Читать книгу To Provence, with Love - T Williams A - Страница 9

Chapter One

‘Whew!’

Faye ran her hand across her forehead and it came away damp. The late May weather in London that morning had been cool and overcast, but here in the south of France there wasn’t a cloud in the sky and the high temperatures were even surprising the locals. The little hire car she had picked up at Nice airport was supposed to have air conditioning, but either it was broken or she just hadn’t been able to fathom out how to make it work. Whatever the reason, even with the windows fully open, it was like a furnace in there. But the air-con, she knew full well, wasn’t her only problem. She now had an even more serious one. She was lost.

She braked as she came to an anonymous turning to the right, slowing to little more than walking speed, muttering to herself in frustration as she looked for some indication as to which way to go. Then, as the car drew level with the turnoff, the frustration turned to annoyance. She definitely recognized the rusty old oilcan inverted over the top of a fence post, the red and white paint gradually peeling off in the hot Provençal sunshine. There was no getting away from it. She had definitely driven past this self-same spot only ten minutes earlier.

Giving an exasperated snort, she pulled the car onto the dusty verge at the side of the narrow road, turned off the engine, and reached once again for the map the man at the car hire desk had given her. It wasn’t the most detailed map in the world and she wasn’t the best map reader in the world, but one thing was clear: map or no map, she was lost – lost and alone.

She glanced out of the windows. There wasn’t a single sign of human habitation anywhere – just fields, hills, occasional trees, and the hot, dry road. For a moment, she felt a wave of emotion threatening to overwhelm her and shook her head angrily. She had been miserable enough over the past few months and being alone was nothing new to her. She took a few deep breaths and gripped the steering wheel, trying to work out what to do next. She was here now and she had a problem to solve. Crying wouldn’t help.

As she looked back out through the windscreen, knowing she was going to be late for her interview unless she worked out pretty quickly where she was, a figure accompanied by a big black dog appeared from a gap in the dry stone wall just a short way ahead of her. As she watched, they crossed the road, disappearing up a narrow footpath between two dusty cypress trees.

Faye didn’t hesitate.

Jumping out of the car into the full heat of the sun, she hurried over to the two trees and saw the retreating shoulders of the man a little way ahead of her. She called out, but he didn’t respond, so she cleared her throat and called again, louder. This time she saw first the dog, and then the man, stop and turn round.

‘Hello, please could you help me? I’m lost.’ Even in her best French this sounded pretty pathetic, but she was desperate. To her relief, the man started retracing his steps along the track towards her.

‘Did you say you’re lost?’ From his accent he was from these parts, but his tone wasn’t particularly welcoming. Nevertheless, Faye nodded, praying he would be able to help her. As he reluctantly walked back to her, the dog, a handsome black Labrador, came charging up to her, tail wagging. Just as he looked as though he was going to jump all over her, there was a sharp double whistle and his master’s voice rang out.

‘Viens là.’

The dog stopped dead, only a few feet from Faye, and waited for his master. She was impressed and relieved. She loved dogs, but she was on her way to an interview after all, and the last thing she needed was to be leapt upon by a dog, however friendly his intentions might be. She took a step back and studied the man surreptitiously as he approached.

He was wearing a battered T-shirt that had once advertised a Rolling Stones European tour. From its faded appearance, the tour in question had probably taken place in the years before the surviving members of the group had reached pensionable age – and that was a good while ago. On his feet were equally scruffy trainers and his strong, brown legs ran a long way up before disappearing into his sand-coloured shorts.

Sensing her eyes on him, he looked towards her and, to Faye’s considerable surprise, she realized that he was very, very good-looking. Somehow, out here in the wilds of deepest rural Provence, she hadn’t expected to meet a man whose face could have come off the front cover of a fashion magazine. She swallowed hard before answering.

‘Afraid so. Totally lost. I’m looking for St-Jean-sur-Sarde the chateau to be precise. I was told to follow the signs for St-Jean and then turn right after the restaurant in the centre of the village. Only I can’t seem to find any road signs at all and I’m just going round in circles.’

The man nodded. Satisfied that the dog wasn’t going to jump all over Faye, he released his grip on the collar and reached up to pull off his sunglasses. As he did so, Faye noted the network of lines around his eyes that would no doubt have been airbrushed away by a photographer. As it was, they only served to add character to an already remarkable face.

His eyes met hers for a second before he dropped them again and, in spite of herself, Faye was fascinated. They were the most amazing and unusual colour: a very light yellowy brown. They gave her the surreal sensation of looking into the eyes of a lion or a tiger – and a very fine-looking male of the species, although by the look of him, a rather unhappy male of the species. She was wondering why the expression on his face was so glum when he shot a glance at her, his expression not exactly hostile, but definitely lacking in warmth.

‘The chateau, eh? So, you’ve come to see our local celebrity, have you?’

Faye nodded cautiously, reaching down to pat the dog’s head. ‘I’ve been sworn to secrecy, so all I can tell you is that I’m going to the chateau.’

He nodded approvingly. ‘Quite right. She keeps herself to herself and why not?’ He ran a bronzed hand through his mop of rich chestnut hair and Faye was unable to stifle a brief image of Didier that leapt, unwanted, into her head. There had been a time, not so long ago, when that same simple action from her former boyfriend would have stirred her, but now, after all that had happened, the only stirrings she felt were of anger.

The sadness had finally begun to wear off, and in its place had come resentment and a deep mistrust of men, particularly tall, handsome men. Although she was rational enough to know it was unfair of her, she felt her expression harden towards this Frenchman, but he didn’t appear to notice. ‘Anyway, getting to the chateau’s easy. Just carry on up here for about a kilometre and then turn left by a tumbledown barn. No signs on that junction either, I’m afraid. So, just turn left. Left, okay?’

