French Weddings Can Kill You Page 4

  The actors followed the instructions, posing perfectly, portraying the image of the madly in love famous couple all France wanted to know about.

  The woman hidden behind the philodendron took a cell phone from her pocket and started to record a video.

  “All right, that’s it for the indoor pictures. Let’s go outside.” The photographer left with the journalist, followed by Élodie’s mother. The couple and Flora stayed inside.

  “’Kind and caring,’ that’s all you could say about me? Really?” Élodie yelled at Paul.

  “That was a nice thing to say. What did you want me to say?” asked Paul.

  “What about ‘because she’s the most talented actress of her generation’ or ‘everyday she fascinates me with her brilliant mind and creativity.’ Things like that! But no, you, you say the most insignificant thing one can hear from their partner. Kind and caring! Producers and directors who will read this will think I’m just a cute dummy who can’t take on important, dramatic roles!”

  “Come on, Élodie, calm down. It’s not that bad,” said Paul. “In fact, it’s good for the public and for your fans to know you’re kind and caring. Right, Flora?” Paul turned to Flora, who wasn’t given the chance to answer the question, which was fortunate. Élodie kept yelling at Paul.

  “Let me get this straight, Paul.” She pointed a threatening finger at the actor. “I couldn’t care less about the public and my fans. Most of them are just a bunch of idiots with desperate, sad lives. What I care about though, is my career and the image I project to important people in this business. And so far, you’re not helping me with this.”

  As Élodie left the veranda to go to the Italian garden, the waitress arrived carrying a plate with a bottle of sparkling water and lemon slices.

  “Ms. Faber, here’s”

  “Too late!” yelled the actress. And she slammed the door behind her.

  “I don’t know how you can stand these childish tantrums and remain so calm, Paul” said Flora. “Really? You’re going to marry that? I don’t know about you, but I’d rather kill her!”

  “Then I’d become the star who lost his beautiful young bride, horrendously murdered before their wedding,” said Paul forcing a fake dramatic tone. He smiled. “Who knows, maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing? It would get me more publicity and might boost my career?” Paul winked and Flora shook her head in disbelief.

  “Come on, let’s go outside and do these pictures,” said Flora. “It’s going to be a long day.”

  They left the veranda, followed by the waitress on a mission to deliver sparkling water and lemon slices.

  The woman hidden behind the plant replayed the video on her cell phone and smiled.

  “Perfect,” she said.

  Chapter 10

  “B rigitte Plansec. P-L-A-N-S-E-C.” The woman spelled her name, articulating slowly.

  “Yes, I found it,” said Camille. “Here’s your room key, Ms. Plansec. Number 13, on the first floor. You can either take the stairs or the elevator to your left.”

  The short woman with thick, red curly hair took the key. “Thank you. I’ll take the elevator.”

  “Don’t hesitate to ask if you need anything. Enjoy your stay with us, Ms. Plansec.”

  Camille waited for the woman to walk away, but instead she just stood on the other side of the reception desk. Brigitte Plansec got up on the tip of her toes and leaned over the counter. “Oh, by the way,” she whispered to Camille, “in which rooms are they staying?”

  “Pardon me? Who are you talking about, Ms. Plansec?”

  “You know what I mean. The famous couple, Paul Dumont and Élodie Faber.”

  “Oh, yes. I’m afraid I can’t give you this information, Miss Plansec. I’m sure you can understand why.”

  “Oh yes, but I won’t bother them, don’t worry. I just hope to cross their path in the corridors. Can you tell me at least on which floor they’re staying?” The woman kept smiling, hoping Camille would throw her a bone.

  “I’m really sorry, Ms. Plansec. You must understand, it’s a question of privacy and confidentiality.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t mind about confidentiality if you gave my room number to Paul Dumont!” The woman giggled. “I’m such a fan of his. I’ve kept all the articles published about him, religiously, for twenty years since he started his career. I have a big collection and many posters I keep in boxes preciously. Sometimes I have a look at them while re-watching his movies. I do my ‘Paul Dumont’s night’ with a good meal and a glass of wine. Oh, he’s such an elegant and handsome man, don’t you think? And he’s still so sexy! You know, I saw him once in the street, when I was visiting Paris. I thought I’d die!”

