The Chateau of Happily-Ever-Afters: a laugh-out-loud romcom!

That makes him laugh even harder and I frown at him, unsure whether he’s being patronising or just has a terrible sense of humour. ‘On that note, goodbye,’ I say, pushing past him and stalking off down the street, hoping he doesn’t follow me this time.

Of course, I’ve gone the wrong way and have to hide behind a corner until he leaves before I can double back and find the train station for the next train home.

I don’t know what’s got into me today. I can’t believe I called him a soulless bastard. I’ve never said anything like that to a stranger before.

Men bring out the worst in me. Particularly this one, obviously.

Chapter Two

There’s a little thrill of excitement growing in me as I sit on the train home. I try to stamp it down because this doesn’t change anything. Owning a château in France makes no difference to my life.

Well, part owning with Nephew-git McLoophole. If there’s a loophole for him, hopefully there’s a way for me to loophole him right back out again.

It’s raining as I rush home but I’m so caught up in everything that’s just happened I don’t notice myself getting wet until it’s too late to bother with an umbrella. I can’t get home quick enough and it’s nothing to do with the rain. I’m desperate to read Eulalie’s letter. There must be some answers in it, maybe an explanation about why she never told me it was a real place, and something about this ridiculous treasure riddle. She wasn’t the joking type, and her will is a pretty odd place to start making jokes.

At home, the lift is out of order again and my wet shoes squeak against the stained floor as I drag myself up the stairs. As I go into my own flat, I look at the battered door next to mine, wishing she was still there, that she’d come out with a batch of hot cakes because she’d heard me coming in, that she’d offer an explanation for how any of this château thing can be real.

Inside, the smell of mould hits me like a wall and I open a window and let in the rain and the stink of stale curry from the Indian takeaway three doors down. The smells combine to make a stench that slithers through the flat like low-hanging fog.

Why would anyone live here if they could afford to live somewhere better? Why would she stay here if she owned a castle in France?

Maybe she was like me – she just didn’t need anything more.

It’s fine. It’s nice, even, if you don’t look too hard or think about things too much. The rent is reasonable for being near London, the smell of the Indian almost goes away if you keep the windows shut, and the mildew isn’t that noticeable after a while. This is Britain, after all. Everyone has some level of damp problems.

Maybe Eulalie had the right idea. Why try to make things better when everything is already good enough? When people get ideas above their station, they invest money in businesses that are doomed to fail and their hearts in people who are doomed to break them – that’s when things go wrong. If you have enough to get by then why try for more? Getting by is fine. That’s probably why Eulalie didn’t live at her château, or sell it for the money. What did the solicitor say it had? Forty rooms? Forty rooms is ridiculous. No one needs forty rooms. It would be a nightmare. I have one bedroom, one kitchen-slash-living room, and one bathroom, and it’s all I can do to keep it clean. And what would you even do with all those acres of land? Fifteen acres is mad. You’d need six circuses to cover half of it.

The numbers on my alarm clock are blinking 3.31 and, instead of sleeping, I’m reading the letter for the six hundred and ninetieth time.

My dearest Wendy,

I know this will come as a surprise to you once I’m gone, and that’s exactly the way I wanted it. The Château of Happily Ever Afters is real. It’s real, and it’s yours.

Let my death be the push you need. You’re only young, but you live the life of an old woman. You live inside a comfort zone that’s getting smaller each day, and will continue to do so until it suffocates you.

The Château of Happily Ever Afters speaks to people. It calls to people who deserve a happily ever after, and you, my dear, most definitely do, which is why I’m passing it on to you with the sincere belief that you will find a happily ever after there too. And I hope that one day, in many years’ time, after a long and happy life, you will also pass it on to someone who needs it.

Take a chance, Wendy. Tell me you can hear it calling. Go there, give the old place my love, let it bring you a happily ever after like it brought me.

