Authors: Eve Bourton
Yolande had never thought of Yves as
hot
. Still, each to her own. ‘He’s a member of the Confrérie. We’re both winegrowers.’
Clarisse’s interest was aroused, and by the time Yves came back, accompanied by two middle-aged bespectacled men in Confrérie robes, they were deep in conversation about the merits of various Burgundy vintages. Yolande broke off to renew her acquaintance with the men, who had known her father well, and soon the evening’s festivities were under way.
Yves was most attentive until called upon to make his speech, though Yolande felt he could have been less gallant to Clarisse. He leaned just a little too close to her, laughed at her jokes, paid her compliments – flirted, damn him. She took a long hard look at him and had to agree that Clarisse had a point. He was positively sizzling. But when he had been hers, he’d barely been tepid and she’d tossed him aside. It was too late now for what might have been. Yolande bestowed her own battery of charm on an elderly gentleman to her right, who clearly thought he had died and gone to heaven. They sang the songs together, and he was delighted that she knew all the words. The dinner, as always, was superb, though for some reason she had no appetite.
Yves’ speech, introducing new members to the Confrérie, was quirky and funny, and got generous applause – not least from Clarisse Beaufort, who continued to monopolise him until the dinner ended.
Miles checked and rechecked the table. Candles, roses, silver cutlery, napkins. All present and correct, in perfect symmetry. The wine was open and left to breathe, and the Champagne was on ice. Something was missing. Music. He rifled through the CDs by the stereo and opted for classical, then headed back to the kitchen to the sound of Chopin. And hoped the meal was as easy to prepare as Yolande had assured him it would be. She’d left it all ready with full instructions for heating and serving.
Corinne wandered in a few minutes later dressed only in a bath robe, her hair wet from the shower.
‘Hmm, that smells good, darling. I thought you couldn’t cook.’
‘Jury’s still out. I thought it was about time I treated you to
fusilli à la Corsley.
’ He turned to her, and his mouth watered. ‘Come here, woman.’
‘Since you ask so nicely.’ And she was in his arms, being kissed senseless and thinking she wasn’t hungry after all and it would be much better if they simply went to bed where she could have her way with him. ‘Miles, let’s eat later.’
He tore his lips away. ‘Not possible. This is all timed and I synchronised watches and all that technical stuff. Why don’t you go into the dining room? And please, darling, put something on. You’re distracting me.’
She winked and sauntered out, and when she reappeared fifteen minutes later was dressed in a midnight blue skin-tight dress, cut low back and front and ending several inches above the knee. Her long legs were in matching silk stockings, and diamonds glittered in her ears and around her neck.
He stared and swallowed hard. ‘Oh hell.’
‘Well,’ she crossed to him, hooked one leg around his thighs and pressed her body against his. ‘I wouldn’t want to distract you.’ Her hand found the bulge in his trousers. ‘Would I?’
‘Corinne, for God’s sake. I’m trying to cook you a romantic dinner.’
‘Is that why you put on Chopin?’
‘Don’t you like it?’
‘It’s fine. I’m just in the mood for something a little more … racy.’
His blood was pounding, his head swam with her perfume while she seemed to wind all around him like an octopus. And her hand. Dear God, her hand. And then the microwave stopped with a loud ‘ping’ and he jumped like a guilty schoolboy.
Corinne collapsed with giggles. ‘
Fusilli à la Corsley?
Yolande cooked it, didn’t she? And you just heated it up.’
‘I … um … well, yes. But I’m sure it’s good.’
‘I know it is. She’s a damn good cook when she puts her mind to it.’
‘Why don’t you go on into the dining room and I’ll bring it through?’ Although it was the last thing he wanted to do with her body plastered against him.
‘Why don’t you tell me what this is all about?’
He took her shoulders and stood her a little away from him so he could look into her eyes. They were both suddenly serious.
‘Corinne, I want to give you a little more romance to show you how I feel. We’ve been together for several months now, and we don’t seem to have done any real courting.’
She was confused. ‘Courting? How very old-fashioned.’
‘Darling, I
am
old-fashioned. I love you. I can’t live without you. But we just keep jumping from bedroom to boardroom and there isn’t enough time for us. This evening was supposed to be special. Slow. Romantic.’
