The French for Always by Fiona Valpy Page B

business was to be a viable proposition in future years. They’d gone through the figures together at the outset and had agreed to plough this year’s profits back in. There were still several major projects in the pipeline—her plans for the garden, a new roof needed on the stable block, the rewiring of the barn—not to mention the re-plastering of the wall in the cottage and the general maintenance that these old buildings constantly demanded.
    Sara read and re-read the words on the page, as though their meaning might change if she did, hoping for a glimmer of empathy from the man with whom she’d shared three years of her life. But there was none. She pressed her fingers to her throbbing temples, trying to think straight. She’d need to take some advice herself. She had no idea what the legal position would be here in France and she’d have to speak to the bank manager and the accountant, and then an estate agent most probably.
    It would be a terrible time to sell. Since they’d bought the château, she was well aware that property prices had fallen further. The recession was grinding on, seemingly inexorably, and the eurozone was wobbling alarmingly on its foundations. Even if she did manage to sell, they stood to lose money; they’d invested so much in the renovations, even if they had managed to buy the château for a knock-down price originally. Her more meagre share would be eaten away significantly, leaving her to limp back to England without enough to relaunch her landscape gardening business in London, let alone afford to live there. Unlike Gavin, she had no family home to go back to. It was a disaster.
    She raised her head and gazed out of the window to the garden beyond, where clouds of white gaura nodded gracefully beneath the silver leaves of an olive tree. And suddenly she was overcome by a surge of protectiveness, so fierce that it charged her body with a visceral strength.
    She belonged here. It was more than a thought; it was a certain knowledge. This was her time to be in this place. For the first time in her life she had begun to put down roots, anchoring herself to this limestone ridge as surely as the château itself was anchored here. She had a vision of the garden that she wanted to create here, so vivid that it already felt real. She couldn’t let Gavin destroy her with his cruelly casual selfishness. She had to find a way to stay.
    Thomas appeared in the doorway, whistling cheerfully. He’d gone to make sure everything was all right back at the vineyard that morning, to open the mail and check whether any new orders had come in, but now he was back. ‘It may be a difficult year for the vines, but at least the tomatoes are thriving,’ he said, setting down a basket of sun-warmed vegetables from the potager at Château de la Chapelle.
    Sara folded the letter and stuck it in her apron pocket, turning her face up to meet his as he stooped to kiss her. She wasn’t about to involve him in her troubles, but she was thankful for the reassurance of his smile, in which nothing was written but pure joy at seeing her again.
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    ‘ O h , mon Dieu! I can’t believe you didn’t tell me before now!’ Thomas had just read the programme for the coming weekend. ‘You mean to tell me I’m going to be the DJ at the wedding of Thorne Sharpe? He’s pretty much royalty!’
    ‘You clearly don’t listen to enough gossip, Tommy-boy,’ laughed Karen. ‘It’s common knowledge on the street in Coulliac.’
    ‘Well, I was trying to be discreet,’ Sara smiled. ‘His production company asked us to keep it hush-hush. My guess is they’ve sold the rights to one of the gossip magazines and so they don’t want any other media staking out the château. Anyway, there won’t be too much for you to do. The band’s playing until eleven at the latest and they only want the disco for about an hour after that. There’s a truck-full of roadies arriving on Friday with the sound system for the band and the light