as a dining nook off the kitchen and the same views as the street that circled this part of the village. Sophie had enhanced the refuge of her bedroom on the top floor with crisp white bed linen, an antique French lace bedspread, and soft, fluffy white towels in the adjoining bathroom.
She’d only purchased what was her dream property a year ago. She’d known that the mortgage payments would push her financial limits at a time when she was trying to grow her business but she’d taken a leap of faith. This was where she was destined to be. And what she was destined to be doing with her life.
It felt like the dream was about to implode.
And this was Luc’s fault. He had chosen that rubbish as a backdrop. He’d made it worse than it really was by rearranging it. He’d actually taken that chicken carcass from a metal bin that was probably intended to contain hazardous waste safely. Sophie could so easily see this chaos spiralling even further out of control and taking her business with it, to sink without a trace. Taking jobs from people she really cared about, like Tilly and Florence, Françoise and Greg. And, how heartbreaking would it be if it took this beloved house of hers – herhome– as well?
Who had ever been naïve enough to suggest that history never repeated itself?
Luc Moreau might very well be capable of destroying her life for asecondtime.
Sophie had to make an effort to tune back into what Tilly was saying. ‘Monsieur Phénix can deal with this. He can make a public apology and say that he made the mess ofles déchetsand it has nothing to do with how the kitchen staff dispose of things. Would you like me to contact him?’
