Page 3 of Falling for Provence

But Laura was already turning away. ‘I need to get some photos,’ she said. ‘We haven’t even seen the bedrooms yet. Or the bathroom.’ Her voice faded as she went back into the house. ‘If thereisone…’

Laura began scrolling through the photos she’d taken as soon as she’d had enough of her lunch. Ellie was sitting opposite her at a table in an outdoor restaurant tucked away in a small square behind the cathedral in Vence, a short drive from the house. Itwas surprisingly warm for early summer, but they were shaded by the generous leafy fans of an enormous chestnut tree. The shade was also making it easier to see the photos.

‘The bedrooms aren’t a bad size. Shame there’s only two of them.’

‘The bedrooms are tiny, Laura. They barely fit anything more than a bed and a wardrobe.’

‘One of those beds was adouble.’

‘An antique double. No more than a large single by today’s standards.’

No adult would have been able to use the child-sized single bed in the other upstairs room, and just a glimpse of a high-sided wooden cot had been enough to make Ellie turn away instantly.

‘Some people love that old furniture. We can sell it as fully furnished, right down to the linen and cutlery. Ready to walk into and bask in all the delights this area has to offer. Or as an investment, to rent out to all the other people who are desperate for a summer holiday on the French Riviera.’

Ellie had to laugh. ‘Are you kidding me? It’s been neglected for years and years. There werebatsin the bairn’s bedroom. Pigeon poo all over the floorboards in the other.’

‘It can’t have been that long. The washing machine in the basement doesn’t look more than about ten years old.’ But Laura shuddered. ‘I hate bats.’

‘It’s not habitable. It’s filthy. The electricity’s dodgy, and there’s barely any water.’

‘It probably just needs some new fuses and some of that stuff that cleans out pipes. And a professional clean. I’ll put it all on the list to discuss with the agency rep we’re meeting later.’

‘It’s miles from anywhere.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Ellie, why are you being so negative?’ Laura’s temper was clearly still fragile. ‘Look where we are!It took us less than ten minutes to drive here and Vence is gorgeous. A market town that’s got everything, with the bonus of a medieval centre. I’ll bet there’s any number of famous artists that have lived here. We need to find the tourist office and pick up some brochures.’

‘And the food…’ she added, breaking a short silence just as Ellie was about to apologise because shewasbeing negative, wasn’t she? ‘You can’t tell me that slow-cooked daube de boeufwasn’t the most delicious thing you’ve eaten in a long time.’

Ellie’s eyes dropped towards the bowl in front of her which, unlike Laura’s, had been scraped clean. Or, rather, wiped clean with shreds of the fresh crusty bread that had filled the small basket.

‘And St Paul de Vence is just down the road. EvenI’veheard of that town. Apparently, it’s a living museum, and I’m looking forward to checking it out after we meet the agent there.’ She checked her watch and then signalled to the older man who seemed to be both the owner and waiter.

‘L’addition, s’il vous plaît.’

Laura’s French might be rusty, given the number of years since she’d spent her gap year in Paris, but it was a lot more than Ellie could remember from her high school classes. What she did remember, however, was that she’d loved listening to the language. Hearing snatches of conversation around them from the local diners, and as they’d wandered through the medieval heart of this small town looking for somewhere to eat, was reminding her of the sheer musicality of this language – how it felt like hearing the opening bars of a long-forgotten but once-favourite song. And maybe there was a genetic reason for that.

Inheriting a house hadn’t been the only shock for the Gilchrist sisters in the last few days. They’d discovered they had French blood themselves. It was a confession from their mother, Jeannie, on a subject none of them had ever had the courage toforce her to talk about: her husband’s family, who’d all turned their backs as the police gave up searching for a man who clearly didn’t want to be found.

‘Your grandmother on your father’s side was French. She only shifted to Scotland after she got married and had her children. She came from somewhere in the south.’

The way back through the narrow streets of the old town to where they’d finally found somewhere to park the car took them past purple blooms of a wisteria foaming over the edges of a high stone wall. Past a fountain shaped like a giant urn pouring water into a pool with edges that reminded her of the flowers carved into the front door of the house they’d been to see.

Theirhouse. Temporarily, anyway. A third share of the proceeds from its sale was likely to be life-changing for all three of the Gilchrist girls. Enough for a house deposit. Enough to float through life for a while, perhaps?

To get far enough away from the past to be able to forget?

Round the corner from the fountain, they bypassed the large central town square with its finely gravelled surface, perfect for the group of men who were engrossed in a game of boules to one side. What appeared to be the main road through the town was a little wider but still cobbled. Someone came out of a boulangerie with three baguettes poking out of their paper bags, and they had to skirt around two women who’d stopped to talk, their small dogs blocking the rest of the footpath. Most of the shops were closed and shuttered.

‘I can’t understand why the French still hang on to these ridiculously long lunch breaks,’ Laura muttered. ‘Don’t they realise how much business they’re losing?’

‘Maybe they don’t care,’ Ellie suggested. ‘Money isn’t the driving force for everybody, you know.’

‘It is when you’ve got a bunch of kids to feed and clothe,’ Laura snapped back. ‘Ask Mam how that was forher, sometime.’

Ellie slowed her steps a little. Or maybe Laura sped up. The distance was increasing between them, anyway, both emotionally and physically. By the time Ellie got into the car, Laura was drumming her fingers on the steering wheel, impatiently.

Ellie sighed. ‘I don’t want to fight.’

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