by Karen Clarke
‘I wouldn’t know, I’ve never been in a film,’ I said. ‘And neither have you, but good to know that’s how you’d be behaving.’
‘Come on, Nat, I was making a point, that’s all.’ He stood up, preparing to get back to work and let Stefan have his lunch break. ‘But if they’re both free and single, why not?’
‘I just don’t think he’d be that unprofessional,’ I said, with a surprising amount of confidence given that I’d just spoken to Jay for the first time in years and had no idea how he behaved on-set.
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ said Charlie, as I banished a vision of Jay and Susie Houlihan thrashing around on his (or her) duvet. ‘And you’ll be fine when you get there.’ He had a touching amount of confidence in me, considering I’d never interviewed a bona fide A-lister before. ‘Get your meeting with Juilliard out of the way and you’re good to go.’
* * *
Luckily, Dad was out when I got back to the house. I’d exhausted myself telling Charlie about meeting Jay, and wasn’t sure I had the energy to go over it again – plus, I was worried about too many people knowing. Dad was completely trustworthy, but if he mentioned something to Marie in passing and she told her friend Jeanne… well, I had no idea what would happen, if anything, but I’d hate to get anyone in trouble.
I ran upstairs, desperate for a shower. Hearing voices drifting up, I looked out of my bedroom window to see Dad in the garden next door with Marie, and a couple who must be Larry and Barbara, her returning American guests. They were sitting around a table with tall glasses of something refreshing, and were laughing at something Dad had said. I felt a pang of pride. He was so good at getting along with people and putting them at ease – it was just a shame it didn’t extend to his dates. He tried so hard, he always got it wrong.
I pushed open the window to let in some air and heard him say, ‘You don’t see officers on television cleaning human poo out of a police cell,’ followed by gales of laughter.
I shook my head, smiling. It had long been annoying to watch a police drama with Dad, due to his tendency to pick up on the smallest inaccuracy, despite my protests that it was meant to be entertaining and no one would watch if it was all about paperwork and drunks being sick on their shoes.
‘You’re a blast, Marty,’ said Larry. Marie nodded in agreement, her eyes fastened on Dad, and I wondered whether I should set them up on a date. Get Marie round on the pretext of cooking for her for a change and then leave them to it.
Refreshed by a shower, with a few hours to spare, I tried to focus on writing my column for Expats, but couldn’t stop going over the morning’s events, cringing as I relived the way I’d felled Jay, like a rugby player. It didn’t say much for my powers of observation that I hadn’t clocked it was him, or that I’d failed to notice all the signs of filming taking place. In danger of convincing myself he’d only been nice because I’d put myself in harm’s way to ‘save’ him, I found myself typing How Not to Impress an Actor on Location and writing up what had happened, leaving out Jay’s name and the exact location, and embellishing my role for comedic effect. Not that it needed much embellishment being pretty ridiculous as it was.
Let’s just say, I didn’t hang around to ask for his autograph, I finished, before adding a sidebar of regulations around filming in France, plus details on becoming an extra (which was unglamorous and poorly paid, according to my online research) and emailed it to Sandy before I could change my mind. It was better than a piece about tax laws.
Nerves stirred in my chest as I searched my wardrobe for something suitable to wear to a Michelin-starred restaurant in La Rochelle. The occasion demanded more than my usual going-out jeans and a top designed to minimise my boobs. I might not be allowed in if I wasn’t dressed up and wished now I’d thought to buy something in Saint-Martin – or that I hadn’t left my show-stopper dress in Mum’s wardrobe back home.
After trying on and discarding several items, I remembered Marie had lent me a dress to wear for Dad’s birthday meal, and bolted next door to ask if I could borrow it again.
‘Of course!’ she said, when I’d apologised for dragging her away from her guests. ‘I will fetch it for you.’
I wouldn’t have dreamt of raiding Mum’s wardrobe. Her idea of dressing up was a purple mohair sweater over boot-cut jeans with sequinned pockets (Mum loved a sequin detail) and a pair of high-heeled boots, but Marie’s innate sense of style meant her outfits spanned the age barrier, and although she was a size smaller, the dress I’d worn before was very forgiving.
‘You are meeting a nice man?’ she enquired, a smile playing over her face as she handed me the dress.
