A French Pirouette. Jennifer BohnetЧитать онлайн книгу.
Four
Libby
On her way to the kitchen to make herself a coffee, Libby picked up the reservations book from the hall table. Ever since Brigitte had said the rally was marked in there she’d been meaning to look and see if there were any other bookings she needed to know about.
May appeared to be a popular month. June, too, was busy and there were several Saturday night dinner tables already reserved throughout the year. Lots of bookings for July and August, several for September and the vintage motor club were already pencilled in for their Christmas ‘do’. Maybe they’d cancel if the rally tea this week didn’t come up to their expectations. Which it would. Now she’d agreed to do it, Libby was determined it would be a success. If only to show the vet Lucas that she wasn’t as ditzy as he’d clearly thought she was that day on the canal path.
In between the booking pages Libby found little notes that Brigitte had left her. ‘Boiler service this week’, ‘Habitation Tax due this week’, ‘Châteauneuf market is the first and the third Wednesday every month’.
Heavily underlined on the first page of August was: ‘Remember EVERYONE goes on holiday this month! It is impossible to get a plumber, electrician or carpenter—or a dentist!’
Libby realised Brigitte had left her a veritable handbook of how to run an auberge for the inexperienced. She had the feeling she was going to come to regard this reservation book as her ‘how-to bible’ over the next few months.
At the back of the book under ‘Contacts’ was a list of useful telephone numbers, including one for a certain French magazine advertising department that Brigitte used on a regular basis. Resolutely Libby picked up the phone. She needed to keep the business coming in so she’d stick with Brigitte’s advertising while she worked out an advertising strategy of her own.
Half an hour later, when her French had been severely tested by the superior-sounding woman on the other end of the phone, Libby picked up the how-to bible again. The entry for the ‘Rally Tea’ leapt out at her.
Remembering what Brigitte had said about the food required, Libby began to make a list of things she’d need to buy. She hadn’t yet done a supermarket shop to stock her store cupboard so the usual basics would have to be bought too. Stocking the kitchen from scratch. She and Chloe would go later in the week. In the meantime she wanted to take a proper look at the gîte and decide what needed doing.
Converted years ago by Bruno and Brigitte from what had originally been a traditional stone agricultural building, the rustic charm of the interior was starting to look shabby. A thin layer of dust over everything didn’t help either. Exposed stonework, ceiling beams, wooden floors and a wood-burning stove did give the place a certain ambience.
Glancing into the small salle de bain Libby wondered how she could update it all without spending a fortune. If it wasn’t going to earn its keep she didn’t want to throw money at it this year. Maybe just a good clean and rearrange the furniture.
She was standing there mentally rearranging the furniture when the gîte door opened and Chloe walked in. “Mum can I talk to you?”
Libby glanced at her. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. It’s just that…” Chloe fiddled with her hair, a sure sign she was nervous. “Before we came out here I heard about an intern’s job that would be absolutely perfect for me—and the day before we left I had an interview.”
Libby’s heart sank. “You’ve got it? You’re leaving?”
“I haven’t heard yet but it means I’d be leaving you on your own earlier than planned if I do get it, which is unlikely anyway. So many people will be after it. I just thought I’d better warn you.”
“What’s the job anyway?”
“General dogsbody on a London magazine. The experience would look good on my CV when I finish college.”
“You’re right; a lot of people will be after that,” Libby said. “Where were you planning on living if you get the job? Your student accommodation won’t be available until the new term.”
“Was hoping that Aunty Helen would give me bed and board.” Chloe glanced at her mother. “I feel so guilty even thinking about leaving you.”
Libby held up her hand. “Stop it, Chloe. You have no reason to feel guilty about anything. This is my new life not yours. Yours is university, hopefully followed by a career in journalism. Of course I want you here with me for as long as possible but we always knew you were going back to the UK in September.” Which she’d secretly been dreading anyway but she wasn’t about to tell Chloe that.
Chloe, clearly relieved, hugged her. “Thanks, Mum. Fancy a cuppa? I’ll go and put the kettle on.”
“I’ll just lock up here,” Libby said as Chloe left. Despite her insisting to Chloe that this attempt to make a new life in France was hers, and hers alone, she’d been looking forward to sharing the first few months with Chloe. Still there was no guarantee that Chloe would get the job—hundreds of would-be journalists must have applied—in which case she’d stay here for the summer as planned.
Guiltily Libby pushed the wish away that Chloe wouldn’t get the internship for the purely selfish reason that she didn’t feel ready to cope with the auberge without having her daughter around.
The morning of the rally Libby was up early. With Napoleon the cockerel shouting out his wake-up calls any time from four-thirty onwards she didn’t need an alarm clock that was for sure.
She’d quickly developed an early morning routine: shower, dress, cup of tea and then out to feed the chickens and ducks, before heading back into the kitchen to make breakfast for her and Chloe.
Libby loved spending early morning time alongside what she already thought of as her stretch of canal. Some mornings there was a mist hovering over everything; other mornings the sun had already broken through with the promise of a beautiful day.
This morning there was a heron high up in one of the trees on the opposite bank. She’d stood watching as he took off, unhurriedly making his way along the canal.
Back indoors she put the three eggs she’d found in the henhouse on the table and called out to Chloe. “Fancy scrambled eggs for breakfast?”
“Mmm sounds great. Down in five.”
Two days ago she and Chloe had done a big supermarket shop, stocking up on basic kitchen ingredients as well as the food for the rally. This morning she planned on making quiches, soup, a couple of sponges and some biscuits for the rally tea this afternoon. Brigitte was joining them later to help with the cooking and also bringing the bread for the sandwiches from the boulangerie and some ham for the baguettes from the village butcher.
Over breakfast she and Chloe made lists and planned the morning’s baking. By the time Brigitte arrived mid-morning the kitchen was a hub of activity. Sponges cooling on the rack, soup bubbling on the stove, quiches cooking and full biscuit tins.
Libby looked at Brigitte anxiously. “Is all this OK? What the men—I presume it’s mainly men—will be expecting?”
Brigitte nodded. “It’s fine. They are always hungry when they return.” She put the crash-hat she was carrying down on the table by the door. “I have told Bruno I will go with him this afternoon if we get everything ready before they leave and you can manage without me.”
“You ride pillion?” Chloe said. “Aren’t you…”
“Oui. It’s how we meet a long time ago.” She looked at Chloe. “I’m sure you weren’t going to say I’m too old, were you Chloe?” Brigitte said looking at her.
“No of course not. I was going to ask aren’t you frightened on the back?” Chloe said. “It’s just that motorbikes terrify me. I can’t imagine ever wanting to ride one.”
“Oh but Chloe