Escape to the Little French Cafe: A laugh-out-loud romantic comedy to fall in love with

by Karen Clarke

  ‘Come on.’ Charlie was sitting down now, and gestured for me to do the same. I didn’t argue, the adrenaline that had powered me for the past half-hour subsiding. I’d never mentioned the kiss to Charlie, or anyone else for that matter – some hard-to-define instinct had held me back, even as I’d relayed to him how I’d met Jay Merino in my friend’s back garden when I was seventeen. ‘Let’s have a drink,’ he said as Giselle returned, her gaze bouncing between us.

  ‘I thought your lunch break was over.’

  ‘It’s just been extended.’ He grinned. ‘Two coffees, please, Giselle.’

  ‘Bien sûr.’ She forced a smile that wouldn’t have fooled anyone, apart from Charlie, and I almost felt sorry for her. It wasn’t that he was insensitive to women’s feelings, more that he refused to acknowledge their existence, especially if they were romantic. Unfortunately, his insouciance inspired determination, and Giselle was giving it her best shot. ‘Tart?’ she queried, eyes skimming my thighs – they looked bigger when I was sitting down – before flashing her white teeth at Charlie.

  ‘Natalie’s not a tart.’ He winked at me. ‘She’s the classiest woman I know.’

  Giselle’s stare could have frozen the sun.

  ‘Just coffee, thanks.’

  ‘She’s got it in for you,’ said Charlie as we watched her flounce away, her hands clenched into fists.

  ‘You know she fancies the pants off you.’

  ‘She’s friendly,’ he said, with massive understatement.

  ‘She’s more than friendly, Charlie.’

  ‘Can I help it if she can’t resist my charms?’ He made a seducer’s face, quirking an eyebrow and making his eyes suggestive.

  ‘You can tell her you don’t like her that way.’

  ‘And ruin her life?’

  ‘Charlie!’

  He inspected me closely and nodded. ‘OK, I hear you. I promise I’ll tell her I’m not looking for a girlfriend, but I can’t be responsible for her actions, and I can’t exactly stop talking to her altogether.’

  ‘As long as it’s talking, not flirting.’

  ‘Sounds like a song title.’

  ‘Charlie, I’m being serious,’ I said. ‘It’s not fair to lead her on if you don’t fancy her back. Plus, you’re kind of her boss.

  ‘I get it.’ He muttered spoilsport under his breath. ‘I’m kidding,’ he said, when I opened my mouth to protest. ‘Honestly, I do.’ He propped his chin on his hand, eyes dancing. ‘So… Jay Merino.’

  ‘I know.’ Excitement bounded back. ‘Dad thinks I should interview him.’ He’d clearly forgotten that long-ago warning – as had I, until now.

  ‘I was going to suggest that myself,’ said Charlie, leaning back and clasping his hands across his stomach. ‘He’s bound to be receptive if he knows you.’

  ‘Not necessarily, and he doesn’t know me.’

  ‘Didn’t he practically invite you to interview him once he became famous?’

  Heat ran over my face. ‘Yes, but remember I told you I tried, after he appeared in that breakthrough film about zombie gangsters, and got turned down.’

  It had stung a little, at the time. My heart had leapt when his name cropped up in one of the tabloids in a feature about the boy with the troubled background making waves in Hollywood, and I’d realised it was that Jay Merino. (Not that there were many – I’d checked. There were three, and one of those was a leading brand of knitwear.)

  Jackie, my editor at Chatter, had been thrilled (if sceptical) to learn of my tenuous connection with him, and keen to land an interview with the up-and-coming star, but he was already proving adept at avoiding the press and all attempts to contact him had been shot down in flames. He simply didn’t ‘do’ interviews.

  ‘We could run a piece anyway,’ Jackie had pressed. ‘You must know stuff about him.’ But it would have felt seedy, somehow. His dad had already surfaced, talking about wanting to reconnect with his son, then it came out that Jay’s brother was in prison and an ex-girlfriend sold a story, claiming Jay had dumped her when he started filming, and went on to describe how good he was in bed – ‘he really knows how to pleasure a lady’ – and when pictures emerged of him with a famous but troubled singer, his fate as a ‘bad boy’ was sealed. He’d never tried to dispute his reputation, and gradually stories had stopped appearing – and so had he, except on screen.

  ‘It would be amazing to get an interview with him in Magnifique,’ I murmured, jumping when Giselle returned with our coffee. Some of the liquid slopped out when she banged my cup down, but Charlie got a chocolate-topped madeleine with his espresso.