‘I don’t know about nice,’ I said, laughing too heartily. ‘But he’s definitely a man.’
‘A man?’ Dad bobbed up behind her in the doorway, eyebrows raised. ‘Is it—?’
‘Just a man, an ordinary man, no one special at all,’ I sang, causing Marie to jerk back and a hand to fly to her throat.
‘It’s a very nice outfit for someone not that special,’ Dad persisted, eyeing the dress over Marie’s shoulder. ‘You’re sure it’s not—’
‘No one you know, no one you know!’ I blasted.
‘Well, who then?’ He looked baffled, completely missing my flashing eye signals, warning him not to mention Jay Merino.
‘Leave her alone,’ chided Marie, turning to place a slender hand on his arm. ‘She doesn’t want to tempt fate.’
‘Oh no, it’s not that.’ I didn’t want her getting the wrong idea. ‘Actually, I’m meeting a magazine publisher.’ Why the hell hadn’t I said that in the first place? ‘I’ve pitched an idea, and he’s interested.’
‘Oh!’ Dad’s eyes grew big. ‘Is it an interview with—?’
‘No, no, no, no, NO!’ I held up my palm in exasperation. ‘Not an interview, not at all!’ So much for him being a police officer. How could he not detect that I wanted him to shut the hell up? ‘It’s… it’s top secret at the moment. I’m afraid I can’t talk about it.’
‘Blimey, Natalie, no need to get worked up.’ He looked at Marie as if for support, and taking control, she shook her head kindly.
‘Natalie does not want an inquisition from her father, Marty. You must let her go and do what she has to do, and she will tell you about it in good time, yes?’
I wanted to hug her. ‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘I’ll tell you about it later, Dad, OK?’
Again, I tried to message him with my eyes.
‘Are you feeling all right, love?’ he said. ‘You shouldn’t be meeting anyone if you’ve got one of your heads coming on.’
He was referring to the occasional migraines I’d suffered on and off since my teens, though I hadn’t had one since moving to the island. ‘I haven’t got one of my heads,’ I assured him, leaning in to kiss his cheek. ‘I’ll see you in a couple of hours.’
‘Have fun,’ said Marie, and I thought what a nice couple they made, standing together on the doorstep, waving me off.
Nine
When we reached La Rochelle, I instructed the driver to drop me a little way down the street, out of view of the restaurant, in case Nicolas Juilliard happened to be watching from the window. Unlikely, but I didn’t want him to see me scrambling out of the car, trying not to flash my knickers.
I paused to check my carefully applied make-up in a compact mirror I hardly ever used. I’d initially tried a ‘barely-there’ look, which had given the impression I was recovering from a bout of food poisoning, so I’d added a swipe of cherry-red lipstick, but that had brought to mind the scary clown from It. In the end, I’d settled for some Caramel Nude lipgloss, and eyeliner with a flick, and hoped that by combining it with the silky black knee-length dress I’d borrowed from Marie, I was channelling Audrey Tautou. If Audrey were twenty pounds heavier with a perm. Although I’d managed to tame my curls into glossy waves, I expected them to rebel before the evening was out.
As I stepped through the door of the restaurant – famed for its sea views as
well as its gourmet food – I told myself this wasn’t the first time I’d been to a nice restaurant to meet a man, but the truth was, I’d never been to a restaurant quite this nice, to meet a man with as much power as Nicolas Juilliard. The fact that there was a lot riding on this meeting – I was assuming he’d come from Paris especially – only heightened my nerves.
‘Ah, Mademoiselle Bright!’
To my surprise, Nicolas was already there, rising from a table and waving me over, before the maître d’ had even noticed my presence, and I wondered how he’d recognised me. Trying to give the impression I’d been there before, I forged a path between linen-draped tables, heels sinking into the navy carpet, glad to note that at least I didn’t look out of place among the scattering of well-dressed diners. ‘It’s lovely to meet you at last, Monsieur Juilliard.’
‘Nicolas, please,’ he said, ignoring my outstretched hand in favour of a robust kiss on each cheek, his masculine scent almost overwhelmingly sensual. ‘The pleasure eez all mine.’ Hands on my shoulders, his gaze danced over my face, down Marie’s dress to my pointy-toe shoes and back again. Though I’d normally bristle at being appraised like something delicious being served on a platter (judging by his expression), I had to admit to being a tiny bit flattered – plus, I was doing the same to him, just in a subtler way.
