The Family Affair Read online

  “What, you mean the really glamorous couple with the King Charles Spaniel?” Beth asked, stunned by his revelation.

  “Yes,” Olivier said nonchalantly, unaware of what that sentence would do to Beth’s heartbeat.

  Beth could not find the words she needed to immediately respond. Her own childhood flashed in front of her, a glamorous couple living at Highlands. It sounded just like how her parents used to be before things went so badly off the rails.

  Strange as it sounded, there had been a time when her own parents were the toast of Kepton. Both striking to look at, they’d fallen for each other after meeting at the Yorkshire Show one summer and had never looked back until the day Alistair died.

  Christ! She desperately needed more air and to say something to divert Olivier from the topic of Highlands and the terrible events of her past. She grabbed at a bottle of water in her bag to avoid the risk of passing out.

  “What a coincidence,” Beth said, trying to pick up the conversation and doing well to speak without showing too many signs of grief. “And you, where are you from?”

  “Paris,” Olivier replied, his mood darkening noticeably again as he spoke. “But originally I’m from a small village near Rouen, much like Kepton. My family still live there.”

  “This place is so different to Paris,” Beth said, feeling stronger as the conversation moved to France. “Kepton must feel like another planet.”

  “Why do you say that?” Olivier challenged. “It’s just like many other small towns I’ve been to. Does it matter?”

  “No not very much,” Beth replied, startled by his anger. “I’m just interested in why Kepton? That’s all.”

  “Well if you must know why I chose this strange little Yorkshire village,” Olivier said finally. “I will tell you. I bore myself with the answer every day.”

  “Well you don’t have to tell me if you don’t feel comfortable,” Beth said, picking up her wine glass, still surprised at how such a simple question could perturb him.

  “No. You’ve asked me at least twice so I’ll tell you,” Olivier finally volunteered, taking a deep breath. “There is only one reason I do anything crazy. I came here because of Isabel. The reason why she had this effect on me is much more complex.”

  “Who is Isabel?” Beth enquired nervously, her heart beating furiously again as she ignored the voice in her head telling her not to ask. She hadn’t expected Olivier to be so direct with her and she certainly hadn’t expected him to talk about a woman.

  “Isabel is my wife,” Olivier said with a mixture of defiance and pent-up emotion. “My first real love, but we are no longer together and that explains why I am here baking bread and making fabulous pastries. It’s all because of her.”

  “So you came to Kepton to get away from your wife and to bake?” Beth asked him, her eyes widening. “I mean I can understand why you might want to run away but I still don’t get why you came here to this tiny town in the middle of absolutely nowhere?”

  “No scientific reason. I was so angry and crazy with jealousy one night in my apartment in Paris,” Olivier shrugged, “that I just decided in a split second that I would leave Paris for good.”

  “That sounds like the sort of thing I would do,” Beth laughed. “In fact I ran away to France on a whim after university and I never regretted it for one moment.”

  “It was pretty spontaneous for me too,” Olivier shrugged. “I went onto the internet and Kepton popped up. I came here immediately and I’m here for no other reason than that.”

  “The choice really was that random?” Beth asked, without being able to stop herself from laughing loudly at the fact that his insanity was almost as great as her own.

  “Yes,” Olivier confirmed. “I just had a feeling that maybe there was a reason to come here. Kepton just jumped off the page quite literally. And after that there was only one place I could come.”

  “And where is Isabel now? Is she here or in Paris?” Beth asked, trying hard to disguise an obvious degree of desperation behind her inquisitiveness.

  “Good God,” Olivier said, almost spitting the words out. “She is not here. If she was here I would not be. The whole point is I came to Kepton to get away from her.”

  “Ok,” Beth replied abruptly. “Look I’m sorry to ask you these questions if it is so upsetting for you.”

  “Isabel resides in style in Paris,” Olivier went on, speaking through clenched teeth. “Or, maybe today, because it is Friday she will be at a very grand chateau in France with her very rich and famous lover for the weekend.”

