The Chateau of Happily-Ever-Afters: a laugh-out-loud romcom!

He’s clearly got enough confidence in his willy size to ignore the insult. Instead, he picks up a fallen tree branch and uses it to start beating a path through the bramble bushes. ‘I really want to know what’s growing in that orchard. Stand back, and watch out for snakes.’

‘Snakes?’ I gulp.

‘They like undergrowth and places they won’t be disturbed. A garden that hasn’t been visited in twenty years is ideal.’

‘Are these snakes likely to be poisonous?’

He glances back at me with a smirk. ‘Yep. Very poisonous, and very, very big.’

I want to cry.

Coming here was a terrible idea. This is why people have comfort zones. Because you don’t meet poisonous bloody snakes on the way to work in London.

By the time we reach the orchard, I’ve been scratched by three hundred bramble bushes, bitten by a million mosquitoes, and stung by at least one horsefly. I’m sweating, thirsty, still starving, and Julian hasn’t even broken a sweat. He bashes a path through the brambles with ease, whereas I get tangled up just looking at them. Our land is an overgrown mess to me, but Julian is fascinated by it. He keeps stopping to point at things and saying names like I’m supposed to know what any of these weeds are called. Personally I’d call them all Steve and be done with it.

The orchard is less overgrown than everywhere else, but you still need a scythe and a few axes to get through it.

‘Wow,’ Julian says.

I’ve got to admit, he has a point. There’s green grass still visible through the weeds here, unlike the rest of the grounds, and there are rows and rows of trees, tree after tree stretching into the distance. The biggest ones are perfectly in line, and I picture whoever created this orchard, maybe Eulalie’s husband, maybe someone from decades before, out here with a tape measure, lining them up perfectly. Surrounding them are a hotch-potch of smaller trees, sprouting from anywhere and everywhere, no order to them at all, and I wonder if they’ve self-seeded from the fallen harvest of the bigger trees. There are still rotting shells on the ground, remnants of whatever fell last year, I guess, although looking up at the trees gives me no clue of what they’re growing. They’re covered in green spiky balls. Why does everything in this country look like it wants to hurt me?

Even with the sunglasses hiding most of his face, I can tell Julian’s impressed as he looks around.

‘What are they?’ I ask him.

He stretches a long arm up and pulls down a branch, and I absolutely don’t watch his forearms flexing as he runs a finger across one of the green, spiteful-looking things. He might be a git but I’ve got to admit he’s a nice-looking git.

He smiles a soft smile and shakes his head. ‘Chestnuts. I should’ve known.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Le Château de Châtaignier. The Chestnut Castle.’

‘That’s what it means?’

He nods.

‘I didn’t know that,’ I say, stating the obvious. It hadn’t even occurred to me that the name might have a meaning, and I definitely couldn’t translate it. ‘Chestnuts as in… conkers?’ I think back to conker fights in the school playground. ‘Because they’re meant to keep spiders out of houses and so far they’re clearly doing a terrible job.’

‘Completely different thing. Those are horse chestnuts, these are sweet chestnuts – y’know, the roasting on an open fire at Christmas kind?’

‘Oh, right.’

‘They’re not common to this region. I expected this to be an apple orchard. That’s what Normandy is known for. I wouldn’t mind betting this is the only chestnut orchard around here. Someone named their château this for a reason.’ He looks at me. ‘This was someone’s livelihood once. There’s enough of a chestnut harvest here to sell for weeks in the autumn. This whole place looks like it was set up to be self-sufficient with all the different areas and the outbuildings.’

‘You can tell that under all the weeds?’ I ask, trying not to be impressed that he knows this sort of thing.

He shrugs. ‘Yeah. I bet whoever lived here grew everything they ate. Do you know any of the history of the place?’

I shake my head, not bothering to point out that, until this week, I didn’t even know the place existed.

‘These trees are way older than Eulalie or her husband. They’ve been here for at least a hundred years.’

I’m not sure if I’m impressed he can tell that or creeped out, picturing the ghosts of long-dead chestnut farmers from centuries ago watching us in their beloved orchard. Maybe Scooby Doo would come in handy after all. ‘Are you going to pick any? I saw a couple of open hearths in the house last night to roast them on.’

‘It’s way too early for chestnuts – they’re nowhere near ripe. But in the autumn, definitely.’

Something pings in my brain at that. We won’t still be here in autumn, but I’m sure the squirrels will enjoy them. ‘You know a lot about plants,’ I say instead. He doesn’t look like someone who knows much about plants. He looks like someone who knows a lot about hair products and gym memberships.

‘I like plants. They’re reliable. You give them what they ask for and they do what they say they will.’

‘If plants are saying anything to you, I’d be concerned.’

‘Ha ha,’ he says in a high voice, mimicking me. ‘I just mean they’re predictable. You give them the right conditions and they’ll do what nature intended them to. There’s give and take with them. You help them and they help you, unlike people.’

The hint of bitterness in his voice intrigues me, and then I wonder why I’m even thinking about it. ‘Same could be said of certain people I’ve met lately.’

He raises an eyebrow above his sunglasses. ‘So far this morning I’ve rescued you from a wall and saved an innocent centipede from death by hair. What exactly have I done that’s so bad?’

I go to shout something at him but I stop myself. ‘Eulalie didn’t leave this place to you,’ I say calmly. ‘She didn’t even know you. She wouldn’t want you destroying the place looking for money.’

‘Is it me who broke into a wall and got myself stuck there for a box of dead rats?’

‘No, but—’

He doesn’t let me finish. ‘If she wanted you to have this place so badly, she should’ve been better prepared. She must’ve known French law entitles direct descendants to a fair share and she must’ve known there was a possibility that her brother had children.’

‘Oh please, you’re a great-nephew. That’s barely even a relation!’

‘You’re not even a relation! What moral high ground do you think you have to stand on here?’

‘This is what she wanted.’

He shakes his head. ‘She was insane. She’s going on about treasure hidden here like there’s some pirate’s bounty buried in the basement or something. It’s madness.’

‘She was not…’ I start to defend Eulalie’s sanity when my brain realises what he’s said. ‘You don’t think there’s any treasure?’

‘I find it highly unlikely.’

‘Why are you here then?’

‘I don’t know,’ he says with a shrug. ‘Same reason you are, I suppose. If you inherit a French château, you can’t just ignore it. I had to see the place.’

A part of me believes him. Eulalie’s mention of treasure is so ridiculous, it’s laughable, but the sensible side of me is screaming at myself to be careful. He’s obviously only saying this to throw me off. All he’s after is money, like all men. It’s a classic diversion – if I think he’s not interested in treasure, he can hunt for it in peace while I swan around obliviously believing it doesn’t exist.

‘And I’m glad I came,’ he carries on. ‘Despite the welcoming party. This place is incredible. I’ve dreamed of someday retiring to somewhere with even a fraction of this land. All I’ve ever wanted is my own orchard.’

‘It’s a bit overgrown,’ I say, distracted by wondering if I should give him the benefit of the doubt.