by Karen Clarke
‘Anything else?’
How to explain that I mostly read other people’s writing online, retweeting posts by new writers that caught my eye, occasionally linking in editors I thought might be interested, and that I sometimes updated my blog ‘Notes from a French Island’ for my own amusement. ‘Um, not much,’ I said.
‘Why don’t you interview that famous actor?’ Dad picked up his comb and bent his knees to check his reflection in the mirror by the door. ‘He’s going to be shooting scenes from his new movie around here.’
‘Actor?’
‘Marie, next door, she was telling me about it earlier,’ he said. ‘You know her friend Jeanne is a cleaner at L’Hôtel des Toiras in Saint-Martin? Apparently, the whole place has been booked for a week by the film crew and leading actors.’
‘You know, you really should ask Marie out on a date,’ I said, momentarily distracted. Marie Girard was the owner of the guest-house next door; a petite, softly-spoken woman, around the same age as Dad. She’d clearly taken a shine to her kind-eyed English neighbour, but Dad had once seen her knitting, and decided she wasn’t ‘lively’ enough for him – despite me explaining that knitting was the new yoga. (He’d declared he wasn’t a fan of that either, since Mum had taken it up.) ‘There’s definitely more to Marie than a pair of knitting needles,’ I said. ‘I’m sure she’s got loads of stories to tell.’
‘Yes, like the one about the famous actor staying on the island.’ He spoke with rare impatience, wincing as he attempted to tug the comb through his quiff. ‘You’ve met him before, so you might get first refusal for that interview.’
The bomber jacket I’d just picked up slipped through my fingers to the floor. ‘I haven’t met any famous actors,’ I said. ‘Not on a personal level, anyway.’
‘You have met this one.’ He caught my gaze in the mirror. ‘It’s Jay Merino.’
Three
I hurried back to talk to Charlie, slowing as I approached the café to appreciate the tall, whitewashed building, its wisteria-coloured shutters framing the upstairs windows, vines entwined around the wrought-iron balcony. On the bistro-style tables below, stripy red-and-white parasols offered shade from the sun, which glinted off the golden letters on the window, spelling out ‘Café Belle Vie’, the glass mirroring the glitter of the marina – as well as my rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed reflection.
Dolly was clearing a gingham-clothed table outside, despite Stefan, the young waiter, hovering nearby with a tray and a hopeful smile. Dolly was terrible at delegating, and almost had to be bribed to take a break. ‘Can’t keep away?’ She smiled as I crossed the cobbled road, her acorn-brown eyes sparkling with pleasure. It was flattering to be greeted so effusively whenever I showed up, even though I was destined to disappoint her. ‘He’s out the back,’ she said. ‘You look like you’ve got good news.’ Her eyes dipped to my stomach, as if I was about to announce I was pregnant with Charlie’s baby.
‘It’s all the pastry I’ve been eating.’ I smoothed a hand over my loose-fitting top. ‘I really should cut back.’
‘Rubbish.’ She assessed me with obvious approval. ‘Men prefer a well-upholstered woman, don’t they, Frank?’ She turned to a man at the next table, and he put down his coffee cup and held out a broad, tanned hand.
‘I have eyes for no one but you, Dolly,’ he said with an adoring smile.
She gave a satisfied chuckle and squeezed his fingers and I tried, for the umpteenth time, to picture the woman Charlie had told me used to work as a marketing manager for a tech company before his dad left, when she’d overhauled her life, buying the Café Belle Vie to indulge a love of baking inherited from her French grandmother. We’d wondered for a while whether it would be weird if Dolly and Dad got together, but then she’d fallen for Frank, a retired widower from England, who’d frequented the café on holiday the previous summer, and now rented a cottage in the village.
‘But you are very beautiful,’ he said to me, his Labrador-brown eyes barely leaving Dolly’s.
‘Bumps in all the right places,’ she agreed, flapping Frank playfully with her cloth.
‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ I said, slipping past her with a smile and through the coffee-scented café, mouthing hello to the staff as I entered the busy kitchen, which smelt deliciously of almonds. My mouth watered, and I tried not to look at the tray of crisp but gooey financiers fresh from the oven as I stepped through the open door into a flower-filled courtyard. Charlie was standing in a pool of sunlight, gripping a coffee cup and chatting to Giselle, the café’s newest recruit. A tall, whippet-thin blonde, she was everything I wasn’t – including, ten years younger and in the grip of a serious crush. As usual, Charlie seemed oblivious to her subtle flirting; the way her fingers brushed his arm as she spoke, and how she watched intently as he drank from his cup, her smoke-grey eyes never leaving his face. I caught the tail end of a joke about a spaceman and a monkey, and Giselle gave a burst of laughter and lightly slapped his hand. ‘Tu es tellement drôle, Charlie,’ she said. ‘He eez funny,’ she translated for me, though I’d understood perfectly well.
‘Hilarious,’ I agreed, as Charlie spun round, his eyes crinkling into a smile.
‘Hey, how did it go with Marty?’ He dug his free hand in his jeans pocket, forcing Giselle’s fingers to fall from his arm. ‘Tell me he’s not intending to go out in those leather trousers, Natalie, you could see the outline of his—’
‘He’s not,’ I said quickly, flashing a look at Giselle’s frozen expression. ‘Bonjour,’ I offered in a friendly fashion. Her grasp of English was poor, and I could tell she didn’t like it when Charlie and I lapsed into our native tongue. It was clear, to me at least, that I represented some sort of threat, and I hadn’t the heart to tell her – even if my language skills had been up to the complexities – that Charlie wasn’t the settling down type and the best she could hope for was a fling. Although, maybe that was all she wanted. Giselle had been clear from the start about her life goal, which was to eventually move to Paris and become an actress – as if it was that simple. ‘Can I have a word?’ I said to Charlie, when Giselle didn’t respond.
‘You can have as many as you want.’
He didn’t seem to hear Giselle’s soft tut, or notice the sweeping stare she gave me, which openly mocked my sandals, cropped jeans and swishy, owl-patterned top, which were no match for her casual elegance. She oozed style, in plain black skinny trousers that emphasised her long legs, and a simple white T-shirt that hugged her tiny breasts. Even her bistro apron looked chic, double-tied around her narrow waist, and she moved like a ballerina in plain black pumps.
‘In private,’ I said, when she showed no signs of moving. ‘En privé, s’il vous plaît.’
Removing her gaze, she threw Charlie a regretful smile and stalked back into the café with a toss of her long, sleek ponytail, and a seductive sway of her (non-existent) hips.
‘OK, what really happened?’ Charlie placed his empty cup on the picnic-style table we sat around during the warm evenings last summer, when Dolly had kept the café open to cook suppers for tourists, and Frank had insisted on helping with the washing-up as they got to know each other better. ‘Was that a wig your dad was wearing in his selfie?’ He indicated one of the benches, but I was too fired up to sit down.
‘Never mind that,’ I said. ‘You’ll never guess who’s staying on the island.’
‘Paddington Bear?’
I tutted. ‘He’s not real.’
Charlie gave a theatrical gasp and quivered his chin. ‘How could you be so cruel?’
‘Charlie!’ I was too excited to laugh. ‘I’m being serious.’
Crossing his arms, he assumed the expression of a mathematician. ‘Your mother?’
‘I’ve already told you, she’s at a yoga retreat in Yorkshire.’ Mum’s programme of self-improvement since meeting Gareth included going long-distance running with a couple of friends (‘It’s wonderful, Natalie, we burn up so many calories, we’ve started going
for pizza and ice cream afterwards.’) and he’d convinced her that learning yogic breathing would help her run a marathon, as well as improving her flexibility.
‘Is this person male or female?’
‘Male.’
Charlie narrowed his eyes. ‘It’s not your ex?’
Now it was my turn to gasp. ‘I’d hardly be excited if he turned up,’ I said. ‘And why would he, now he’s about to get married?’ For once, the thought of Matt’s upcoming nuptials barely made a ripple on my subconscious. Living across the Channel had more than its share of advantages, and knowing I’d never run into him was one of them.
‘Good point.’ Charlie tilted his head, squinting as the sun lanced into his eyes. ‘You do look excited,’ he acknowledged. ‘Is it someone famous?’
My stomach gave an odd little lurch. ‘Yes.’
‘Wow.’ His brow creased. ‘Well, it can’t be a politician,’ he said. ‘Or Donald Trump.’
‘Ha, ha,’ I pretend-laughed, holding my ribs. ‘He’s an actor.’