  “You sound very jealous,” Beth answered, as she listened to him spitting the words out.

  “I am probably jealous, you’re right,” Olivier acknowledged without undue resistance. “And I am also constantly amazed that wherever Isabel is she is doing just fine. She always, always makes sure of her own happiness above everything else. It’s a great skill she has. I have to admit that.”

  “Ok, I’m so sorry. I should not have asked you something so personal,” Beth whispered, anxious about his on-going anger but increasingly charged by an ecstatic feeling that Olivier was to all intents and purposes a single man.

  “My problems are not your fault,” Olivier replied finally, as he finished off the remains of his second glass of wine. “I’m sorry for my anger. I just can’t help it when I speak about her.”

  “Well, if it helps I’m a good listener,” Beth said sincerely. “I’ve had plenty of experience of family problems. You don’t have to stop there. You can talk about her some more if you want?”

  “That’s kind,” Olivier replied with the beginnings of a smile. “But I neither have the time nor the inclination to talk about my disastrous love live and my very cruel wife. And besides that would be wrong, you’re a paying guest.”

  “I really don’t mind about that,” Beth smiled back. “It’s sometimes good to know you’re not the only one with a problem.”

  As Olivier stood up to go back into the kitchen their eyes connected with a shared sense of pain. It was only a matter of moments that they remained locked together before he turned to go but Beth couldn’t help but feel there was something significant about it.

  “Do you want a hand? I really don’t mind helping,” Beth asked standing up, unwilling to be parted from this fascinating and passionate man whose eyes had just melted her soul.

  “I can’t ask guests to help me in the kitchen,” Olivier replied much more testily. “This may be the custom in England but not in France.”

  “And we’re in England now,” Beth argued. “So come on let me help you. It’s too late to clear up on your own.”

  “No,” Olivier insisted. “All I need to do is to tidy things away a bit tonight. I’ll be up extremely early to make baguettes and croissants. The good people of Kepton have come to expect it.”

  “That is crazy,” Beth replied, following him into the kitchen. “Working like this means you only get a few hours’ sleep before you have to start up all over again. If you don’t want me to help now I’ll get up early as well.”

  “Absolutely not,” Olivier responded with a hint of anger. “There will be croissant and coffee for you in the morning. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful but, as I’ve already explained to you, being busy is the only thing that’s keeping me sane right now. You may find it difficult to comprehend but I prefer to be alone.”

  CHAPTER 7: BAGUETTE AND CROISSANT

  The morning after the night before was sunny and bright, with threads of golden sunlight waking Beth from a perfect sleep just before six o’clock.

  Feeling an uncontrollable urge to bake French bread and croissant, despite Olivier’s protestations the night before, she jumped out of bed eager for the day ahead. Part of her wanted to help, but a much bigger part of her just wanted to see and smell him again.

  Pulling on a pale blue angora sweater, her favourite skinny black jeans and a pair of dusty-pin
k ballerina pumps, Beth turned her head upside down, brushing out her long pale blond hair before scrunching it up and tying it neatly at the back of her neck.

  Looking into an oak-framed mirror on the wall by the door she noticed a dramatic transformation from the morning before.

  The hollow eyes and pale complexion of grief had been miraculously replaced by bright skin and sparkling eyes. Even her hair was shinier than yesterday and her famous curves, which Julian had always lusted after, looked sharper.

  Smiling back at her reflection, Beth quickly applied clear gloss to her lips and a couple of coats of mascara before concealing the birthmark on her neck with the normal large dollop of foundation and extra concealer. Ready to face Olivier, she opened her bedroom door and crept downstairs.

  As she got closer to the bottom of the staircase, she could hear him moving about in the kitchen. “Good morning,” she heard herself saying calmly. “I know you said you didn’t want help but I got up early and thought …”

  “So I can see,” Olivier snapped back without looking up at her, his hands covered in dough. The easy flow of their conversation the night before totally evaporated. “I told you not to.”