Just to reinforce the message, he extended his left arm - a strong, brown arm, covered with sun-bleached hair. ‘That’ll take you down to St-Jean and you’ll see the church on your left and the Coq d’Or on your right. Then, just like they told you, turn right straight after it and the chateau’s only a few hundred yards up the road. It’s on a little hill. You can’t miss it.’

Faye gave a sigh of relief. ‘Thank you so much. I had visions of driving round these roads for ever. I’m so glad I came across somebody with local knowledge.’ She caught those amazing tiger eyes once more, but both he and she looked away again immediately.

‘Anyway, now, I must go. Goodbye.’ He gave that same double whistle once more and the dog jumped to his feet. The man and the Labrador had already turned away before she managed to reply.

‘Well, goodbye and thank you.’ Faye stood there and watched the two of them disappear down the track. It wasn’t his fault he had reminded her of Didier. Maybe this man wasn’t a lying, deceitful cheat, but she had no intention of finding out. Shaking her head, she returned to her car and set off in the direction of the chateau of St-Jean-sur-Sarde.

***

The chateau certainly was quite a place. Faye drew up in front of an imposing pair of wrought-iron gates and climbed out to press the bell set in one of the gate pillars. There was no name, just a button. A few seconds later, a yellow light on top of the post began to flash and the gates started to open inwards with a mechanical hum. She jumped back into the car and squeezed carefully through the gates, continuing up a sweeping gravel drive, lined with colourful oleander bushes in full flower – the red, pink, and white contributing to make a striking display. Beyond them was a lush green lawn that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the gardens of Buckingham Palace. Evidently the chateau had its own irrigation system.

She drew up at the foot of a fine stone stairway leading up to the front door and sat in the car for a moment, composing herself and admiring the view. From here she could see right down as far as the limestone cliffs of the hills beyond. Just down the slope from her was the village, a collection of red-tiled roofs clustered around the old church, its square tower pierced with Roman arches.

The heat of the sun had made the air hazy, but she felt pretty sure the dusty line on the horizon might be the mighty Maritime Alps. Although it hardly seemed believable on a day like today, the proximity of the mountains would probably mean cold winters and she wondered, for a moment, whether she would be here to experience that. All round the village the fields were filled with bright green vines and ripening corn, with serried rows of wonderful purple lavender bringing flashes of colour from time to time.

Turning back towards the chateau, she saw that this was even more impressive. It occupied the top of a small hillock and had probably started life more as a fortified castle than a manor house, its powerful stone walls rising up several storeys to a tiled roof. It had no doubt been built at a time when the owner had needed his home to provide protection from his enemies as well as shelter from the elements. It wasn’t absolutely enormous, like some castles Faye had seen, but it was very beautiful.

Over the centuries, window openings had been pierced in the walls and a fine entranceway built, opening out onto the terrace. This terrace extended along the front of the building, punctuated by green and yellow splashes of colour provided by lemon trees in ancient terracotta pots, and a mass of red and pink roses climbing the rugged walls. It was simply stunning.

Of course, Faye thought to herself, that was no surprise. She had been expecting something pretty imposing, after all. The owner of the house, the lady she was here to meet for the first time, was none other than Anabelle Beech, and she was genuine Hollywood royalty. No longer contemporary royalty, but definitely one of the all-time greats. Her name conjured up memories of iconic films of the post-war era, where she had appeared alongside such movie colossi as Humphrey Bogart, Gary Cooper, and James Stewart. Often compared to Grace Kelly as one of the most beautiful women in the world, there was no doubt she would have more than enough small change to buy even a fabulous place like this.

Faye glanced down at the rather short skirt she had chosen, beginning to regret not having dressed up a bit more formally for her first appearance before the great lady. Well, she told herself, it’s too late now.

As she opened the car door, she heard a cacophony of barking and came close to closing the door again and locking it. It sounded as if the Hound of the Baskervilles himself was in there, straining to get out. Cautiously, she made her way up the steps until she was level with the half-glazed front door that was visibly shaking. By this time, Faye was also close to shaking. The door, set into a carved stone surround, was made of sculpted oak and, thankfully, it looked solid, even though the upper half was made up of little square red, white, and blue stained-glass panels. Staring at her through the base of one of these, was the source of the noise.

A shiny black nose and an intimidating set of gleaming white teeth were very much in evidence, as were a pair of bright eyes that studied her approach. Then, as she and the dog made eye contact, the barking suddenly stopped, leaving Faye’s ears ringing. The dog dropped back to the floor, and in place of the barking, she heard low whines emanating from inside.

At that moment, the door was opened by a slim, grey-haired man in jeans and a crisp white T-shirt, his other hand firmly gripping the dog’s collar.

‘Good morning. You must be Faye. We’ve been looking forward to meeting you.’

He spoke in English, with a soft American accent, and he might have been seventy or so. He shot a glance down at the dog, who was wagging his tail so hard, the whole back half of his body was wiggling. ‘You must tell me your secret. I’ve never seen Marlon so pleased to see somebody before. I’ll let him go if you’re all right with dogs. He’ll probably try to jump up at you, but just push him down.’

Faye looked at the dog whose intentions were now unmistakably friendly and nodded her head. ‘Hello, yes, I’m Faye Carter. Do let him go. I’ll be fine.’