  ‘He might be more approachable now his career is established.’ Charlie pushed his plate across to me when Giselle had gone. ‘You could get him to open up, tell his side of things and show he’s human, instead of the scowling, monosyllabic Neanderthal the papers make him out to be.’

  As Charlie gurned and swung his arms to demonstrate, something was stirring in my stomach. Probably the madeleine I’d just whipped off Charlie’s plate and eaten in two swift bites. I imagined going to the hotel, Jay inviting me to his room – or perhaps for a meal in the restaurant – where he’d spill the beans about his rise to stardom over a glass or two of champagne. And then I imagined Nicolas Juilliard’s face when I submitted my exclusive, sensitively written interview; how he’d beg me to come and work for him; how I’d suddenly be in demand. Other reclusive stars (I couldn’t think of any offhand) would be lining up to talk to me. ‘I’ll only talk to Natalie Bright,’ Kate Moss would say (Kate Moss was pretty reclusive). ‘That piece she did with Jay Merino was just so… so moving.’ Jackie, now working for bestselling Gossip in the UK, would be kicking herself for not taking me there with her – not that I’d have wanted to go. My friend Jools had worked there before joining Chatter, and had told me some terrible truths about working as a Z-list celebrity interviewer.

  ‘Why don’t you email Nicolas Juilliard again?’ Charlie’s voice jolted me out of my rapidly spiralling fantasy. ‘Don’t take no for an answer this time.’

  ‘I’ll do better than that.’ Resolve flowed through me as I pushed back my chair and stood. ‘I’m going to call him.’

  Four

  After promising Charlie I’d keep him updated, I managed to avoid bumping into Dolly by leaving through the courtyard gate and making my way down a narrow, winding path that led to the beach. Walking barefoot along the soft, pale sand to the gentle lapping of waves in the background, I worked up a pitch in my head I was certain Nicolas Juilliard wouldn’t be able to resist, then rang his Paris office in a state of anticipation, only to be told by a bored-sounding assistant that Monsieur Juilliard was walking his dog.

  From everything I’d read, I knew Nicolas had a French bulldog called Babette that he doted on, which I’d thought boded well for his character – he was reportedly close to his mother too (but not in a Norman Bates way) – until he’d started rejecting all my proposals. Normally, I’d send my ideas to a features editor, but Nicolas was known for being hands-on and welcomed direct submissions, claiming to have a psychic sense for a feature that would double the magazine’s readership. It was no secret in the industry that Fleur Dupont wanted his job when he retired, and he’d openly laid down a challenge – bring him an exclusive that would triple circulation, and the job was hers. Maybe an exclusive with Jay Merino would bag me a job there too.

  ‘Could you please ask him to call me?’ I asked in my very best French. ‘I have someone in mind for an interview that I think he’ll want to hear about.’

  ‘Who?’

  Reverting to English I said, ‘I’d rather not say at this stage.’

  ‘Can’t you put it in an email?’

  ‘I’d prefer to speak to him in person.’ I was attempting to create some intrigue, though I suspected she’d probably heard it all before.

  ‘And you are…?’

  When I said my name, I was certain I heard a sigh, and wondered for a horrible moment whether I might be th
e subject of office gossip.

  Oh, it’s that silly English woman who worked for that awful magazine in the UK, and now thinks she’s good enough to write for Magnifique!

  ‘You will ask him to call me, won’t you?’ I said, after reeling off my number and asking her to read it back, which she did in perfect English, as if to prove her grasp of language was way better than mine (which it was). ‘I promise he won’t regret it.’

  ‘That’s quite a promise, Miss Bright,’ she said dryly. ‘I’ll be sure to convey the very grave importance of your message to Monsieur Juilliard.’

  Definitely taking the mickey. ‘Thank you,’ I said, injecting a smile into my voice to show I wasn’t offended. ‘If he wants to check out my writing, I have a weekly column in The Expats’ Guide to Living and Working in France.’

  ‘I believe ’e is familiar with your work.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Non.’

  Rude. ‘The office is in La Rochelle,’ I pressed on. ‘The magazine is really popular.’ Talk about sounding needy. ‘He might even know the editor, Sandy Greenwood.’

  ‘I’m sure ’e does, Miss Bright. All the magazine editors in France, they know each other very well.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Non.’ She hung up.

