‘Hey, you don’t miss what you never had. Besides, we were better off without him. I only needed to look at his present-day family dynamic to see that.’
‘Well, I’m glad you weren’t fooled, as it’s human nature to give people the benefit of the doubt. Sometimes that’s a good thing; sometimes it isn’t.’
Ronan continues to stare down at me, his eyes scanning my face as if it’s a page in a book.
‘There’s a soft heart beating beneath that highly professional exterior of yours, Lexie Winters. My instincts are telling me that it’s something you try to hide. And that’s a shame.’
I don’t know quite how to respond, until he pulls me even closer. Which turns out to be a good thing. As our lips touch, I begin to feel a little light-headed. The gentleness is sweet, but I think it’s obvious we’re both holding back. A noise on the other side of the courtyard sees us drawing apart and we exchange slightly embarrassed smiles. Words lie, but kisses don’t.
‘Well, I, um… had better let you get some rest.’
8
Being Neighbourly
After every adrenaline high comes the fall, and when I wake up this morning, I’m glad it is a day to chill out and go through my notes in preparation for tomorrow’s filming. By lunch time I’m pretty much up to speed and, grabbing my iPad, I decide to download Ronan’s two books from Amazon.
Clearing a space amongst the piles of paperwork on the dining table, I figure I might as well have a little read while I eat. I should have popped to the boulangerie, but I have half a large baguette left over from yesterday. It’s lost its crunch but it’s the perfect accompaniment for creamily soft Pont-l'Évêque cheese, a handful of walnuts and some apple slices. Heaven on a plate.
Turning on my iPad, I flick past the cover and go straight to the dedication page of the first in Ronan’s series and, despite the huge piece of bread I’ve just popped into my mouth, I stop chewing for a second.
In memory of my grandfather, Fabien Arnoult,
whose spirit lives on in the gardens
he loved more than life itself.
The words jump off the page and my head involuntarily jerks backwards a little, as if I’m having to dodge them. More than life itself? I wouldn’t even say that of my dad, who I’m sure loved his work just as much as he loved his family. It’s one thing to give whatever you are doing your complete attention, but another to place it above all else. I swipe and begin reading.
When lunch is done, I saunter over to the sofa with my iPad still firmly grasped in my hand. Stretching out on the sofa rather lazily, I only intend to continue reading for a little while before doing some laundry, but an hour passes and another. It’s fascinating reading, but what I’m really looking for is any reference to his grandfather. Before I know it, I’m already a third of the way through and there’s no mention of him at all. I was expecting a formal textbook charting the history of the key people involved, but instead Ronan has woven a rich narrative, based on in-depth interviews conducted over quite a period, and his detailed research. It is as gripping as any good novel; he has been able to give a real insight into the lives of a succession of gardeners.
What stands out already is that the behind-the-scenes politics didn’t end when Versailles was no longer a seat of power; the disagreements, differing viewpoints and the constant struggle with money were a real battleground and even today there are still tough decisions to be made.
The first half of the book talks in length about Versailles in the early 1900s. The palace was going through a period of restoration and conservation, led by Pierre de Nolhac, interrupted, of course, by two world wars; in the 1920s, philanthropist John D. Rockefeller donated in excess of two million dollars to the project.
The latter half of the first book takes the reader through to the late 1950s. The second book, by the looks of it, is based almost exclusively on the working life of Maurice Perrin. After a long career spanning forty-one years, he ended up being one of the most influential of the chief gardeners during his time at the palace.
He joined the team in 1945 at the age of twenty-four. Sadly, he died, at the grand old age of ninety-four, a year after Ronan’s series of interviews with him was completed.
My eyes are beginning to grow weary and reluctantly I press the off button.
Walking over to the window and peering out, I’m surprised to see Madame Duval, throwing what looks like a bundle of dripping items out through her front door. She immediately disappears for a second or two, rushing back with her hands full of even more saturated items. I turn and head straight for the stairs.
Hurrying across the courtyard towards her, I call out.
‘Is everything all right, Madame Duval?’
She throws up her arms to the heavens, a babble of words coming back at me in a very agitated tone of voice. I don’t understand exactly what she’s saying, but I can see that there is a pile of sopping-wet towels in front of her.
‘Leak? You have a leak?’
She looks at me, frowning. ‘Water,’ she declares, drawing it out so it sounds like waterrrr. ‘Dans ma cuisine,’ she adds with desperate urgency, before hurrying back inside. The hemline of her skirt is heavy and dripping.
I stride out to catch up with her, negotiating the narrow hallway and following her into the ground-floor kitchen. I’m surprised by the very different layout, but I guess not having a garage opens up the options. But even before I step through the inner doorway, I can hear the sound of water flooding out of a tap. To my horror, there’s an arc of water shooting up into the air. Only some of it is falling back down into the sink itself, the rest is hitting the floor in a constant stream. Madame is on her hands and knees with even more towels to absorb the waterfall.
‘Where do you turn off your water supply?’ She looks back at me, uncomprehendingly. ‘Où fermez-vous l'eau?’
Madame blinks and points to a small cupboard in the corner and I head straight for it, pushing aside a bucket and some mops and turning the stopcock with all my might. It’s impossibly stiff and I can see why she hasn’t managed it herself, as I’m struggling to move it even a millimetre. After some encouraging and much pressure, it finally releases and the sound of the rushing waterfall in the background quietens.
When I turn around Madame Duval is leaning against the sink unit and she visibly sags. Rushing over, I put an arm around her and walk her across the kitchen to sit her down, pulling a chair out from beneath the old pine table.
‘It’s fine. Just sit quietly and let me clear up,’ I tell her, not sure she is even listening to me.
I notice there’s a hammer lying on the worktop and next to that is the top part of the tap.
She nods. ‘Merci, oh, merci,’ she groans. I’d love to stop and make her a cup of tea, but I need to mop up the puddle of water before it does irreparable damage to the bottom of the kitchen units.
It takes about twenty minutes of toing and froing to take the sopping towels out into the courtyard, wring them out and return to soak up some more of the water. Eventually, after throwing open both windows above the sink unit and keeping the front door wedged open, there’s no surface water left. Thankfully it’s not chilly today and there’s a warm breeze being drawn through the cottage, which should soon begin to speed up the drying process.