Forever,

Eulalie

I’m trying to be offended by her attempt at meddling in my life even from the great beyond, but she knows me better than anyone, and I know she’s got a point. All right, I don’t exactly live on the edge or throw myself into things headfirst, but I tried that once and it didn’t work out. Taking chances, taking risks, trusting people – those are the kinds of things that always end badly. Sticking to a normal routine and a quiet life is the only thing that stops everything going wrong.

Eulalie was always telling me to take a step outside my comfort zone, and I did sometimes in little ways, like buying a different brand of teabags, but all I got from it was a week of tea that tasted like you’d asked a local stray cat to pee in your cup.

But it doesn’t matter if you never throw yourself outside your comfort zone, does it? Eulalie might have told fancy stories of love and adventure, but I’m not the kind of person to get on a train and go in search of them. Love doesn’t exist and adventure is for Indiana Jones. There aren’t really French dukes who whisk you away to fairy-tale castles and throw lavish balls for the nobility of France. It’s just a lovely fantasy to lose yourself in for a while.

That’s what I tell myself, anyway, as I lie there staring at a water stain on the ceiling, listening to a drunken man puking up his onion bhaji on the street outside, thinking about how early I’ve got to get up for work in the morning. But then that little fizz of excitement returns.

I bet you don’t get people vomiting outside The Château of Happily Ever Afters. I bet it’s peaceful there. Sunny. Glamorous. About as far away from here as you can get.

When I wake up in the morning, I know I’m going. After lying awake most of the night, trying to convince myself I’m stupid for even considering it, I’d assumed I’d wake up this morning with my sensible head back on, but my mind is filled with the château. Eulalie talked about it so much that getting a mental image is easy and, as I look around my grotty flat, all I can think is one thing. Why would I not go there?

It’s now or never. If I don’t do this now, I’ll talk myself out of it. I’m owed holidays from work, and although I haven’t reserved them in advance, I could book my time off now and phone in sick this week. I could lie to my boss. I could find my passport and go to the place Eulalie loved more than anywhere in the world.

I have two choices. I can go to work as normal. Put on my uniform and get the bus in like any mention of a French château has been nothing but a dream. I can stand with my table in the supermarket aisles, getting in the way of every customer, hawking whatever product the store wants hawked today. I can learn my lines perfectly, deliver them to customers with such chirpiness that the exclamation point is audible, and try to push whatever food the shop has been paid to push. I’m a sampler in a supermarket bakery, a job that goes against the very core of what you think you know about human nature: it makes people turn down cake.

It’s the kind of job you do solely because you get paid. I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed a day at work, or felt valued, or like my skills as a baker were being taken into consideration. A dog could do my job if it wouldn’t eat all the cake samples.

Or I can take a risk. Eulalie was like a mum to me. My own mum died a few years ago, and Eulalie was there for me through every moment, and she became the closest thing I had to family. Losing her has left a huge hole in my world, even though it wasn’t sudden, and we both knew the end was coming by the time she died. Doing what she wants me to do, and visiting the place she loved so much… it suddenly seems more important than anything else.

Chapter Three

Until today, the biggest step I’ve ever taken outside of my comfort zone is doing the weekly shop in Sainsbury’s instead of Tesco. As I sit in the back of a taxi with a driver who chatters at me in French, oblivious of the fact I can’t understand a word, I realise that my comfort zone has been well and truly left behind.

I’ve never been to France before and, on reflection, it was a mistake to tell the chauffeur de taxi this, as he’s spent the past hour giving me a complete history of the country and the delights of the Normandy region. At least, I assume that’s what he’s doing. He’s been rattling on for ages and the only word I’ve understood so far is the ‘bonjour’ when I first got in.

The countryside here is beautiful, green hills that stretch out for miles, dotted with handsome black and white cows. The roads close up as we get closer to the château, lined with overhanging trees and hedgerows bustling with birds. I have no idea where we’re going. The château is so remote that even Google Maps didn’t cover it, and as we trundle down an overgrown lane that looks only suitable for tractors, I’m sure he’s taking me to the wrong place. There is a château in the distance, popping into view occasionally through the trees, but it’s massive, and it only gets bigger as we get nearer.