A split second later she found herself pinned back against the door by a pair of hefty, mercifully clean, paws – a big hairy Labrador head stretching upwards, a pink tongue trying unsuccessfully to reach her face. Marlon was definitely very, very pleased to see her. She recovered her balance, persuaded the dog to return to all fours, and bent down to stroke him. As if by magic, feeling her touch, he slid down onto the floor and rolled over, all four legs in the air, emitting an assortment of happy canine grunts. His tail was still wagging furiously, doing a very efficient job of sweeping the polished oak floor.

‘That’s quite amazing.’ The grey-haired man was still looking very surprised. ‘We normally have to shut him in the kitchen when somebody comes to the door.’ He stepped to one side and waved her in formally. ‘Anyway, welcome to St-Jean, Faye. My name’s Eddie Marshal. I’m Miss Beech’s PA.’

Faye walked in past him, trying not to trip over the dog. As she did so, she noticed a grey ponytail hanging down Eddie Marshal’s neck – not something normally to be found on an elderly gentleman. On closer inspection, there turned out to be a still-handsome face underneath the lines and wrinkles, and a definite sparkle visible in his pale blue eyes. She smiled back at him and held out her hand. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr Marshal, and did you say his name was Marlon?’

The man accepted her hand and shook it, before nodding towards the dog. ‘Named after the great man himself. Miss Beech knew Brando well and has always admired him. Now, if you’d like to come into the sitting room, I’ll go tell her you’ve arrived. She hasn’t been too well for the past couple of days and she has the nurse with her at the moment, so I’m afraid you might have to wait for a few minutes.’

He led Faye, closely accompanied by the dog, along the corridor, limping slightly as he walked. The walls were lined with paintings – not old masters, as one might have expected in a medieval environment such as this, but modern, abstract and impressionist paintings that, remarkably, sat very well in this antique setting.

At the end of the corridor they turned into a gorgeous high-ceilinged room, furnished with surprisingly modern leather sofas and armchairs. The ceiling was supported by hefty carved beams, the detail of the predominantly floral design picked out in red and gold against the dark wood. The floor was a stunning chequerboard of centuries-old pink and cream terracotta, worn down by the passage of countless feet. At the end of the room was a monumental stone fireplace, supported by sculpted pillars on either side. It was breathtaking.

‘Now, what can I get you?’ Mr Marshal was still standing by the door. ‘Over the years I’ve become pretty good at making cocktails. How about a Manhattan?’

Faye glanced at the time on an antique grandfather clock in one corner of the room. She had got up at the crack of dawn for her flight and it was still only just eleven o’clock, so although it might have helped to soothe her nerves, it was definitely too early for alcohol. She shook her head regretfully. ‘Thank you very much, but as I’m driving back to the airport again this afternoon, I’d better not.’

‘Of course. Well, a coffee maybe, or a cup of tea?’

‘A cup of tea would be lovely, thank you.’

‘Any special type of tea?’

‘Just bog-standard builders’ tea please, with a drop of milk.’

‘“Bog-standard builders’ tea …”’ She saw him smile, savouring the expression. ‘I’m sure we can find some of that. I’ll ask Claudette to bring you a cup.’

As Mr Marshal limped out of the room, leaving Faye vaguely wondering who Claudette might be, the dog trotted over to the fireplace and collapsed onto an exquisite, probably Persian, rug, clearly exhausted by the effusive greeting he had given Faye. Doing her best to control her sense of apprehension, she went over to one of the windows and peeked out onto a lovely, manicured ornamental garden filled with roses. Beyond it was what looked like a swimming pool flanked by lofty palm trees.

What a place, she thought to herself, as she turned back and wandered around the room, stopping to study a mass of photographs in frames that almost filled one wall. There was a clear theme to all of them: Anabelle Beech with John Wayne; Anabelle Beech with JFK; Anabelle Beech at various star-studded ceremonies, grasping a variety of awards, among them one that was unmistakably an Oscar. Every single photograph included Anabelle Beech, never twice wearing the same dress, and in every one, she looked stunning. Faye realized that, if she decided to take the job, she would have a lot of material in these photos right here in front of her.

The letter from the lawyer had come at an opportune moment, barely a week ago. She had arrived back home that Friday night to the house in South London she shared with three other people, feeling physically and mentally drained after the week from hell. Some of the kids had been particularly bolshie, the red tape ever more complex and time-consuming, the parent-teacher evening a nightmare and Miss Dawes, the head teacher, even more objectionable than usual.

Although initially she had loved her job, since the arrival of the ineffectual and vindictive Miss Dawes, Faye had been feeling increasingly frustrated. The break-up with Didier had been the last straw and she had already started looking round for a change of scene, preferably away from the problems of the inner city. Sometimes she would lie in bed at night and dream of teaching a small class of polite, motivated, bright young pupils in a little old stone schoolhouse in the midst of the countryside. So far, that particular dream hadn’t come true.

The solicitor’s message had been brief and intriguing. Almost without preamble, his letter had informed Faye that she had been chosen to assist a famous celebrity in writing her autobiography. The job was likely to take in the region of six months and for her efforts, if she decided to take the job, she would receive the jaw-dropping sum of one hundred thousand pounds upon successful completion of the contract.

There was no explanation as to why she, of all people, had been chosen. All right, she taught English as well as French, and she had self-published her first book, a psychological thriller, a couple of months back. This was now slowly beginning to sell, but it was hardly a bestseller. To be offered such an inordinate amount of money to work with a celebrity was mind-blowing. How on earth had they even heard of her? It was baffling. Nevertheless, she had emailed straight back, indicating her interest, and asking to know more about the job and the celebrity in question.

