‘Have you checked out the old stables right at the back of the property?’ Harry asked. When she shook her head, he said, ‘Behind the car parking area are some buildings not in current use by the hotel, they’re full of junk mostly, but I’d put money on that being where the cat holes up. Nobody ever goes in there.’
Fran itched to ask how he knew the stables were there, but she didn’t need to ask. He grinned.
‘Sometimes Penny and I go for a late evening walk, it’s quiet out there.’
‘Are you and Penny together?’ Fran asked.
Harry shook his head. ‘No, it’s nothing like that. It’s more that … She’s …’ He glanced away as if deciding what to say next, a frown flickering across his brow. ‘It’s complicated.’
Complicated. That word could hide all sorts of situations, all kinds of issues. A word that was usually enough to dissolve a superficial enquiry. Fran should know – it was the word she’d chosen to describe what happened between herself and Victor. And it had deflected all but the most persistent of interest.
There was another reason. She’d chosen the word because it could also be a useful tool for hiding a simple truth. ‘Complicated’ could do some serious heavy lifting, could throw up all sorts of smokescreens to deflect. It was a decent sounding word to hide behind, when owning up to something so straightforward as what had actually happened would leave you breathless at your own stupidity.
Trouble was, he’d been so persuasive, so believable. Victor had fed her line after line, and it had taken her far too long to realisehow manipulative he was capable of being. It was a story as old as the hills, but Fran hadn’t ever really believed she’d end up on one of those hills. Or that he would be the one to make her hike right to the very top.
Even at the end, she wasn’t completely sure he’d been seeing other women. He was still denying it, calling her controlling and paranoid and desperate. Twisting everything back onto Fran, telling her it was all her fault, and she should have been more supportive, or fun, or if only she’d tried harder in bed. That she was boring, and he was doing her a favour staying with her. That nobody else was going to want someone like her.
And in amongst all his bluster, all his criticisms which were designed to throw her off from the real issue – which it had taken Fran a long time to work out wasn’t her, instead it was him – Victor continued to deny any infidelity, continued to cloud the issue with sleight of hand and misdirection. The irony of the fact he was a professional magician wasn’t lost on Fran, even if it had taken her a very long time to be able to acknowledge it.
Fran took a deep breath, centring herself back in the Chateau des Champs d’Or kitchens and Harry, whose gaze still rested on her.
‘Well,’ Fran said, a glimmer of a smile finding the corners of her mouth, ‘I realise I don’t know anything about your situation, or Penny’s, but for what it’s worth, I think she likes you, too.’
‘Yeah. Trouble is I think you’re right.’ Harry’s frown deepened, then he turned his attentions back on the pile of fish he was working his way through, and Fran left the room.
Chapter 7
Beaufoy Wines’ vinery was scrupulously maintained. The vines held an excellent variety of grapes and Johnny was itching to get tasting. After a fascinating tour from the owner, Jean-Michel, the only person missing from the ensemble was Noel.
Johnny did his best to keep the conversation flowing, relaying what was being said in truncated English for the benefit of Ed and Ricky. Jean-Michel was tentative about working with them, the idea of selling them more than a couple of cases had him frowning with mistrust. Johnny did his best to reassure the winemaker that theirs was a legitimate company, that this was a genuine opportunity, but the older man was having none of it. Noel would have had the man eating out of his hand in no time.
Even the discovery of some common ground hadn’t helped. It turned out that Jean-Michel’s wife was the manager at their hotel, that she’d taken the role to supplement their income from the vineyard. And with more than a touch of vitriol, Jean-Michel was keen to state that her salary wasn’t anything like the amount she should be earning for all the work she was expected to undertake, not to mention the constant staffing issues and tight budgeting.
Johnny told Jean-Michel it would be a crime for his fantastic Chardonnay not to find a larger audience and was doing his best to express how excited he was to try the other wines. Whether or not Noel would be impressed by his brother’s open enthusiasm was yet to be discovered.
But Noel wasn’t there.
Jean-Michel suggested they move into the tasting room, and Johnny ran out of reasons to stall. He apologised a final timefor his brother’s tardiness and allowed himself to be led into a single-storey building attached to what he assumed was the Beaufoy family home. The roof sloped down almost as far as the lintel, the wide, green planks of the door giving way to a blissfully cool space within. Whitewashed walls and a rough cobbled floor gave off charming rural vibes, and the upended oak casks – on which glasses stood ready on an elegant silver tray – completed the ambiance. Johnny smiled. This was going to be fun. More than that, if Jean-Michel’s other wines were as impressive as the Chardonnay, he was going to thoroughly enjoy tasting them, and doing his best to place them with the right buyers. People who would appreciate something unexpectedly impressive.
‘Starting without me?’
It was a competition to work out which one hit Johnny first, his brother’s voice, or the inescapable scent from Noel’s liberally applied body spray.
‘We had a great tour of the vineyards while we were waiting for you,’ Johnny said, his tone neutral as he introduced his brother to Jean-Michel. As the winemaker poured the first samples, Johnny turned to Noel. ‘Did you sort out whatever was so pressing? Was your videocall about something I need to be aware of?’
Noel’s expression shifted, his gaze hooded for a second, then he smiled broadly.
‘No. It’s nothing important.’ Through the smile the words were sharp, barbed.
It clearly was important, to Noel at least. Johnny had spent enough time with Noel to be aware of his tells. Even the subtle ones. And although it was a micro-expression, Johnny saw it. Not frustration, not anger – it was something else. If Johnny had to name the emotion he’d seen, he’d go for confusion.Which was very unlike his brother. Noel was usually black and white about everything, there was never room for any grey. No messy misunderstandings in Noel’s life, either professionally or personally. He’d always been a straight shooter, a take it or leave it kind of a guy.
‘You’re sure?’ Johnny said, the thought occurring that it should be him feeling annoyed at Noel for holding up the whole proceedings, not the other way around.
‘For Christ’s sake, let’s get on with the tasting, stop wasting everybody’s time.’
Bullish Noel was back, and by the time the tasting was over, Johnny was reeling from his jibes. Recently it seemed there was no pleasing Noel, and today was one of those times. At least Noel kept his composure with Jean-Michel. There was something almost magical in the way Noel dealt with potential clients. There was no doubt he worked them hard, and as Johnny translated anything Jean-Michel didn’t understand, the winemaker had gone from cynicism and suspicion, through muted disappointment and on into the sun-soaked uplands of excited enthusiasm. Before Jean-Michel knew it, Beaufoy Wines had reached a tentative business agreement with Taylor Made Wine, Noel was talking paperwork, and everyone was smiling and shaking hands.
‘Where would you be without me?’ Noel said, just loud enough for Johnny to hear.
