L'amour Actually

by Melanie Jones

  The room was sumptuous, not at all what I was expecting. From the outside, it was quite unassuming but inside it could rival the best London boutique hotels. I took off my clothes, stuffing them into a laundry bag I found in a drawer and wrapped myself in huge, fluffy bathrobe that was hanging behind the bathroom door. Pouring in a liberal amount of the L'Occitane de Provence bath foam that was on the side of the bath, I filled it to the brim with wonderful hot water. The smells were heavenly. I lay down on the bed while I waited for the bath to run, luxuriating in the deep, squashy mattress, so unlike the lumpy one at the cottage. I hadn't realised quite how much I had missed a decent bed.

  When the bath was full, I slipped off the bathrobe and dipped my toes into the water. It was as hot as I could manage and as I climbed in and slid down, the heat enveloped me and started to thaw out the chill in my bones. It felt absolutely glorious. Ducking my head under the water, I pushed my hair back. I would wash it in a while. First, I just wanted to enjoy the sensation of lying in a bath for the first time since I had arrived in France.

  Hair washed and conditioned, and body scrubbed to within an inch of its life, I climbed out, trying not to notice the dirty grey colour of the water. Tracey was right. I must have looked a sight. I caught my reflection in the mirror. One good thing about 'The Julien Business' and the hours spent chopping wood was that my croissant top had gone. Cleaned and polished, I didn't look too bad. I wrapped myself in a downy, white bath towel, winding another one round my head and went into the bedroom to sit down in front of the mirror. I looked hard at myself. I certainly wasn't a good advert for living the dream in France. My hair needed cutting, I had dark circles under my eyes and my hollow cheeks were just the wrong side of fashionable.

  I tried hard not to think too much about why Tracey was making me homeless. It didn't add up. Sighing, I brushed out my hair – I'd find out soon enough no doubt.

  I walked into the bar and looked around for Tracey and Nathan. They were deep in conversation, holding hands across the table in a quiet corner of the room. They were so obviously in love. I thought of Julien and the great times we had had and all the while he was cheating on me, and on Jo. I had always thought Louis was the one who couldn't be trusted but clearly I was wrong. So far I had proved to be a lousy judge of character.

  I walked over to them and sat down. It was the first chance I'd had to see Nathan properly.

  'Oh my God!' I said excitedly. 'You're Nathan from…'

  He smiled and stopped me mid-sentence. 'And nobody needs to know.'

  'What do you want to drink?' Tracey asked. 'Still on the rosé?'

  'Forever.'

  Tracey ordered a bottle then studied me carefully, brow slightly furrowed. 'I guess you are wondering what this is all about?'

  'You could say that.'

  'OK. Well here's the thing. My new album is doing really well over in the States and I've just signed a huge deal with a new record company and they've given me an advance that would make your eyes water. Might even buy you lunch in the café.'

  'Well, you could if it wasn't closed. Stéphane and Claire left months ago,' I told her.

  'Yeah, I heard. Anyway, I know we got off to a pretty rocky start…'

  'You could say that.'

  Tracey turned to Nathan, 'Did I tell you about it?'

  'Yeah, you did. It was pretty full-on,' he replied.

  Turning to me, she said, 'But you became a great friend and you helped me through a lot of shitty times with Warren and that. So I've bought it.'

  'The cottage? Yes I know,' I answered, confused.

  'Not the cottage, the café.'

  'Sorry? You've bought the café?'

  'Yep. You're looking at the new owner.'

  I was puzzled. 'But you live in LA now. What do you want with a café in France?'

  'Just think of it as an investment. Anyway, I've bought it and I'd like you to run it for me.'

  I was stunned. I stared at her, chin in my lap.

  'But I don't know the first thing about running a café.'

  'That's why I've paid Stéphane and Claire to come back and help you for a few months.'

  I was stunned, 'But where does the cottage fit in?'

  'Staff accommodation. For my new manager.' Tracey smiled at me.

  I stared at her, trying to fully comprehend what she was saying. 'But then why the notice? Why are you kicking me out of it?'

  'So I can get it fixed up. You know, proper toilet, central heating. Can't have the management freezing to death in the winter. I've already spoken to Jack and he's really happy to come back and run the kitchen. It's going to be the first rosé bar and restaurant in the area. I'm calling it "La Vie en Rosé". The French probably won't get it but never mind.'

  'But I don't know anything about rosé,' I stammered, completely flabbergasted at the turn of events.

  'I seem to remember you know how to drink it though.' Tracey smiled at me. 'Look, are you up for it or what? I can afford to pay for whatever help you need to get you started. If you need to go on wine tasting courses and learn more about rosé, you can. Might even come on a few with you.'

  I laughed. 'You know you are supposed to spit it out.'

  'Pah! Spitting's for lightweights. We'll drink it and still be the last ones standing. Well?'

  I flung my arms round her and squeezed her so hard that she had to cry out for me to stop. A million different thoughts were careering round in my brain. Just when I thought the dream was over, I'd been thrown the most unexpected lifeline. Not only that, but a friend I thought I'd lost was back in my life again, and for good now. Everything had finally fallen into place. It had been a long time coming but I had got there in the end.

  'Tracey Tarrant, you are a bloody marvel. I'll even buy your new album.'

  'Too right you will.'

  'But I won't have to play it in the café will I?'

  Tracey laughed and signalled to the waiter. 'A bottle of your finest champagne, monsieur. We're celebrating.'

