The Chateau of Happily-Ever-Afters: a laugh-out-loud romcom!. Jaimie Admans
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didn’t know that,’ I say, stating the obvious. It hadn’t even occurred to me that the name might have a meaning, and I definitely couldn’t translate it. ‘Chestnuts as in… conkers?’ I think back to conker fights in the school playground. ‘Because they’re meant to keep spiders out of houses and so far they’re clearly doing a terrible job.’
‘Completely different thing. Those are horse chestnuts, these are sweet chestnuts – y’know, the roasting on an open fire at Christmas kind?’
‘Oh, right.’
‘They’re not common to this region. I expected this to be an apple orchard. That’s what Normandy is known for. I wouldn’t mind betting this is the only chestnut orchard around here. Someone named their château this for a reason.’ He looks at me. ‘This was someone’s livelihood once. There’s enough of a chestnut harvest here to sell for weeks in the autumn. This whole place looks like it was set up to be self-sufficient with all the different areas and the outbuildings.’
‘You can tell that under all the weeds?’ I ask, trying not to be impressed that he knows this sort of thing.
He shrugs. ‘Yeah. I bet whoever lived here grew everything they ate. Do you know any of the history of the place?’
I shake my head, not bothering to point out that, until this week, I didn’t even know the place existed.
‘These trees are way older than Eulalie or her husband. They’ve been here for at least a hundred years.’
I’m not sure if I’m impressed he can tell that or creeped out, picturing the ghosts of long-dead chestnut farmers from centuries ago watching us in their beloved orchard. Maybe Scooby Doo would come in handy after all. ‘Are you going to pick any? I saw a couple of open hearths in the house last night to roast them on.’
‘It’s way too early for chestnuts – they’re nowhere near ripe. But in the autumn, definitely.’
Something pings in my brain at that. We won’t still be here in autumn, but I’m sure the squirrels will enjoy them. ‘You know a lot about plants,’ I say instead. He doesn’t look like someone who knows much about plants. He looks like someone who knows a lot about hair products and gym memberships.
‘I like plants. They’re reliable. You give them what they ask for and they do what they say they will.’
‘If plants are saying anything to you, I’d be concerned.’
‘Ha ha,’ he says in a high voice, mimicking me. ‘I just mean they’re predictable. You give them the right conditions and they’ll do what nature intended them to. There’s give and take with them. You help them and they help you, unlike people.’
The hint of bitterness in his voice intrigues me, and then I wonder why I’m even thinking about it. ‘Same could be said of certain people I’ve met lately.’
He raises an eyebrow above his sunglasses. ‘So far this morning I’ve rescued you from a wall and saved an innocent centipede from death by hair. What exactly have I done that’s so bad?’
I go to shout something at him but I stop myself. ‘Eulalie didn’t leave this place to you,’ I say calmly. ‘She didn’t even know you. She wouldn’t want you destroying the place looking for money.’
‘Is it me who broke into a wall and got myself stuck there for a box of dead rats?’
‘No, but—’
He doesn’t let me finish. ‘If she wanted you to have this place so badly, she should’ve been better prepared. She must’ve known French law entitles direct descendants to a fair share and she must’ve known there was a possibility that her brother had children.’
‘Oh please, you’re a great-nephew. That’s barely even a relation!’
‘You’re not even a relation! What moral high ground do you think you have to stand on here?’
‘This is what she wanted.’
He shakes his head. ‘She was insane. She’s going on about treasure hidden here like there’s some pirate’s bounty buried in the basement or something. It’s madness.’
‘She was not…’ I start to defend Eulalie’s sanity when my brain realises what he’s said. ‘You don’t think there’s any treasure?’
‘I find it highly unlikely.’
‘Why are you here then?’
‘I don’t know,’ he says with a shrug. ‘Same reason you are, I suppose. If you inherit a French château, you can’t just ignore it. I had to see the place.’
A part of me believes him. Eulalie’s mention of treasure is so ridiculous, it’s laughable, but the sensible side of me is screaming at myself to be careful. He’s obviously only saying this to throw me off. All he’s after is money, like all men. It’s a classic diversion – if I think he’s not interested in treasure, he can hunt for it in peace while I swan around obliviously believing it doesn’t exist.
‘And I’m glad I came,’ he carries on. ‘Despite the welcoming party. This place is incredible. I’ve dreamed of someday retiring to somewhere with even a fraction of this land. All I’ve ever wanted is my own orchard.’
‘It’s a bit overgrown,’ I say, distracted by wondering if I should give him the benefit of the doubt.
‘It’s just naturalised. All it needs is some care and attention and some fixing up and it could be the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.’
‘Yeah, well, I’m not wasting my holiday here fighting with weeds that will have grown again by the time I have another chance to visit. Given the short notice this time, I doubt my boss will approve any time off for at least another year.’
‘What do you do?’
‘I’m a food ambassador,’ I say, surprised he’s interested enough to ask. I haven’t exactly given him reason to make small talk with me so far, have I?
‘What’s that?’
I blush. ‘I man the sample stands in a supermarket. You know that woman who’s always in the way of the exact shelf you need to get to, trying to offer you centimetre-square bits of cake while chattering about how lovely it is? That’s me.’
‘Sounds riveting,’ he says with a laugh.
‘What about you?’
‘I’m a fitness model.’
‘Of course you are,’ I mutter. I don’t know why I expected anything else. Plumbers don’t have abs like that.
He raises that eyebrow above his sunglasses again.
‘So when are you leaving?’ I ask, trying to sound nonchalant, like it doesn’t matter to me at all when he leaves. Behind my back, my fingers are crossed for luck. It’s Wednesday now, so surely he’ll be off by Friday? Sunday at the latest?
‘I’m not.’
‘You’re… not?’ He means, like, this week, right? I’m not leaving this week but I’ll be gone on Monday?
He looks at me and his mouth breaks into that tight-lipped smile. ‘Why would I leave? This place is half mine. I have every right to be here whenever I want, and I have a key now so you can’t play your little games any more. I have nothing to keep me in Scotland. I drive down to London for photoshoots all the time, so it’d be just as easy to nip back from here. This place is a dream, and I see no reason to leave.’
‘But… but…’ I stumble over my words, they get tangled up with my desire to knee him in the bollocks.
‘Oh, what a shame you’ve got a fixed job you’ve got to get back to in, what, two weeks?’
‘Four,’ I mutter. ‘Three if my