I snigger. ‘Both?’
‘Great idea.’ She gestures for me to help her up and when she is planted on both of her feet, we walk arm in arm towards the hotel.
Chateau Eleanor perches on the edge of the Bastide with two square turrets flanking the white stone front. It is one of the only buildings that looks like it has met an architect in the last three hundred years and has been restored into one of the only hotels in a five-mile radius. Normally buildings like this would be left to decompose until they were worth less than a modern little three-bed on the outskirts of town, but this place has managed to escape that fate.
She points to a quiet corner by the fire with two small sofas and I slump myself down in the closest one. Without having to ask, a waiter brings over a pot of tea.
‘And two martinis please.’ She points to the bar. ‘Better make them strong,’ she whispers to the young man with a wink. He nods approvingly and scurries off.
‘So…’ she starts, pouring some tea out of the pot and into the cup. ‘Care to tell me whothatwas?’ She puts the teapot back and without asking, adds two sugar cubes. ‘I had thought some long-lost lover until he mentioned the family bit.’
I force out a sharp laugh and shake my head. ‘God no.Thatwas my brother-in-law. Or ex-brother-in-law. I’m not really sure what happens when your only connection together is dead.’
The American pours out some milk and then holds the cup up, looking me in the eye for the first time since we got here.
‘When was the last time you spoke?’
I take the cup. ‘The funeral.’
‘I’m guessing they weren’t close.’
‘I always got the distinct impression that being related was nothing more than a major inconvenience for the both of them.’
‘I think you’ve just explained a vast majority of sibling relationships.’
‘Well they were something else. Whilst I guess you could call this place their hometown, they grew up all over the place. Their dad was a diplomat and their mum was happy to be anywhere other than stuck at home with her boys. Ettie always thought his mum had children because she felt like it was the right thing to do. She was young, she wanted travel and dinners and once she realised that children didn’t exactly fit in with that lifestyle it was a little too late. To be honest, I think it’s why Ettie and I never really imagined ourselves having kids; he didn’t want to risk the same thing happening to them.’
The American takes a gulp of her tea.
‘They spent their summers in the area but were sent off to boarding school to try to give them some consistency, but from what Ettie told me it was a rather torturous childhood.’ Some people get seated next to us and my monologue is interrupted by the scraping of chairs on the stone floors. ‘Sorry, this must be pretty boring, I should stop.’ I blush but The American shakes her head so fervently that I think she might lose an earring.
‘Honey, I love nothing more than a good old family saga. I’ll tell you mine one day.’ I try to gauge whether she’s being serious but I don’t think this woman is capable of being insincere.
‘Well, their dad died when the boys were in their twenties and gave them some money. Florian used his to go to art school in Bordeaux, which he was actually quite good at until the money started evaporating; turns out he’d fallen into the role of tortured artist a little too well.’
The American leans over, clearly intrigued. ‘Drugs?’
I nod. ‘Yes, there were drugs.’
‘Was it bad?’
I pull at my sleeves. Despite the hot fury that has been hibernating under my apathy for Ettie’s family for the last three years, it’s difficult to ignore the guilt about spilling someone else’s secrets. I grimace, choose to stick to the facts. ‘Yes, it got bad, really bad. It was this constant cycle of getting so bad that he had no choice but to try to do something about it, so he’d get clean for a while before the whole cycle would start again. Ettie and him fell out big time over it. The last Grenaud family meal we had together ended up in an actual fist fight.’
‘And that was the last time your husband saw him?’
‘Not quite. He turned up at the café three months before Ettie died, completely fucked—’ I pause, waiting for a reprimand of my language, but it doesn’t come. ‘He had his face all bashed in, bloody nose, black eye, fractured cheekbone. He stayed with us for a night until Ettie drove him back. We were trying to buy the lease off the owner of the café, almost had the money together too, but the day Ettie took him to Bordeaux, the account was empty. Ettie played it off at first until I threatened to call the police and he told me in no uncertain terms that that wasn’t going to happen. When we both calmed down, he said that one day he would tell me what happened, but… well… then three months later he was dead, so I guess I’m never going to find out.’ It’s cathartic to let it all tumble out. Cathartic and exhausting in equal measure. I look around for the waiter, hopeful that the drink will be making itself known in the near future.
The American reaches for my hand, squeezes it tightly. ‘I’m sorry, Ava.’
‘It’s okay. It’s Ettie’s fault for being so stubborn,’ I smirk. ‘It would have never dawned on him that he would be the one in the body bag before his fortieth birthday.’ The American lets out a sad little sigh and I feel everything slow down, my heart coming back into a manageable rhythm, my breath returning to me. ‘I just never thought that Florian would come back here. Ettie said that he’d spent his entire life trying to run from it, why come back now?’
‘You could always ask him?’ she suggests.
‘No.’ I shake my head fervently. ‘I don’t want to hear anything he has to say.’ The waiter delivers the martini to the table. I grab it off the tray before he has a chance to set it down on the coaster and finish it in three large gulps.
I watch as The American smiles and then leans over to the waiter, stroking his arm. ‘Laurent, you better make up another.’
Chapter 8