‘And I’ve spoilt it all by trying to seduce you. Oh Miles, I’m sorry.’ She stroked his cheek gently. ‘I love you. I can’t live without you either. I don’t need courting to know that.’
She found herself jerked into his arms, his lips burning hers.
‘In that case,’ he murmured between kisses, ‘why don’t you make an honest man of me?’
She pulled back, stared into his eyes. ‘Miles?’
‘Marry me, Corinne. Please. I promise never to cook for you again.’
She laughed then through the tears that suddenly came to her eyes, then flung her arms around his neck. ‘Oh darling, yes. Yes!’
He lifted her off her feet and carried her out of the kitchen and towards the staircase.
‘What about dinner?’ she asked, kissing his throat.
‘When you ambush your fiancé in the kitchen like that it means he has to make love to you. Immediately.’
She sighed contentedly. ‘Hmmm. I hoped it might.’
It was a stony-faced Yolande who climbed into the car at Vougeot after midnight for the journey back to St Xavier. She pulled the blanket around her shoulders, waiting for Yves to make his final goodbyes – probably to punch Clarisse Beaufort’s number into his mobile – and slumped back in her seat. Perhaps she could sleep, then they wouldn’t have to talk. She wished she hadn’t come. He had made such a point of inviting her only to ignore her the whole evening.
Then he was beside her, and the engine started. ‘Had a good time, Yolande?’
‘Wonderful,’ she said grimly.
Yves smiled in the darkness. So the medicine was starting to work. He didn’t say much on the way home, and Yolande closed her eyes, feeling angry. She kept seeing him with Clarisse Beaufort, an entirely different man from the Yves she knew – suave, supremely confident, and far too handsome for her peace of mind. He had made a fool of her. Revenge, she supposed. He had waited all this time for his revenge. She dozed off, and was woken only by the sound of gravel beneath the wheels.
‘We’re home,’ he said, as they came to a halt.
She threw off the blanket and stumbled out into the raw night air. Pitch black. Cold November. She wanted to cry. Yves slammed the car door behind her and draped his jacket over her shoulders.
‘That’s better. You’re shivering. How about a drink to warm up?’
Her eyes had adjusted to the gloom. She realised they weren’t at her home but the Château de Rochemort. She just stared at him, puzzled.
‘Coming in?’
‘I’d better. It’s bloody freezing out here.’
They went inside, through the entrance to the west wing, which was heated and welcoming. Yolande gave a contented sigh as the warmth spread into her chilled bones.
‘I’ll just check that Marie has locked up,’ said Yves. ‘Why don’t you wait in the salon? Two doors on from my office. I won’t be long.’
The salon was smaller than the draughty first-floor drawing room favoured by Marie-Christine. It looked as though it was Yves’ private sitting room. Yolande slipped off his jacket and hung it on the back of the door, then sank down gratefully into the comfort of a modern sofa. Strange, she’d never been in this room before, though she thought she knew the château inside out. It had definite appeal; homely clutter, light-blue walls, dependable oak furniture, a cosy atmosphere. There were wine magazines on the coffee table and various measuring implements along the top of a cabinet which housed a stereo system and CD collection. A portrait of Yves’ father hung on one wall, facing a post-Impressionist landscape that featured Rochemort’s fabled gardens. On the mantelpiece there was a photograph of a beaming Isabelle with Philippe and Claire on their wedding day.
A very private room, really. Yolande picked up a copy of the
Revue des Vins de
France
, flicked over the pages, then dropped it, yawning. She went across to the CD cabinet to check that Yves didn’t already have the Rachmaninov piano concertos she’d bought him for Christmas. He loved classical music – unlike Patrick, who had listened to nothing but hip-hop and rap. Yolande herself had eclectic tastes, and liked anything from Mozart to the most recent pop so long as it had a good tune. Tucked in amongst some Schubert and Brahms symphonies she found a Jacques Brel album, and decided to put it on for old times’ sake. They always used to sing ‘Ne me quitte pas’ at the end of the holidays, when she and Corinne had to return to London for another term at the Lycée. Then she thought perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea after all, and sat down, just as Yves appeared at the door carrying a tray. His eyes wandered immediately to the Brel CD, which she hadn’t quite managed to push back into place.
‘Shall I put it on?’ he asked, setting the tray down on coffee table.
‘If you like.’