Nicolas Juilliard oozed charisma, as if it was coded in his DNA. He was an imposing figure, tall and solid, his hooded eyes an unusually deep shade of brown, his grey-streaked hair and sideburns neatly groomed. His light-coloured suit looked expensive, but he wore it carelessly. I could easily picture him reclining on a sofa, brandy glass in one hand, cigarette in the other, instructing a pretty woman to remove her stockings. Luckily, I wasn’t wearing stockings – if I had been, they might have fallen down of their own accord.
‘Your picture does not do you justice,’ he said, with a puzzled frown. He must have been referring to the one that came up in a Google search from my time working at Chatter – a headshot that made me look twenty years older – or the one on my blog, where my nose dominated my face. I rarely photograph well.
‘It’s very kind of you to meet me,’ I said, determined to maintain a businesslike air in the face of his probing gaze. I quickly sat on one of the thickly padded chairs around the table before he had time to pull one out for me. While I wasn’t averse to gentlemanly behaviour, from the way his eyes had roved over me when I arrived, I had the sense that with Nicolas there would be strings attached. In his world, #MeToo and the ‘Time’s Up’ campaign probably hadn’t registered, and I wasn’t the sort to trade sexual favours for a job. Even one I wanted very badly.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a small animal sitting on the chair beside Nicolas, curling its lip at me. He’d brought his little white bulldog, Babette, and while I longed to scoop her up and kiss her crumpled face, she was growling at me in a very unladylike fashion.
‘Shake hands,’ Nicolas instructed, and Babette held up a delicate paw with what looked like great reluctance.
Charmed, in spite of myself, I leaned over and took her soft foot in my hand and bobbed it up and down. ‘She’s gorgeous,’ I said, even though her ears were flattened to her head with hatred.
‘She’s very protective,’ said Nicolas fondly, as Babette snapped at my fingers with pointy incisors. ‘My little lion.’
I snatched my hand away, feeling ridiculously hurt. She could take a few lessons from Hamish the Scottie at the café – he’d never snap at me like that.
‘You know,’ said Nicolas thoughtfully, smoothing his white shirt front as he sat opposite, eyes still scoping my features. ‘You ’ave a look of a young Hedy Lamarr. She was a beautiful film star many years ago.’
‘I’ve heard of her,’ I said, thrilled in spite of myself. I’d been compared to an Irish Water Spaniel once – or at least, my hair had – but never a glamorous actress from the 1940s.
‘She was not satisfied with the film world, she was an inventor,’ Nicolas continued, his gravelly voice and French accent hard to resist. ‘She was an early pioneer of wireless communications, after helping to develop a secret communications system for ze US Navy.’ He shook his head in awe. ‘A remarkable woman.’
‘I didn’t know that.’ I was impressed by his knowledge and passion. Maybe I’d misjudged him after all.
‘She had ze first ever orgasm on screen.’
Maybe not. ‘Really?’ I returned his lazy smile with a brief twist of my mouth. Babette was watching me with bulging eyes, as if she knew the effect her master was having and was pleased. ‘Well, if you’ve finished with the sex talk, perhaps we can get to business.’
He threw back his head and gave a belly laugh that drew attention from the people around us. ‘I knew I’d like you, Natalee,’ he said, beckoning a hovering waiter, who was eyeing the dog with thinly masked disapproval. ‘What do you think of the restaurant?’
‘It’s amazing.’ I gratefully turned my attention to the modern décor; the marine-blue colours, clever wall art, and curvy ceiling panels designed to reflect the shape of the waves washing onto the beach in front of the glass wall. The sun was setting over the ocean, filling the room with the sort of peachy light that flattered complexions and glanced off glass and cutlery, the whole effect like a film set. ‘It’s my first visit,’ I said, forgetting I was meant to be playing it cool. ‘I love it.’
Nicolas gave a gratified grin, his slightly imperfect teeth only adding to his attractiveness. ‘I know ze chef,’ he said, which explained why Babette had been allowed in. He plucked the menu from the waiter’s hand. ‘Ze man, ’e is a genius.’ Nicolas bunched his fingertips and kissed them. ‘We try ze oysters?’ He arched an eyebrow, clearly alluding to their aphrodisiac properties, and I tried not to roll my eyes.
