favourite cargo pants, which just happened to have a gaping hole under the left buttock where the fabric had ripped and she had never got round to sewing it up. She blushed inwardly as she realised that Paul Callot would have had a full view of her rear end as he followed her up the stairs to the studio that morning.
“Oh, oops!” Pulling down the waistband she saw that, fortunately, she had put on a pair of flowery pants that morning, so she was decent. She ran a couple of steps to catch up with her daughter, who was striding ahead, and looped her arm through Alice’s.
“It’s okay, I’m wearing my best undies so there’s no harm done. So, tell me about school.”
Chapter 9: Something in the Post
Madame Piquot had been right: having a major project to focus on had helped to lift Rachel out of a rut that she had fallen into without even noticing it. She had been going through the motions, but the fun had gone out of her work. Now she felt inspired again and keen to get going. At 8am, she went down to the kitchen for coffee and a slice of toast. Irina had collected the post from the box at the end of the drive on her way in and handed it to Rachel who sighed.
“More rubbish,” she said, flicking through the brightly coloured stack as she finished her breakfast. “Junk, junk, junk,” she said, putting most of it directly into the recycling box. “Oh, what’s this? Not junk.”
Among the flyers for supermarkets and local traders was a large white envelope with her name and address carefully inscribed on the front.
“How exciting, real post,” she said to Irina, turning the envelope over and tearing it open. Inside she found several sheets of paper with lists of names, dates, contact details and notes. She squinted to make out the copperplate handwriting:
M. & Mme Reiss, 3rd visit, marmalade not Nutella
M. Neave, Scottish, 4th visit, snores so put him at the back
M. & Mme Holz, 2nd visit, will want breakfast at 6am
and so on for three more pages.
She laughed, waving the pages in the air. “Look Irina, we have the history of everyone who ever stayed at Madame Piquot’s guest house.”
Irina took the pages from her and carefully looked through them, before extracting the last one from the pile and holding it out for Rachel to see.
“Your first guests are coming very soon, Madame.”
Rachel spluttered with alarm and took the paper off her. “What? No, they can’t be.” She took the paper and scanned the list.
“Oh crikey, you’re quite right,” she said. “It says here ‘M. & Mme Karlsen, 15–23 November, 2nd visit. Monsieur can’t manage stairs.’ Can’t manage stairs, what are we going to do with him?”
“Bedroom 3, Rachel. On the courtyard.”
“You’re right, of course,” she said, tapping her head. “I must remember that the bike room is now Bedroom 3.” She ran her finger down the list.
“There are two more bookings for November then we’ve got ‘Professor Perry, 6 –13 December, 1st visit.’ The only note Madame Piquot has made about him is that he’s an American.” She slurped her coffee. “If he’s a professor, he’s probably ancient and decrepit too.”
She got up from the kitchen table and went to peer at the calendar next to the fridge. “Yikes, 15 November is only a couple of weeks away.”
Irina just shrugged. “All is ready, Madame. You tell Mr Claude to collect the people from town in taxi and bring them here.”
“Yes, I guess so. Unless they’re coming by car, in which case they’ll need a map and directions. Damn – I’d forgotten the website!”
She grabbed her phone from the bowl by the door and called the number of the picture framer ’s shop. Much to her relief, Paul Callot was there and agreed to come over that evening.
“Perfect!” said Rachel, thinking that it would give her time to take the photographs that she had promised and then completely forgotten about. “And maybe you can stay for supper?” she added,
“Oh, oops!” Pulling down the waistband she saw that, fortunately, she had put on a pair of flowery pants that morning, so she was decent. She ran a couple of steps to catch up with her daughter, who was striding ahead, and looped her arm through Alice’s.
“It’s okay, I’m wearing my best undies so there’s no harm done. So, tell me about school.”
Chapter 9: Something in the Post
Madame Piquot had been right: having a major project to focus on had helped to lift Rachel out of a rut that she had fallen into without even noticing it. She had been going through the motions, but the fun had gone out of her work. Now she felt inspired again and keen to get going. At 8am, she went down to the kitchen for coffee and a slice of toast. Irina had collected the post from the box at the end of the drive on her way in and handed it to Rachel who sighed.
“More rubbish,” she said, flicking through the brightly coloured stack as she finished her breakfast. “Junk, junk, junk,” she said, putting most of it directly into the recycling box. “Oh, what’s this? Not junk.”
Among the flyers for supermarkets and local traders was a large white envelope with her name and address carefully inscribed on the front.
“How exciting, real post,” she said to Irina, turning the envelope over and tearing it open. Inside she found several sheets of paper with lists of names, dates, contact details and notes. She squinted to make out the copperplate handwriting:
M. & Mme Reiss, 3rd visit, marmalade not Nutella
M. Neave, Scottish, 4th visit, snores so put him at the back
M. & Mme Holz, 2nd visit, will want breakfast at 6am
and so on for three more pages.
She laughed, waving the pages in the air. “Look Irina, we have the history of everyone who ever stayed at Madame Piquot’s guest house.”
Irina took the pages from her and carefully looked through them, before extracting the last one from the pile and holding it out for Rachel to see.
“Your first guests are coming very soon, Madame.”
Rachel spluttered with alarm and took the paper off her. “What? No, they can’t be.” She took the paper and scanned the list.
“Oh crikey, you’re quite right,” she said. “It says here ‘M. & Mme Karlsen, 15–23 November, 2nd visit. Monsieur can’t manage stairs.’ Can’t manage stairs, what are we going to do with him?”
“Bedroom 3, Rachel. On the courtyard.”
“You’re right, of course,” she said, tapping her head. “I must remember that the bike room is now Bedroom 3.” She ran her finger down the list.
“There are two more bookings for November then we’ve got ‘Professor Perry, 6 –13 December, 1st visit.’ The only note Madame Piquot has made about him is that he’s an American.” She slurped her coffee. “If he’s a professor, he’s probably ancient and decrepit too.”
She got up from the kitchen table and went to peer at the calendar next to the fridge. “Yikes, 15 November is only a couple of weeks away.”
Irina just shrugged. “All is ready, Madame. You tell Mr Claude to collect the people from town in taxi and bring them here.”
“Yes, I guess so. Unless they’re coming by car, in which case they’ll need a map and directions. Damn – I’d forgotten the website!”
She grabbed her phone from the bowl by the door and called the number of the picture framer ’s shop. Much to her relief, Paul Callot was there and agreed to come over that evening.
“Perfect!” said Rachel, thinking that it would give her time to take the photographs that she had promised and then completely forgotten about. “And maybe you can stay for supper?” she added,
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