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Six Weeks Later

  The sun shone down from a clear April sky. It was almost a year to the day since my arrival in France. I opened up the doors of the café and went outside to watch the little village slowly come to life. It was my favourite time of the day. I waved to Claudine, who was just putting out her sandwich board advertising today's specials. She had never left. Instead she had bought a franchise from a bigger supermarket chain and her once dingy store was now a bustling little monument to French gastronomy and local produce. It had taken a threat to sell the shop to developers to turn it into flats to make the good people of Rocamour realise how important their local shop was. Next to the supermarket, a new arrival in the village had opened a little gift shop. Valérie, the owner, called out 'bonjour' as she unlocked her shop and I called back at her to come over for a coffee later.

  I started to wipe down the new spotty oilcloths that adorned each table and arrange the little white jugs of wild flowers, putting the chairs straight as I went. Finally, it was the moment to unfurl the awning. I wound it down and slowly the words came into view. La Vie en Rosé. Tracey had been right. The locals didn't get it, assuming that it was just a misprint by the foreigners that now ran the café, but we didn't care. We had spent time trawling round the local vineyards sourcing wines for our stock. I wasn't an expert by any means but I knew what I liked and hopefully our guests would like them too.

  'Morning,' said Jack, coming out of the kitchen wiping his hands on his apron. 'Here's the menu for today.'

  I looked at it. 'It all sounds delicious, chef.' We were fully booked for lunch so it was going to be busy.

  I swept the terrace, then, when I was finally happy that everything was in order, I stood back and looked around me with a growing sense of pride. The café was unrecognisable from the place it had been before. The old tables and interior had gone to be replaced by shiny bistro tables and lashings of Farrow and Ball paint, imported at vast expense from Paris. It
was probably more of an English person's view of a French café but every time I went inside, I loved the way the light reflected around the room on the antique furniture that Tracey and I had sourced at various brocantes over the past few months. Tracey, despite her Essex roots (and my preconceptions), turned out to have a good eye for furniture. My phone beeped and I took it out of my pocket. It was a text from Tracey.

  'Lots of love and luck on your first day of trading. Trace and Nate xxxx'

  I smiled and quickly texted back a thank you.

  Basil rubbed around my legs and I picked him up and buried my face in his fur. 'It's just the two of us now.'

  He purred and rubbed his head on my cheek. I looked around me. Everything was ready. Jack came out of the kitchen, beaming from ear to ear.

  'Ready boss?' he asked, winking at me.

  'I like the sound of that. And yes, I'm ready.'

  'Right, we have twenty covers for lunch and another twenty booked for this evening.'

  'Fabulous. Good old Chummy calling in the troops.' I think she had press-ganged everyone she knew into booking a table for our opening day.

  Jack went back into the kitchen and I sat down at a table to take a quick breather before the lunchtime rush started. Stéphane and Claire were busy behind the bar and enjoying the prospect of helping me get the café up and running again. They had been absolute stars, cheerfully imparting their wealth of knowledge of the business, genuinely delighted that the café was going to stay open. Who'd have thought, when I had lunch here on my first day in France, that I would one day end up running it. I had set out on this journey full of hope, enthusiasm and a healthy dose of naivety. Now, a year later, I had found love and lost it, discovered strengths I didn't know I had and learned more about myself than I could possibly have dreamed of. Best of all, I had found my place in this little rural community that had stolen my heart.

  'Hello, you,' called a voice I hadn't heard in a while. I waved to Sam and she waved back enthusiastically.

  'Sam, how lovely!'

  She kissed me on both cheeks and sat down, taking out a notebook and pen. She'd called me to suggest writing a review of the new café. Basil wound himself around her ankles, purring loudly. Bending down to stroke him, she smiled at me and said to him quietly, 'You're living dangerously. Don't you know her history?'

  'Stop,' I chided her playfully. 'Seriously, I didn't think your boss would let you come today.'

  'Nothing like a bit of notoriety to sell papers,' she said, laughing and picking up her pen. Right, mademoiselle la patronne, tell me your story.'

  Acknowledgements

  There are so many people I want to thank that this is going to sound more like an Oscar acceptance speech.

  Firstly, I'd like to thank everyone at Summersdale and beyond, especially Jen, Abi, Abbie and Lucy for taking on this novice writer and leading me through the publishing journey with such enthusiasm and kindness. It has been a thoroughly enjoyable experience.

  I'd also like to thank all my friends in the UK and France for all their support and encouragement and especially to Victoria Butcher who came up with the fabulous title. My children, to whom this book is dedicated, who put-up with half empty lunchboxes, un-ironed school uniforms and ready meals while I toiled over my laptop for what must have seemed like forever. I have to thank my parents, who encouraged me to start my blog in France, from which this book grew, and nagged me to write my experiences down, even if it was only meant to be for posterity. And I can't forget my lovely friend, neighbour and photographer extraordinaire, Christo Nicolle for the lovely publicity photos he took.

  And finally, to everyone who buys or reads this book. If it makes you smile at least once I'll have done my job. Thank you.

  About the Author

  Melanie has loved writing since she was big enough to hold a pencil. The advent of the blog gave her an outlet for her creativity and somewhere to tell the rather plentiful funny stories about her life and the many adventures she has had. Parts of her blog about her life in France were reprinted in the 'Femail' section of the Daily Mail in 2009.

  She is a serial mover, having now moved over twenty times in her life including spells in Bahrain, Ireland, Cyprus, Portugal and most recently, France, where she spent five years trying to understand the intricacies of the French bureaucratic system – and largely failing. After a career that included magazine publishing, Arts funding, celebrity PR, product placement and a brief stint as an air stewardess, she now lives in Wiltshire where she is an expert on the location of any cow in the county (and sheep and pigs too).

  Melanie raises Orpington hens, has two amazing children, a lovely husband, a deaf cat with odd-coloured eyes, his very needy brother and the world's stupidest Lurcher puppy.

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