‘Good morning, mademoiselle. Mr Marshal told me you were hungry. Are you happy to speak French?’ Faye raised her eyes to find a friendly looking lady at the door. She was short, fairly stout, and she was probably in her late fifties or early sixties. Faye nodded her head, noting that this lady’s French accent, like the reticent man with the Labrador she had seen back on the road, was definitely local. ‘My name’s Claudette and I’m the housekeeper. I brought you some tea and a few bits and pieces in case you were hungry.’ Faye’s eyes opened wide as she saw that Claudette was carrying a tray laden with food.

‘That’s ever so kind.’ She held out her hand. ‘My name’s Faye Carter.’

‘Pleased to meet you.’ After putting the tray down on a side table, Claudette shook hands with her. ‘You speak good French. Do you live over here?’

Faye shook her head. ‘No, I live in London, but I teach French and English.’ She could have added that she had also had a French boyfriend until a few months ago, but decided to leave Didier, the unfaithful womanizer, out of it. In fact, if she had been able to wipe Didier right out of her life and her memory for ever, that would have been even better, but that, she knew, would never be possible.

Suppressing a sigh, she let her eyes flit down to the table and she could hardly believe the quantity of biscuits and cake Claudette had brought in. There was a movement by her feet and the Labrador appeared as if by magic and positioned himself close by, nostrils flaring. Claudette looked down at him. ‘Don’t worry about Marlon. He won’t steal food from the table, but I’d advise you not to give him any bits or he’ll never let you alone. Always hungry, he is …’

‘Merci, Claudette.’ Mr Marshal materialized at the door so silently that even the dog jumped at the sound of his voice. ‘Faye, is there anything else you require?’

‘No, goodness, no. This is amazing. Thank you so much.’

He nodded and turned to Claudette, addressing her in fluent French. ‘Then we’re fine, thank you, Claudette.’

‘Just call if you need anything else. See you later, mademoiselle.’ Claudette gave Faye a brief smile and scuttled off.

Mr Marshal walked slowly across the room until he adopted a relaxed position with his back to the fireplace, leaning against the stone pillar at the side for support. ‘So, you and Miss Beech are going to write a book?’

Faye made her way over to the table and nodded. ‘That’s right – if she wants me.’ She risked a direct question. ‘I don’t suppose you know why she picked me, do you?’

There was a momentary hesitation before Mr Marshal shook his head. ‘She knows lots of people – important people. I imagine somebody must have recommended you.’

This shot even more uncertainty into Faye’s head. Anabelle Beech might well know lots of important people, but Faye was pretty sure she, herself, didn’t. But there was no chance to enquire further as a uniformed nurse appeared at the door, a bag in her hand.

‘Monsieur Marshal, I’ve finished. Miss Beech says for her visitor to go right up.’ Her eyes strayed to the table full of food and Faye saw Mr Marshal’s face crack into a hint of a smile.

‘Do come in and help yourself to a cup of tea or coffee, while I show Faye up to Miss Beech’s room.’ He turned to Faye. ‘Now, Faye, if you’d like to follow me, I’ll take you up to see Miss Beech.’

Faye gave the nurse a smile as they crossed paths and she followed Mr Marshal out into the hall and over to the imposing stone stairway. On either side of the stairs were suits of shining armour, standing there like soldiers on guard.

‘Convincing, aren’t they? These are props from one of Miss Beech’s historical romances.’ Mr Marshal reached out and tapped one as they passed. Instead of a metallic clang, there was just a hollow clunk. Faye followed suit and found herself grinning.

‘Totally convincing. I was expecting you to tell me they’d been made for a medieval knight by the royal armoury.’

‘Nothing so exotic, I’m afraid. As I remember, these were made by a firm in Long Beach, California, who normally made surfboards.’

‘Long Beach, California, sounds pretty exotic to me.’ As did this whole place.

Mr Marshal climbed the steps slowly, taking them one at a time, his legs clearly giving him trouble. Once they finally reached the first floor landing, he led her down a wood-panelled corridor a short way to a bedroom door. When they got there, he paused briefly, gave a little tap on the door and, without waiting for a reply, ushered Faye inside.

‘Here’s Faye come to see you, Anabelle.’ At that moment, Faye felt a warm body slip past her legs and head over to the bed. ‘And Marlon’s come too.’

‘Well I never. Fancy Marlon leaving his favourite rug.’ The voice came from the bed.

‘He seems to have taken a real shine to Faye.’ Mr Marshal indicated a chair set beside the bed. ‘Do, please, take a seat, Faye. Claudette will be up shortly with some more tea. Anabelle, can I get you anything?’

‘No, thank you, Eddie. I’m fine.’ As he left the room, Miss Beech beckoned to Faye. ‘Come over and sit by me, Faye. Please.’

As Faye walked across the room towards the bed, she did her best to process the impressions she was receiving. The room was huge, with a high ceiling, and there was what looked like an old tapestry covering one wall. She couldn’t see very well as the louvred shutters were closed against the heat of the sun, and the light that filtered through cast geometric stripes across the floor as far as the bed. This was a quite magnificent four-poster and in the bed was a little figure, propped up against three or four crisp white pillows. The voice was low, but clear, and the accent unmistakably English.

As for Miss Beech herself, as Faye drew nearer, she saw that the beautiful, alluring young girl of the photos downstairs had now morphed into an old lady. A few hours spent on the internet earlier in the week had told her that Miss Beech was now in her early eighties, but even so, in spite of her advanced years, she was still a very good-looking woman. Her blonde hair was now silver, but had been pinned up on her head in a style recognizable from the photographs. She was even wearing diamond studs in her ears. More importantly, she was smiling. This came as a considerable relief to Faye, whose biggest worry had been that she might find herself having to deal with a spoilt, irascible diva.

