The Little French Guesthouse by Helen Pollard Page A

I’m sorry about your husband’s leg.’ She paused. ‘And I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but you could do with updating the website a bit. You don’t look anything like your photograph.’ Her eyes widening, she quickly added, ‘Oh, I meant that in a good way. You look much younger in real life.’
    I frowned. My husband? My photograph? The fog cleared.
    ‘Oh, no, Jenny. The chap you met yesterday – Rupert – he’s not my husband. What I mean is, that isn’t me on the website. That’s his wife. She’s not here at the moment. I’m... helping out while she’s away. Rupert’s a friend.’
    ‘Oh. Right.’ Jenny’s sunny smile faltered. ‘I hope I didn’t offend you. I thought Rupert seemed an awful lot older than you. See you later.’ She waved and skipped back to her gîte across the way.
    As I threw a sandwich together, I made a mental note to tackle Rupert about the website sometime. If Gloria wasn’t coming back, he could do with removing her hateful image from it. And I could do without being mistaken for Gloria again.
    Peeved, I bit into a plum tomato. It promptly exploded juice and seeds all over my T-shirt – clean on today and white. Great.
    I’d just put all the lunch items away when Rupert came into the kitchen to forage.
    ‘What do you want me to do with all that bedlinen when it’s dry?’ I asked him tetchily.
    ‘Just shove it in one of the unused rooms out of sight for now. I’ll get Madame Dupont to deal with it next time she comes in.’
    This seemed rather laissez-faire, even for a Sunday, but if he couldn’t be bothered, I didn’t see why I should.
    ‘Besides, other things to worry about first,’ he said. ‘The Stewarts are due on Tuesday.’
    ‘Why is that a worry?’
    ‘Madame Dupont isn’t in today – church. Or tomorrow – sister’s. Could you do their room for me, love?’
    I frowned. ‘Today? Why not tomorrow?’
    ‘Because tomorrow is market day,’ he stated, as though this was a perfectly obvious answer. When all he got from me was a bewildered expression, he explained, ‘I always go into Pierre-la-Fontaine on market day. I get my fresh and specialist food there.’
    I blew out a frustrated breath. ‘Can’t we stick to the supermarket this week?’ I’d only just mastered that little hurdle. Driving to the outskirts of town and parking in a large supermarket car park was one thing. Negotiating my way into a proper French town on a busy market day was quite another. Besides... ‘Haven’t you heard of doing your grocery shop online?’
    He had that stubborn look in his eye that I was coming to recognise all too well. ‘Of course. But I wouldn’t like it.’
    ‘Why not? Wouldn’t it be easier?’
    He shook his head. ‘I like to see what’s fresh. What’s on offer. I don’t even write a list – I’ve only been doing that for your benefit. I wouldn’t dream of confining myself to the supermarket, anyway. I like to use the shops in town. Go to the market when it’s on. Bump into people I know and have a chat. I’m getting cabin fever, Emmy. I need to get out, get back to normal a bit. And it would do you good, too. Give you a break from this place.’
    He gave me a pleading look, and I couldn’t help but laugh. He looked like one of those dogs with the wrinkled faces and huge eyes that you can’t say no to.
    I sighed. ‘All right.’ The idea of getting out and about was beginning to appeal to me, too. Other than the first couple of days pottering about nearby villages and taking strolls along country lanes with Nathan, there had been a distinct lack of traditional holiday activity so far. ‘But only on the condition that you treat me to coffee afterwards.’
    Rupert shook his head. ‘You’re getting so you’re anybody’s for a coffee, Emmy.’
    ‘I know. You’ve corrupted me with your big shiny machine.’
    He raised an eyebrow. ‘I wish!’ But to his gratification, I’d already blushed bright scarlet before the words were out