The Beekeeper's Promise (Page 5)

‘Are you a vegetarian?’ Sara asks. ‘I’ve roasted a chicken, but I can easily make you something else if you’d prefer?’

I shake my head. ‘No, chicken would be wonderful. It’s incredibly kind of you to have taken me in like this.’

Maybe it’s the effect of the wine, or the fact that I’m absolutely starving and the food smells so good, or maybe it’s the relaxed warmth that this friendly couple radiate as they share their home and their evening meal with me, but I’m suddenly overwhelmed with emotion at their generosity. My throat closes up and tears well in my eyes. Don’t be stupid, I admonish myself. You’ve only just met these people. You don’t want them thinking you’re completely crazy. It’s already bad enough that they found you wandering around the countryside with a storm coming.

Sara notices my disquiet and, under the pretext of setting a jug of water on the table, comes over to pat my hand reassuringly. ‘It’s our pleasure.’ She smiles. ‘You must be tired – that’s quite a distance you’ve walked this afternoon. Are you enjoying the yoga retreat?’

Grateful for the diversion, I describe the yoga classes, which I love – and which are so good for strengthening my injured leg and arms, although I keep that bit to myself – and I tell her about Pru meeting her handsome Dutchman, too, keeping it light.

Sara shakes her head. ‘Oh dear, it sounds a bit like your friend has abandoned you.’

I shrug. ‘It’s fine. At least there’s a bit more room in the tent.’

Her eyes open wide. ‘You’re camping? At this time of year?’

‘We booked too late for any of the accommodation in the centre so the only option was the tent. There are quite a few others camping too. It’s okay. Most of the time we’re in the yoga studio or the dining hall, in any case.’

She glances doubtfully at the windows, which are awash with runnels of rain. I admit she has a point, and for a fleeting moment I wonder how the tent is standing up to the storm. ‘It’ll be fine,’ I say stoutly, more to try to reassure myself than anyone else.

‘So tell me,’ she says, reaching for a chopping board and beginning to prepare a bowl of salad, ‘where do you call home?’

‘London,’ I reply. I pick up a tea towel and begin to dry some pans sitting on the draining board next to the sink. ‘Shall I put these away?’

She nods. ‘They go in that cupboard over there. And what do you do in London?’

‘Nothing much at the moment,’ I admit, wiping my hands on the cloth. ‘I was studying for an Open University degree, but I’ve shelved it for the time being. I haven’t been very well for the last couple of years. Nothing major. But there was an accident . . . My husband died . . .’ I tail off and there’s a moment’s silence.

‘Well, that sounds pretty major to me. I’m so sorry,’ Sara puts a sympathetic hand on my arm. ‘No wonder you’ve not been well.’

I shake my head and attempt to swerve the conversation away from the heavier stuff by saying brightly, ‘But I used to work as a live-in nanny.’

‘Did you enjoy nannying?’

‘Very much. I was with a couple of really great families. I loved looking after their kids.’ I don’t add that a few months after Mum died – having spent what little money there was left on one final drinking extravaganza while I was sitting the last of my A levels – I’d realised that I had nowhere to live. And so I’d applied to the agency (‘Domestic Positions at Home and Abroad’) and ticked the boxes saying that I was seeking a residential position and was available immediately. Armed with a set of good references from my teachers at school, I landed a job two days later with a desperate couple who had three children under the age of five and whose au pair had just disappeared off to live in Wales with a guy she’d met at a festival.

‘And is there anyone waiting for you back at home?’ Sara asks. ‘Children? A partner? Who’s been looking after you while you’ve been unwell?’

I shake my head. ‘None of the above. Footloose and fancy-free, that’s me. I’m much better really these days, though.’ I resort to my usual strategy of keeping it light, deflecting questions before they can be asked. And trying to ignore the fact that I still suffer from anxiety attacks, insomnia and – despite many hours talking to a kind and encouraging psychologist – a chronic inability to move on with my life.