‘I’m allergic,’ I fibbed. Dad had once encouraged Mum and me to try them on holiday, but Mum had fretted about ingesting flesh-eating bacteria, and I’d retched until my eyes felt like they were bleeding – and that was just at the sight of them.
‘In zat case, we will ’ave ze monkfish.’ Nicolas handed back the menu.
‘Do I get a say?’
‘Trust me, Natalee, you will not regret it.’
I decided not to argue. I wouldn’t have known what to order, and wasn’t sure I’d be able to eat anyway. My stomach was swarming with nerves.
‘Champagne?’
‘I prefer white wine,’ I admitted.
He chuckled. ‘I think you are very ’onest, Natalee. I like that.’ Babette let out a yelp as though jealous, while he ordered something in rapid-fire French. The waiter gave an obsequious nod and vanished. ‘Now, please tell me ’ow you know Jay Merino.’
Startled by the switch in tone, I hitched my chair closer to the table to buy a few seconds’ thinking time. I didn’t want to lie any more, especially after being complimented for my honesty, so opened my bag and took out my phone, deciding to get to the point. ‘You asked for proof and I’ve brought it,’ I said, scrolling to the photos I’d taken, grinning automatically at the sight of Jay’s smiling face. Despite viewing the pictures several times, I still had trouble believing he was there, on my phone. ‘I was with him this morning,’ I said. No need to mention the circumstances. ‘We had a chat before he started filming and he confirmed he’d like me to interview him exclusively for the magazine.’ Nicolas took my phone and studied the photo through narrowed eyes, his lips slightly pursed. ‘Check the date if you like,’ I said. ‘And you can see the harbour at Saint-Martin in the background.’
‘I see it,’ said Nicolas, ‘’E looks very ’appy to be standing next to you, Natalee.’ His eyes grazed the hint of cleavage visible in the dip of my dress, which revealed quite a bit more than it would have on Marie. ‘And ’oo wouldn’t?’
‘Plenty of people,’ I said crisply, reaching for my phone.
He handed it back, almost grudgingly, as if he’d like to flip through the rest of my pictures – not that he’d find them very thrilling. They we
re mostly of scenery and sunsets, and several of Charlie and me goofing about, or Dad looking bashful – he didn’t like having his picture taken either. ‘I am sorry I doubted you,’ he said, with what sounded like genuine regret. ‘But you understand, I cannot risk the reputation of my magazine by letting an unknown—’
‘But why?’ I cut in. ‘Why not give an unknown writer a chance?’ As I leaned forward to make my point, Babette gave a warning bark. As much as I loved dogs, I wished she’d bugger off. It was hard to concentrate under her ferocious glare. ‘How do you know you’re not missing some amazing talent by only giving assignments to your regular team?’
‘You ’ave amazing talent?’
‘Well, no, of course not…’
‘Why not? Don’t be modest, Natalee.’
‘Well, I mean, I’m OK, but I wouldn’t say amazing.’ Why was I putting myself down?
‘Ah, you British. You are so modest.’ His smile projected amusement, but no surprise – as if he’d expected nothing else. ‘As it ’appens, I sometimes ’ave guest writers, usually American or Canadian, very high-calibre, but what I was going to say before you so passionately interrupted me, Natalee, was that I think, on this occasion, I am more than ’appy to let you… what is it you English say?… do the honours.’
‘Oh.’ I absorbed his words and felt a rush of excitement. ‘Well, that’s great,’ I said, furnishing him with a smile so bright it made him blink. ‘Thank you, Monsieur Juilliard.’
‘Please, call me Nicolas.’ He glanced at my chest and away. ‘We must celebrate,’ he said, as the waiter returned with a bottle of wine that elicited a nod of approval, and while it was poured – which seemed to take an excruciatingly long time – Nicolas’s eyes didn’t leave mine. When the waiter had gone, we clinked glasses, and as I took a tentative sip – cool and grapey (I wasn’t a connoisseur) – suspicion began to creep around the edge of my excitement.
‘I hope you don’t expect anything in return,’ I said, putting my glass down, noting the way his eyes had fixed on my breasts again. ‘I’m not going to sleep with you to show my gratitude.’ This time, his laughter was contagious, and several people joined in without any idea what they were laughing at. ‘I’m not joking.’