‘No. I meant someone close. A partner.’ She swallowed hard at the thought of how much she wanted to know.
The smile faded and Johnny drew in a sharp breath. ‘Not any longer.’
‘I’m sorry, none of my business.’ Fran bit at her lip, she’d pushed to know and now she’d overstepped.
‘No. It’s fine. We’re getting divorced and … It’s just complicated. Working out what’s best for Estelle.’ He shook his head. ‘Unchartered territory.’
‘Estelle?’
‘My daughter.’ The smile crept back across his face as he pulled his wallet from the central console and flipped it open before moving his hand back to the steering wheel. A gorgeous little girl with wild curls and brown eyes smiled out of the photograph at Fran.
‘She’s very pretty,’ Fran said. The little girl’s smile was the very image of Johnny, the openness of it making Fran grin, too.
‘She’s also nearly four and already a proper handful,’ Johnny added. ‘Just like her—’
He clammed up, stopping himself from comparing his child to his wife, Fran assumed. A muscle twitched in his cheek as he fought to regain control.
‘I’m so sorry, Johnny,’ she said.
‘Yes. So am I.’ He pulled in a decisive breath, turning to glance at her again. ‘How about you? Please tell me that your life isn’t like mine where it feels as if you’re a box of puzzle pieces that don’t seem to fit together?’
‘Oh, I’m pretty sure half my puzzle pieces are missing,’ Fran said, smiling at the amusement blossoming in his expression.
‘I’m told I’m a great listener, if you want to talk about it,’ he said.
As the kilometres passed, Johnny listened to her truncated life story, the lack of a father when she grew up, the loss of her mother. Her love of reworking vintage furniture to give it a new life, a new purpose. He’d seemed genuinely impressed when she’d shown him photos of the pieces she’d completed, holding the phone for him to take snatched looks in between focusing on the road. Fran gave a bland version of how she’d ended up working at the chateau, staring through the window as she’d hidden the details far more efficiently than she had managedwith Penny. Unsure why she still felt the need to keep it all so close to her chest.
Fran had done her best to gloss over her one and only attempt at a long-term relationship, even though her experience with Victor had damaged or destroyed a fair few of her puzzle pieces. She appreciated the way Johnny had likened life to a jigsaw puzzle; it made a lot of sense. She also liked the way he hadn’t pushed her for extra information, seemed completely at ease with whatever she felt comfortable to give. The way he’d seemed to realise when she had come to the end of what she was willing to talk about, picking up from her story with an explanation of the way his business had come about, because of his love of wines, his determination to search out excellent vintages for people to enjoy.
Fran remembered journeys like this with Victor. Except they’d never been anything like this. With him everything was noisy, busy, always loud music or conversation. Victor would take calls on speakerphone and ignore her for long stretches of time. Or he would expect her to be able to explain away any one of the many dissatisfactions in his life. There were demands for refreshments, or quibbles with the satnav, or time checks. Constant noise and tension. Constant subtle criticism of everything, so subtle that Fran hadn’t even been aware of how often it had been aimed at her.
It had taken Fran so long to work out what was hiding behind all the noise.
By comparison, this journey was calm. Johnny drove in the same way as he seemed to approach everything, with a gentle humour and good-natured acceptance. As though he had all the time in the world.
His attitude remained unchanged when they arrived at the extraordinarily grand Chateau d’Ussé. Fran was expecting himto take charge, to decide what they would see and how much time would be allowed. It took Fran a while to recognise the difference. Johnny wasn’t Victor. Johnny wasn’t here under sufferance because she’d twisted his arm to make the journey. Johnny wasn’t instantly judgmental about the state of the car park, or how far they had to walk, or how much everything cost. Fran insisted on paying entry for them both, as a thank you for his having driven them to the chateau, but it still took her a while to notice the lack of a mantle of control. A while to appreciate the fact that she was free to appreciate her surroundings.
Occasional glances reassured her that Johnny was also enjoying the visit.
Everything it was possible to imagine a chateau to be, or expect it to have, was there in abundance. Nestling on the edge of a forest, the enormous building was dotted with creamy tower after tower, bright grey slate tiles on the myriad of roof angles catching the sun and shade in equal measures. The inspiration forSleeping Beautywas everywhere Fran looked.
If she thought she’d had to crick her neck to look at the towers of their own hotel, she’d had no idea what the reality of this place was going to be like. None of the photos she’d seen came anywhere close to doing it justice. Once it was possible to absorb anything past the sheer scale of the buildings, Fran began to notice smaller details. The way the buildings were surrounded by enormous swathes of gravel, and formal gardens. An arched bridge spanning the river. The amazing views of the countryside across the water.
Inside, they’d walked through the musty cellars, vaulted ceilings carved out of the local limestone rock. Ancient wine barrels lined one wall, fascinating Johnny and holding his attention until Fran had startled him when she’d noticed the first of the wax figures by the original wine press and grabbedhis arm. Her consternation made Johnny laugh, and the joke continued as they toured part of the main building, where wax figures proliferated.
‘They’re everywhere,’ Fran said, the horror in her voice only partly in jest.
‘They’re truly terrible,’ Johnny replied, pointing to a group. ‘Look at that lot. Like something from a zombie movie.’
‘Oh, God. Now you’ve said that I’m not sure I can stay in here much longer. I keep thinking I see them move.’
Johnny chuckled. ‘Exit’s over there. If they start groaning, make a run for it.’
Fran had wanted to take some time admiring the furniture, had wanted to see if she could tell which pieces were original and which had been reupholstered, or had needed restoration. If the work had been done well enough, she supposed she wouldn’t be able to tell, but now all she wanted to do was get outside into the fresh air, to bask in the heat of the afternoon sun, where there was no danger of being close to any reanimated corpses. Logic had scarpered as soon as mention of zombies had been made. She said as much to Johnny, and after they’d enjoyed an ice cream in the sunshine, they both conceded they should probably head back to Chateau les Champs d’Or, anyway.
With a little under fifty kilometres left of their return journey, Johnny glanced across.
‘Fran, would you mind if we took a bit of a detour? There’s something I really want to show you.’