‘Do sit down, my dear.’ Far from irascible, Miss Beech sounded warm and agreeable as she waved Faye into the chair beside her bed, nodding approvingly as she took a better look at her. ‘You’re such a very pretty girl, Faye. I love your hair. Is that your natural colour?’

Faye had had blonde hair as a little girl and it was still a very light brown now. She nodded. ‘Yes, this is the real me.’

‘And how old are you?’

‘I’m twenty-eight.’

Miss Beech gave a little sigh. ‘Ah, how I’d love to be twenty-eight again.’

Faye didn’t give her time to become nostalgic. Remembering how the housekeeper and the PA had referred to their employer, Faye summoned her most enthusiastic voice. ‘Miss Beech, I’m most terribly excited to meet you. I’d already seen a number of your films and since I heard you wanted to interview me, I’ve downloaded some more and watched them. I loved them all, particularly Faded Heart. Seeing you now is like being in one of the films.’

Miss Beech smiled graciously. ‘That was all a long time ago. Things change, I’ve changed.’ Faye felt the great lady still studying her closely, before the smile turned to a gentle grin. ‘And you don’t want to believe everything you see in the movies.’

‘But you still look amazing.’

Miss Beech’s expression remained the same, her eyes still fixed on her visitor. ‘You’re very sweet, Faye. Now, let me tell you what I’d like you to do for me.’

At that moment the door opened and Claudette reappeared with a tray bearing an exquisite Japanese tea set and another mountain of food. She put it down beside Faye and then went over to pour fresh water into the glass on Miss Beech’s bedside table. ‘Will there be anything else, Miss Beech?’ To Faye’s surprise, she was speaking English, and good English as well, with only a trace of a French accent.

‘No, thank you, Claudette. You get back to your cooking.’ Miss Beech glanced across at Faye. ‘You will stay for lunch with us, won’t you?’

‘That’s very kind. I’d love to.’ Faye waited until Claudette had left the room before whispering. ‘But, if that’s the case, I’d better not eat too many of these delicious-smelling biscuits.’

Miss Beech smiled. ‘Claudette’s a firm believer that a full stomach cures all known ills. Since I’ve been in bed this past week, she’s been doing her best to fatten me up.’

‘I’m sorry you aren’t well. I hope you get better soon.’ Faye dropped her eyes to the dog, now positioned at her feet. Absently, she rubbed him with her foot and heard him grunt contentedly.

‘Oh, it’s just a few aches and pains. I’ll be up and about again in no time, I’m sure. But, at my age, it’s to be expected that every now and then the body starts playing up. I certainly can’t complain. I’ve had an absolutely wonderful life. I’ve been spoiled and spoiled and spoiled. It’s the way of the world that we can’t stay young and healthy for ever.’

Miss Beech reached for the water glass and took a mouthful. ‘Do, please, go ahead and drink your tea.’ She lowered her voice. ‘If you eat a few of the biscuits, we can give Marlon another couple and Claudette will think you’ve had them.’ Faye was delighted to hear the old lady sounding quite mischievous, a naughty note in her voice and a twinkle in her eye. She discovered that she really rather liked Miss Beech. Picking up a biscuit, she did as bidden and found it was divine: homemade and still warm. Marlon wasn’t the only one in for a treat.

‘Well now, Faye, what I’d like you to do is to compile my biography for me. Just for me, you understand. I’m not planning on getting it published, at least as long as I’m still alive. What happens to it after my death isn’t going to worry me.’ Miss Beech looked across with a hint of a smile. ‘Over the years, I’ve kept a diary. Not religiously every day, but fairly frequently, especially when there were big events going on. You know, like getting married, winning an Oscar, getting divorced. That kind of thing.’ She gave Faye a grin. ‘I got married three times, won two Oscars, and went through two divorces, by the way.’

‘And you’ve still got those diaries?’

Miss Beech nodded. ‘There’s a box full of all manner of stuff, including a load of photos, in my study. I’ve also got a whole lot of notebooks and odd sheets of paper where I’ve tried to write down things as I remember them, but it’s all a hopeless jumble. That’s where you come in. What I’d like you to do is to go through it all with me and try to draw it together into a book. As I say, I don’t want to publish it. I just think it would be good to collect all my memories together. Would you feel able to do that?’

‘I’d love to try, Miss Beech, but I have to tell you, I’ve only ever written one book before, and that was a thriller, not a biography. I spend my working life doing my best to teach kids to read and write, but this would be the first time I’d be at the start of the creative process of anything like an autobiography.’

‘That’s very honest of you, my dear.’ Then she surprised Faye considerably. ‘Part of the reason I chose you is because I read The Devil Over Your Shoulder and enjoyed it. You write very well, very fluently.’

She’s read my book! Faye could hardly believe it. It was an e-book she had self-published just before the break-up with Didier and it had sold barely a hundred copies so far. This was just about the first time she had come across somebody outside of her circle of friends and family who had read it and she felt herself blushing at the praise. ‘Thank you so much. I’m honoured that you should have read it, and that you liked it. That’s quite made my day.’ And it had.

‘So, does the idea of writing a biography scare you?’

Faye had been asking herself precisely that same question for the past few days and the answer came back the same every time. ‘Yes, definitely, but it also fascinates me and attracts me. I’d love to. That’s if you’re happy to give me the chance.’

