The Little French Guesthouse by Helen Pollard Read Free Book Online

Leave that for me. Don’t want spiky bits in it. God knows, the Hendersons are spiky enough as it is.’
    I pushed the pineapple across at him and then stared glumly at the mango.
    ‘Don’t bruise it as you peel it, Emmy. Do the apples and bananas last or they’ll go brown, then squeeze a few oranges and pour the juice over. Add a couple of tablespoons of honey.’
    I gritted my teeth and got started. When the phone rang, I would have ignored it, but Rupert glanced at me expectantly so I dutifully answered, mango juice running down my arm.
    ‘Er… La Cour des Roses ?’
    ‘Oh. Hello. Is that... Emmy?’
    ‘Yes. Who is this?’ At least it wasn’t a babble of French I couldn’t follow.
    ‘Alain. We met this morning.’
    Ah. The accountant. ‘Can I help?’
    ‘I was wondering if Rupert’s back from the hospital. If he’s alright?’
    ‘Pssst.’ This from Rupert. ‘Who is it?’
    I covered the phone with my mangoey hand. ‘Your accountant. Do you want to speak to him?’
    Rupert nodded and I took the phone across to him. He wiped the mango juice from it with a disapproving glare.
    ‘Alain! Yes, fine, absolutely fine. Just a gammy leg. Nothing to get het up about. Sorry I wasn’t here when you came this morning. I’ll give you a call sometime to rearrange...’
    I shook my head and got back to my allotted tasks. How he could be so blasé, I didn’t know.
    When the fruit salad was done, I went over to see what he was up to. He had meat browning in a large pot, and it smelled delicious. ‘Next?’
    ‘Veg for the casserole. Onions in the larder. Sliced, not chopped. Carrots, tomatoes, courgette in the fridge.’
    ‘Hmmph.’ I took out my frustration at being ordered around on the vegetables, chopping them with rather more vigour than they deserved.
    Rupert looked across, presumably drawn by the vicious thwack of the knife on the wooden chopping board. ‘For God’s sake, Emmy, they all need to be even-sized cubes!’
    ‘For God’s sake, Rupert, if you don’t shut up, I’ll shove this even-sized carrot right up your...’
    A flourish of flying gravel put an end to our bickering. As I watched the new arrivals climb out of their sleek, black, brand-new saloon, my heart sank. A smug-looking middle-aged couple, he in a navy blazer, she in a pure linen cream trouser suit, headed up the steps like they owned the place and looked me over as though I was the hired help – which, to be fair, was exactly what I looked like. I politely said hello and moved aside for them to come into the kitchen, where Rupert sat by the oven with his leg up, a packet of frozen peas balanced precariously across his swollen leg.
    His prediction that the Hendersons would be unimpressed by his plight was more than accurate. He welcomed them with his usual gusto, explained that he was somewhat incapacitated but they weren’t to worry, they would be looked after as well as always, Gloria would be here shortly, etc, etc... And that was when he came unstuck, because he had no choice but to introduce me as a fellow guest.
    Mrs Henderson’s eyes couldn’t have got any wider without her eyeballs popping out of their sockets and rolling across the stone floor as she took in my dishevelled appearance – tomato-stained apron, tear-tracked cheeks from chopping onions, mango pulp in my hair. Her mouth turned down with displeasure and disbelief. Obviously she had not expected to find her host sitting around with his feet up, his wife conspicuously absent and a fellow guest roped in as slave labour.
    ‘I see,’ she murmured, glancing across at her husband.
    Mr Henderson looked unfazed, and for a moment I thought we had at least one sympathetic guest between the two of them. Until he opened his mouth.
    ‘Never mind, Hunter, I know you’ll make sure we get everything we’ve paid for. Same room as always? See that someone brings the luggage up, would you? Come along, Anita, we’ll go up and check the room’s in order.’ He led his wife