From Paris With Love This Christmas

‘Er, excuse me?’ she called after him. He turned. ‘Haven’t you forgotten something?’ He might be a poor excuse for a driver but he should still do the basics. ‘My bags?’

Blue eyes burned bright with indignation and he shook his head, muttering under his breath. He snatched the bags up and marched off. No tip for him then. Oh hell, they used sterling in England didn’t they? There were only euros in her purse.

Following, she tried to keep up with his long-legged stride.

Maybe this had been a terrible idea. Her phone buzzed in her pocket and she snatched it up. Laurie? No, Maman. Her diaphragm tensed and for a minute she couldn’t breathe. Flash. Flash. Flash. Like a lighthouse, the beam on her iPhone pulsed with urgency. She stopped and stared down, her finger hovering over the screen.

Ahead of her the man had stopped and turned.

‘Going to get that? Or just stare at it all night. Some of us have places to be in the morning.’

She sighed and caught up with him. Once they got to the car, he would be driving and she could get in the back and sleep until they got to Laurie’s house in Leighton Buzzard. She had no idea what part of London that was or how long it would take to get there but it felt easier not to ask him.

Siena skidded to a halt but didn’t dare open her mouth. He had to be kidding. What sort of Mickey Mouse outfit did this guy work for?

‘Come on,’ he growled over his shoulder as he unlocked the boot of the mud-covered Land Rover. ‘It’s already after midnight.’

‘Seriously?’ She stared at the dirty green paintwork, unconsciously echoing his earlier phrase. ‘This is your car?’

‘Seriously yes. It’s my car. But don’t worry, there is an alternative.’

‘Thank goodness for that.’ She looked around the car park and spotted a pristine black Mercedes parked two bays along. ‘Where?’

He looked down, his eyes travelling the length of her legs to the floor. She followed his gaze.

‘What?’

‘You’re looking at them.’

She flushed. Tossing her head she crossed to the door of the car, with as much froideur as she could manage, opened it and hauled herself in. It was a long way up. Half way, she realised her mistake.

He stood by the door grinning holding a set of keys. ‘Missing something.’

She slid back out, refusing to look at him, keeping her face totally impassive and walked around the back of the car to the passenger seat. So, she was used to left hand drive cars, he didn’t need to be mean about it.

This horrible thing looked Spartan and uncomfortable. Unlikely she’d be taking a nap. Even climbing up was ungainly and her tight jeans protested, cutting sharply into her thighs. Immediately her feet were buried ankle deep in white paper bags, Coke cans and disposable coffee cups.

A pervading scent of manure and sweaty socks filled the vehicle. You couldn’t call it a car; it wasn’t civilised enough.

Years of being instilled with impeccable manners didn’t prevent her involuntary shudder. His eyes sharpened for a moment and she thought she’d offended him again. Although he seemed pretty easily offended.

‘Sorry about the mess. I wasn’t expecting passengers today.’

‘Were you ever?’ The words slipped out before she could stop them.

His head shot round and his dark eyes flashed with the closest thing to approval she’d yet seen. He gave her a rueful smile. ‘You got me there. No, this is my work horse.’ He patted the dashboard affectionately as he glanced down at her feet which she’d used to push the mass of litter to one side. There was a rustle as a couple of Coke cans tumbled together.

‘Ugh,’ she clutched her knees in her hand lifting her feet above the mess, ‘you haven’t got rats in here have you?’

A mischievous glint danced in his eyes and his face lit up with a sudden cheerful smile. ‘It’s a distinct possibility.’ And with that he started the engine, which coughed into life with a noisy, diesel fuelled rumble.

Siena sneaked a surreptitious look at his profile as he concentrated on manoeuvring the beast out of the car park. Now they were in the car his temper seemed to have abated. He seemed a tiny bit more human and, she had to admit, very good-looking in an unpolished way. Not that he was her kind of man. Too scruffy and masculine. Butch. Far too butch. Dark stubble shaded his chin and cheeks, emphasising the strong lines of his face and heavy jawline. Put him in a decent suit and he’d brush up nicely, although his arms and legs seemed rather muscular. Powerful. She tucked her hands under her legs and shrank into her seat.

Yves had a completely different build; slim and slender and of course, much older.

