The Little French Guesthouse by Helen Pollard

for my sake, but they didn’t have much in common. Kate was bright and bubbly and passionate about things like the environment and equality. Nathan was the epitome of conservative capitalism. Chalk and cheese.
    ‘I wasn’t. I only meant it seems out of character. Maybe he just needs some space. A trial separation.’
    ‘He didn’t say that,’ I pointed out.
    ‘Will you try to phone him? In a few days?’
    I shook my head, then realised she couldn’t see me. ‘No. Absolutely not. It would look like I was begging. And since I don’t know how I feel about him, other than sodding livid, I don’t see the point.’
    She sighed. ‘I wish I was there, Emmy. But...’
    ‘Don’t remind me! Ten days in the Maldives with Jamie. What time do you fly?’
    ‘Later this afternoon. Jamie’s collecting me around two.’
    ‘Okay, well, have a lovely time.’ I was going to cry again. ‘Thanks, Kate. I feel better.’
    ‘You don’t sound better.’
    I straightened my spine. There was nothing more she could do for me for now. ‘I’ll see you when you get back?’
    ‘I’ll phone you as soon as I can. Promise.’
    I powered off the phone and put it in the drawer, where I wouldn’t be tempted to check it for messages from Nathan.
    Downstairs, there was no sign of Rupert – although he must have been up and about because the washing machine was taking off on a supersonic spin cycle.
    The Hendersons were just leaving.
    ‘Where to today, then?’ I asked politely.
    ‘Le Château d’Ussé,’ Mrs Henderson announced. ‘It was the inspiration for Sleeping Beauty , you know.’
    ‘No, I didn’t know. Well, enjoy.’
    She managed a small wave and off they went. Two people I would be less likely to associate with fairy tales, I couldn’t imagine.
    I stuffed down a croissant while I waited for the washing machine to come in to land, dragged out the king-size sheets we’d stripped from the gîtes yesterday, and trudged outside to peg them out on the line at the bottom of the garden.
    No sign of Ryan or his muscles. Shame. Still, it was a Sunday.
    Mentally telling myself off for even thinking about him, I trooped back inside to shove another load of washing in, then scanned the bookcase in the hall. The worthy tomes I’d packed along with my good intentions held no appeal, so I plucked out a thriller and went outside. I wandered down the garden, skirting islands of bright pink azaleas and pale yellow roses until I found a wooden Adirondack chair under an arbour of sweetly-scented lilac. The warm sun slanted through the leaves and flowers, just the right temperature for soaking up some vitamin D without roasting, and it was the perfect hideaway for losing myself in the happy world of murder and mayhem in Rupert’s book. The plot tore along at quite a pace and I got so wrapped up in it that I jumped when my stomach gurgled loudly.
    Taking heed, I headed back to the house. As I crossed the patio, someone called out.
    ‘Excuse me.’ A woman stood at the gate between the courtyard and the garden. ‘Hi, sorry to disturb you. I’m Jenny Brown. I’m in the gîte at the end over there. I didn’t get to meet you yesterday.’
    Realising she must have arrived while I’d driven Madame Dupont home, I crossed to the gate and shook her hand. ‘It’s nice to meet you. I hope everything’s all right for you.’
    ‘Gorgeous. Just what we were hoping for. Harry’s been working too hard. We both have. I found this place on the Internet and it looked so scrumptious and I thought, gosh, that’s just what we need. A little R & R, a château or two. You know.’
    ‘Yes. I know.’ I plastered a smile on my face to hide the fact that my heart had plummeted to my feet. Her words were an echo of mine to Nathan – and look how that had turned out. I hoped Jenny and Harry would have a better time of it.
    ‘Feel free to come over if you need anything,’ I told her.
    ‘We will.’ She turned to go, then swung back round. ‘By the way,