A Springtime to Remember Read online

  ‘Well, lucky you!’

  Shellie appears in the background, leaning in to see what’s on the screen.

  ‘Tea is ready, Maisie. I need to have a quick word with Auntie Lexie, so say goodbye.’

  Maisie pulls a face but blows me a kiss before handing over the phone.

  ‘Remember to send me some pictures,’ she trills musically as she walks away.

  ‘Hey, sis. Sorry I haven’t had time to call to let you know I arrived safely. What with settling in and then trying to finalise this schedule—’

  ‘Hmm… more like out of sight, out of mind. But I know you, your head will be full of the task ahead, so I didn’t expect anything different. Neither did Mum.’

  Oh, dear. Mega fail.

  ‘I’ll text her in a bit, I promise. She knows what I’m like. Nothing has happened… yet. When I have any news, I’ll call her for a chat but we’re still sorting the admin stuff. I’m due to meet our interpreter in about an hour’s time and after a day hardly moving from my temporary desk, I need the distraction.’

  She grimaces at me.

  ‘Sounds lonely to me. I couldn’t do that – head off to a place I’ve never visited before and set up a temporary home. Funny how, being the middle child, I’m sandwiched between two annoyingly successful over-achievers.’

  I groan. ‘Well, that remains to be seen for me. And anyway, you have one gorgeous little girl and another baby on the way. If I think my situation is scary, it pales in comparison to yours. All those sleepless nights all over again, and a husband who, let’s face it, might be gorgeous and hard-working but needs a lot of organising. Behind every successful man and all that.’

  ‘Remember when we were kids and I’d want to play tea parties all the time? You never wanted to sit down at our little pink plastic table and drink imaginary cups of tea. No, not you. You’d want to make something, and I’d have to sit there while you gave me a running commentary and then insisted I copy you. It always ended in a big squabble because you were so bossy, and I’d lose interest.’

  She raises her eyebrows at me.

  ‘I know. Is it any wonder my first job was presenting a kids’ arts and crafts programme?’

  ‘Nope. So, who is this guy you’re meeting?’

  ‘His name is Ronan O’Byrne.’

  ‘Oh. I assumed he would be French. That’s a shame.’ She pulls a face. ‘I’d conjured up a picture of some handsome, softly spoken man with deeply sensitive eyes whose smooth accent would sweep you off your feet.’

  She giggles as I roll my eyes.

  ‘He’s an experienced interpreter and comes highly recommended. He’s well known at the palace and has been involved in several documentaries over the years, apparently.’

  ‘He lives in France permanently, then?’

  ‘I assume so. To be honest I don’t really know very much about him. Why do you care?’

  I can see from the glint in her eye what she’s getting at.

  ‘Well, Elliot is taken, so I was just wondering—’

  ‘Don’t. Just don’t. And with that I’d better go. Take care of everyone and don’t go overdoing it. That morning sickness can’t be fun.’

  She screws up her face. ‘I’m counting down the days, believe me. And, Lexie, don’t forget to have some fun, will you?’

  ‘Now who’s being bossy?’ I smile to myself as the call disconnects.

  Fun? Who has time for fun?

  ‘Alexandra Winters?’

  The guy staring back at me as I hold open the door glances at me hesitantly. Clearly my slouchy leggings and sloppy jumper aren’t what he was expecting, but he’s not exactly dressed up. Wearing a fleece and an admittedly expensive pair of designer jeans, he’s smartly casual.

  I nod and he thrusts out his hand for me to shake.

  ‘Ronan O’Byrne,’ he adds, rather unnecessarily.

  ‘Hello, Ronan, nice to meet you. Please come in. It’s a little tight space-wise, so can you shut the door behind you?’

  I move back, climbing onto the second step of the staircase to give him room to stand inside and then push the door closed.

  ‘Follow me.’ I throw the words over my shoulder as I turn and climb the narrow stairs.

  ‘This is an interesting holiday home. I’ve driven by and walked down this road hundreds of times, but never realised these cottages were tucked away behind the row of shops.’