She checked out his clothes. Double denim. A fashion fiasco. She suspected he wouldn’t care if she pointed out that some people believed it was an unpardonable offence to wear jeans and a denim jacket unless you were a member of Status Quo.

Clean hair; nice and silky even though it might as well have been cut by a near-sighted trainee with a pair of blunt hedge clippers. Breathing in, she took in his scent, slightly earthy but not unclean. Siena could bet he didn’t do aftershave.

‘There isn’t an exam you know.’

Siena started and blushed. What was wrong with her? This man had caught her sniffing him, or as good as. Her face burned. At home she would have apologised profusely. It was rude to stare and plainly even ruder to overtly smell people but for some reason, maybe being away from home gave her tongue licence to say what she really thought for a change, she said, ‘Just checking out my surroundings and getting my orientation.’

‘I’m Jason. I’m twenty-nine. That do you?’

‘And are you always this fache?’ she shrugged as she grasped for the proper word. (Cross, that was it.) And then very nearly spoilt things by gasping at her own boldness. She never said things like that to people and she’d certainly learned not to with Yves. That sort of thing did make him cross.

‘No, only when I’ve been up since half past five this morning and I have to be up again in five hours.’ He slipped a silver foil packet out of his pocket, easing out a tablet with one hand and popping it into his mouth.

‘I guess you’re a bit tired then.’ No wonder he was knocking back the energy tablets or whatever they were.

He shot her an incredulous look. ‘No shit Sherlock.’

Siena snapped her mouth shut. She’d been about to add, that she was grateful for him coming out. These people worked incredibly hard. Was it any wonder he was cranky with those hours? Although it was probably a hazard of the job, early morning airport runs were probably the most lucrative. She wrinkled her nose.

‘You know,’ she smiled to show she was being helpful rather than rude, ‘you might get more customers if you cleaned up in here. Maybe got a better car.’

‘I can’t see how.’

‘You mean your customers don’t mind?’

‘None of them have complained so far.’

Siena pulled a face to herself in the dark. Maybe British people were less fussy about their taxis.

With an ungainly swerve, the car rocked at speed around a bend taking the slip road. Alain, the family chauffeur, would have been appalled.

Weren’t they now going in the opposite direction to the signposts for London? Her stomach followed suit and nausea churned in the pit of her stomach.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked, rather proud that her voice sounded normal. She should have asked this Jason man for some kind of identification. Thierry Deneuve’s seventeen-year-old daughter had been kidnapped in Italy last June. Everyone knew he’d paid a hefty ransom demand to get her back, even though the police warned them not to.

‘Home?’

‘What, your home?’ Siena sat up straighter, clutching her bag closer to her chest and eyed the passing lights outside. They were going by pretty quickly now. She probably looked ridiculous but if she had to make a run for it, she had everything she needed in there.

Jason turned his head and gave her a funny look. ‘Strictly speaking, I guess it’s Laurie’s house.’

‘I might have just stepped off the plane but I can read.’

‘Good for you.’

Did he think she was stupid? ‘So why are we headed in the opposite direction?’

Occasionally taxi drivers in Paris took her on a circular route if they heard her speaking English, making the assumption she was a tourist.

‘We’re not.’

‘So why did it say London that way?’ She pointed back up the motorway.

‘Because. It. Is.’

‘So why are we going this way towards Slew?’ She pointed to the overhead blue sign, which had handily appeared at exactly that moment. He didn’t need to know she didn’t have a clue where Slough was.

Jason snorted and said in a strangled voice, ‘Where?’

‘Slew,’ she said her eyes narrowing. Wait ‘til she spoke to Laurie; she’d tell her to not to use this cab company again.

Despite his bone-deep tiredness, Jason shook with laughter.

‘Oops.’ He wrenched the wheel and they veered off the M4 onto the slip road towards the signs for M25 Gatwick and M25 Watford.

‘Nearly missed it,’ he said still chuckling to himself. How in hell’s name was this spoilt brat related in any way to Laurie? It wasn’t possible.

‘So,’ he snorted again, ‘where,’ another snigger, ‘where do you th-think Laurie lives? Not Slew obviously.’ He wheezed and started slapping the steering wheel trying to regain some equilibrium.

‘Leighton Buzzard.’ Siena folded her arms across her chest and stuck her chin in the air.