  I supposed it was unlikely. Sandy, who I’d met a couple of times at her home office, was a brisk, no-nonsense Liverpudlian with short, side-parted hair and a penchant for Hawaiian shirts, who’d moved to La Rochelle with her husband and toddler twins twenty years ago, and had started the paper to connect with other expats on the back of a former stint as editor at The Sun newspaper. Expats had grown to the point where everyone who’d ever migrated to France subscribed, but although she’d done a good job with keeping the website updated, she had little interest in any other form of social media, preferring the increasingly old-fashioned medium of print and paper. The idea that Sandy might move in the same circles as Nicolas Juilliard was almost laughable, but even so, it was rude of his assistant to hang up on me. I stuck my tongue out at my phone, which drew some funny looks from a couple on the cycling path by the beach.

  As I slipped my feet back into my trainers and retraced my steps to the marina, I wondered whether my message would even get through. Maybe I should have been more specific, but I didn’t want Fleur Dupont getting wind that Jay was on the island (if she didn’t already know). Although he fiercely guarded his privacy, Fleur was notorious for drawing out the most reluctant of prey; some more infamous than famous. She’d actually coaxed a murder confession from a man who’d been freed from jail, a year after a well-known television documentary had ‘proved’ his innocence. It was surprising, giving her status, that she hadn’t managed to interview Jay before. She must have tried. His films had grossed millions at the box office, and his air of mystery, coupled with the looks he’d grown into since our brief encounter, had made him number one on every journalist’s wish list. So, as much as I admired Fleur’s writing, if I wanted even half the career she had, I had to use whatever means were at my disposal to get there, which meant getting to Jay before she did.

  As I reached la rue des Forages, I noticed Marie unloading groceries from the basket of her bike, her small frame almost buckling under the weight. Her face lit up as I approached, and I wondered afresh why Dad didn’t ask her out. She must have been a beauty when she was younger and was still very attractive. There was barely any grey in her thick, dark hair, always styled in a neat chignon, and her soulful eyes were large and dark. It was a shame she looked sad when she wasn’t smiling, but that could be her natural, resting expression. (Mine was anxious.) I’d often wondered about her past, but she didn’t like to talk about it. I knew she’d been married and divorced, had never had children, and she’d been running her home as a guest-house for several years. Her visitors tended to return time after time, and she considered some of them friends. She loved to cook traditional, rustic food, which Dad and I had benefitted from, especially during the winter when business was less brisk. She kept trying to improve Dad’s French, finding his efforts hilarious, and in her spare time she enjoyed knitting – hardly a crime, but this was the hobby that had (unfairly) put an end to any romantic notions Dad might have had about her.

  ‘Bonjour, Natalie.’ She propped her bike against the wall, and pulled her keys from the pocket of her flower-patterned skirt. ‘You are liking this weather?’

  I smiled. Marie knew all about the British fascination with the climate and always made a point of asking. ‘It’s beautiful,’ I said, taking in the terracotta-topped roofs, baked orange by the sun, the whitewashed walls, and the weathered shutters painted in maritime colours, complemented by the island’s trademark hollyhocks, spilling in splashes of pink along the house fronts. ‘You have visitors?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ she said, picking up her canvas shopping bag and hooking it over her arm. ‘My Americans, Larry and Barbara, are coming back, so I’ve been to the market for ingredients. They love my bœuf bourguignon.’

  ‘Lucky them.’ I loved that Marie cooked from scratch. Hardly anyone I’d encountered since moving to the island ate the sort of processed food I’d mostly lived on in England, apart from when I’d eaten at Mum and Dad’s. I was always too tired after work to cook and Matt hadn’t been much use in the kitchen either, preferring to eat takeaways whenever possible. ‘Um… my dad mentioned there’s a famous actor staying in Saint-Martin.’ I tried to say it casually, aware that I was breaking a confidence, but couldn’t disguise my interest.

  Marie’s eyes widened. ‘It is supposed to be a secret.’ She glanced over my shoulder, her gentle face creased with worry, as if someone might be about to rush up and arrest her. ‘My good friend, Jeanne, she is very excited, but they had to sign the non-disclosure agreements to stop them talking about it.’ It clearly hadn’t worked as Jeanne had immediately told Marie. ‘She has a big squash on him.’