  As he follows me into the open-plan area, I turn to get a better look at him. He’s in his early thirties, I should imagine, with close-cropped, dark brown hair and hazel-green eyes, which are staring back at me with interest. It feels a little awkward.

  ‘Can I get you a drink? Hot, cold, alcoholic?’

  ‘I’ll have whatever you’re having,’ he replies obligingly.

  ‘Coffee it is, then. Please make yourself comfortable.’

  I busy myself in the kitchen area, leaving him to settle down on one of the sofas.

  ‘It’s bigger inside than it looks from the courtyard. Quite a find.’

  He watches my every move as I place two steaming mugs of coffee on the table and take a seat opposite him.

  ‘So, it’s all about to kick off, then.’

  ‘Yes. I’m afraid Elliot couldn’t make it this evening as he has a meeting about another project he’s involved in while we’re here filming, but we’ve thrashed out a draft schedule that fits in with the preliminary interview dates. I just need to run through it with you in detail, as the sessions that are asterisked are when we’re likely to need your services. There are a couple of interviews where we’ve been informed the interviewees speak enough English for us to communicate without too much trouble. So, it’s a case of dovetailing the other slots with your own availability.’

  ‘When will this be agreed?’ He lifts his mug off the table, cradling it in his hands although it must be extremely hot.

  ‘At tomorrow’s meeting, we hope. I should be able to firm up those bookings immediately afterwards.’

  ‘Great. I like working with people who are on the ball and well organised. What’s your background, Alexandra?’

  Hmm. He hasn’t looked me up online, then. ‘Please, call me Lexie. I’m a TV presenter.’

  He takes a slurp of coffee and rather quickly places the mug back down. It’s as if he’s nervous, maybe he’s anxious to make a good first impression.

  ‘Anything I’d know?’

  ‘Not unless you watch either children’s TV or mid-morning lifestyle programmes.’

  ‘Ah, that would be a firm no, then. I’ve never had anything much to do with kids and I’ve never been a watcher of daytime TV. The history channel, some sport and mainly films, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Well, you’re not exactly our target market so I won’t be offended! And what’s your background?’

  ‘I’m a freelance dabbler. I’m fluent in French, German, Italian and Japanese. I’ve translated a few textbooks over the last couple of years and worked as a translator for a number of different TV companies. But I’m also a writer, and I’ve published two books so far. And I have a reasonably successful YouTube channel where I upload videos of some of my favourite parts of France.’

  Hmm. He’s certainly not what I was expecting, at all.

  ‘That doesn’t sound like dabbling to me,’ I reply. ‘Eclectic, admittedly, but interesting.’

  Ronan throws his head back and laughs.

  ‘Well, if you listened to my mother, she would say I gave up a perfectly good career to dabble and she isn’t impressed. The term is hers, because she’s hoping to shame me into getting my act together again.’

  I find myself laughing alongside him and he is charming in a sort of disarming way. A lot of what he says is accompanied by either a deadpan look, or a cheeky grin. And it’s becoming clear with every word he says that he doesn’t take himself very seriously at all, which makes him even more likable.

  ‘Well, my late father was an internationally acclaimed wildlife photographer and film-maker, and my broth
er, Jake, is a successful producer living in Los Angeles. So, I know a little bit about the struggle to find your niche.’

  ‘Struggle? Niche? Maybe that’s where you’re going wrong. Who wants to be pigeonholed? Life’s too short for that, I’ve discovered. It’s all about the adventure. I wasted a few good years trying to please other people and making myself miserable. If I ended up having to focus on just one thing now, it would probably drive me crazy.’

  Oh, dear, I can’t help worrying that perhaps this means he’s a little flaky. I look up and realise he’s staring at me.

  ‘Don’t worry, interpreting is something I really enjoy. No two days are ever the same. Plus, I know my way around the palace and I’m on nodding terms with a lot of the staff.’

  We sit in silence for a few minutes sipping our coffees and then I stand up, beckoning him over to the table at the kitchen end of the room.

  ‘Right. Let’s look over this schedule, then.’