‘Good,’ he wheezed again, ‘because that’s where we’re headed. And it’s pronounced Slough as in bough.’

‘I think it’s very rude to laugh. How was I supposed to know that? If you were in France, I wouldn’t laugh at your pronunciation.’

He gave her a dry look. ‘But I’m not French. So why would you? You’re English.’

With a pout she folded her arms.

He gave her a closer look. She looked damn good, if you liked that sort of thing. A babe but too high maintenance. Skyscraper, Fifth Avenue, Mayfair type maintenance. He knew the type. Knew them well. Trust fund babies who expected the world to drop everything at their bidding. Incapable of doing anything for themselves. Been there, done that and he wasn’t going to be anyone’s gravy train again. Stacey, his ex, had boarded that ride and then left him the minute he chose a new route.

And yet, despite all his best intentions, here he was again, knight to the rescue. At six o’clock this morning he’d been in Glasgow. If anyone else had asked him to race to Heathrow he’d have told them where to stick it but he owed Laurie. She let him rent her house at a ridiculously low rate and as she was shacked up with one of his best mates, she couldn’t be all bad. Cam had very high standards when it came to women.

‘So you thought you’d pop over to see your sister,’ he asked, still cross on Laurie’s behalf.

‘Yes. Fancied spending some time together.’ The cheery, shallow smile made him grit his teeth. He wasn’t about to enlighten her. Laurie had been quite specific in her instructions. If anyone from her family enquired, he wasn’t to mention she’d gone to live in the house she’d inherited from her Uncle Miles. Apparently her mother was very unhappy about the terms of the will. And Jason would not betray Laurie’s confidence … especially for his spoiled, snobby – and rather hot – passenger.

Chapter 2

When the noisy Land Rover finally drew to a stop, they could have been anywhere. It was pitch black and Siena only had Jason’s word for it that they had arrived at the correct destination.

Jason opened the door, and waited for her, his breath rising into the icy air in a plume of steam. She followed quickly. This was the house she’d grown up in. She lived here until she was six. They’d been a proper family here. A mum, a dad and two sisters. Nails digging in her palms she looked around. A narrow hallway opened up in front of them, with a beautiful wooden staircase leading upstairs.

Siena blinked as he flicked on lights and smiled at the sight of the natural oak spindles on the staircase, which had a striped runner lining the centre of each step with brass stair rods. A large mirror, framed in rustic oak, reflected the antique brass light in the centre of the ceiling. This was lovely and not at all how she’d pictured the house from her mother’s dismissive comments. She waited for a moment. Not a shred of recognition. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

‘Lounge. Kitchen.’ Jason nodded to closed doors on the right.

‘Your room is upstairs at the back. Bathroom in the middle.’

Siena blinked and picked up her bag, back ramrod straight as she held back the sudden inexplicable tears. They had no business here. She needed sleep. That was all. Today had been lots of things, none of which she wanted to tax her brain with at the moment. All she knew was that her eyelids felt heavy, her head felt heavy and her stupid heart heavier still. What had she been expecting? A sense of homecoming? If she didn’t get to bed now, she’d never make it up the stairs and she had to see her bedroom.

Rummaging through her bag she pulled out her purse. Euros would have to do.

‘Thanks,’ she said thrusting a ten euro note into Jason’s hand. Without looking back she clattered up the stairs. She heard the front door slam with some force but she was too intent on her room to look back. She took the last four two at a time.

Perhaps it would feel different up here. In her room. The room her older sister had decorated for her. The room she’d slept in every night until she was six and ten-twelfths, before her mother took her to France, leaving Laurie and the father she didn’t remember behind.

Stopping at the closed door, she took a deep breath, grasped the handle and stepped into the warm glow cast by one of the bedside lights. Someone had left it on for her. The soft light made her feel welcome, as if she were expected, as did the bed, piled high with cushions with shadowed furrows in the deep feather duvet. It made her want to dive right in. The room looked perfect. She touched the little white painted chest at the foot of the bed as she took in every bit of the English cottage-styled loveliness, from the shiny spars of the brass bed, to the delicate lacy curtains at the window, through to the sanded floorboards and the pretty rug under her feet. The room looked exactly as it had in the photograph. But that was her only sense of recognition.

Panic clutched at her chest.

