‘I’ll be in trouble too? For leaving the door open? Well, I suppose you might be right. Although I think you’ll be the one in the most trouble. After all, I didn’t realise you’d sneak in like this, did I?’
This time, Red allowed Fran to tickle his chin. Maybe it was the wonderfully soporific coolness of the space, or maybe the cat enjoyed a conversation. Either way, Fran edged onto her knees and was able to stroke the back of Red’s head, then work her fingers along his back. His coat was luxurious, soft to the touch like a plush fabric toy. But the cat was thin. Really thin. She could feel every knobble on his spine as her hand moved down its length.
She edged forwards, aiming to slip her hands around the cat and attempt to lift him, but before she could do so, Penny appeared around the end of the rack, and everyone startled.
Red leapt to his feet and shot off. Penny chased after him, hissing and clapping. She turned. ‘Come on – it’s heading in the right direction.’
‘I almost had hold of him …’
‘This is quicker,’ Penny said, clapping again. The cat headed for the steps like his tail was on fire and Fran felt a twinge of anger.
‘Stop it. Don’t frighten him.’ It was clearly too late for that. They took the stairs up from the cellar at a run, catching sight of the cat as he pelted for an open doorway and disappeared out into the bright sunlight.
‘Mischief managed,’ Penny said, closing the door with a decisive click. She checked her watch. ‘Right, let’s get the turndowns done.’
Maybe it was the heat, maybe it was the fact that Fran, to be blunt, had become unused to this level of physical work. Or maybe it was the fact that Red was out there, somewhere, hungry and with his opinion of humans at rock bottom again. Whatever the reason, by the time dinner was being served in the chateau restaurant Fran’s mood had nosedived.
It had been on the tip of her tongue since they’d left the cellar to explain to Penny exactly who she was and why she should be being seated at one of the beautifully decked-out dining-room tables, not taking the flaming orders.
Twice she’d headed for Madame Beaufoy’s office, to explain the mix-up and ask to be shown to the room which would have been booked for her. It must be temptingly empty right now.
Something had stopped her from heading for the office, though. And the fact that she couldn’t nail what was stopping her had added to her dark mood.
Maybe it was simply that this whole scenario had been her own idea, and what did it say about her if she couldn’t even follow through with her own plan for more than a few hours?
Fran wondered how long they would hold that room for a guest who never showed up. If she was determined to see this plan through, she would need to email the hotel and cancel the booking.
Now dressed in a tight black blouse with matching short skirt, and – for the love of God in this heat – tights, she was in the dining room. Ironically, she had just delivered two bowls of celery soup to table three before she headed across to a group of men on table six who looked as though they might be ready to order. At last. They had been quick enough to order wine fromthe sommelier, she noticed, but having already been over to their table twice with a basket of bread with a selection of oils for dipping, and then with bottles of sparkling water, she had the feeling they were messing her about. If they knew what wines they wanted, it stood to reason they’d chosen them to match with their meal choices, didn’t it?
Maybe she should have waited for them to call her over, but with seven tables to watch, and table four almost ready for dessert, she wanted to get their orders into the kitchen.
‘Have you gentlemen decided yet?’ Fran laced her question with her largest, politest smile.
‘Have we?’ The loudest of the group glanced around, then turned to her. ‘I have. I’m having the scallops followed by the biggest steak you’ve got. Medium rare. And for the record …Gentlemen? I’ll take that as a compliment, but I’m not sure you should extend the label to the rest of this rabble.’ He grinned. A confident expression on a face Fran couldn’t deny was well structured.
Fran allowed herself a mental eye roll at his comment. ‘Sauté or dauphinoise potatoes?’
‘Chips. Not French fries. Big fat chips.’ He closed his menu and handed it to her. ‘Thanks.’
Fran took a breath, unsure how the request would be greeted in the kitchen. ‘Of course, sir.’
‘Johnny, what about you?’
As Fran turned her attention to the next man, she realised she recognised him. There was a flicker of a frown as he looked at her, whether because he also recognised her or because he was still in a bad mood, Fran had no idea. But it seemed to have become evident that he hadn’t been given the honeymoon suite on purpose. From their body language she could tell that the members of the group knew one another well, but it looked farmore likely they were here on business. They definitely weren’t acting as though they were couples, or even here on holiday.
The guy – Johnny – recovered his expression and glanced again at the menu. ‘I’m going with an antipasti platter to start and then I might have the sole meunière. Would you recommend it?’
‘I think you’ll find everything from the Chateau des Champs d’Or kitchens will be exceptional, sir,’ she said, having to catch herself at the line she’d heard so many times, repeated across the globe in Wilding Holdings hotels.
‘OK, I’ll go for it. And unlike Noel, I’m more than happy to have sauté potatoes with that.’
‘Excellent choice.’ Fran smiled as she noted his request.
With the rest of their orders logged, Fran cleared dishes from table three promising to be back with dessert menus and headed for the kitchen. The pace was relentless. No sooner had she returned to the inferno of a kitchen, other dishes were ready for service. Ignoring the banging and clattering coming from the chefs, their voices raised in what seemed like a perpetual altercation of some kind, Fran scooped and turned, narrowly missing another of the wait staff coming the other way.
She took the starters for table six out in two batches, serving two delicate pots filled with rillette and melba toast to the other two men before bringing the antipasti for Johnny and the trio of scallops for Noel. As she lowered the scallops, one slid in the sauce, heading dangerously close to the rim and Fran jerked to keep it from falling into Noel’s lap as she set the bowl down.
‘That was a close call, I could have been wearing my dinner,’ Noel said, a touch too loudly. And as Fran walked away, he added, ‘Good job she’s cuter than hell, eh, boys?’ with enough volume for her to be able to hear. He started to laugh, and although she wanted to keep walking, to ignore him and notgive him the satisfaction of having noticed, she glanced back. Noel was watching her, eyes dancing with amusement as he winked at her. And the others were laughing, too. Enjoying the moment. All except Johnny, who wore a different expression. Johnny seemed not to have registered the comment. Instead of finding amusement, he wore a look of distraction, as though his thoughts hovered far away from the dining room of the Chateau les Champs d’Or. As though none of them even existed.