  “Well, sorry for disturbing you,” Beth replied, her face visibly crumbling at his response. Life had made her much more sensitive to harsh comments and rejection.

  “The croissants aren’t made and I haven’t even had a coffee myself yet,” Oliver protested.

  “It’s ok,” Beth answered, feeling totally deflated. “I didn’t come down to eat. My body clock is set for six o’clock because that’s the time I always get up for work. So I thought I’d pop down to see if you’d changed your mind about needing help.”

  Olivier’s face remained defiant. “I’m sorry,” he continued. “Nothing has changed my mind since last night. I need to concentrate on baking and you need to concentrate on being a guest.”

  “Well, yes, I know what you said,” Beth argued. “It’s just that …”

  Looking up from his baking once again, Olivier’s tone softened. “Look, ok, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t speak to you like that. It’s just that I’ve become used to my own selfish routine. I have a very bad temper, and particularly in the morning.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with being selfish,” Beth replied, responding to his increasing warmth.

  “Maybe,” Olivier said. “But I’m worse today than normal as my mind is full of Isabel. I shouldn’t have talked about all that stuff last night. It makes me angrier than I am already.

  “It’s fine. Please don’t think you have to apologise to me,” Beth said. “I’m trying to deal with my own demons at the moment. It’s the reason I’m in Kepton. In some ways I found what you told me helpful.”

  “Well, I’m sorry anyway,” Olivier said begrudgingly, as he started to knead dough, ignoring her own references to being in a dark place.

  Beth blinked as tears pricked her eyes and she touched her birth mark. She wanted to shout out in a very loud voice that she would prefer him to just be himself because then she could speak to him about her own problems. She hated the fact he didn’t even ask.

  The reason she’d come down early was not just because she wanted to help. She also desperately wanted company. Anything to keep her away from the dark thoughts she’d had the night before and the fact she felt nervous about her visit to her uncle Arthur‘s.

  “Ok. Let’s come to a compromise. Whilst you are doing that,” Beth suggested, “why don’t I do the dishes from last night and set up the tables. Even if you don’t want me anywhere near the baking I may as well help you with setting up the café now I’m up.”

  Olivier smiled at her persistence. “Well it looks like I have no choice in the matter. But it’s on condition you don’t tell me off when I curse and swear in the kitchen. Baking is an important part of my therapy. It’s my way of dealing with things. And I don’t want anyone to stop me.”

  “I promise,” Beth laughed, feeling liberated as he started to open up. “I’ll make a start on clearing things away.”

  For the next thirty minutes, Beth stacked the dish washer and walked around the bistro collecting dirty plates and glasses, wiping down tables and straightening chairs.

  As she worked, she could hear the full extent of Olivier’s anger as he did what he promised he would do, cursing and swearing in French whilst kneading vast quantities of dough.

  Although his sentences were not all audible, being a fluent French speaker, Beth could get the gist of almost everything he said.

  The summary of which was that he hated his wife because she’d gone off with a fat rich famous bastard who loved her for her looks and fabulous breasts and that – one day – she would wake up and realise that she’d just gone and lost a deep, true and rare love.

  As Beth listened to him rant, she wondered what had happened to cause a bond so strong between two people to come so unstuck.

  Unexpected waves of jealously coursed through her body as she hovered outside the kitchen. She didn’t want to interrupt him, but she’d finished tidying up and needed to get into the kitchen with a stack of dirty dishes.

  “Ok,” Beth shouted out nonchalantly, as she walked into his work space with plates piled high. “We probably need to put the dish washer on. In the meantime, I don’t mind giving you a hand to make the bread if you need help with that.”

  Surprised at her boldness at asking again, Olivier stopped what he was doing. “The dishes can wait as we don’t need them all for breakfast. Baking is very messy work and you’re not dressed for it but I am running late. Have you ever baked French bread before?”