  Disconcertingly, I notice he hasn’t brought a diary with him, but as soon as we sit down, he pulls his phone out of his shirt pocket and begins looking at his electronic calendar. For all the joking around he knows exactly what dates he can fit in and it doesn’t take long to run through the entire thing.

  ‘Well, hopefully I will be able to confirm these dates very soon.’

  ‘This interview here with Anton Mereux.’ He points at the schedule on the screen in front of me. ‘It won’t require an interpreter. It would be a waste of time and your money, my being there. His English is very good and he’s a very accommodating chap.’

  ‘Oh, great, thanks for the heads up. We’re simply going on the info we’ve been given. The asterisk alongside his name could be my error. This is probably the eighth version of this document,’ I admit, glad he spotted it. Our budget is tight enough as it is, and we certainly can’t afford to waste a penny on man hours that aren’t necessary.

  I give Ronan a grateful smile, and he stands, slipping his phone back into his pocket.

  ‘Right. I’d better head off and leave you to it. I hope to hear from you in the next day or two, then. Looking forward to working with you, Lexie, and to meeting Elliot.’

  ‘You too, Ronan. I’ll see you out.’

  We shake hands and I feel sure we’re all going to work well together as a team. I was expecting a serious, academic type but he’s far from serious. In fact, he’s left quite an impression on me, to the extent that my heart is thumping in my chest. Calm down, Lexie, that little voice of reason worms its way into my head. Yes, he’s good-looking and intelligent and interesting… and maybe he is going to be rather fun to have around. But you’re here to work and you need to focus, even if he does promise to be somewhat of a distraction.

  4

  Feeling the Buzz

  ‘So, who is it we’re meeting with this morning?’

  Elliot and I walk side by side along the wide, tree-lined avenue leading up to one of the most famous landmarks in the history of France.

  ‘Bertrand Tibault. He’s the head of administration and security at the palace. I’ve spoken to him several times on the phone, but never met him in person. I did meet his predecessor and got on very well with him when I was here—’

  Elliot is brought to an abrupt halt when he starts coughing again.

  ‘Should we slow down a little so you can catch your breath?’

  He shakes his head, walking on again. ‘No. It’s fine. It’s worse early in the morning and late at night. Mia rang first thing and she’s hacking away like a smoker, too. I hope you don’t catch it. It could slow us down when filming begins.’

  He makes a face. All it takes is one little thing like a cough to mess up our itinerary, but we’re a few days away from our first session and hopefully Elliot will be over the worst of it by then.

  ‘I’ll be doing the honey and lemon thing as often as I can to appease Mia, so don’t worry,’ Elliot reassures me.

  I know I must look worried so I take a deep breath. It’s going to be fine.

  ‘Will the meeting take place inside the palace?’ I ask, hoping he’ll say yes.

  ‘Well, not inside the main building itself, I’m afraid. We’re heading up to les Ailes des Ministres Sud, which is the first building on the left just inside the outer palace gates. We will also be introduced to Solange Forand. She’ll be our on-site contact while we’re filming.’

  ‘Do you think we should have asked Ronan to come with us this morning?’

  Elliot cocks an eyebrow.

  ‘I’m sure we’ll manage, as Solange Forand would probably have mentioned it in her email if we needed to bring an interpreter. All the required forms for our little team have been submitted and checked, so this meeting is hopefully just to get them rubber-stamped and to approve the proposed schedule.’

  We exchange a look that lifts my spirits; Elliot is as excited as I am about this morning. We’re really here, at last. Suddenly he slows, pointing to our right.

  ‘This rather imposing building is la Grande Écurie, now the home of the Bartabas National Equestrian Academy of Versailles. Louis XIV commissioned one of his favourite architects, Mansart, to build this to house his horses.’

  ‘It’s rather grand for stables.’ I laugh, taking in the majestic stonework of the building’s façade; with elegant archways and immense proportions, it looks like a palace rather than an equestrian centre.

  ‘On the left we’re passing the Petite Écurie. It’s a gallery exhibiting sculptures and mouldings and well worth a visit while you’re here.’