‘Donald Trump?’
‘Charlie!’
‘You mean, there’s a famous actor on the island?’ He looked around, as if one might be about to crash through the little red gate set into the wall surrounding the courtyard. ‘Have I seen anything he’s been in?’
‘Yep.’ I nodded slowly, waiting for the penny to drop.
‘Wait, I’ve got it.’ He waggled a finger, eyes sparking with enthusiasm as he caught my mood. ‘Is it Jason Bourne?’
‘For God’s sake, Charlie!’
‘Sorry, I meant the actor who plays him.’
‘No, it’s not Matt Damon.’ Charlie’s mouth turned down. ‘Great.’ I chucked my bag on the table. ‘Now you’re going to be disappointed whatever I say.’
‘I won’t be, I promise.’ He made a show of recovering, squaring his shoulders and rubbing his hands together. ‘Only make it quick, my lunch break’s almost over.’
I pressed my lips together, then burst out, ‘It’s Jay Merino!’
Charlie looked at me as though I’d turned into a unicorn. ‘Jay Merino?’ His mouth dropped open. ‘You mean the one who plays Max Weaver in Maximum Force?’
‘Unless you know any other actors called Jay Merino?’ I felt as if I’d said Jay Merino too many times.
Charlie shook his head. ‘I love those terrible films,’ he said, sounding slightly dazed – just as Dad had, after he’d dropped his bombshell and I’d grabbed my bag and said I had to go.
‘Go where?’ he’d called, his hair moving in different directions as he followed me to the door. ‘Can I at least keep the underpants?’ he’d shouted, as I raced out of the house. ‘They’re David Beckham’s and cost a bloody fortune.’
‘I heard they’d started shooting the third film somewhere in Europe.’ Charlie’s eyes were twice their usual size. ‘Max is finally going to find the gang who killed his wife and son.’
‘I’m guessing that’s why they’re here,’ I said. ‘He’s going to be doing some scenes around the island. Marie next door told Dad about it.’
‘Could she be wrong?’
‘I don’t think so.’ I rolled up the sleeves of my top. The courtyard was a sun trap, and I was in danger of overheating. ‘It’s too random for her to have misunderstood, and Marie’s friend is a cleaner at the hotel where the crew are staying.’
‘But surely we’d have heard rumours?’
‘Not necessarily, if they’re keeping things under wraps,’ I said. ‘Jay Merino hates publicity. He’s practically reclusive when he’s not filming.’ Saying his name was acting like a tripwire on my heart, which was beating much faster than it normally did when I was standing still.
‘Hang on a minute.’ Charlie stiffened. I could practically see the cogs turning, dredging up a conversation we’d had on Dad’s sofa, over a year ago, in front of Maximum Force 1: The Beginning, which had just come onto Netflix. ‘Isn’t Jay Merino your “before they were famous”?’ He snapped his fingers, eyes popping wide again. ‘You bloody well know him!’
I nodded as though my head was on a spring. ‘Well remembered, Charlie Croft.’
‘He lived on the rough estate near where you lived.’
‘That’s where he was born, he didn’t live there,’ I corrected, remembering the blue wash of police lights outside the rundown apartment blocks and houses, visible from my bedroom window.
‘Didn’t his brother crash your best friend Gemma’s brother’s eighteenth birthday party with some mates and try to sell them drugs?’
‘He did.’
‘And your friend called the police and your dad turned up?’
‘Not just my dad, but yes.’ I was impressed by his powers of recall. ‘I thought you were nodding off when I told you all this.’
‘Of course I wasn’t.’ Charlie sounded sheepish. ‘I was just jealous that your claim to fame was so much better than mine.’
‘What, that your friend’s dad once bought Paul McCartney’s mum a beer?’
He grimaced. ‘Yes, but I did pull up at some traffic lights next to Mr Bean.’
‘You mean Rowan Atkinson?’
‘Anyway,’ said Charlie. ‘Wasn’t Max Weaver’s mum an alcoholic?’
‘Jay Merino,’ I amended. ‘You definitely had your eyes shut when I told you that.’
‘I can watch TV through my eyelids.’ he said. ‘It’s my special skill.’
‘I can’t believe you’ve remembered all this.’
‘I hadn’t until just now,’ he said, tapping his temple. ‘It’s all flooding back.’
