Page 3 of Summer at the Château
‘Not long to Easter,’ she said. ‘Maybe you should think about going away for a break. How about France? I quite fancy a trip there myself.’ She glanced across at Pixie. ‘Are you any nearer taking possession of that place in Brittany you bought, what, must be ten years ago? Always seemed a bit naive on your parts to me, buying a place you couldn’t move in to until the owner either moved out to give you vacant possession or died.’
Pixie sighed. ‘Frank explained at the time, Mum. It’s a well-known system in France called viager. They calculate the value of the property based on various things, including the age of the vendor. We made a down payment, which the French call a bouquet, and then a monthly payment while the vendor is alive. Once he dies or moves out, the property is ours. It’s a bit of an investment gamble, but it does mean you can eventually end up owning a really nice property for a bargain price.’
‘What happens now that Frank’s died and not the seller?’
‘We bought it jointly, my name is on the deeds, so I will be the sole owner now I guess, when the time comes. I’ll have to talk to someone in France about selling it on. I won’t go and live there now without Frank, so there’s no point in keeping it.
Gwen looked at her. ‘Why can’t you live there? When you bought the place, you planned to move over – you talked about running writers’ retreats, didn’t you? You could still do that. You’re as free as a bird now.’ Seeing the look on Pixie’s face, she added, ‘Even keep it as a second home.’
‘Living in France was something we were going to do together. It was our dream – what’s the point without Frank?’ Pixie sighed. ‘And it’s too big to be a holiday home. Anyway, I know Madame Quiltu died a several years ago, but Monsieur Quiltu is still alive and in residence. Besides, I can’t leave you. Gus lives too far away to be any help in an emergency.’
Gwen wagged her finger. ‘Do not use me as an excuse, my girl. If you want to go and live in France, you jolly well go. I could probably be persuaded to accompany you – a last adventure. Would beat a bungalow, that’s for sure.’
‘Not going to happen,’ Pixie shrugged. ‘I need to start reorganising my life and…’ she hesitated. ’And, I was thinking I might make a start sorting out Frank’s clothes and things this evening, but I’m not sure I’m up to it yet.’ Her voice faded away.
‘I can give you a hand if you want,’ Gwen said gently, glad that Pixie had raised the subject. ‘Always better to have company for things like that. But not this evening. That’s a thought – you should come OldTyme Dancing with me tonight.’
Pixie looked at her. ’Seriously? Have you forgotten I’ve got two left feet and can’t keep to a basic rhythm?’
Gwen laughed. ’I admit I had forgotten about your lack of co-ordination. We’ll find something else for you to get involved with.’
‘Once everything has settled back down, I’ll have plenty to do. I’m still under contract for two more books. My editor sent me a gentle email only yesterday wanting to know if I was up to coping with the edits for my latest book,’ Pixie said. ‘I’ll be back in a writing routine before you know it.’
‘All work and no play,’ Gwen muttered. She ignored Pixie’s shake of her head and the pained expression on her face.
‘Do you want to come with me into town?’ Pixie asked. ‘I shouldn’t be too long at the bank. You could have a look round the shops. Do some window shopping, if nothing else.’
Gwen shook her head. ‘No thanks. I’ve got an appointment with Emma at Nailed It. I’m thinking of having dark blue varnish with silver question marks on alternate nails. What d’you think? Pink is so boring.’
The way Pixie shook her head at her with a look of disbelief on her face told her the answer, and Gwen gave her daughter a mischievous smirk.
3
There was a fly trapped behind the vertical Venetian blinds of the bank manager’s office and Pixie found herself watching it rather than concentrating on what the man sitting opposite her was saying for his quiet voice threatened to send her to sleep. Frank had always laughed at her when she quoted the old saying ‘why keep a dog and bark yourself, you’re the financial expert in this family.’ She and Frank each had their own bank accounts and a joint one for all household expenses and holidays to which they both contributed the same amount by monthly direct debit. The arrangement had always worked well. Now she hated the thought of having to get to grips with everything herself.
‘Now that all payments to France have ceased, we’ve switched the monies into a savings account,’ the bank manager said, looking at his computer screen. ‘One that—’
‘I’m sorry,’ Pixie interrupted, suddenly on high alert. ‘But that can’t be right. Those payments should not have stopped. If we default on that agreement, we stand to lose the not inconsiderable amount of money we’ve already paid in the last nine years. You had no business stopping those payments.’ She glared at the manager.
‘Mrs Sampson, your husband instructed us to stop paying out the monies on…’ he glanced at the screen again and told her the date. ‘I remember the reason he gave was the viager agreement had come to an end when the owner died the week previously.’
‘What?’ Pixie felt herself slump in her seat. ‘You mean we have wholly owned the property for the last…’ she did a quick calculation in her head. ‘The last sixteen months.’
‘Correct.’
‘I’m sorry – but why didn’t I know?’
The bank manager gave her a sympathetic look. ‘I’m sorry too, but I can’t answer that question. Your husband is the one to have told you and, for some unknown reason, he chose not to.’
* * *
Pixie drove home from her meeting at the bank on autopilot, her mind whirring with unanswerable questions. Why had Frank not told her? Why hadn’t they visited? What state was the place in, having been empty for over a year? What did she do now? The questions kept coming and coming.
Once home, she abandoned the car on the driveway and made straight for Frank’s study. Frank had always kept the room meticulous; everything filed away, with a laptop and an old-fashioned Filofax placed on the desk.
Pixie sank onto the wooden ship’s chair with its padded leather seat and curved arms that Frank had always used in preference to a regular office chair. The bottom left-hand drawer of the desk was deep with space for hanging files and she pulled it open. Half a dozen files were all titled and placed alphabetically behind each other in the drawer, the contents stacked neatly inside: Bank, Household, Investments, Insurances/Personal, Tax, Work. Pixie’s fingers hovered over the drawer before pushing the last three files to the back and flicking through the contents of the Investment file. She pulled out an envelope marked ‘French Château’ and sat back, looking at it thoughtfully, remembering their excitement all those years ago.
They’d talked about buying a holiday home in France for years. Not in the more popular areas like Provence, the Dordogne or the Cote d’Azur because neither of them could take the summer heat of those places. Besides, Frank had said, what’s the point of moving somewhere and joining a bunch of ex-pats? ‘No, authentic France is what we want.’ Pixie had agreed. Together they’d decided on the western side of France, in particular the ruggedness of Finistère in Brittany appealed and they’d spent holiday after holiday annoying estate agents and looking for their dream home but had been unable to find anything that ticked all their boxes and inspired them to take the plunge. Until they’d both fallen in love with Château Quiltu on sight. It was, they decided, the perfect buy to celebrate their joint fiftieth birthdays and look forward to their eventual retirement.
