of a large gilt mirror that was fixed to the wall by the door that led to the en suite. An eye-catching antique kissing chair upholstered in scarlet velvet placed at the foot of the bed was the real statement piece in the room. On the wall behind the bed, Amy had hung the large portrait of Isadora Duncan she’d discovered in an antique shop in Nice. Amy loved how the painter had captured the essence of how an unconventional Isadora moved her body in dance, so free and flexible, with no preconceived shapes.
While she showered and towelled herself dry afterwards, Amy found herself thinking about the three women she’d collected from the airport. She remembered realising as she read their competition answers, they all had a genuine reason for wanting the holiday. A need to get away from normal life for a while. Vicky hoping to find herself again after years of being a mother and supportive wife. Chelsea because something in her life had gone drastically wrong and Matilda, who on the face of it was simply recuperating from a broken ankle, but Amy sensed there was something under the surface worrying her.
Each woman was different, but all seemed nice and easy to get along with. At least Amy hoped they were. Personality clashes were definitely not needed. Fingers crossed, the three generations would come together happily and settle down for a fun and enjoyable holiday. A holiday that would help each of them sort out their lives when they returned home.
Amy smiled wryly to herself. The only way she’d been able to sort out her own life had been by running away from home five years ago, thanks to Tasha. For her, though, running away had been the right decision. Updating and turning Belle Vue into a retreat had kept her busy for the first year and once she’d opened to guests, business had built up steadily.
Pulling on a pair of shorts and a loose top, she glanced at her watch. Time to check on Olivia, her friend and cook for the villa, and to prepare the nibbles for aperitifs.
‘Everything smells as wonderful as ever,’ Amy said, going into the kitchen. ‘Everything okay?’
Olivia looked up from the mozzarella and tomato salad starter she was preparing and smiled at Amy before answering her in rapid French.
‘Bien sûr. Comme d’habitude?’
‘Oui,’ Amy said. ‘I’ll set the terrace table and then sort the aperitifs if you don’t want me to do anything.’
Olivia had been Tasha’s cook and Amy had fond memories of the meals she’d cooked for the family during summer holidays over the years. Tasha’s Will had stipulated that Olivia and Pierre, the gardener, were an important part of Belle Vue and were to keep their jobs. She knew that Amy would find them invaluable. And that was so true.
In the early days, the three of them had grown close as they grieved for Tasha and Amy had involved them in her plans for the house. Olivia, like her brother Pierre, had been born and bred in the village and their maternal Italian grandparents lived across the nearby Italian border. Olivia was the same age as Tasha and over the past couple of years had partially filled the void left behind by Amy’s godmother. Olivia’s daughter had married a local farmer and two years ago, much to Olivia’s delight, had made her a grandmother. When Amy had arrived to live permanently in France, Olivia had welcomed her into her own family and Amy had enjoyed many a Sunday meal at their table with their noisy extended family. These days, whenever Amy had guests, Olivia cooked the evening meals at the villa, which meant every afternoon, her pasta-loving body could be seen making its way slowly up the drive.
Pierre, a widower in his late fifties, had been a gardener all his working life. He was one of the gentlest and kindest men Amy had ever known. His knowledge of plants was legendary. She’d learnt so much about the garden from him.
The brother and sister were more than Amy’s friends – they were her French family. Olivia in particular was her sounding-board as far as the villa went – and in her personal life too.
Amy had placed the nibbles on the table and was lighting the citronella candles in their terracotta pots placed strategically around the terrace, when Vicky appeared. A Vicky who already looked relaxed and happy wearing a light kaftan-style top over a long flowing cotton skirt.
‘I’ve just had the most amazing therapeutic bath,’ she said, accepting a glass of chilled rosé from Amy. ‘Sheer bliss. May I have one every day? Or am I going to cause a water shortage?’
Amy laughed. ‘Have as many baths as you like. Our water here is spring-fed, but there is no danger of us running out.’
‘You have no idea how happy that makes me,’ Vicky said, raising her glass. ‘Cheers.’
Matilda was the next to arrive. Without her stick, Amy noticed.
‘Not late, am I? I have to confess to falling asleep in that wonderfully comfortable chair in my room.’
‘No, you’re not late’ Amy said. ‘Glass of rosé or would you prefer something else?’
Matilda shook her head. ‘Rosé will be lovely. I always think of rosé as a wine that one should only drink in the heat of summer and preferably in the South of France. Both conditions of which are met here. Santé.’
Vicky, standing looking out over the garden, sighed. ‘It’s so beautiful here. I’ve only just arrived and I feel I never want to leave.’
‘You’re not the first to feel like that,’ Amy said. ‘Ah, Chelsea. Glass of wine?’
‘Umm, could I have something to nibble first please? Otherwise I think the wine will go straight to my head, it’s so long since I’ve eaten properly.’
‘Sure, help yourself,’ Amy said. ‘I always find swimming makes me hungry too. But do leave enough room for the lamb Olivia has roasted.’
While they enjoyed the nibbles and rosé, Amy started to explain a little about the retreat and her plans for the week.
‘I’m used to running retreats and courses here where everyone who comes usually has a shared interest with the people in the group. Having the three of you here, all strangers and probably with nothing in common, is a first for me. I’m hoping you all get on,’ and Amy smiled at them before taking a sip of her wine and continuing.
‘The eight rooms with names are the bedrooms – mine’s on the first floor and is the “Isadora Duncan”. Do please feel free to explore the rest of the house,’ Amy said. ‘Breakfast is a help yourself affair in the kitchen and you can eat in there, wander out here or eat on your own terrace. Pierre, the gardener, brings the fresh croissants and pains au chocolat up every morning from the village at about 7.30. I get lunch – usually bread, cheese, salad and charcuterie from the market, which is my limit, I’m no cook. If you’re going out independently for the day, just let me know. Olivia will come in to cook dinner every day unless we decide to eat out one evening.’
‘Sounds wonderful,’ Vicky said. ‘Having food bought, cooked and placed in front of me without me having to organise it. I’m not a very good cook either,’ she confessed, looking at Amy.
‘I’m happy to arrange a couple of days out if you’re interested?’ Amy said. ‘A group visit to Monaco? Antibes? Both are easily accessible from here. And, of course, Cannes is just down the road.’
‘I’d love to go to Monaco,’ Chelsea said. ‘And if you could introduce me to a millionaire that would be cool.’
‘I don’t think I know any,’ Amy laughed. ‘But we can certainly have a look around.’
‘I