  “I understand, Ms. Plansec,” said Camille, “but I really can’t give you this information. And please, don’t take it the wrong way, but there’s a long line of people behind you waiting to check in, so please, enjoy the comfort of your room and call us if you need anything. All right?”

  Brigitte Plansec turned her head. A dozen of guests were waiting behind her, some of them rolling their eyes. Bertrand was as busy as Camille, dealing with another long line of clients.

  “Fine,” said the short woman in a bitter tone. She pulled her little, rolling suitcase, fully covered with pictures of Paul Dumont, collected from magazines. She waited a few seconds in front of the elevator with other guests and got on with them. People talked about the events of the weekend, the castle’s inauguration, the stars and their wedding, an irritating topic for the woman. Some of them mentioned ghost stories. Brigitte Plansec was surprised. Ghosts? She wasn’t aware this castle had ghosts. She didn’t like the idea of sleeping with ghosts. Anyhow, the only thing that mattered to her was meeting Paul Dumont.

  The actor’s fan walked down the corridor on the first floor and opened the door of room 13. The bedroom had pink floral bedding and curtains that matched the wallpaper, giving it the ambiance of a charming countryside lovenest.

  “Oh, I love it! It’s so romantic.”

  The woman pulled out the chair from in front of the desk near the bed and sat. She took a little notebook and a pen out of her handbag and wrote.

  Dear Diary,

  I have arrived in the castle of Orvilly-sur-Mer. This is a beautiful medieval castle by the Channel and it’s very big. My bedroom has a pink floral theme, which I find romantic. There’s a little painting of an elegant woman from another century, wearing a beautiful blue dress, hung on the wall just in front of me. It’s as if she’s looking at me as I’m writing. I feel excited because I know I’ll see Paul Dumont soon. I can even feel his presence. This weekend, something important will happen and Paul will finally understand that Élodie Faber is an awful person, and that I’m the one he should marry. I’ve found compelling information online about her that is quite unequivocal. She doesn’t deserve to marry Paul, and she doesn’t deserve to be happy. Plus, she’s a terrible actress. As if having long strawberry blonde hair would make you a good actress! Anyway, this weekend will change Paul’s life and mine for the best and forever.

  Brigitte

  P.S. people in the elevator talked about ghosts in the castle and I’m in room 13. Spooky! Right?

  Brigitte closed her notebook and left it on the desktop, then she opened her suitcase and took out a long faded, white dress with a lot of froufrou and lace. She walked toward a full-length mirror standing in a corner and held the gown against her body. She looked at her reflection in the mirror and smiled.

  “Yes, Paul. I take you as my lawfully wedded husband.”

  Brigitte closed her eyes and blew a kiss in the air.

  Chapter 11

  P ierre gave Amanda a tender kiss. She closed her eyes. This too, she still couldn’t believe. She was dating the hottest man in the village who was probably the hottest man within a five-hundred kilometer radius. The handsome baker smelled as good as warm bread and was as sweet as sugar.

  “Thank you for the additional and speedy delivery, Pierre,” said Aman
da. “The mini-pastries are going so fast, people are devouring them. I should’ve known.”

  The baker offered one of his killer smiles. “You’re very welcome, gorgeous. So, things seem to go pretty well here. How are you dealing with the celebrities?”

  “Well, they might be celebrities, but for me they are no more important than any other guest. Élodie Faber is difficult to deal with. The girl keeps asking for sparkling water and lemon slices all the time as if it were her entire diet! I’m not even sure she eats solid food.”

  Pierre chuckled. “It’s because she hasn’t tried yours yet.”

  Amanda’s heart melted. Was this man for real?

  The kitchen staff around them were working fast, to fill the many requests coming from the waiters who ran a constant relay between the kitchen and the party outside.