‘Excellent, Faye. I’m sure you’ll do a super job.’

Faye noticed the use of the future, rather than the conditional, tense and knew there was something she really had to say. She hesitated, searching for words. ‘Look, Miss Beech, there’s something I’ve really got to tell you. Mr Danvers the solicitor told me you were offering to pay me an absolute fortune. You could probably take your pick of any number of famous authors for that sort of money. Are you sure you’ve got the right girl?’

‘I’m sure I’ve got the right girl, Faye. Quite sure. But what about you? This will mean giving up your job in London, and I suppose that could damage your career plans.’

‘That’s not a problem. To be honest, I’ve been getting more and more disillusioned at work for a good while now. I love teaching and I love the kids – well, most of them – but the atmosphere there has been getting worse and worse since we got a new head. I’ve been actively looking round for something new for a few weeks now. I had an interview for a big teaching temp agency and they tell me there’s a shortage of language teachers. When the time comes, they say they’ll be able to find me a job in a very different environment and it could be just the change I need.’

Faye couldn’t help thinking just how much she was looking forward to getting away from Miss Dawes. The fact that a move outside of London would also put a good few miles between her and Didier was an added bonus. And, if she got this job here in Provence, that would be more like a thousand miles’ distance from him and that felt even better.

Miss Beech nodded. ‘You know what they say: a change is as good as a rest. Now, there’s one thing, though, Faye. I’m no good with all this internet stuff, so, realistically, you’ll have to come and live down here for the duration. Is that something you could do? I imagine a pretty girl like you has probably got a special someone tucked away somewhere – someone who won’t be able to live without you.’

Faye shook her head. Since the split with Didier, she had hardly been out socially, and certainly not with a man. ‘No, there’s no special someone now, Miss Beech. I’m a free agent.’ Miss Beech must have heard some regret in her voice, as did the Labrador, who pressed his nose against her bare leg in solidarity. Faye reached down and scratched his ears.

‘But there was?’

Faye took a deep breath before replying. ‘There was, but there isn’t now.’

‘Was it a bad break-up?’

Faye hesitated, desperate to avoid letting her emotions get the better of her. ‘The worst, I’m afraid.’

‘I’m so sorry, Faye, I’m sure it must have been awful. Although, to be totally honest, hearing you talking about boyfriends reminds me of my younger days.’ Faye looked up and saw a misty expression in the old lady’s eyes. ‘I do envy you the ups and downs of forming relationships, falling in and out of love. Yes, the break-ups hurt, but when you’re young and bright and beautiful, you know there’s always another man waiting just round the corner. Yes, I envy you that. So, what was his name, this one who broke your heart?’

‘Didier.’ Faye took a mouthful of tea and swallowed hard after saying his name.

‘That name doesn’t sound very English.’

‘No, he’s French, but he works in London.’ Faye did her best to keep her voice level. ‘We were together for almost five years and I thought everything was just fine, but it all went pear-shaped a few months ago.’

‘Another girl?’

Faye nodded. ‘Girls, plural, I’m afraid. It’s all been emerging over the past couple of months since I walked out on him.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Looking back on it, I feel such a fool. Everybody seemed to know what he was like except me.’

Miss Beech reached out and caught hold of Faye’s arm. ‘Love really is blind, you know, Faye. Take it from me.’

‘Personal experience?’

‘Bitter personal experience. I’ll tell you all about it one of these days.’ In spite of her tone, Faye spotted a sparkle in Miss Beech’s eyes and she felt sure that this biography was likely to be fascinating and maybe cathartic for both of them.

Miss Beech patted her arm before releasing it. When she spoke, her tone was much more positive. ‘Anyway, better to find out now than later on. That was the trouble in my day, you know, particularly for people like me in the public eye. Unless you were very, very circumspect, it was either a quick peck on the cheek at a cocktail party or it was marriage, with little in between. Being able to test drive a relationship for a few months or years like you can nowadays would have saved me a lot of heartache and a lot of time.’ She gave Faye a wink. ‘And a whole heap of money. So, do you miss him?’

Faye shook her head decisively and answered straightaway. ‘Absolutely not in the slightest.’ Conscious that that had come out a bit too forcefully, she did her best to moderate her tone a bit, but didn’t really succeed. ‘I certainly don’t miss being with him, now that I know what a two-timing rat he really was. In fact, if I saw him again now, I’d either hit him with that chair over there or run a mile. I suppose I do miss speaking French with him, but, to be honest, the only thing I really miss is that when we were living together we could afford our own little flat. Now that it’s just me, I’m back to sharing a house with other people.’ She glanced round Miss Beech’s bedroom and she couldn’t help comparing it to her current accommodation. The two were poles apart.

Miss Beech smiled at her. ‘Well, you’ll be able to speak all the French you like if you come here to help me, and I’d love it if you would. So, please, if you’re quite sure this is what you want, shall we shake on it?’ Miss Beech extended her elegant hand once more and this time Faye noticed the impeccably manicured and painted nails.

Faye nodded enthusiastically. The more she thought about it, the more she felt convinced that a few months over here were just what she needed. For the first time for ages, she felt a warm glow of happiness suffuse her body and a cheerful smile on her face. She caught Miss Beech’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. ‘If you’re certain, then I’m honoured to accept. Mr Danvers told me he thought the contract would be roughly a six-month affair.’ That was about all the solicitor, Silas Danvers, had been able to tell her about the project when she had met him the previous week. ‘If that’s the case, we’d better get started as soon as possible.’