The familiar lyrics had an effect on them both. Yves sat beside her and poured liqueur – Marc de Bourgogne, distilled from the skins of his own grapes – into Baccarat crystal glasses engraved with the Rochemort arms. Yolande had to admire his style.
‘We sold quite a few cases last year,’ he said. ‘It seems to be getting a favourable reaction.’
She sipped the drink cautiously. Some distilled burgundy was veritable firewater, but this was definitely a first-rate liqueur. ‘It’s extremely good, Yves. They’ll be putting it in chocolates next.’
‘Why not?’ He smiled, leaning back on the sofa cushions. ‘So what do you think of my salon? I converted it from an old storeroom. I’m sorry it’s a mess, but I’ve only just moved things in.’
‘It’s coming along very well.’
Ne me quitte pas, il faut oublier …
Why did that song have to intrude? Yolande stared into her glass, wondering why he had invited her in to rub salt into her wounds with this nostalgia. He was even more subtly vindictive than she had imagined. And why was it upsetting her anyway? Weren’t they friends now? Couldn’t friends listen to old records over a drink and be civilised?
‘Actually, Yolande, I’m doing up some more rooms and I thought you could help me with the colour scheme. Would you mind? You’re so good at that sort of thing.’
Je ferai un domaine, Où l’amour sera roi, Où l’amour sera loi, Où tu seras reine, Ne me quitte pas, ne me quitte pas, ne me quitte pas …
She nodded and he fetched an interior designer’s catalogue from a bureau in the corner. But all he could hear was Brel’s inimitable voice, singing everything that he wanted to say to Yolande. Forget the past. Forget our hurts. Don’t leave me. I’ll build you a realm where love will be king and you will be queen. Don’t leave me …
They pored over the catalogue for some minutes, neither paying much attention to what they were doing. She felt the warmth from his body next to hers on the sofa, kept looking at his strong beautiful hands turning the page, caught her breath when he turned suddenly and his face was only inches from hers. Eventually she opted in desperation for severe, symmetrical red and gold patterned wallpaper.
Yves put the catalogue down. ‘Another drink?’
‘No thanks. I’ve revived now.’
‘I suppose it is rather warm in here. You could take off your jacket.’
Yolande looked at him warily, but his expression was innocence itself. And she was getting hot – hot and bothered. What the hell was he doing to her? She removed the jacket and sat back on the sofa.
Yves nearly lost his control then. Everything he had ever wanted, so close. He wanted to kiss her shoulders, that little hollow in her throat, the scar running down her upper arm, her proud lips turned down in a sulky pout. It was the pout and slightly haunted expression in her eyes that made him think that just a little more indifference would bring her to his arms. He picked up the catalogue again and thumbed through it, making one or two empty remarks about the designs.
Yolande lost her patience. ‘I really can’t help you any more, Yves. It’s your place, so do what you like. Why do you want to change everything, anyway? It looks fine as it is.’
‘For a bachelor. But as I’m planning to get married, I thought I’d better get a few rooms ready for my wife.’
Her hands suddenly trembled, and she was glad she had put down her glass. She needed a packet of cigarettes, something, anything, to keep herself busy. He was going to get married, he was making the place beautiful for his wife. It sliced through her. She had lost him. And she loved him. She had never loved him or wanted him so much in her life. He’d found some other woman to fill the place she had always been sure she held in his heart – even after she had left him.
Everything suddenly became startlingly clear. Hadn’t she been jealous as well as surprised by his courtship of Gabrielle d’Emville? Jealous of Clarisse Beaufort this evening? Upset because she hadn’t been receiving the attention she expected from him? She couldn’t blame him for breaking it to her this way. She’d hurt him so badly. It was naïve to suppose he wouldn’t want to get his own back. But she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of letting him see how devastated she was.
Get your coat, Yolande, wish him well, get out, don’t look back.
She didn’t even want to know who could have brought about such a change in him. She choked back the tears, her face turned away from him as she retrieved her handbag and jacket.
‘Well, I hope you’ll be very happy. And … thanks for taking me out tonight. It’s been … quite … an evening …’ The tears began to flow unchecked. ‘I think I’d better go home.’
‘Yolande!’ He leaned forward and caught her in his arms, turning her so he could see her face. Her beautiful green eyes were bathed in tears. She was crying. For him at last. ‘I thought perhaps I was wrong about us. Please tell me I’m not. Say it, my darling!’