  “No,” Beth said, before grabbing at a blue and white striped apron from the back of the kitchen door. “But I’m ok with that if you are. Pass me some dough and I’ll do what you tell me.”

  “Well, ok” Oliver said irritably, looking at his watch. “Maybe it will help me get things ready in time.”

  “You can speak to me in French or English, whichever is easiest and quickest to save you some time,” Beth smiled coyly. “I forgot to tell you I speak both.”

  “You speak French?” Olivier exclaimed his brown eyes widening as he handed her a lump of moist dough. “Why didn’t you tell me? I’m embarrassed that you must have understood all that dark personal stuff I’ve just been talking about.”

  “I tried not to listen,” Beth said, feeling her cheeks go red as she told a white lie. “I could hear you were pretty angry but I honestly couldn’t make out all the words.”

  “What other secrets are you hiding apart from the fact that you speak my language?” Olivier enquired, with a hint of mistrust in his eyes as he passed her a bag of flour.

  “I have lots of secrets probably as dark as yours and some I probably don’t even know about yet,” Beth half-joked back. “But it is true that I speak French fluently. That’s the only secret I’m prepared to share with you for now.”

  “Well, we’ll come back to this topic,” Olivier replied. “But now we actually do need to start baking the bread otherwise there will be empty baskets in the window at eight o’clock when I open up the shop.”

  “I’m all yours,” Beth said, meaning it before glancing at the clock.

  “Ok, knead the dough I just gave you as hard as you can like this,” Olivier shouted out from the opposite side of the kitchen as he expertly demonstrated her task in hand. “Then, when you’ve finished, put it in this bowl.”

  “Right,” Beth responded. “That seems quite straightforward. I’ll give it a go.”

  “Meanwhile I will make the croissants,” Olivier continued. “The first ones that come out of the oven will be for us.”

  After the first few minutes of awkwardness the atmosphere lightened and for the next hour, they worked side by side, chatting interchangeably in French and English about baking and cooking.

  At one point Olivier walked up behind her and placed his hands over hers to dem
onstrate what pressure she should apply to knead the dough.

  Beth’s heart nearly jumped out of her mouth as she felt his warm body pulsating against hers as they gently rocked forwards and backwards in perfect tandem.

  She wondered if he had any idea what effect he was having on her? It was almost as if he was pumping blood back into her body.

  To be held in his arms and to be next to him in this way, even if only for educational purposes, was sublime. Was this how it felt to be alive? Beth thought as she closed her eyes just for a second.

  And as their bodies worked in harmony, there was an intimacy to the way they fitted together, as if they had known each other before. If only life could always be like this, Beth thought as they moved faster, his grip on her hands becoming ever stronger.

  It wasn’t just the feelings of proximity that aroused her. It was his smell, his way of talking, his pent up anger and his genius that she found magnetic.

  After a few moments of sheer heaven, he moved away to put the first croissants into the oven. “This is the bit of the day I like the most,” he said. “It’ll only be a few minutes before we’ll be able to taste the first fruits of the kitchen.”

  “I can’t believe you have to do all this by yourself every day,” Beth said, wanting him to return to her side and wrap her in his arms once again.

  “Well I don’t do it every day,” Olivier corrected her. “I’m open six days a week and on Sunday I open for breakfast only and take the afternoon and evening off.”

  “Well in my book that still means you work seven days a week,” Beth replied smiling. She admired his work ethic, which was so like her own before her life got turned upside down.

  “Go and sit down,” Olivier ordered excitedly, as he took perfectly golden croissants out of the oven. “And I’ll bring you over your breakfast.”

  “Fantastic,” Beth squealed as she inhaled the wonderful smells of his artistic creations and freshly made coffee. “It’s amazing that you’ve set this place up and I’ve found it. It’s like a little slice of French heaven in North Yorkshire.”