The French for Always by Fiona Valpy Read Free Book Online Page A

company orbited around her, keen to hug her, carry her bags, laugh with her and bask in the warmth of her joy. And Keiran, the groom, was a handsome rugby-playing banker who clearly doted upon his girl. Of course that was usually (though not always) a given: if the bride and groom weren’t obviously in love with one another at this point in the proceedings, then there really was trouble ahead. More often, it was the dynamic between the two families where potential problems lay and Sara’s radar usually tuned in to the relationships between the two sets of parents. Here, it seemed, there was a genuine fondness already. The two mothers were deep in conversation about a mutual friend, who had scandalised the local community by finding herself a toy boy. And Sara knew, because she’d helped arrange it, that the fathers of both bride and groom were in the group going off to play golf tomorrow morning as part of the pre-wedding activities; it turned out they were members of the same golf club back home in Ireland.
    She led the O’Callaghans to their room, carefully carrying the large cardboard box which contained Niamh’s wedding dress.
    ‘Once you’ve settled in, we’ve put out drinks on the terrace. Let me know if there’s anything else you need. There are hangers here,’ she said, opening a wardrobe, ‘so you can get this hung up as soon as possible.’
    Mrs O’Callaghan sank down onto the bed, gratefully kicking off her shoes. ‘Will you look at my ankles; they’ve swollen to twice the size in this heat.’ She fanned herself with her passport.
    ‘Well, you’re here now, so you can relax this evening and recover. Make yourselves at home. I’ll see you downstairs shortly.’ Sara left them to unpack and went down to the kitchen to start the pork roasting for dinner.
    The château slept twenty-four people, plus extra children if necessary, so tonight there’d be two tables of twelve. The kids could eat at the kitchen table and then go and play outside, until their slightly tipsy mothers tore themselves away from the dinner tables to get them into bed. It was a system that worked well, meaning everyone could relax and enjoy themselves. Especially if Antoine, who was lending a hand tonight, could be persuaded to take the children off for a game of flashlight tag, to distract them from pestering their parents to allow them back into the swimming pool for a late-night swim.
    ‘Who’s a lad got to shag to get a drink around here?’ Liam, the best man, came into the kitchen and put a beefy arm round Sara’s shoulders.
    Sara grinned. ‘Well, your best bet would be Antoine. But otherwise there’s wine and beer out on the terrace. Help yourself. And take these with you as blotting paper.’ She handed him a plate of cheese straws and a bowl of nuts.
    ‘By God, you know the way to a man’s heart, Sara. Sure, it’s a crying shame you’re already claimed or I’d do it myself.’
    She shooed him out of the kitchen, knowing full well that one of the best man’s duties was to flirt with every woman there, from the youngest flower girl to the mother of the bride and every other female in between. She let him believe she still had a man—the picture of her and Gavin was still up on their website—it was easier and more professional that way. But the line of paler skin on the fourth finger of her left hand was less distinct now, as time and the sun’s golden rays erased the last vestige of their engagement.
    The sound of laughter wafted in from the terrace. The easy friendliness of this crowd was going to make this wedding an enjoyable one; it sounded as if they’d already made themselves at home.
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    F riday morning dawned with a clear blue sky, promising that the weather was one thing Sara could cross off the list of potential glitches for the weekend. Karen had offered to do the croissant run—usually Gavin’s responsibility—on her way to work, coming in a little earlier than usual. Breakfast was easy and