Amuse-Bouche

      Janine Ashbless

      It was a dream, a nightmare, a fairy tale.

      ‘Rose, wake up.’

      She woke with no coherent memory of where she was, aware only that it was raining because she could hear it drumming on the car roof, and that her neck ached from dozing off at an awkward angle. A waft of cooler air carried a fresh dampness to her lungs, dispelling the warm fug of the vehicle interior.

      ‘Come on.’ It was the woman: that silver bobbed hair, those high and delicate cheekbones belying her age. Rose tried to marshal her memories. Amanda, wasn’t it? She’d called herself Amanda and she’d been the one driving. Now she was standing at the far door and holding it open, oblivious – it seemed – to the weather.

      ‘Where are we?’ Rose looked around, confused. Through the rain-blurred night she saw white-plastered walls, illuminated windows and the base of a round turret. And a lit archway, within which a dark figure flickered momentarily. Yes, there’d been a man in the back with her, hadn’t there? What was his name? Something French, she thought, though he’d sounded English. An edge of accusation crept into her voice: ‘Is this Paris? You said you’d take me to Paris.’

      ‘We’re a few kilometres outside Paris.’ Water dripped from Amanda’s pale hair. ‘This is a hotel.’

      ‘Why’ve we stopped?’ Kyle would be wondering what was keeping her – she couldn’t keep him waiting, could she?

      ‘For dinner. Aren’t you hungry?’

      Oh, of course – Kyle wasn’t expecting her. She hadn’t told him she was coming because she wanted it to be a wonderful surprise. She hadn’t told anyone about her plan to hitch-hike across the English Channel and then all the way to Kyle’s student digs in Paris. But yes, she was hungry. She’d been living on crisps for the last twenty-four hours. Crisps and that horrible ham sandwich on the ferry, while she was hiding in the ladies’ toilet waiting for that lorry driver with the creeping hands to give up on waiting for her.

      Still dizzy with sleep, Rose emerged into the rain. Cold drops licked her lips. She’d been dreaming, she remembered. Something about kissing Kyle … only, his lips had been icy.

      ‘I can’t,’ she said, hunching against the downpour as Amanda came round the back of the car. The white walls of the chateau loomed like a fairy-tale castle and steam rose from the exterior up-lights in miniature mist wreathes. ‘I mean, I haven’t got that sort of money.’

      ‘Don’t worry about that. We’ve got it covered.’ Amanda took her arm. ‘Come on.’

      The night was horrible and Rose obeyed, letting herself be led towards the arched doorway.

      Inside, it was a palace: panelled walls, gilt furniture carved with grapes and cherubs, huge vases of flowers, enormous portraits of ugly people in beautiful clothes. The carpet under Rose’s feet was so thick she felt like she was sinking into it. Her jaw dropped. She’d only ever seen this sort of opulence on a school trip to Windsor Castle. She’d never imagined that real people stayed in places like this, and somehow it made her feel less real herself.

      The man was there, talking in French to a stout, elegant woman who wore an expression of stiff hauteur. He glanced at them as they drew near, and smiled. For a moment Rose couldn’t help thinking the smile was for her, and her heart bumped. He was really not bad-looking for an older bloke – he must be in his thirties, she guessed – and his smile lit his dark eyes. Then she realised that the pleasure must be intended for Amanda, of course. His girlfriend. Auntie. Whatever.

      She blushed.

      Reynauld. That was his name. She remembered now. Her mind seemed to be all over the place, like a flock of pigeons scattered by the shadow of something dark overhead.

      ‘The room at the top of the stairs,’ he murmured to Amanda, with a tilt of his head to indicate the direction. ‘They’ll fetch the bags.’

      ‘This way, Rose.’

      She let herself be shepherded to the foot of a great marble staircase, and it was only a chance glimpse through a pair of double doors that made her pause. The room beyond those doors was clearly a dining area. People in fine clothes sat below glittering chandeliers while waiters hovered.

      ‘I thought we were going to eat?’

      Amanda, one step higher by this point, laughed, the fine skin around her eyes creasing. ‘You can’t sit in those wet clothes, can you? Not in there! Come on – we’ve got the use of a room to freshen up in. And I can lend you one of my dresses. You must be soaked.’

      It was true. Rose was sodden all down her back and her shoes squelched even on this luxurious carpet. She’d been walking through the rain in Calais port for some time before those two stopped to offer her a lift. The prospect of being able to dry herself and maybe comb her hair out was very appealing. So much so that she’d climbed two flights of steps before it dawned on her how odd it was that she and Amanda were both wet from the short walk from the car, but, as far as she could recall, Reynauld hadn’t looked even slightly damp.

      Maybe he’d taken the only umbrella. Not much of a gentleman, then.

      Amanda showed her into a room that took her breath away. Not a room: a suite, she thought, spying a second chamber opening from the first through connecting doors. They must be totally loaded. There were flowers everywhere again, and ugly expensive furniture upholstered in red-and-cream stripes. The cover of the huge bed was crimson and mounded with tasselled cushions and bolsters.

      ‘Warm yourself up with a nice hot shower,’ Amanda suggested. ‘I’ll wait for my bag.’

      There