  ‘Crush,’ I said with a smile. ‘I won’t mention it to anyone.’ I was aware as I spoke that it wasn’t strictly true. I’d already told Charlie and was planning to tell Nicolas Juilliard, but that was different – it wasn’t idle gossip, it was to do with work – and I hadn’t known it was such a big secret. Though I couldn’t help thinking it was a bit precious of Jay to be sneaking around like this; forcing people to sign confidentiality agreements, not to mention it being pointless. He could hardly shoot scenes for his film without the public realising what was going on, and once they clocked what was happening and recognised him, he’d have reporters on his back day and night. They’d soon find out where he was staying.

  ‘Actors, they like to come here,’ said Marie, with a hint of pride. It was true that the island – known as the French Hamptons – tended to attract the rich and famous due to its sunny climate and exclusive vibe, and it wasn’t unusual to hear that Johnny Depp, or a member of the royal family, was visiting.

  ‘It’s just, I used to sort of know him,’ I said, to divert her from being worried. ‘He was born not far from where I grew up.’ I briefly allowed my mind to drift back to that night on the swings, and wondered how many times, during my childhood, Jay Merino might have been less than half a mile away from me, perhaps playing in his garden, as I had been in mine (mostly up and down the oak tree with Gemma, hoping to meet Moonface from our favourite Enid Blyton books), then remembered that even if Jay Merino had had a garden, it was doubtful he’d have been playing in it.

  ‘Where you lived with Marty?’ Marie’s face softened as her gaze flipped to the adjoining house, and I bit back the urge to say, Of course with Marty, he’s my dad, knowing it was just an excuse to say his name.

  ‘With Marty, and my mother,’ I said, amused that she was more interested in Dad than in Jay Merino. ‘I mean, I didn’t know him well. Jay Merino, I mean, not my dad—’

  ‘Would you and your papa like to come for dinner tonight?’ I could tell she’d been waiting for a reason to ask. ‘I need to practise the bourguignon for my guests.’ It was a blatant l
ie. She’d cooked the dish so many times, she could probably do it in her sleep, but she seemed to enjoy our company, and I doubted Dad would be able to resist the invitation. My cooking skills were basic at best, and Dad’s eager attempts at French cuisine were getting harder to stomach. When I told Mum he’d made steak tartare, but cooked to resemble leather, she’d laughed heartily and said, ‘Now you know why I was in charge of the kitchen.’

  ‘I’ll ask him,’ I said. ‘Around seven?’

  Marie nodded, a smile brightening her eyes. ‘I will look forward to it.’ With a gracious nod, she let herself into her house and shut the door just as Dad opened ours.

  ‘Where did you go rushing off to?’ he said. Thankfully, he’d washed his hair, and although it hadn’t quite returned to its normal hue, it no longer resembled a cowpat.

  ‘I needed to have a think about what you said.’ I stepped past him into the living room, pleased to see most of the clothes he’d been wearing earlier were neatly parcelled up, ready to be returned, and the bottle of Purple Seduction – shaped to look like a man’s shoulders and gym-honed chest – relegated to a pile of recycling. ‘And to tell Charlie.’

  ‘Of course you had to tell Charlie.’

  Unlike Dolly, Dad had accepted my friendship with Charlie for what it was, despite him once saying it was a shame that Matt hadn’t been more like Charlie, because if he had, we’d still be together. He hadn’t liked Matt much, because as far as Dad was concerned the chip on his shoulder had been obvious from the start (though, sadly, not to me). Matt had thought me too good for him, because I’d been to university where I’d written for the student magazine, and landed a job in London, whereas he did manual work, rarely read a book and played football on Sundays. Of course it hadn’t bothered me. I’d met him on a visit home, where he’d been sorting out the garden because Mum and Dad were too busy at the time to keep on top of it. I’d made him some coffee and got chatting, and quickly fell for his sexy smile, strong hands and funny anecdotes, and the way he’d transformed the overgrown tangle, filling it with meadow flowers, delphiniums, stocks and roses, talking me through what they were with touching enthusiasm. I’d loved having the anchor of a serious boyfriend at last, glad to move out of my flat-share with Jools and into a tiny new-build house in Chesham that Matt and I had poured our savings into. I’d even enjoyed commuting to work every day like a proper grown-up, returning home each evening to snuggle on the sofa with a ready meal or takeaway, in front of a boxset with Matt. But he’d never really liked me working in London and had gradually reconnected with his single life, staying out late, drinking too much and playing endlessly on his X-box, to the extent that I grew used to seeing him weaving about in the light of the TV screen, playing Call of Duty. On one of his nights out, he’d bumped into the girlfriend before me, a nail technician called Steph, who I remembered him saying used to get emotional about babies on television, and he’d told me he was ‘in love’ – just not with me.