‘Absolutely, no time to waste. At the age of eighty-two, who knows what’s round the corner? Don’t get me wrong, Faye: I have no intention of dropping dead any time soon, but I think it’s fair to say that time is of the essence.’ Miss Beech was still an excellent actress. The smile never left her face as she speculated upon her looming demise. ‘Now, about accommodation. I was talking to Eddie about the possibility of your coming to stay and he suggested the old stable block. There’s a rather nice guest apartment above the stables and, in the hope that you’d say yes, I’m having it redecorated. It’ll be all ready by the time you come back and we’ll see that it’s all set up for you. Get Claudette or Eddie to show you round before you leave today. I think you’ll like it.’

Faye gave her a big smile. ‘That’s fantastic.’ She hesitated for a moment. ‘Will they be able to tell me about rent and other charges?’

Miss Beech shook her head and smiled back. ‘Don’t worry about that, Faye. I’m glad to see the place being used. It’s been empty for a couple of years now. Besides, I’ve got more than enough to see me out, and when the time comes, where I’m going – wherever that turns out to be – money’s one thing I’m not going to need. You just try your hardest to make this book as good as you possibly can. You never know, it might even get published one day.’

***

Miss Beech came down to the dining room and joined Faye for lunch. Over the meal they chatted and Faye did her best to ask Miss Beech about her early life. Although more than happy to talk about her experiences in Hollywood, she appeared a bit reluctant to speak about her family and her early years, and Faye didn’t push her at this stage. Hopefully, as the old lady took her into her confidence a bit more, she would open up. As it was, Miss Beech appeared very interested in Faye’s life and asked her all sorts of questions. Some were easier to answer than others.

‘So, did you always want to be a teacher?’

Faye had been asked this many times before. ‘Not necessarily teaching, but I always knew I wanted to do something involving language.’

‘And you teach English and French?’

Faye nodded.

‘And do you enjoy teaching?’

Faye answered as honestly as she could. ‘I love teaching. The problem I’ve had of late hasn’t been with the kids, it’s been with the administration. It’s been getting tougher and tougher over the past couple of years. I don’t mean lesson preparation, which is normal, or marking homework, but the endless bureaucracy. I seem to have no time to myself at all. Do you know, I haven’t read a book just for fun for months, years maybe. That’s one of the reasons I’ve been looking round for something different for a while now. And as for finding the time to go to the cinema …’

‘Well, you can remedy both of those while you’re here. Bring all the books you want. There’s not a whole lot to do around here and you’ll have bags of free time, and if you like films, there’s a cinema in the basement, and I’ve got hundreds and hundreds of films.’ She smiled. ‘Including all of mine, of course.’

‘All the films you’ve ever been in?’ Faye saw Miss Beech nod. ‘Then I’ll start with yours before I move on to any others. I need to be familiar with all your work.’

‘Most of them are available via the computer thing that’s down there; though the very early, lesser-known ones are on reels. But if you ask Eddie, he’ll run them for you.’

‘About Eddie … Mr Marshal, has he been with you long?’

‘Eddie? He’s been with me for well over fifty years.’

‘Wow, as long as that?’

‘Yes. He started as my pool boy, skimming the leaves and cutting the grass, but he soon became my personal assistant. He knows more about me that anybody alive.’

Faye made a mental note to add Eddie Marshal to her list of source material. ‘How come he speaks such good French? He’s American, right?’ A little voice in her head was wondering whether there had been more to their relationship than that. Fifty years ago both Eddie Marshal and Miss Beech would have been in their prime. This was not, however, the time to spring that question on the grand old lady.

Miss Beech giggled, a lovely friendly little girl giggle that took years off her. ‘Don’t let him hear you saying that. He’s Canadian, although he’s lived so long in California he can hardly remember Canada. But where he grew up, right on the edge of Quebec, he says they were all bilingual round there.’

‘So coming to live here in France must have suited him down to the ground.’ Faye looked across at Miss Beech. ‘But what about you, Miss Beech? What made you leave Hollywood and immerse yourself in rural France?’ She hesitated. ‘If you don’t mind me asking.’

‘Of course I don’t mind. That’s what you’re here for, Faye. You can ask me anything. As for coming here, you maybe know that my last husband, dear Marcel, was French.’

Faye remembered reading about him. ‘Wasn’t he a marquis or a count?’

Miss Beech nodded. ‘Although he spent most of his life in Hollywood, this was his family home. The chateau was built by his God knows how many times removed great, great-grandfather, back in the Middle Ages.’

‘So how long have you lived here?’

‘Nearly ten years now. Poor Marcel died five years ago, but I’d grown to love the place by then and I decided to stay on, even though I still can’t do much more than ask for a cup of coffee in French.’ Miss Beech’s blue eyes caught Faye’s. ‘My old brain’s too old to learn another language. Anyway, the other reason for staying here was that I thought it was the right time to drop out of the public eye. I could have stayed on and gone down the whole cosmetic surgery route like a few I could mention, but I couldn’t stomach the thought.’

She gave Faye a little grin. ‘There’s one very well-known actress I won’t name who’s had so many nips and tucks, they say if she winks, her left knee lifts.’ Faye spluttered into her glass of mineral water. ‘Anyway, seriously, you can talk to Eddie about anything. We have no secrets between us. He’s been my PA for so long, he can remember stuff I’ve long forgotten. He’s a good few years younger than me, but, even so, he’s getting on a bit, and he’s waiting for a hip replacement, but his brain’s still working, thank God.’

