Chapter Seven
WE GOT TO the site only to find that the local men that Doug hired
had all but stripped the place already. I had been expecting a slow, leisurely
pace that with a little dragging out, could give Rebecca and I time to come to
terms with all the grown-up stuff. At this rate, I’d be married and pregnant by
the end of the month.
In a word,
merde
.
“Berne, Pip, you want to come over here a minute.” Rebecca had her
work clothes on, complete with a checked shirt and white vest.
I hadn’t missed Berne smile at the fashion statement. Berne had
her work jeans on, which wrapped snug against her powerful legs. Still, they
weren’t so powerful that you could mistake she was a slender, gorgeous walking
work of—
“Pip, quit drooling and focus.”
I heard my own gasp and my neck itched with the ensuing blush. “I
hate you.”
Berne laughed as we huddled around Rebecca’s little gas stove.
“And you, Bebe.”
Rebecca frowned. “Did you just call her baby?”
Berne laughed again as I felt myself blush, again.
“
Non
. It is my nickname. Here, in France, you take the
first part of your name and
répété?”
She smiled. “It can be
your
prénom
or your . . .” She made the delightful humming sound when
thinking. I leaned on my fist, enjoying it. Goodness she enchanted me.
“Surname?” Rebecca asked, prodding me.
Right, focus. Yes, where were we?
“
Oui
.
Par example,
my brother is Erique and so it
would not work . . .”
I wondered how Erique was. I’d only met him once. He was as
charming as she was.
“ . . .
Alors
they call him Cha-cha.”
“That sounds kinda camp,” Rebecca said.
I poked her in the back. She shrugged.
“There is nothing camp about Erique Chamonix, believe me,” I said.
“He has enough charisma to make even you take notice.”
Berne smiled at my defence of her brother or maybe it was
Rebecca’s look of mild disgust.
“Well, funny things do happen to go on in this country. Your
sexuality seems void here, right?” Rebecca folded her ink-covered arms across
her bust. I decided to ignore one tattoo that I hadn’t noticed of a rather . .
. well . . . curvaceous woman. She was an anchor away from joining the Navy.
“So, why are we huddled,
Ree-Ree?
” I said, sticking my
tongue out for good measure.
“I have a plan.” Her eyes lit up as she formulated my name into
the mould. Hear it came. I folded my arms, waiting for it. Yup, cue adolescent
mirth.
“
PeePee!”
She gripped her stomach as she howled like the
adolescent teenage boy she was inside.
I knew her far too well. “It’s Pep-pee actually.”
Berne nodded in firm agreement.
“Like the cartoon skunk?” Off she howled again.
I sighed at Berne. “You can’t take her anywhere,” I said in
French. “If there’s anything remotely gross or any innuendo, she is your girl.”
At the sound of my rusty French, Berne beamed. “Very good,” she
whispered back. “You still remember much.”
“I had a good teacher.”
The twinkle in her eyes pretty much rooted me to the spot. I was
aware that the builders were casting glances at us. Quite possibly, leaning
towards her as I was, may suggest to some that I was about to throw myself into
her arms. They were strong arms. I had no doubt she’d be able to catch me. In
fact once, she’d carried me down a set of stairs. And was it me or was I close
enough to just reach out and—
“So, plan, focus on the plan, ladies.” Rebecca recovered from her
hysterics and cleared her throat.
“You speak French too?” Berne was very impressed. In fact, I could
almost see her deciding that she liked Rebecca. A twinkle filled her eyes in
such a way that I had only seen when she looked at her family or her beloved
best friend, Babs.
“A-level . . . and my tenses suck but I try.” Rebecca looked very
much as if she was coming to the same conclusion about Berne. What a regular love-fest.
“So are you going to get on with it or swap numbers?” Ooh, didn’t
that sound less like the joke I’d intended and more . . . well . . . jealous.
“Cool it,
bride to be
,” Rebecca said, eyeing me like I’d
sprout tentacles. “I worked out a way to lengthen things out for you. You want
to get married next week?”
She waved her thumb at the efficient team buzzing in and out of
the building. Some were grinning at Berne like they were in love. I didn’t
blame them.
Rebecca prodded me, again. Oh right, wedding. “You have?” I knew
there was a reason I loved her. “Don’t stall, out with it!”
I made a point not to look at Berne whose eyes seemed to burn my
cheek. Yes, I wasn’t a willing bride. It was nerves. That was all.
“Okay. Now every planning permission and plan has been passed. Our
boy is hot on his legal bows.” Rebecca nodded as though she were leading the
troops in battle. “The way to counter his plans is to drag out stabilising the
foundations of the place.”
It sounded like a logical step to me but what did I know? Solid
foundations sounded a good idea.
“Now, ’cause there’s that little river trickling away near you, it
stands to reason that in the winter, that could rise.” Rebecca leaned in,
hovering over the gas stove.
Berne nodded. A grave look in her eyes. “
Oui
. It almost
reaches the top of the bank.”
We all looked at the area in question. That was a pathetic attempt
at flooding. “Seriously?”
“
Oui
. This is not far enough downstream to hold much water.
Besides, it is only really a stream.” She flashed a smile at me. “It is not
like the Ardèche,
non
?”
Images of giggling while Berne navigated us in a kayak down the
rapids burst into my mind. I hadn’t laughed like that before. I wasn’t sure if
I had since. “
Doug
doesn’t know that though, does he?”
Rebecca chuckled a mischievous chuckle. “Are you seriously
considering lying to your future husband, Miss Saunders?”
“You want me to have a rugby team?” I nodded at her as she paled
even more than the milk bottle she normally was. “You want me to talk about baby
clothes?”
I thought she was going to dive onto her knees and beg me not to
for the frown on her face. “The river rises really high, Berne, really,
really
high.”