  “Where’s the large green teapot?” complained an employee. “I swear I put it there yesterday. How can we work in this kitchen if people move things?”

  Amanda looked wryly amused. She had a good idea of what might have had happened to the teapot. “Pascal, I think you’ll have to get used to things moving in the kitchen.”

  The rest of the staff laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” asked the young cook. “It doesn’t make sense. I can’t work like this if people aren’t careful and keep moving things around.”

  “I see nobody told you yet,” said Amanda. “We have a bit of an issue with ‘someone’ moving things around in the kitchen constantly.” Amanda quoted with her fingers when she said the word ‘someone.’

  “What does that mean?” asked Pascal who felt lost in this odd conversation.

  “We have a ghost in the kitchen who likes to move things around at night,” said Amanda.

  Pascal frowned as he looked at Amanda and the rest of his colleagues. “It’s a joke, right?”

  They all shook their head.

  “You must be kidding me!” said Pascal. “You really all believe a ghost moves things around in this kitchen, at night?”

  Everybody nodded.

  “Absolutely,” said Amanda. “I’ve had to deal with this ghost many times, and let me tell you, she’s no joke. She enjoys playing nasty tricks on me when I’m alone in the kitchen, and sometimes she really scares me. I searched the local archives and found out information about her. Her name is Jeannette Gascon. She worked as a cook here a few centuries ago, from the age of 12 until her death. This kitchen was her whole life. That’s why she’s quite territorial and upset to see people using her kitchen. You should take her seriously, Pascal, before she plays nasty tricks on you too.”

  Pascal rolled his eyes, wondering if his boss was crazy. “You all really believe in these silly ghost stories?”

  Amanda and the whole staff nodded again.

  “OK, now I know I work with a bunch of crazies,” he said. “At least, it will be entertaining.”

  The sound of dishes breaking on the floor came from the pantry. An employee went to check the room and came back holding broken pieces of green china.

  “I guess we found the lost teapot you were looking for, Pascal,” said the employee.

  “I told you, Pascal!” said Amanda. “I think you annoyed Jeannette. Be careful. As I said, she might play more nasty tricks on you.”

  “Yeah, yeah, sure…” said the young cook doubtful, “that’s just a coincidence.”

  A waitress arrived carrying a tray with empty glasses she placed in the dishwasher.

  “Amanda, we have a bit of an issue outside. A group of seniors planted their chairs in front of the buffet and they’re eating directly from the trays. I asked them nicely to move away to let other guests access the food, but they refused.”

  Amanda and Pierre looked at each other and said in unison “Bellevue House!”

  “All right,” said Amanda, “I think I know what the problem is. I’ll talk to them.”

  “No,” said Pierre. “You’re way too busy. Don’t worry. Stay here, I’ll go and talk to them.”

  “Oh, you’re such a sweetheart! Thank you, Pierre.” Amanda kissed the handsome baker on the cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow at 10 a.m. for the wedding cake delivery?”

  “You surely will!” answered Pierre.

  Amanda eyed her sexy baker as he walked away. So did the other women in the kitchen who stopped their work for a few seconds.

  Chapter 12

  L ouis Lamour was swallowing his third mini-apple turnover and was about to grab a fourth one when he heard a familiar voice.

  “If I were you, Louis, I’d think twice before eating one more. I know they’re delicious, I baked them. But if you choke on an apple turnover, you’ll never eat another one again. It would be so sad. Wouldn’t it?”

  The eighty-two-year-old man turned around on his camping chair.

  “That is such a poor argument,” he answered. “At my age, I have nothing to lose. Should I die, choked by an apple turnover, I would consider this a beautiful death.” The man chewed his pastry shamelessly, showing his dentures to Pierre provocatively. The three ladies who sat in camping chairs beside him laughed, completely in awe of the witty retired journalist.

  “Ladies,” said Pierre, bending his head to salute the women who nodded their heads in return,

  “I don’t mean to be rude and interrupt your little party, but you’re aware that this is a buffet, right?”

