‘I’m not really good company at the moment.’
‘That’s because you are out of practice.’
Guy swallowed a sigh. This unwanted conversation with Sandy was exactly why he had shut himself off from the world. ‘Have you finished your coffee? I’ll show you out.’
‘I need to talk to you about something,’ Sandy said, realising that Guy had shut the conversation down. ‘Something I need your help with.’
‘Go on, ask away, but I’m not promising anything.’ Guy picked up Twiggy and cuddled her as he waited to hear Sandy’s question.
‘The next one of our writer retreats is a month away,’ Sandy said, looking at him. ‘With five writers signed up for the fortnight and another one deciding this weekend.’ She hesitated, clearly unsure about continuing.
‘I’m pleased for you and Romain, you’ve worked hard to establish your business as the go-to writers’ retreat,’ Guy said into the silence. ‘But I’m not sure why you’re telling me this?’
‘We have a major problem with this one. The villa we’ve used for the past four years has been having some refurbishments this spring. Last week, they had a plumbing disaster. One of the renovated bathrooms on the first floor had a burst pipe that flooded the kitchen below and brought the ceiling down, ruining most of the units. Consequently, the villa is unavailable for at least the next six weeks. Finding another available villa is proving impossible; everyone already has bookings.’ Sandy took a deep breath. ‘So we were hoping?—’
Holding Twiggy in the crook of his left arm, Guy held up his right hand. ‘Stop right there. Do not put it into words. I know what you are hoping. I’m sorry. The answer is no.’
‘Not even to help some old friends out?’ Sandy asked quietly, looking at him. ‘You were my last resort.’
Guy closed his eyes and his shoulders slumped at her words. ‘I just can’t and I’m truly sorry because you and Romain have been so supportive of me.’ He let out a deep breath. ‘I genuinely feel terrible, but it’s an impossible ask.’ He held Twiggy out and Sandy took her before turning to leave.
‘Well, it was worth a try. I’ll see myself out. If you do change your mind in the next forty-eight hours, you know where we are.’ She sighed. ‘Romain said you wouldn’t do it, said I shouldn’t even bother asking. But I truly didn’t think you’d refuse to help out friends in dire need when you own the very thing we need desperately. Bye, Guy. Look after yourself.’
2
Guy threw the now cold pieces of toasted baguette away, made another coffee and slowly climbed the stairs to the small sitting room next to his bedroom in his apartment on the top floor. Opening the French doors, he stepped out onto the roof terrace and sat down on the cane settee, its cushions covered in traditional Provençal material scattered with lemons, grapes and olives. Jacqueline’s choice.
He loved it up here. They both had. Escaping up here away from guests, staff and work at every opportunity. And definitely every evening when the restaurant closed and any guests staying were safely tucked up in bed. It had been their secret haven. His solitary haven for the last eight months. He’d lived between the kitchen down on the ground floor, the bedroom up here with its en suite, the sitting room and this terrace. All other rooms throughout the villa had been closed off and ignored. The roof terrace had been the one place he had taken care of. He’d even remembered to water the plants that were up here; plants that Jacqueline had planted. He wasn’t going to let them die as well.
He glanced at the purple bougainvillaea in its old terracotta olive oil urn climbing against the back wall of the house, the blue plumbago by the French doors and the white agapanthus in the far sunny corner of the terrace. Jacqueline’s favourite hanging egg chair nearby swayed a little in the gentle on-shore breeze. Guy closed his eyes and could see Jacqueline curled up in it lost in a paperback.
He wished he could forget about Sandy’s visit. But he couldn’t. Romain telling Sandy she was wasting her time even asking for his help had stung. Her own belief that he wouldn’t refuse. Like their wives were best friends, Guy and Romain had been mates for years, helping each other out whenever the need arose. He knew he was being a total bastard not helping Sandy and Romain out, but it was impossible to even think about re-opening Villa Celestia without Jacqueline at his side. Whilst he stayed mainly in the kitchen, Jacqueline had been the public face of the place they’d created together.