Once she’d seen a rescue team on the mountainside digging desperately for survivors. She felt like one of them, frantically shovelling through her memories, desperate to find one that confirmed she’d once played with toys, got dressed and slept in this room. But there was nothing. Bleakness settled on her. Had this been a stupid mistake?

She took a deep breath and pushed her shoulders back. Crazy thinking. So she didn’t remember the house. It didn’t matter. Tomorrow, Laurie would be here and they’d be sisters together. They could have a proper sister sleepover with wine, chocolate, a chick flick like in real chick flicks and she could forget about Maman. And Yves. And engagements. And weddings. And letting the family down. And everything. She closed her eyes. Maman was bound to have found the note by now.

But she was an adult. She didn’t have to ask permission to go away. She’d told Maman she’d be back for Christmas. For Harry’s party.

With reluctance she pulled out her phone and looked at the series of missed calls. Ignoring the anxiety spiralling through her chest, she switched it off and buried it deep in her handbag.

The double bed looked so plump and inviting. As she turned back the covers, the feather duvet rustled and shifted with a siren call promising comfort.

Stripping off her clothes and scattering them on the floor, she pushed the pile of cushions aside and slipped between the sheets, immediately sinking into the mattress. Did it feel like coming home? She lay cocooned in the crisp white cotton and listened. Outside, a few cars rumbled past. They sounded very close and so loud. So different from the Chateau.

As her head sank into the pillow and she drifted in that half-awake, half-asleep dream world, she thought she heard footsteps on the stairs but it was too much effort to open her eyes again. Laurie was home. She fought sleep for a minute but it overcame her. They could have breakfast together.

Chapter 3

The bathroom, with its Victorian styled sink and bath, had a damp used-not-so-long-ago taint to it but there was no sign of Laurie.

Siena’s eager tour of the downstairs of the house had taken precisely eight minutes. She almost checked the walls to make sure she hadn’t missed a secret passageway or a door leading to another wing. Nope. The hallway of the Chateau had more furniture than this whole house.

Where was Laurie though? Siena figured she must have gone out to get some groceries as the fridge was almost bare apart from something called shepherd’s pie, although it didn’t look like any pie she’d ever come across, and a tiny bit of milk in the oddest glass bottle she’d ever seen.

Conscious of the dryness of her mouth, she squeezed past the pine table big enough to seat four, stopping to take a closer look at the cheerful place mats covered in jaunty chickens in reds, yellows and oranges before switching on the enamel red kettle. The cosy country kitchen made you want to stay awhile, sit at the table and chat. It was easy to picture evenings in here, sitting in the spindle-backed chairs, sipping wine at the table with her sister. She sighed. She couldn’t wait to see Laurie. They were going to have so much fun and hopefully she wouldn’t mind her staying a bit longer.

Reaching above into the distressed cream-painted wooden cupboard, she found an assortment of china mugs, each patterned with different flowers. Making herself a cup of tea, she leant against the counter and studied the eclectic collection of china egg cups and pottery jugs which lined the shelves of the wooden dresser on the other side of the room.

Taking her tea, and crossing the terracotta tiled floor which felt cold under her feet, she went through to the tiny, tiny lounge. The whole room was smaller than her dressing room in the Paris apartment but despite that, the cottage style sofa with its floral print purple wisteria trailing across the plump feather-cushioned sofa strewn with perfectly co-ordinated fat cushions in muted colours, was charming. The room even had a proper open cast-iron fireplace with a surround of flower painted ceramic tiles and a clutch of brass fire-tools in a stand beside it. Twists of newspaper piled with coal sat in the grate waiting to be lit. Feeling a little bit like Goldilocks but sure that Laurie wouldn’t mind, she picked up the box of matches from the crowded wooden mantle. There were several framed pictures including one of Laurie and her boyfriend Cam laughing their heads off at something out of the shot and a faded black and white photo of an older man. Siena studied it for a moment and put it back hurriedly.

The flames had caught. Nice going on the fire making front. With a happy sigh, she snuggled down and picked up her magazine, one of a collection she’d bought at Charles de Gaulle. It was hardly a taxing prospect, whiling away the time waiting for Laurie by flicking through the pages of party themed sequinned dresses, shimmering eye shadows and gorgeous clutch bags and listening to the snap and crackle of the fire. She turned another page. So, she’d miss Claude’s Christmas soirée at the Musée d’Orsay. Possibly the best event in Paris and the only thing she’d miss. With a moue of acceptance she shrugged. No matter. She’d have fun with Laurie.