This can’t be it. It’s huge. And completely alone. There’s nothing else around for miles, just fields and trees and more cows.

When the driver turns in, I’m convinced he’s gone to the wrong place, because this is insane. I cannot own a place like this. Well, half own. It’s the kind of place you’d expect the queen to live. If Buckingham Palace was in the middle of the French countryside, this would be it. There’s a moat. After we’ve turned into the property and driven down a driveway so long that if the airports ever get overcrowded, planes could easily come in to land on it, there’s an actual moat and an actual bridge that the taxi drives across. I’ve never seen a moat in real life before. It’s impossible that I now own a house that has one.

There has got to be a mistake.

‘Are you sure this is the right place?’

‘Oui,’ the driver says.

Even I can translate that.

Across the bridge is a large square courtyard and gravel crunches under the car tyres as we come to a stop.

It’s been a long drive and it’s cost me more than I’d budgeted for, but trying to understand French trains and buses and however many connections it would’ve taken to get this deep into the Normandy countryside wasn’t something I could cope with today.

The driver is getting my suitcase out of the boot before I’ve even had a chance to process it. After giving him almost every one of the euros I hastily drew out of a cash machine in a French train station this morning, following a panicked realisation that I was in France and completely unprepared, with only my British bank card and a British twenty-quid note in my purse, he leaves me standing in the courtyard, wondering how I’m going to call him back, because he’s obviously brought me to the wrong place.

This can’t be it. I mean, I know the solicitor threw around figures like a million euros, but I wasn’t expecting it to be this big. The building itself is so huge it seems ridiculous that anyone could live in it. Row after row of double windows stare down at me, five floors of them, a tall pointed roof, and towers at each corner, their spires stretching up into the blue sky. I’m not sure if it looks like a castle from a fairy tale or the kind of place you’d need Scooby Doo regularly on hand.

I feel small as I stand in the shadow of the house and look around the courtyard, nothing but land for miles. Trees and grass. Weeds taller than me. The odd ramshackle outbuilding. I suppose it must all be my land now. Well, mine and Mr Loophole’s. I have no idea how much fifteen acres actually is, but it sounds like a lot.

Something in the moat makes a splash. I jump because it’s the loudest noise I’ve heard since the taxi left. There’s no road and no neighbours or other noise-making things nearby, and it makes me nervous. At home, the neighbours are literally on top of you and you need earplugs to get through a day. Privacy and solitude might not be a thing, but at least there’s someone to hear you scream if you get attacked. I step a bit nearer to the moat, but the water is murky and I think better of it. Whatever made the splash was probably a snake. A poisonous one. That would be just my luck.

I shiver and wrap my arms around myself even though the sun is hot and bright. I’m alone in the middle of these huge grounds, with this huge house, in a country I’ve never been to before, with a language I don’t understand. What am I doing here? There’s stepping out of your comfort zone and then there’s bungee-jumping out of it with a broken rope and no parachute. That’s what I’ve done. I should just go home.

Even as I think it, I know I can’t. I didn’t leave the flat before the crack of daylight, lie to my boss about being ill, take two trains and a painfully expensive taxi, and spend half the day travelling only to go home before nightfall.

This is just a holiday. People take holidays all the time. People go to visit French châteaux all the time. All right, so they don’t usually own them and probably pay a pretty penny for the privilege, and that’s the point, isn’t it? You can’t be given a château and not visit it. That would be silly. This is like a free holiday.

If only I was a person who liked holidays. What I like is routine, my usual day and everything being at its right time and place. I despise the disruption of holidays, the weeks of packing and planning and last-minute panics on the way to the airport. I met my ex on holiday. He wanted to go everywhere and try everything, and look how well that turned out. I haven’t been on holiday since. And that’s exactly the way I like it.

