Free The Little French Guesthouse by Helen Pollard

the decency to fess up.’ He picked up on my discomfort. ‘That isn’t what happened, is it?’
    ‘Trust me, Rupert, you don’t want to know.’
    ‘Yes, I do. It’ll do you good to get it off your chest. Come on. Out with it.’
    I spilled the beans. My race up to the roof terrace, the scene I found there (although I spared him the details), Nathan’s pathetic excuses, kicking him out into another room – the whole caboodle. My brain was too fuzzy to come up with an alternative version. When I’d finished, for a moment I thought I’d done the wrong thing. Then Rupert laughed, a sharp bark that made me jump.
    ‘Ha! It’s better than one of those dreadful soaps.’ He shot me a look of sympathy. ‘You poor girl. When I thanked you for doing your best when I collapsed, I had no idea how much more I had to thank you for. You did well, keeping your head like you did. A lesser woman would have gone to pieces over a discovery like that and forgotten all about me and my old ticker struggling away down in the kitchen.’
    I grinned. ‘It was touch and go for a couple of minutes, believe me.’

    T he Hendersons made an appearance around ten, by which time Rupert and I were well and truly plastered. I thought we made a passable show of not slurring our words too much, but I couldn’t stay upright in my chair, and Rupert’s glazed eyes were as red as his cheeks. Their disapproving looks indicated that our attempts at sobriety were less than successful. After the required pleasantries, they headed for their room, but as we heaved a sigh of relief, Mr Henderson poked his head back around the door.
    ‘Dinner at seven tomorrow, Hunter?’
    Rupert valiantly fought the stricken expression creeping across his face. ‘Seven. Absolutely.’ When the door closed again, he flopped his head back. ‘Oh, Emmy, what am I going to do?’
    ‘You’re going to bed. We’ll worry about it tomorrow.’
    ‘Tomorrow’s too late. There won’t be enough time for planning and doing. And we’ll be hung-over.’
    ‘Then we’ll make sure we get up early enough for a conference. If we feel crap, we feel crap. Can’t do anything about it tonight. We could solve world hunger right now and neither of us would remember it in the morning. C’mon.’
    I helped him out of his chair. He was exhausted and his limp was severe as he headed to his room.
    ‘Night, Rupert. Don’t worry. It’ll work out somehow.’
    ‘Night, Emmy. Thanks, love. For your support. You’re a real trooper.’
    I stumbled up the stairs, but as I swayed into our room – my room, now – I was grateful for the alcohol blurring the edges of stark reality that assaulted my senses everywhere I turned.
    One suitcase on top of the wardrobe, one toiletry bag in the bathroom, one toothbrush by the sink.
    Nathan had gone – and it felt like he’d taken all the good memories with him. The day he’d asked me out across the photocopier, when I’d punched my hand in the air in delight the minute he’d turned his back. Our first date in a candlelit restaurant, when he’d told me he’d fancied me from the minute he saw me. The summer he’d fallen in the river trying to climb into a rowing boat. Reading the Sunday papers in bed with a vatful of coffee. The evening he’d asked me to buy the flat with him. The day we’d moved in, when there were two toothbrushes by the sink, along with an implication of forever.
    All those memories had been overwritten by images of Gloria’s legs wrapped around him; his sulky face as he told me he was leaving; him driving away in her sports car.
    At that moment, in my drunken haze, I hated him for that.

    W hen the alarm clock penetrated my fuzzy brain, I felt like death and pretty much looked like it. A whole bottle of wine? I should have known better. Still, it was the only thing to have done under the circumstances, and despite the nausea and pounding head, I didn’t regret it.
    Crawling out of bed and into the shower, I hoped Rupert was