Something in Penny’s tone didn’t have Fran as convinced. ‘Are you sure?’
Penny shrugged. ‘Take as long as you like.’
‘What’s wrong? You’ve all but ignored me all day. Have I done something to upset you?’
‘Not everything revolves around you, Fran. Go. Enjoy your outing.’
‘I’ll only be a couple of hours. We’ll talk when I get back, OK?’
‘If you like.’
Fran hadn’t any idea how long they were likely to be, and in all honesty, she didn’t care. For the first time since she took on this undercover role and had felt the pressing weight of guilt at abandoning Madame Beaufoy and the hotel staff once she had to leave, Fran realised the responsibility she’d burdened herself with when she decided to become a member of staff wasn’t uppermost in her thoughts. Chateau des Rêves was. No, that wasn’t quite accurate. Johnny was. But Penny’s flatness wasn’t to be ignored. Something was wrong and, on her return, Fran resolved to do her best to find out what had upset her new friend.
For now, she was eager to tell Johnny she was coming, didn’t want him to head off without her.
Maybe Penny’s quietness was to do with Fran’s admission about working for Wilding Holdings, however benevolent Penny had appeared to be when she’d confided the information. If thatwas the case, Fran would do her best to reassure Penny that her intentions were good. Or perhaps something else was to blame.
The first time Fran had caught sight of Chateau des Rêves, she’d been mystified as to the change of gears between the enormous Chateau d’Ussé with all its sprawling splendour and the, by comparison, pocket-rocket-but-shambolic version Johnny had been so keen to share with her. Whereas, on a second visit Fran couldn’t help but understand. Chateau des Rêves was far more beautiful than she’d remembered, even though she’d been impressed enough the first time around.
This time, she didn’t register the cracked planters, the dead ivy clinging to walls and balustrades like a long-deceased but many-tentacled sea monster, the broken panes of glass in the long-since abandoned glasshouse, white paint peeling from its rotten wooden struts. She saw it all, as she had the first time, but this time she was seeing the place as it could be.
She pulled some of the dead foliage from the carved balustrade of the stone steps, removing more and more of it to reveal a little part of the place’s former glory. The stone wouldn’t need much work, past removing all the debris covering it. The long-standing mottling of lichen and age suited it, sat well on the stone alongside the gentle curves of the carving.
The sound of an approaching car had Fran turning her attention to the driveway, and she noticed Johnny’s gaze on her, on her handful of dead ivy. His expression was so calm, the crinkle at the corners of his eyes the only hint of a smile as he asked her if she planned to clear the whole staircase. She dropped her handful of ivy onto the pile and pulled again.
‘It’s lovely, isn’t it?’ she said, holding his gaze.
‘We’re going to need a gardener, too,’ he said, his voice so soft she almost missed his words.
We.
Fran dragged her gaze away from him as a sensible French hatchback pulled up alongside Johnny’s hire car and a shirt-sleeved, salt-and-peppered fifty-something guy climbed from the driver’s side, ducking back inside to retrieve an iPad and a bundle of keys. Once he was standing upright, he smiled, the deep crow lines framing his eyes suggesting it was an expression he found easy.
‘Monsieur Taylor?’
‘Oui.’ Johnny met him halfway across the turning circle, hand outstretched. ‘You are Monsieur Blanc?’
‘C’est ça. But please call me Henri.’ After shaking Johnny’s hand, he turned to Fran. ‘Madame Taylor,enchanté.’
‘No, Fran isn’t …’
‘I’m not …’
Even though they were both speaking at the same time, Fran couldn’t help but notice the intensity of Johnny’s denial, the firmness with which he told Henri Blanc just how much she wasn’t his wife.
Henri shook his head, his smile gaining in intensity as he tapped the side of his nose.
‘My apologies. This is none of my business. Because we are simply here to fall in love with Chateau des Rêves, aren’t we?’
With a flourish of the hand holding a jangle of keys, Henri gestured to the front elevation, his smile intensifying.
‘Elle est magnifique, n’est-ce pas?’
Fran didn’t need the words translated – she might not be a whizz at languages like Johnny, but it didn’t take a genius to get the gist. And Henri was right, the building was magnificent.
‘We go in, I think?’ Henri added.
‘That would be great, thank you,’ Johnny said. ‘We managed to have a good look around the outside when we were here before.’