Faye nodded, wondering how much work there was for a personal assistant these days. As Miss Beech had said herself, there wasn’t much going on down here in the wilds of southern France and her social calendar was doubtless pretty empty. As she thought about it, Faye reflected she had now committed herself to six months far away from the big city, so the same was going to apply to her.

Mind you, she thought with a rush, she would emerge at the end of the contract with enough money to let her put down a deposit on a flat, or even take time out to write that second novel that had been going round and round in her head for a while now. And there was something really rather nice about Miss Beech and this wonderful place, not least the fact that it was a thousand miles away from so much unhappiness from which she had been dying to escape, whether in the form of her two-timing former boyfriend or her vindictive head teacher.

Miss Beech resumed her own questions, clearly keen to find out all about her newest employee. ‘And what about your family, Faye? Are they pleased you chose to go into teaching?’

Faye nodded. ‘My dad says he’s happy for me, but he’d probably say that anyway, even if I told him I’d taken up bullfighting.’

‘And your mother?’

Faye shook her head, the ever-present regret not far below the surface. ‘I haven’t got a mother. She died when I was just three.’ She read deep compassion on Miss Beech’s face and immediately felt sure she, too, had experience of tragic loss.

‘You poor thing. It must have been terribly tough growing up without a mother.’ The old lady’s eyes glistened and, whatever memories this had awoken in her, Faye could see she wasn’t far from tears.

Faye nodded and did her best to sound as positive as she could, for Miss Beech’s sake. There was so much she could have told her about her childhood: hating being different from the other girls, seeing the expressions on the faces as her dad came to pick her up from parties, going to the doctor with him, shopping for clothes with him. And she would never ever forget the day he had tried to explain the workings of the female body to her. She shook her head to clear it. ‘Yes, it was tough, but I survived.’

‘And your father, do you get on well with him?’

Faye nodded. ‘I love him to bits. He’s been mother and father to me growing up and it can’t have been easy for him. I was a right pain when I was a teenager.’

‘And since you and your boyfriend … Didier … broke up, is there somebody else in the wings, some nice young man you’ve got your eye on?’

Faye shook her head. ‘No, absolutely no men on the horizon at the moment. To be honest, I haven’t had the time or the energy lately.’ Then, deciding this sounded a bit too pathetic, she tried to sound more decisive. ‘Besides, after what’s happened, I’m off men for the foreseeable future. You know that old saying about once bitten, twice shy.’

‘Give it time, my dear. My heart’s been broken a good few times, too, you know. But you wait and see. Just when you’re least expecting it, it’ll happen.’ Miss Beech sighed. ‘Ah yes, the glance across the crowded room and then that amazing feeling when the spark comes, and you set off on the rollercoaster once again. Oh yes, Faye, it’ll happen, all right.’

Apart from the fact that there were unlikely to be too many crowded rooms when she came over here to work in the wilds of rural France, the one thing Faye definitely knew, with complete certainty, was that she had absolutely no intention of getting involved with another man, particularly another Frenchman, for a good long time. She gave Miss Beech a smile.

‘No, I really mean it. I’m just fine on my own.’

‘Being on your own can also mean being lonely.’ Miss Beech’s tone was gentle, sympathetic.

‘Well, I’m sure I won’t be lonely here. Everybody I’ve met here at the chateau so far has been so sweet and, of course, that includes Marlon.’ Faye nodded decisively. ‘Really, I’m just fine as I am.’

She avoided looking at Miss Beech’s face, preferring to return her attention to her meal.

As they were finishing their lunch and Faye had finally successfully managed to convince Claudette that she really couldn’t eat a second helping of îles flottantes, Miss Beech brought the interview to an end.

‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, my dear, I think I’d better go back upstairs for a nap. Claudette and Eddie will look after you for as long as you want to stay, and they’ll show you the stable apartment before you go.’ She reversed away from the table in her chair and hummed across to Faye’s shoulder. ‘I’m really so very pleased you’ve agreed to do this for me. I look forward so much to seeing more of you.’ She looked and sounded as if she meant it, and Faye felt another wave of happiness at the thought of forging a link with this kind, generous old lady. Not to mention her adorable dog.

She was about to stand up, but as Miss Beech was in her wheelchair it made more sense to stay seated. She held out her hand. ‘Thank you so much for offering me this amazing opportunity, Miss Beech. I promise I’ll do my very best to help you come up with something really great.’

The old lady took Faye’s hand in both of hers and gave it an affectionate squeeze. ‘I know you will, and I know it’ll work out well. By the way, I asked Silas to prepare a contract for you. Eddie’s got it somewhere. I’ll ask him to let you have it.’ She gave Faye a tired smile. ‘One thing you learn in Hollywood is that the old adage that a verbal contract isn’t worth the paper it’s written on is so, so right.’ Her smile broadened. ‘They say it was Sam Goldwyn who said that, but he never did, you know. Mind you, though, he told me once he wished he had done.’

Faye saw the old lady smile to herself at the memory, before refocusing as a sudden thought came to her.

‘Now I come to think about it, one thing Sam really did say was that nobody should write their autobiography until after their death. We’ll have to see if we can confound him.’

Faye smiled at the quote, but felt an immediate sense of regret that this dear old lady was approaching the end of her life. Somehow, she already felt a bond with her and knew she was going to enjoy this assignment more than she had hoped. ‘That’s very kind of you, Miss Beech. I’ll give in my notice as soon as I’m back at school so, all being well, I should be down here as soon as term ends.’

‘I look forward to it, my dear. Well, goodbye for now. It’s been lovely seeing you.’

‘Goodbye, Miss Beech, and thanks again. I really look forward to working with you.’ And she did.