Over supper, Sara and Thomas tell me about the business they’ve established at Château Bellevue. ‘During the season, we have weddings here. We’ll be on our third one of the year this coming weekend. Mondays are days off for us and our staff, then on Tuesdays and Wednesdays we get all the preparations done, making up the bedrooms and setting everything up before the guests arrive for the celebrations.’

‘How many people can you accommodate?’

‘In the château itself, anything up to twenty-four. The other guests stay in chambres d’hôtes in the local area. But we’re expanding a bit. Last winter we bought the mill house down by the river. We’re doing it up to provide accommodation for another ten people. It’s within walking distance so it’ll be a good option for larger parties, or for grooms’ families, who don’t always take too kindly to being put up elsewhere.’

‘It’s coming on slowly,’ Thomas adds. ‘I do bits of work on the mill house whenever I can fit it in; and we have a team of builders, too, but they’re working on other projects at the same time. We’ll definitely have it ready in time for next year, though.’

Sara sighed. ‘Well don’t expect to be spending much time down there this season. I’m going to need you to help out here as much as possible.’ She turns to me. ‘We’ve had to let one of our assistants go. Actually, that’s a euphemism for discovering her in a heap in the wine cellar, having downed a couple of bottles of champagne just before the last lot of wedding guests arrived! Such a shame. It’s very hard to find people locally who are prepared to do a seasonal job like this one, which effectively means they have no social life at weekends throughout the summer.’

I nod, sympathetically. ‘I can imagine how much hard work it must be. But probably quite good fun at the same time – a bit like having one long, joyous party all summer?’

Sara and Thomas smile at one another. ‘You’re right,’ he says. ‘If you enjoy the work it is very fulfilling.’

They tell me more about the business and about the experiences they’ve had in the last couple of years: how much they’ve learned, the mistakes they’ve made, the fun they’ve had. I watch their faces as they talk, noticing the way they laugh so easily, the way they listen to one another, the looks that they exchange. It’s evident that they love their work almost as much as they love each other.

By the end of the evening I feel as if I’ve known them for years, rather than just a few hours, and I’m reluctant to leave and head back to the centre. But after the salad of fresh-picked tender leaves and a platter of cheeses, which range from hard and tangy to runny and pungent, we push our chairs back from the table. ‘Thank you again; that was the most delicious meal.’ My body is glowing after falling off the detox wagon so suddenly, and I feel sleepy and replete. Surely these foods can’t be so bad for you when they make you feel this good?

Just as Sara predicted, the storm has blown over; and as she drives me back to the centre a few stars are becoming visible where the clouds have parted. It looks like there’s quite a party going on outside the doorway of the centre’s main building when she pulls up behind the police car that’s sitting in front of it. Several of the retreat organisers, Pru and her Dutchman, a few of our fellow yogis and a pair of gendarmes are milling around.

As I climb out of the van, there’s a piercing shriek from Pru. ‘Abi! There you are! Where the hell have you been? We’ve all been worried sick. No one could remember seeing you since the walking meditation this afternoon. They even called the police . . .’

The gendarmes turn to look at me. ‘Is this the missing person?’ one asks. And then he spots Sara. ‘Ah, bonsoir, Sara, comment vas-tu?’

She replies in rapid-fire French, explaining what’s happened.

‘There’s no need to worry, madame,’ they reassure Pru when Sara has finished. ‘Your friend has been in the best possible hands.’ Laughing, they climb into their police car and the tail lights disappear off down the drive.

Once I’ve reassured Pru that I’m absolutely fine and have enjoyed a very pleasant evening being wined and dined in a château, she and her Dutchman climb into his car and depart for the unspoken luxury of his guest house.

I’m a bit embarrassed by all the fuss, so I turn to shake Sara’s hand. ‘Thank you for rescuing me. And for that delicious supper. It’s lovely to have met you and Thomas.’

But she seems to be in no great hurry to leave and is gazing around at the group of buildings whose lights illuminate the courtyard where we’re standing. ‘It’s good to have a chance to see what they’ve done here. I haven’t been to the centre since they did it up.’