It was flooding back to me too – how Jay’s brother and his mates had fled before the police turned up, and I’d escaped outside to find Jay on a swing-set at the bottom of Gemma’s garden, the tip of a cigarette glowing orange in the gathering darkness. I still wasn’t sure what had made me sit on the swing beside him instead of running away. I knew my father wouldn’t have approved for a start, and I already had an on-off boyfriend called Henry, who played the cello and wanted to join the Philharmonic Orchestra (he never did, as far as I knew).
Jay was a couple of years older than me, and despite his brooding air and unrefined accent he’d been polite and, for some reason – maybe because I was a stranger (and a girl) or it was late and getting dark, which made it easier to talk – we’d fallen into conversation. He’d told me about his broken family; his useless Italian dad, who’d walked out on him and his baby brother when he was three, and his mother who’d turned to drink, and how he’d tried to look after her, only for social services to get involved when she went out one weekend and left them alone in the house with no food. He and his brother had been in and out of foster care for years, but he was visiting his mother that weekend and had got roped into coming to the party with his brother, mostly to keep an eye on him as he was going off the rails – again.
‘I can’t wait to get away from ’ere,’ he’d said, expertly blowing smoke rings in the air, tracing their progress with long-lashed eyes. ‘I’m gonna make something of myself.’
‘Good for you.’ My prim and proper tone had brought a tingle of heat to my cheeks, and I’d hoped he couldn’t tell. The sky had dipped from navy to black, the only light from the house behind us where heavy drum-and-bass music had resumed. ‘I’m going to be a writer.’
I’d caught the flash of his eyes as he turned to study me. ‘Novels?’
‘Newspapers or magazines.’
‘Like, reporting?’
I’d already decided I didn’t want to be a hard-hitting journalist – I didn’t have the stomach for it. ‘More like articles, I think, and I’d love to interview famous people one day.’ I’d wished it hadn’t sounded so childish. There was something about Jay that made me want to sound as grown-up and sure of myself as he did. ‘Get to know the real them.’
He’d carried on looking at me – as though really seeing me – and the air around us had stilled. I’d thought how good-looking he’d be if he cut his long, unruly dark hair, g
ot rid of his moustache and wore some nicer clothes, and wondered what I would do if he kissed me. ‘Well, when I’m famous, you can interview me.’
‘Promise?’ I’d become unusually skittish, suddenly fixated on his lips.
‘Promise.’ As he tossed his cigarette onto the grass and ground out the butt with his boot, the swing twisted towards me. Our knees had brushed, and I’d felt a frisson of excitement. ‘I reckon you’ll be a natural,’ he said, holding my gaze – almost as if he’d felt a frisson too. ‘You’re a good listener.’
I’d felt short of breath as we swung together in silence for a while, close enough that our knuckles gently grazed, and when he stood up, I’d got unsteadily to my feet and let him take my hand. His fingers had felt warm around mine, and when he dipped his head, I’d thought, oh my God, he’s actually going to kiss me and I kissed him back, feeling as if my body had lost its bones. I hadn’t even minded the tang of cigarettes, or his moustache, which had felt soft against my skin, but he’d pulled away too soon. Rubbing a hand round his jaw, he’d cast his eyes to the ground as I struggled to catch my breath and said gruffly, ‘I shouldn’t have done that, I’m sorry.’
Before I’d managed to stupidly squeak out, ‘It’s fine, don’t worry,’ he’d gone, the swing moving in his wake as though vacated by a ghost. I hadn’t expected to see him again, but our encounter had felt somehow pivotal. I’d dreamed about him for the next two nights, and knew I couldn’t keep seeing Henry, who still hadn’t made up his mind whether he really wanted a girlfriend, and whose exploratory kissing I now realised did nothing for me. I’d cited a heavy workload as an excuse to break up for good, and found myself later defending Jay to Dad, when he’d warned me to stay away from the Merino brothers, relaying some of the conversation I’d had with him in Gemma’s back garden. I’d replayed our encounter numerous times in my head, and even wrote an article about first kisses, which had been published in a magazine called Young Woman. But with nothing to sustain the fire he’d ignited, the flame had gradually flickered and died, and life had swept me along in its tide. I’d barely given Jay a thought for the next ten years, until his first film came out.