7
FRANCE – FOUR WEEKS LATER
Late afternoon the day before the writers’ retreat began, Guy followed Sandy around the villa as she did a final check that everything met with her high standards. He suppressed a smile. He should be irritated that even after all their hard work over the past weeks – and Sandy had worked alongside him and the villa cleaning team tirelessly – she still found it necessary to run her finger along the top of the bedroom doors checking for dust. But his irritation was tempered by the knowledge that Sandy had turned out to be as much a perfectionist as he was.
He’d engaged a team of professional cleaners to go through the place from top to bottom, including the kitchen. All the bed linen had been sent to the laundry, together with the curtains from throughout the villa. Everywhere was so shiny clean, the brightness almost made his eyes hurt. The cleaning company had promised to send two ‘femmes de menage’ daily to keep the villa up to standard for the duration of the retreat.
The beds were made up with crisp white bed linen, the marble in the en suite bathrooms glistened and luxury bathrobes with their Villa Celestia monogrammed pockets hung neatly on their hooks. A small vase of flowers stood on every dressing table. Guy felt proud as he looked around and knew that the villa looked as inviting and as good as it ever had when open as a ‘restaurant with rooms’.
Jacqueline would be so pleased to see it open again. He immediately shut down the thought of Jacqueline. She was gone. He was alone now, and as much as he wished he didn’t have to, he had to try to move on. Being busy for the last four weeks, he acknowledged to himself, had done a lot to shake him out of his lethargy. He had to try and keep the memories, the unanswered questions at bay for the next couple of weeks.
Downstairs, he looked at Sandy. ‘Aperitif on the terrace? Celebrate a job well done.’
‘Great idea,’ Sandy said enthusiastically.
Five minutes later after she’d carefully placed her folder of papers on the terrace table and they were both sitting in comfortable wicker chairs, Sandy raised her glass.
‘Here’s to Villa Celestia’s first writers’ retreat. Thank you so much, Guy, for getting me out of a massive problem.’
Guy touched her glass with his own. ‘Happy to help.’
‘The villa is looking great and the gardeners have done an amazing job. I love the sound of water in a garden,’ Sandy said, looking at the fountain. ‘This long teak table under the pergola is perfect for everyone to gather around for meals alfresco too.’
‘I’m still not convinced that your women will welcome the communal eating side of things. What if they don’t get on? Smaller tables would mean they could avoid anyone they don’t click with.’
Sandy laughed. ‘Writers on the whole are a friendly bunch. I’ve not had a retreat yet where people didn’t welcome the opportunity of mixing and networking with other writers. I do admit, though, that there have been some heated book discussions in the past.’
‘Anyone coming that I will have heard of?’ Guy asked curiously. ‘Not that I’m a big reader.’
‘Isobel Peters, the thriller writer, and Elisabeth James, women’s contemporary author, are coming and Lorraine Barker, who is a successful self-published author of romantasy books. The other three are all aspiring writers.’
‘I seem to remember a couple of Elisabeth James books on Jacqueline’s bedside table. In fact, I think there are two on the book shelves in the hallway,’ Guy said. ‘What time will people be arriving tomorrow?’
Sandy checked her folder. ‘Between two and three o’clock. Don’t worry, I’ll be here to greet everyone and help to settle them in. Afternoon tea with a welcoming glass of champagne out here at four o’clock and then dinner at eight. I haven’t booked anywhere yet for the last evening, which is always a special meal,’ she added quietly, hoping that Guy would agree to do it, but he simply shook his head at her.
He was not ready to meet with clients or to face sympathy from strangers; he would handle his grief and inner turmoil himself. It had to fade eventually and simply become part of his past.
Sandy finished her wine and stood up. ‘Romain is taking me out to dinner this evening before it all starts, so I’d better get home. I’ll see you in the morning.’
* * *
After Sandy had left, Guy took the wine glasses into the kitchen and carefully washed and dried them before putting them away. Leaning back against the rail of the large cooker, he surveyed the kitchen. His domain for so many years. His happy place. When he’d told Sandy he was happy to help, he realised it was the truth, although there was more than a hint of sorrow still hanging around in his subconscious, stopping him from being more involved in the retreat.
Guy looked around the pristine kitchen and remembered busy evenings when everyone had been on a high, buzzing with the adrenaline of being part of a creative team determined to do their best and send nothing but food, perfect in every way, out into the restaurant. He smiled ruefully to himself. Those days had gone. Died with Jacqueline. Did he miss them? Yes, they had been his life for so long. Did he miss the constant stress, of timing different parts of a meal to be ready at the exact moment they were needed to be put on the plate? The stress of making sure everyone did their job to the best of their ability? No. He didn’t miss any of that. Did he miss the exhilaration of a job well done at the end of the evening as the compliments flowed into the chef? He gave a mental shrug. He remembered being too tired to do more than simply mutter a quiet ‘Thank you. Glad you enjoyed your meal.’ Running a restaurant was not a job for the faint-hearted, it was damned hard work.
It would be interesting to compare how Sandy’s informal retreat measured up to the more formal atmosphere of the restaurant that he was used to. It was going to be a different fortnight, that was for sure, with only women guests. With a little luck, none of the writers would ever have heard of Villa Celestia or Guy Lyon the chef and wouldn’t be expecting Michelin-starred meals. The food he planned to provide would of course be good, wholesome and presented beautifully. He toyed with the idea for a moment of removing his Michelin awards from the hallway before deciding against it. The villa itself with its luxurious bedrooms would surely be enough to make the women feel special like his guests in the past. Besides, weren’t most writers impoverished, enjoying only rare visits to posh restaurants?
8
Romain, pulling Sandy’s suitcase, and Sandy, with Twiggy on her lead, walked down to Villa Celestia after lunch on Saturday. After putting her case in the small bedroom at the top of the villa next to the door markedprivatethat hid the stairs that led to Guy’s apartment, the two of them went back downstairs to find Guy. There had been no sign of him as they’d walked through the villa and up the stairs and Sandy was immediately on tenterhooks, hoping that he hadn’t done a runner at the last minute, regretting his offer of help.
Mentally, she shook her head. No, Guy wouldn’t do that. He might be reluctant now that the day of guests arriving was here, but she was ninety-nine per cent confident that he wouldn’t let her down at the last minute. She couldn’t stop herself from crossing her fingers, though, just in case.
To her relief, the Guy who greeted them with a smile when they found him out on the terrace about to switch on the fountain after the gardeners had cleaned it looked like the Guy she knew and remembered – smartly dressed, handsome and charismatic.
‘Hi. Ready for the fun to begin?’ Sandy said.
‘That’s your department – I’m just providing the food,’ Guy said. ‘And staying out of the way, remember?’ he added.
