Page 28 of You Had Me at Chateau
13
My room in the château is positively charming. The walls are painted a soft, warm cream, with dark wooden beams crossing the ceiling. There’s a large, plush bed with an intricately carved headboard, piled high with fluffy pillows and a thick, cosy duvet topped with layers and layers of extra blankets.
A small sitting area by the window has a couple of overstuffed armchairs and a tiny wooden table, perfect for curling up with a good book or, more realistically, writing one on my laptop. The view from the window is breathtaking, looking out over the snow-covered grounds and down the road back towards the resort. There’s a fireplace, too – my own fireplace! – and it’s already lit, casting a warm, golden glow around the room and making it feel like I’m in a dreamy, snuggly cocoon.
If it were as simple as spending time here in my room, occasionally popping to the resort for a hot chocolate and a little bit of fresh air, then maybe, just maybe I could vibe with it. But it’s not that simple, is it? I can’t hide in my room for the whole trip, can I?Can I?No, no, I can’t. It’s time to go and greet the others.
I head down the long, winding staircase, following the sound of laughter, until I find myself in a lounge. In there, sitting around the fire, nursing glasses of wine, are three familiar faces. Mandy Hess, Bette Hinton, and Gina Knox. It’s Gina, who is currently tucking into a generously sliced piece of cheese, who notices me first.
‘Amber, darling, hello,’ she says brightly. ‘Jen said you would be joining us.’
Oh, so at least they knew that I was coming. I was worried, when I didn’t hear from any of them, that they might not know.
Gina is the younger of the three – but she’s still at least ten years older than me. I’m on the young side for an author, I guess, which makes me feel like a bit of a baby sometimes. I know, deep down, that I have as much right to be here (in this job) as everyone else, but I don’t always feel like everyone takes me seriously. Everyone else in the industry – in my genre, especially – seems to be older, more established, with families and comfortable lives. I sometimes feel a bit like the odd one out, but I know I’ll get there eventually… hopefully. Some days it’s easier to believe than others.
Gina is very glamorous – you can somehow tell she writes steamy romance, but only if you know to look for it. There’s a cheeky flirtiness behind her eyes, but otherwise, she doesn’t look the type. She has glossy dark hair that falls in perfect waves around her shoulders, a figure that could give a swimsuit model a run for her money, and a wardrobe that looks like it’s made of money.
Then there’s Bette Hinton, who gives me a big smile and a wave. She writes cute titles, usually set at the seaside, with feel-good, life-affirming storylines. She’s the older of the three, in her late sixties, and has that warm, bubbly, mumsy vibe about her. Bette is holding two glasses of wine – one red, one white. Her hair is a soft grey, styled in a neat bob, and she’s wearinga colourful, slightly eccentric outfit that looks like it was chosen specifically to brighten up the cold winter weather here. Her face is lined with laughter, and she has the kind of smile that makes you feel instantly at ease. You just know she’s going to be friendly with you, even if she doesn’t mean it.
And finally, there is Mandy Hess, very much the main one, the boss-level author. I was a big fan of Mandy’s work growing up, so naturally I was jazzed to meet her, and Mandy was nice to me at first… until my first book did well and people started describing me as ‘the new Mandy Hess’, which I’m guessing she wasn’t very happy about because she’s been hostile towards me ever since. Mandy is the last one to turn around, like the last judge onThe Voice. She’s in her fifties, with sharp, chiselled features, short, stylishly cut blonde hair, and it’s hard to explain but she just seems to give off the underlying authority of a head teacher – something about her demeanour makes you want to stand up a little straighter, and watch your Ps and Qs. She’s dressed in a tailored, sophisticated two-piece, and here I am, in jeans, and my oversized jumper with thumb holes – thumb holes that I made myself, by poking holes in my long sleeves.
‘Amber, hello, dear,’ Mandy says, her tone polite but cool. ‘We were taking bets on whether you would turn up.’
‘Well, here I am,’ I reply, trying to keep my voice light, because if she’s making fun of me, I need to make it seem like I’m in on the joke.
‘How are you doing, and how was your journey?’ Bette asks.
‘It was fine, thanks,’ I reply. ‘This is a beautiful place – thanks so much for inviting me.’
I know, that’s not technically true, and they would probably prefer it if Dickie Woodrup was here (he’s very nice and charming to his friends/people he believes are his equals) but I’m what they’ve got.
Bette smiles. She’s nice enough, but I will never forget the time when I asked her if she would read my book and maybe give me a quote that I could use to promote it. She told me she hated reading romance and that it was bad enough she had to write the stuff. I guess decades in the industry will do that to you, but even so, it was disappointing, like finding out the person who sings your favourite love song is a serial adulterer.
‘Jen mentioned you were struggling with your book,’ Mandy says, her pouty smile patronising. ‘It’s not as easy as it seems, is it?’
I force a smile.
‘It’s just my latest, and creative differences with my editor,’ I explain, standing up for myself. ‘Is this a good place to get work done?’
The three women laugh.
‘Oh, no, no, no,’ Mandy insists. ‘No one actually comes here to write, do they, ladies? We do it to avoid our families in the run-up to Christmas.’
I settle into an armchair next to the fire. It’s nice in here – a good spot to get cosy. The room is spacious yet cosy, with a high, timber-beamed ceiling that adds a touch of rustic charm. The walls are adorned with vintage paintings and tapestries – artworks that feel very much on theme in a château. Soft, ambient lighting from a combination of antique chandeliers and wall sconces bathes the room in a gentle, golden glow – which is much needed, because not much daylight comes in from outside, through the small windows.
The lounge’s centrepiece is definitely the grand stone fireplace. It’s massive, with a huge fire roaring inside, that not only gives off an almost overwhelming amount of heat, but also ASMR levels of crackles and pops. It’s so relaxing.
Above the mantelpiece, an ornate mirror reflects the warm light around, upping the cosy ambience. Plush armchairs andsofas, upholstered in rich, deep shades of burgundy and forest green, are arranged in a semicircle, setting the scene for the conversation. The only part of the room that is imperfect is the coffee table in front of us, that is littered with wine bottles, glasses and snacks. It’s messy, but not out of place. It’s a very French spread.
Bette chuckles, taking a sip from her glass of red wine.
‘My husband takes care of everything back home,’ she explains. ‘He’s got Christmas down to a fine art now, and I get to relax here. It’s the only way to do it.’
I think about Bette’s social media accounts, where she routinely roasts her husband for laughs. All she seems to do is make fun of him for his quirky little ways and grumpy old man energy. It’s a bit of a surprise to hear she actually relies on him so much.
‘I spend the big day with siblings and their families,’ Gina explains. ‘They all have kids, so they’re used to doing everything, and I get to simply turn up and be the cool auntie without any of the stress.’
I smile, imagining Gina doling out extravagant presents – bought with the money she makes writing spicy books – and sipping wine before slipping away when things get too hectic.
