The Little French Guesthouse by Helen Pollard Page B

of his mouth.

7
    R esigned to my afternoon fate , I went up to what would be the Stewarts’ room, opened the windows to air it out, then glanced into the bathroom. It had been cleaned since the room was last occupied, but I wiped it over. Spotting that the complimentary toiletries were running low, I went to ask Rupert where he kept his supplies.
    ‘No bloody idea,’ he admitted. ‘Gloria always dealt with that girly stuff.’
    I was going to say it was good to know there had been at least some useful task in Gloria’s remit, but he had such a defeated look on his face – whether at Gloria’s absence or his gap in knowledge with regard to toiletry stocks, I wasn’t sure – that I kept my remarks to myself.
    Methodically, I went through every cupboard and drawer in every communal area. First, the kitchen units I hadn’t yet explored, then the inbuilt broom cupboard in the hall. No joy there. I glanced at the tall wooden desk unit by the front door where the phone and diary resided – not enough storage space, but I did a double take anyway. I’d admired its polished elegance every time I passed, but it was only now that I realised what it was – a restaurant antique, one of those counters where the maître d’ would stand sentry with his reservations book and a haughty look. Fabulous.
    Trooping upstairs, I had a quick root through the large armoire on the landing, but it only held bedlinen and towels. With all the obvious places covered, I went back downstairs for an unlikely foray into the guest lounge, a slightly formal affair with upright upholstered chairs and sofa, and an imposing sideboard in dark wood. I’d only poked my head in here a couple of times, but I’d rejected it as a place to linger – it was quite a contrast to the warm and welcoming atmosphere of the kitchen, and since the bedrooms were spacious enough to include a small armchair, I hadn’t felt the need to use it. Looking through the sideboard, I found napkins, tablecloths, candles, and finally came up trumps with two deep drawers stuffed full of individually-wrapped soaps, sachets of shampoo, and tiny bottles of bath oil. Why toiletries should be stored in a sideboard in the guest lounge, I couldn’t begin to guess.
    I emptied them into two empty plastic storage boxes I found in the hall cupboard, left one there to be nearer the gîtes and took the other upstairs so it would be handier for the guest rooms.
    That done, I set to doing what I should have already finished by now – vacuuming, dusting, polishing and making the bed in the Stewarts’ room. I took a leaf from Madame Dupont’s book and defiantly binned Gloria’s clichéd and dusty potpourri, then went down to the garden, cut fresh flowers, found a glass vase for them in the kitchen and placed it on the now shining antique dressing table. And on the basis that less was more, I relegated several hideous ornaments to the top shelf of the wardrobe while I was at it.
    Finally, I admired my handiwork with a sense of pride. The room was as it should be: a clean, tastefully-decorated haven within the restful cocoon that was La Cour des Roses .
    I was looking forward to resuming reading in the sunshine when I heard a knock at the door. Talk about never getting any peace!
    Rupert’s accountant was on the doorstep. Again.
    ‘Hi. I – er.’ His gaze fixed on my chest, which ordinarily would have either flattered or annoyed me, depending on what mood I was in and who was doing the staring. This time, it did neither, since I realised it was only because of my sloppy eating habits. I’d forgotten to change, and the tomato pulp was now dried on like cement.
    ‘Sorry.’ I wafted at the carnage down my front. ‘Rogue tomato.’
    He nodded. ‘Is Rupert in?’
    I crossed my arms over my chest, partly in confrontation and partly to hide the salad spillage.
    ‘Yes, but I’m afraid he’s convalescing and can’t be disturbed. If it’s that urgent, perhaps I can make you another