“I cannot say this.” Berne’s brow crinkled in disgust. She was
always someone who felt truth was paramount. “He is paying good money. It would
not be fair.”
Rebecca turned to her and I wasn’t sure if she was going to rugby
tackle her. “He wants Pippa to shop for wedding dresses this weekend.”
Berne looked at Rebecca who nodded gravely. She looked at me and I
did the very same. She rubbed her hand over the back of her neck, something I
knew she did when anxious. “It will take a conversation with my father.”
Rebecca smiled, punching her on the bicep. “I knew you’d get it.”
OVER THE NEXT few days, we worked on breaking the news to Doug.
Monsieur Chamonix had been as onside as Berne. I had no idea exactly what she
had told him but I was glad of his support.
In normal circumstances, Rebecca had told us all that the
basement, which would act as Doug’s den, would need to be tanked. She had
droned on in great detail about the intricacies but in short it was like making
the outside of the basement like the inside of a bath, i.e. waterproof.
I wasn’t comfortable with making Doug spend unnecessary money or
messing around with the beautiful river. So Rebecca came up with some ingenious
solution that involved some kind of sandbag type system that would soak up any
water then dry back out. Being mischievous seemed to become her.
Doug had offered to move in the heavy equipment to speed up the
process but Berne and her father had told him that they would need a gentle
approach. Monsieur Chamonix had even compared the stone to a woman’s curves,
saying that it needed caressing not bulldozing. Now, I knew were the Chamonix
children got their charm. Even Rebecca blushed.
Doug went along with the advice but I could see him fuming at the
delay behind polite smiles. He was not a patient man in business, and come to
think of it, I wasn’t sure why he’d been so with me.
With our cunning plan in action, we started to dig down the eight
feet we would need in order to fulfil our flood-proofing. At least it was a
great plan until half way through the Friday afternoon when it started to rain.
“Tell me again why we thought this was a good idea,” I mumbled as
my back protested at the constant digging.
I was out of shape to say the very least. My gym membership had
concluded sometime in my mid-twenties. Apparently years without any exercise
could possibly make you unfit. Who knew?
“You needed time to build your energy before you start breeding.”
Rebecca had forgone her builder’s attire for shorts and t-shirt.
She hadn’t begun inking up her legs yet, thank goodness. I was
starting to wonder if she would start playing football for all the tattoos.
Either that or join a gang.
“Right,” I said and glanced at Berne.
She was far fitter and stronger than the pair of us and seemed as
unflappable as ever. I wondered if her skin even knew what sweat was . . .
prompting me to get a very vivid reminder of just when she did. Oh boy.
“Staring again.” Rebecca threw dirt in my direction. “You know, if
you marry
her
already, we can stop digging.”
The thought of such a thing made me giggle and not just a soft
one. Nope, a teenage girl giggle that made me want to hide my head in the muck.
Berne looked up in response and raised an eyebrow.
“Cut it out.” I shoved the spade into the mud. “It’s not as if she
would want that anyway.”
“Want me to ask her?”
Yes. Wait, no, no . . . marrying Doug. Doug, nice manly Doug with
fluff on his chin and a milk bottle for a chest. Doug. “What are you going to
do this weekend?” I asked, to try and throw her off. “You know, while I’m with
mother.” I knew the last word was through gritted teeth.
“Berne is heading back to Marseille for a few days,” Rebecca said,
cocking her head at me. “Thought I’d tag along.”
The spade narrowly missed my foot as I rammed it into the dirt.
“Really?”
Uh oh, that tone sounded unnaturally high pitched.
“You’re shopping for wedding dresses, Pip. Give her a break.”
“Whose side are you on?”
The sky opened up with rain as though it understood exactly how I
felt. Marseille meant Vivi-vixen time. Stupid name.
“Traitor.”
Rebecca held up her hands, her spade clattering into her knee.
“I’m on yours, as always.” She sighed and held my gaze. “You know, if you
talked to her—”
“Marrying Doug.” I slammed the spade into the dirt again. Berne
turned and looked. “Happy, wonderful fabulous Doug.”
So she was going back to Marseille and the old crow waiting for
her. I mean, what did she see in the rich old cradle-snatcher anyway? In my
mind, Vivienne was old, ugly, and needed dental work. Wait, no . . . she didn’t
even
have
her own teeth. Yeah.
“Do I need to hide the sharp objects?” Rebecca did look genuinely
concerned. Berne looked slightly amused and I was sick and tired of digging.
“No.” I saw Doug pull up and threw the spade into the dirt. Fine.
If Berne wanted to run off to some old letch then what did I care?
I stomped up to Doug, launched myself into his arms, and put every
ounce of confusion and irritation into it. Rebecca was right, I was unhinged.
Maybe it was hormones. What was wrong with me?
“Hey, babe.” He gripped hold of my waist. “You miss me, huh?”
“Yes.” I buried my head in his shoulder. The familiar smell, the
scent of his presence. Aftershave. Strong. It made my nose twitch. “You were
away too long.”
He pulled me to arms-length and then sighed at the dirt on his
shoulder. “Pippa, look at this shirt. It was clean on today.”
Way to fizzle the moment. “It’s just a stupid piece of cloth.”
I could feel Berne and Rebecca watching me while Doug put his
hands on his hips. “It’s handmade and tailored. You know how expensive it is.”
Part of me wanted to grip a handful of mud and smother it over his
shirt in protest. Of course, that would be the height of bad manners and I was
polite. Mud fights were something other people did. Fun people.
The sudden sorrow of that made me burst into tears and I was
certain that I may need to be committed for my own safety.
Doug didn’t seem to notice, he was too busy walking over to
Monsieur Chamonix.