Eulalie was always encouraging me to go somewhere. How fitting that my first holiday in years is at her beloved Château of Happily Ever Afters. Even as I stand here, I see her stories in the reality. She told me of going skinny-dipping in the moat and being caught by a group of local villagers. The moat might not look too appealing for swimming now, but decades ago? Maybe. She said there was a bridge, told me of the time the girl and the duke painted the iron railings white on a sunny day so hot that the paint had dried in the tin. The bridge railings are covered in cracked, peeling white paint now.

The key is a weight in the pocket of my jeans, and I turn back to the building, a silent pull, like it’s inviting me inside. Eulalie believed this place was magic, that it would bring a happy ending to everyone who lived here. I’m not sure I believe in magic, and I definitely don’t believe in happy endings, but Eulalie wanted me to have this place. She wanted me to come here, and that’s more important than routines and comfort zones.

I drag my suitcase up a crumbling set of steps to the gigantic front door. Something is carved in one of the stone pillars and I scratch lichen off to see what it says. Le Château de Châtaignier.

Well, I guess it really is the right place. Eulalie never told me it had a real name. She’d christened it The Château of Happily Ever Afters and that was that. If she’d told me the real name, I could have Googled it. Would I? Maybe. Why was she so determined to keep it a secret? Why did she speak of her time here so often but never once tell me it was real?

The key crunches in the lock and I have to shove all my strength against the double doors to prise them apart, the wood no doubt swollen after many winters of rain and summers of drying out. Old varnish flakes off as they creak open and I hold my breath and stay perfectly motionless for a few moments in case the whole lot falls down. Everything is still and the air is damp and stale. Most of all I notice the absolute silence, not even the hum of a refrigerator that I’m so used to at home.

But one thing’s for certain: if this place really is capable of giving everyone who lives here a happy ending, there must be some ecstatic spiders about.

Inside, the house has the smell and look of a building whose only occupants in the past twenty years have been of the eight-legged variety. Dust has settled like dirty snow, deep enough that you could build a snowman with it, and there’s some kind of cobweb Inception going on, where even the cobwebs have got cobwebs of their own.

I stand in the imposing entrance room in awe. The ceiling is the highest I’ve ever seen. There’s ornate moulding around the doors, the faded flamboyance of delicate wallpaper, which is now hanging off the walls, upturned furniture, and a draught coming in from multiple broken windows.

Everything about the place is shrouded in decaying vintage glamour.

I go up the grand double staircase, my hand trailing along the banister, each wooden bar smooth with a hand-carved rose at the base. The first floor is a maze of hallways and so many rooms that I don’t know where to start. I’ll need a map to find my way around.

The first room I go to is a bedroom. It feels hollow, even though there’s an empty wardrobe, a chest of drawers, a moth-eaten armchair, and a double bed still made up, a burgundy bedspread covering it, undisturbed for years. The windows are grey with dirt, but even the window handles are ornately carved metal as I push them open. I stand there and breathe in fresh air, warm in the late-August heat, suddenly realising that if there’s one thing this place needs, it’s fresh air. My first task will be to find all the windows and open them. For a moment though, I brush dead flies off the ledge and lean on my elbows to look out. The room is at the front of the château and gives me a perfect view of the driveway. There are trees on either side of the courtyard and their leaves wave in the breeze, overgrown reeds bending over and dragging their tips through the water of the moat, and somewhere nearby, birds are chirping at each other.

It’s so peaceful here.

No sooner than the thought crosses my mind, a noise reaches my ears. A car engine. The booming thump of a radio playing too loudly. Squealing brakes as it takes a corner too fast. And then I see a flash of red between the trees. It’s getting closer. This cannot be a good thing.

I watch from the window as the car turns in, speeding down the driveway towards the château. Any semblance of peace is shattered as the music thumps out, loudly enough to shake the entire building. The car is a sleek sports thing with the top down, and I squint to get a look at the driver. Long-ish dark hair tamed with product and a pair of sunglasses far too big for his head. Oh no. I’d know the smirk on his face anywhere. It’s the bloody nephew-git.

