Page 55 of Sisters Making Mischief
‘Men never know what they want until we show them, don’t you know that? Bastien told his friends he didn’t want to ask me to the Bastille Day dance in 1958. But I knew better, I knew he was the man for me. So handsome, with a wonderful head of hair. Three years later we were married with two sons, and I was digging rows of potatoes. So what do you know of him?’
Men never know what they want until we show them.
Yes, that was an interesting thought. Perhaps my idea to be a bit more proactive was worth considering.
‘He seems very pleasant; we went to visit him and see how he is getting on with his house. And that’s all.’
‘You should have taken me,’ Eugénie said, ‘next time you go, if the Lord spares me, I wish to be included. I will ask him about my liver problems and ask if there is some new treatment.’
‘I did tell you, he’s not a medical doctor,’ Isabel said, handing her mother-in-law her coffee in its special cup.
Eugénie took a sip. ‘I will ask him anyway.’
‘By the way, that special box you were asking about,’ I said.
‘The one you were going to do something clever with?’
I went to get it off the dresser. In Isabel’s collection of things, I had found some vintage photographs, and some sentimental old Valentine’s cards. I had bound them up with faded pink ribbon and put them inside.
‘This was what I thought might be nice,’ I said.
Her voice softened. ‘Yes, that is very romantic. My Bastien used to give me cards like that. So pretty. I wish I had kept them all.’
I watched her as she examined the cards, a little smile on her face, her hands gentle on the ribbon. It was evident she liked what I had done, and I felt happy for her and rather proud.
At last, she re-tied the pink ribbon carefully around the cards, and put them back into the box, closing the lid with care. She was deep in thought, and her expression was unusually tender.
‘Perhaps romance is what the handsome doctor needs. To take his mind off illness and death.’
‘He’s not that sort of doctor,’ Isabel murmured again.
Two days later the first people came to stay in thegîtes.One was a young couple, Marcus and Cathy, who were celebrating their first wedding anniversary. They arrived in a battered old VW Beetle, laden down with cases and boxes of food. They seemed delightful, said polite things about the countryside and thebrocanteand then giggling, disappeared into thegîte,presumably to enjoy each other’s company, so to speak. We didn’t see anything of them for the rest of the day.
Later that afternoon the second renter, Bill, arrived; a man of about seventy, on his own who had come to ‘finish his work’. He made a lot of fuss about the broadband speed and wanted to know if there would be much noise, because he needed to concentrate.
‘Not really,’ Isabel said, handing over the welcome pack of leaflets and maps, ‘the countryside is quiet, the dogs may bark a bit occasionally, but I don’t think there is anything that will disturb you too much.’
‘That’s good,’ he said, pushing his glasses up his nose, and looking earnest, ‘because I am on a tight deadline. And I am hoping my two weeks here will sort things out.’
‘That sounds interesting,’ I said, ‘what are you doing?’
‘I am finishing my book,’ he said proudly, ‘my debut. I have nearly completed the first draft, it’s already over two hundred thousand words, and I need to think about killing someone.’
‘Not actually killing someone?’ I said.
He gave a short, barking laugh. ‘In my book. They do say that when you come to a tricky part, the best thing you can do is kill someone. The problem is, I have already killed off three people, including the main character. I’m wondering if another one is a good idea.’
‘You won’t have anyone left at that rate,’ I said.
He looked thoughtful.
‘Yes, I was sorry to lose my hero because I quite liked him. But then over Christmas I got fed up with him, he used too many adjectives, and he kept shrugging, so I had him shot. I did think of poison but then I couldn’t decide who would do it and how. Poison is hard work, you know? Not for the faint-hearted. I’d already spent two weeks down a rabbit hole of research learning about cyanide. I hope the authorities never search my browsing history.’
‘So it’s a murder mystery?’ Isabel asked.
‘A murder-romance-steampunk crossover,’ he replied, ‘with elements of police procedural. I’m creating a new genre. And I do wonder if I did the right thing – shooting Simon at the end of chapter forty-seven, but then I was really pleased with the way that scene went.’
‘Perhaps you could invent an identical twin brother to make a surprise appearance,’ I said.