As a young chef, he’d worked internationally gaining experience in some of the most prestigious hotels in places like London, New York, Dubai and Monaco. Working hard, saving what money he could, dreaming all the time about owning his own restaurant somewhere in the English countryside, Dorset or possibly Devon. Originally a simple restaurant was his dream, but meeting French-born Jacqueline whilst working in New York had turbocharged everything. Where he dreamt small and intimate, she dreamt big and glamorous. She encouraged him to think big and dream even bigger. Which was how they came to buy an almost derelict old villa in Antibes twenty years ago. They both knew it would be a stretch financially and physically, but they were determined to turn it into their dream ‘restaurant with rooms’. Ironically, it was the success of that original dream which had fuelled the problems in their marriage in the last year.
The old villa with its three storeys, original white stucco and large south-facing garden had been dragged into the twenty-first century and renamed Villa Celestia. A professional kitchen was installed, a dining room overlooking the terrace, six double rooms with en suites were created and this private apartment on the top floor with an enviable roof terrace with a view over the Mediterranean. The garden had been partly paved, with tables and chairs placed strategically, a fountain installed and several vibrant blue plumbago plants espaliered against the far wall. Large old terracotta olive oil pots were placed around with trailing white jasmine, smaller ones had blue agapanthus and the pièce de résistance was the ancient olive tree from the original garden. Solar lights were placed in the ground and strung around, creating a romantic dining atmosphere on summer evenings.
Accolades had poured in almost from the first week as customers had flocked to dine in the restaurant and to stay in the comfortable rooms they’d created. Jacqueline had taken charge of the housekeeping side of things and the interior decoration of the six bedrooms, whilst Guy was king of the kitchen. Within five years, Restaurant Celestia was the place to eat in Antibes. Though, increasingly, people regarded it more as a boutique hotel with a fantastic restaurant. The two of them had been the darlings of the A-listers on the Riviera.
Guy had thought they were happy – had a good life together – until Jacqueline wanted more and decided to take a step that changed things irrevocably. A step that had almost instantly led to her death. Leaving him with no chance of talking things through with her.
The months leading up to her death had been difficult, the rows intense, the distance between them growing. The short note she’d left – ‘Going away for a few days – need to talk when I get back’ – had left him none the wiser. Had she decided that their marriage wasn’t worth saving? Or was she going to return for them to try to make it work?
Sometimes he wondered whether Jacqueline had ever talked to Sandy about how she felt and if she knew what her plans had been. Maybe one day he would pluck up the courage to tackle the thorny subject and simply ask, ‘Do you know why Jacqueline was in the taxi that day? Where she was going?’
Finishing his coffee, Guy stood up determinedly. He would not let his thoughts drift into that scenario.
Sandy’s visit had unsettled him. He’d take a shower and try to direct his thoughts away from her and Romain’s need of help. Help he’d refused outright to give them.
Ten minutes later, he was towelling himself dry in the bedroom, his thoughts still a mess, the guilt of not helping a dull ache in his head. Opening the top drawer of the chest of drawers and reaching for a pair of boxers, his gaze fell on the silver framed photograph of him and Jake, his older brother.
‘What would you do, Jake? Back in the day before you went and got yourself killed, you were always good for down-to-earth tips on how to deal with life stuff. I still don’t half miss you, bro. Wish you were still here, that we’d been able to grow older together.’
Guy slammed the drawer shut. He was fifty-five and here he was, talking to a photograph of his brother who had died in a ski-jet accident thirty-five years ago. If he was going to talk to anyone dead, it would make more sense for him to talk to Jacqueline. She at least knew Sandy and Romain.Had known, not knew, Guy corrected himself.
He ran a hand through his damp hair; he didn’t need to talk to Jacqueline, he knew what her automatic reaction would have been to Sandy and Romain’s problem. ‘They’re our friends. Of course we must help them. It’s the right thing – the only thing – we can do.’
His problem, though, was that there was no ‘we’ any more to do the right thing, just him, alone. And he was not sure that he was capable of doing the right thing.