  While different in size, the buildings are mirror images. Ahead of us, the Avenue de Paris ends at the Place d’Armes, directly in front of the palace; two roads, one on either side, run like spokes in a wheel in a funnel-effect, culminating to form an arc. It closes off the large square in front of the outer palace gates. As we draw nearer, an imposing statue of Louis XIV on horseback is set high on a stone plinth, the huge bronze commanding everyone’s attention. Every inch the omnipotent King, he sits astride the regal animal, whose head is proudly raised, as if he understands the importance of his role. King and horse overseeing not only their own army of men and beasts, but everything that inhabited French soil.

  ‘It’s everything I’d imagined and more,’ I murmur in awe. Having studied so many of the books written about Versailles in preparation for this project, I wasn’t expecting to feel so overcome with emotion.

  ‘He was a man with an unshakeable resolve. This area was designed to accommodate six hundred horses, their riders, musicians, pages and onlookers. Louis held court wherever he went.’ Elliot has visited so many times and even now the awe in his voice is discernible.

  It’s impossible not to stop in my tracks to gaze up at the statue and beyond, at the sheer spectacle in front of us.

  Louis looms large, his commanding image set centrally to the sprawling palace behind him. There is no disputing the sense of ultimate power on display. Nothing was going to stop this man from turning a former hunting lodge, built on boggy unwelcoming ground, into the most unbelievably decadent palace imaginable. He succeeded in letting the world know there was nothing he couldn’t achieve and even at a distance the scale and grandeur is hard to take on board. The astronomical amount of expenditure that must have been involved, at a time when many people went hungry in order to pay their taxes is unthinkable.

  Even though it’s only just after nine-thirty in the morning, the sun is already making the gold embellishments on the gates surrounding the palace glisten.

  ‘It’s breathtaking, isn’t it?’ Elliot’s voice drags me back into the moment.

  ‘You can understand why it became a symbol for the dramatic and bloody decline of the monarchy during the French Revolution, even though it was some seventy-odd years after Louis XIV’s death. Did you know that the palace was besieged by an angry crowd in a march on Versailles, which was triggered by the scarcity and high price of bread? The then King – also a Louis – and his family were forced to return to Paris
. The history books tell us how that ended – in front of the guillotine.’ As I say the word it makes me shudder.

  ‘All in the pursuit of elevating a man who believed he was untouchable; more than a King even, a resolute power chosen by God. He built something of incredible beauty, admittedly, but you can understand the anger it generated.’ Elliot’s words mirror my own thoughts. Beautiful, astounding, but at what cost simply to immortalise one man? Bold, audacious, visionary and bordering on the impossible. Few dare to dream this big for a reason.

  We step through the outer gates, into an immense cobbled area. A large queue has already formed in snaking lines, supervised by stewards. Either side is flanked by mirror-image buildings in the signature pale stonework, with the slate grey Mansard roofs repeated everywhere. The difference, though, is the lavish amount of gilding on the dormer windows set within the roofs, turning them into gleaming, golden eyes staring down at all who come to gaze up and marvel. Some are round, like myriad suns and not the more prolific rectangular style. Detail is everything, but the cost of the renovation work must be just as mind-blowing as the original budget.

  To our left, the crowd of visitors mill around and as we head towards our destination it’s clear it also houses the main ticket office.

  Three soldiers wearing bulletproof vests walk past us, each purposefully nursing a machine gun, their eyes constantly roving around the mass of people. It’s hard not to stare at them, and I realise I’ve slowed my pace while Elliot is talking to a member of staff.

  ‘Bonjour. Nous avons un rendez-vous avec Monsieur Tibault.’

  The man nods and we follow him inside.

  Even though this building is outside the inner palace gates, it’s impressive and very stately. As we walk across the entrance hall our footsteps have a hollow ring until we are led up a sweeping flight of stone steps, each one topped with marble. As we ascend, I look down at the constant coming and going below, marvelling at the intricate pattern of black and white inlaid marble covering the floor.