I should have known. Why didn’t I guess he’d come here too? Of course he would. Men like him are all the same. Money, money, money. He’s got no interest in Eulalie or the château, other than what it’s worth, no doubt. But he’s heard the word treasure, hasn’t he? I should’ve known after all that unfair advantage stuff the other day.

The shiny red car squeals to a halt in the courtyard with a spray of gravel, and the noise finally stops.

‘Yeah, yeah, you’ve got a small willy. No need to advertise it any louder,’ I mutter.

I watch as he gets out of the car and stretches muscular arms, his shirt riding up at the movement, showing a hint of tight stomach, and I shouldn’t feel so disappointed when he pulls it back down again. I can’t tear my eyes away from how low down the buttons lie on his chest – not until he pushes his sleeves up, anyway, easily redirecting my attention to his tanned forearms. He slides his sunglasses off and tucks them into his pocket, pointing his keys over his shoulder as he walks away from the car. The beep-beep of his car locking brings me back to my senses. Bloody hell, what is wrong with me? The French sunshine must’ve gone to my head. Anyone would think I was ogling the enemy. That pretentious knob with his roofless poser car. No way would I ogle him. As if.

He stands in the courtyard and looks up and I jump back from the window. He must’ve seen me. Bollocks.

What am I going to do? I don’t want him here. This doesn’t belong to him.

He’s going to come in here. I can hear gravel crunching under his feet as he walks towards the house.

And I’ve left the door open.

I slip across the landing and half-slide down the stairs in my rush to get to the front doors. I nearly fall out of them rather than close them. As I stumble to right myself, I look up and meet his eyes for one split second as he’s walking up the steps, then I heave the doors together and slam them shut. I twist the key too fast and it makes such a severe grinding noise that I expect it to come out in two pieces. I lean against the doors with a sigh of relief.

I don’t even realise what I’m doing until he bangs on the other side. ‘Oi! What are you doing? Let me in!’

I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head, hoping he’ll go away.

Shutting him out was a silly, childish thing to do. I know that. But I also know he doesn’t belong here. Eulalie wouldn’t want a complete stranger turning her house upside down because of some silly riddle about treasure.

I didn’t come here because of some half-arsed mention of surely non-existent treasure. I came because Eulalie wanted me to come here. Not for money. He doesn’t care about what Eulalie wanted. He doesn’t care about this house and how much she loved it.

It feels like everything has spiralled out of control since the meeting with the solicitor, and that key is the only solid thing I have. It’s the only power I’ve got over the man outside. I got here first and I locked him out. Winning.

Er, probably.

I hear the crunch of his shoes over the gravel again. Good. He can go back to his fancy car and zoom away with his lustrous hair trailing behind him. I wait for the sound of the engine starting up as he leaves in defeat.

It stays eerily quiet for a few minutes and I try to figure out what he might be doing out there. He’s probably walking around looking for another entrance. I haven’t had a chance to find out if there’s a back door yet, but hopefully it’s still locked. The place would’ve been ransacked by burglars if there were any unlocked doors. He can’t get in. I just have to keep telling myself that.

I get more antsy as the minutes tick by. He hasn’t left yet. And I can’t see what he’s doing. I wish these doors weren’t solid wood and had a window to peek out of.

Just as I’m thinking about going back upstairs and peeping out of the open window, his voice filters in from outside.

‘Wendy! Come to the window!’

I can’t. I can’t go up there and talk to him. I’m not good at talking to people. It’s probably why I’m so bad at my job. Pushing samples of food is mostly about engaging with people, talking them into trying something new and then buying it, and my boss is constantly on my case about poor sales figures.

If I talk to him, he’s going to want an explanation for why I slammed the doors in his face, and the only one I can come up with is that I’ve temporarily forgotten I’m thirty-three and not an immature eight-year-old.

‘I know you’re in there!’

I leave the wooden support of the front doors and creep up the stairs. Not that creeping makes much difference – everything in this house creaks loudly enough that someone in the next village can probably hear it. I get to the landing and do an SAS-style crawl across the grimy floor so he can’t see me from outside, until I’m lying on my belly under the window.