  “Yes. And?” asked Louis.

  “And you’re sitting in your foldable chairs in front of this table as if it were exclusively yours, eating directly from the platters.”

  “That’s correct,” merely said Louis.

  “Hum… And you see nothing wrong with that?” asked Pierre.

  Louis and the ladies shook their head.

  “You’re chasing people away,” explained Pierre. “They don’t dare to come and pick up food because you’re monopolizing the table.”

  “Well, these people have no clue what crap we have to eat all year long at Bellevue House!”

  “Yes, that’s true,” said one woman.

  The two other women nodded.

  “Oh, come on, not this again,” said Pierre. “First, I had a meal once at Bellevue House, and it was good.”

  “Pure luck,” retorted Louis. The women nodded again.

  “Second, Bellevue House can’t cook fancy meals all year long. It’s not a five-star restaurant, it’s a senior’s home.”

  “We pay quite an awful amount of money to the management every month, so we deserve five-star meals every day,” protested a woman.

  “Which brings me to my third point,” continued the baker. “You can’t eat rich meals every day. It would block your arteries. Your family and doctors wouldn’t be thrilled about that. Would they?”

  “Maybe they would!” answered Louis facetiously. The old man and his lady friends laughed like children.

  Pierre smiled. “OK, good one, I have to admit. Seriously, this is an important day for Amanda and right now you’re not providing a good example to people around you, especially the young ones. Please, don’t ruin this inauguration. Amanda has worked very hard with her staff to make this day possible. May I suggest each one of you take a plate, load it up with food, and move somewhere else? There’s plenty of room over there. I will help you and carry the chairs for you.”

  “Fine, fine, fine!” said Louis Lamour. “But we’re only doing this for Amanda.”

  “Thank you,” said Pierre.

  “Wait a moment. Now, ladies, you know what we have to do,” said Louis.

  The old man and the three ladies took out lunch boxes from their plastic bags and filled them with appetizers, mini-pastries and cookies.

  Pierre lost his smile. “Ah. I should’ve seen this one coming,” he said to himself.

  “Look! They are here!” yelled a lady, pointing in the direction of the cliff.

  Paul Dumont and Élodie Faber were posing in the Italian garden for Paris Match’s photographer, less than a hundred feet away from the guests celebr
ating the inauguration. People immediately rushed toward them with their cell phones out, ready to take pictures and videos, but the enthusiastic crowd was blocked by the fence that separated them from the garden.

  “She’s so beautiful,” said a young woman. “Even more beautiful than in her movies,” said another one.

  “Élodie! We love you!” yelled someone.

  A woman with curly red hair pushed people aside nervously to reach the gate. Brigitte Plansec wanted to see Paul Dumont.

  “Oh, they look so perfect together, don’t they?” asked a woman beside her.

  “No, they don’t,” answered Brigitte dryly. She couldn’t disagree more with that statement. She clenched her fists.

  “I wish you were dead, Élodie Faber,” she murmured.

  Chapter 13

  “I t was in this room that the Baron and the Baroness d’Orvilly organized their most sumptuous balls and welcomed guests from all regions of France. These balls were so popular with the French nobility that people would beg for invitations. You must understand, for nobles in the nineteenth century, balls were the occasion to strut about and impress people of their class, or even higher classes, as many tried to scale the noble society ladder. These grandiose celebrations not only provided entertainment, they gave people a place and time for people to discuss important matters related to business, politics, religion, money, and even arrange marriages. Social media didn’t exist at the time and they didn’t have dating websites!”

  The crowd of visitors standing in the ballroom laughed. Fred, a young man from the village, passionate about the local history, offered free guided tours of the castle to visitors. It wasn’t even noon, and he was already doing his third tour, and yet, with all the same enthusiasm as the first one.

  “Before we leave the ballroom,” continued Fred, “take the time to look at all the details that make this room so unique, such as the tapestry and the marble fireplaces on both ends. And don’t forget to look up at the ceiling and admire the majestic chandeliers.”