And as if she conjured her up, her mobile phone vibrated into life.

‘Hi Sien … son texted me … picked you up OK.’ Laurie’s Dalek voice snapped in and out of range.

‘I can hardly hear you.’ Siena winced at the plaintive whine in her voice. It sounded so pathetic and needy, not the image she wanted to portray. ‘Are you still in Yorkshire?’

‘Yes. Sorry. Really bad line. At …pital. How’s the room? Do you … Can’t leave N … hospital at least … Don’t worry Jason will—’ The signal died leaving a long buzzing tone.

Her heart bumped a little uncomfortably and she worried at her lip. So who had used the bathroom this morning? And when was she going to get the chance to explain properly to Laurie how long she planned to stay? Laurie probably assumed Siena finally had a free weekend and had taken up the invitation originally extended over two years ago.

She winced. That sounded crap. It was crap. One hundred and four weekends that she’d failed to come and see her sister; she should have managed at least one. She glanced back at her phone, now registering all the missed calls and voicemails. She could go through and delete them but keeping them was like keeping a wasp in a jar. Safely contained and fine as long as it stayed in there.

Nestled in her hand the phone felt like a time bomb ticking.

‘Time to finish up, Ben.’

As if someone had pulled the plug on the power, Ben dropped the hose he was using to wash down the concrete floor and pulled off his beanie hat, stuffing it into his pocket. The hose flailed wildly for a second, hitting Jason’s trousers before Ben managed to get to the tap to switch it off. Jason stared down at the dark wet patch running from crotch to knee. Yup, looked exactly like he’d wet himself. He shook his head and rolled his eyes behind Ben’s back. No point bawling the boy out. He only had himself to blame. By now he should know full well that Ben took everything quite literally.

Jason sighed out loud. The plus point meant you could be incredibly direct, the downside was that you had to be extremely careful what you said.

‘If you wash out the pipes on the bottling line, then you can finish.’ He took a quick look around the small barn area, feeling that familiar sense of pride. The gleaming fermentation tanks, the bottling line and the stores of grain lined up in the old stable area. The high roof of the barn made it a cold, but light and airy environment to work in, one that he had never failed to want to arrive at every morning.

‘Good work today. Now that lot’s bottled, we can start again next week.’

They’d worked like stink today, so hard neither of them had felt the cold of the barn, until he’d got soaked. Now the cold stung and the chill seeped below his layers. They could wrap up for the day. Today’s backbreaking pace had paid off. Back on schedule, all ready to start brewing tomorrow. Ben had managed to fix the miller, so that they could grind down the malt barley and get it together with the water into the mash tun. Brewing was a magical process. It never ceased to amaze him that you could get so many infinite flavours from the simple combination of water and grain

He rolled his stiff neck. A satisfying day, which would be all the better for a long hot shower, an instant meal and bed. All he had to do was finish up in the office, nip over the courtyard to see Will, enjoy a quick post work pint and head home. It was handy having his business partner running the pub next door and of course owning a convenient barn that was perfect for a micro-brewery.

‘Jason, what you having? Busman’s holiday?’ Will slid off the bar stool, lifted the wooden flap and went round to the other side of the bar. Ben was already ensconced comfortably at the bar, halfway down a pint.

‘Corona, please.’

‘Seriously …’ Will rolled his eyes at Ben. ‘Young Ben here is loyal to the cause. Drinking a pint of Chiltern Glory. It’s your money. If you buy a pint of your own, it’s win win.’

Ben raised his glass. ‘Tastes good, boss.’

Jason laughed. ‘Go on then.’ He had just wanted to neck something cold. ‘I’ll have a half.’

‘Ironed out all the problems?’ Will was the perfect business partner, silent when he needed to be and hugely supportive and enthusiastic at all other times. They’d known each other since university when they’d played rugby together but they had more in common than their shared passion for beer. Both of them had lost their fathers in recent years which had strengthened their bond of friendship, although unlike his, Will’s relationship with his father had always been strained, which Will put down to the fact that he suspected they weren’t actually related by blood at all.