by Karen Clarke
‘So, how come you’re living in France?’ said Jay, just as I was wondering how to articulate my thoughts. ‘You said you’re here with your dad?’
It took me a moment to regroup, then I gave him an abbreviated version of why I’d left the UK, skimming over the details of my break-up, but he frowned when I said that Matt was about to marry his ex. ‘That must be tough,’ he said. ‘I don’t blame you for making a fresh start, but don’t you miss your old life?’
‘To be honest, although I do sometimes miss the job and the people I worked with, I love it out here.’ I looked up at the cloudless, pale blue sky. ‘Even when the weather’s not great,’ I added. ‘I thought the novelty might wear off quickly, but I’ve made friends here. Plus, I get on well with my dad, and people come out to visit us all the time.’
‘He’s a police officer.’
I was touched that he’d remembered. ‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘He’s retired now.’
‘Brothers and sisters?’
‘Neither,’ I said. ‘My parents decided they couldn’t improve on perfection.’
He smiled. ‘Are they still together?’
‘Not any more.’ My throat felt suddenly tight. ‘They’re separated. In fact, my father’s started dating again, but it’s not going very well.’ I told him about Dad’s efforts so far and when he’d stopped laughing, Jay said, ‘It sounds as though he doesn’t really want to meet someone new.’
‘He’s putting a lot of effort in, if he doesn’t.’
‘But from what you’ve said, he keeps finding fault with them all.’
‘I just don’t think he’s met the right one yet.’
‘And you?’
‘Oh, I’m still off men at the moment,’ I said, hoping Jay would think my cheeks were sunburnt rather than flushed with embarrassment. ‘I’m trying to get my career on track.’
‘Hopefully, I can help with that.’ His smile was like a reward I hadn’t earned. How could I ever have thought he looked feral? ‘And if you ever want to get away and write in private, I’ve bought a place over here.’
‘On the island?’
‘A cottage in Sainte-Marie,’ he said. ‘I’ve invested in a few properties I rent out to people on low incomes, but I like it here and wouldn’t mind coming back.’ It suddenly felt as if the air pressure had changed. ‘Anyway, it’s standing empty if you ever want to use it.’
‘That’s…’ amazing, when can I move in? ‘Thank you, that’s very kind, but I tend to work at the Café Belle Vie, near where I live. They do these amazing pains au chocolat, in fact, all the food is amazing. You should try it, it’s great.’ Stop babbling.
‘I’ll bear it in mind.’ He smiled again, and I guessed he was just being generous. Why else would he offer me the use of his cottage, or to come to a café that didn’t have a Michelin star, even if it had won a mention in The Good Food Guide, as well as some of my columns? Though I had a feeling that, unlike Nicolas Juilliard, Jay didn’t frequent Michelin-starred eateries – far too exposing.
‘So, who else do you write for?’
I told him about Expats, and that I wrote a blog about living on the island and he said he’d check it out (being generous again) and then I regaled him with some of the stories I’d done for Chatter, which he found hilarious. With a rush of warmth that had nothing to do with the weather, I realised the sound of his laughter was something I’d love to get used to.
‘Are you…’ I crossed my ankles and looked at the toes of my canvas shoes. Spotting a small hole, I tucked my feet underneath the chair. ‘Are you seeing anyone?’ My attempt at being off-the-cuff was spoiled by a squeak in my voice and I hastily cleared my throat. ‘Do you have a girlfriend hidden away?’
‘I’m not a kidnapper,’ he said, eyes brimming with amusement. ‘No, Natalie, I’m not seeing anyone at the moment. In fact, I haven’t had a proper girlfriend in a while and, in case you’re wondering, I’ve never been engaged, or anywhere close to getting married.’
‘Right.’
‘I was in love once with a singer, which you probably read about, but it didn’t end well and I’ve steered clear of relationships since.’
‘OK.’
‘That doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy being with women,’ he continued. ‘But they tend to be mutually short-lived affairs.’
‘I see.’
‘And when I say affairs, I don’t mean with married women. My dad was a cheater, but I’m not like him.’
‘Great.’
We locked eyes and burst out laughing. ‘Well, that was intense,’ he said. ‘But I’m glad we know where we stand.’
A bulky shadow fell across us and Simon appeared. ‘Jay, it’s time to go.’
‘Already?’ He sounded put out. ‘That went quickly.’
‘I won’t keep you,’ I said, mindful that I’d held up filming once already.
‘Thanks for the chat, I’ve really enjoyed it.’
‘Me too,’ I said, feeling shy as we stood up and faced each other. I wished Simon would disappear, but he remained, solid as a wall, hands clasped behind his back.
‘I hope that was OK.’ Jay tweaked his shirt collar and brushed his hands down his jeans. His fingers were long, the nails clean and short. ‘You will let me see it once it’s written, won’t you?’
My stomach seized. ‘That was the interview?’ I waited for him to tell me he was joking. ‘I’d assumed this was an informal chat, off the record.’
‘Isn’t that the best sort of interview?’ His smile did nothing to quash my rising panic.
‘But I haven’t made any notes.’
‘I’m sure you’ll remember the important bits and put them in the right order.’
I would. Our conversation would be etched forever on my memory, but I’d hoped to elicit some witty anecdotes, as well as probe into his background and expand on his plans for future projects. I hadn’t expected to have to pick out snippets from a chat about our lives, which had included some pretty personal stuff.
‘You said yourself the angle would be the Foundation,’ he said. ‘That’s what I really want it to be about. You can add some context around our chat – the hotel, the film, some background on Max Weaver, if you like.’
‘But that’s not very personal, and everyone knows everything about your character.’ I caught Simon’s eye-roll and imagined him as a tiny baby sitting on a potty. ‘I’m not sure Nicolas Juilliard will publish something so… bland,’ I said. ‘He’s hoping for something explosive, that no one else has.’
‘Isn’t the fact it’s my first interview enough?’
‘It might not be.’
‘No one else knows about the Foundation.’
‘True,’ I said. ‘Can I mention that you’re retiring?’
‘I don’t want that getting out until the film’s released next year.’
Simon muttered something that sounded like, ‘For Christ’s sake.’
‘But—’
‘Natalie…’ Jay’s face was serious. ‘My personal life isn’t for public consumption, even for you,’ he said gently. ‘I’m sorry, that’s just how it is.’
‘I get that, and obviously, I wouldn’t dream of writing anything really private, but can’t you at least give me a noteworthy quote or opinion, or a revelation of some sort?’ I scratched around my brain. ‘Something that will get people talking, which will be good publicity down the line, if you want people to remember you when it comes to sticking their hands in their pockets for the Foundation.’
‘Ooh, you’re good.’ His smiling comment fuelled another blush. ‘OK, like what?’
‘Jay…’ began Simon, but Jay’s eyes stayed fixed on me.
‘Well, I don’t know.’ I tried to think what the public might want to know, apart from everything. ‘What’s your view about Trump? How would Max Weaver solve global warming? What’s your guilty pleasure, your favourite author, favourite food? What does Jay Merino do to relax?’
He was grinning now and seemed to be enjoyin
g himself. ‘OK, well, I’ll pass on Trump, and I think Max Weaver is more interested in hunting down killers than in global warming, but my guilty pleasure is eating Nutella from the jar, my favourite author’s Bernard Cornwell, and I go sailing to unwind when I can. Will that do?’
On a personal level, his reply had only whetted my appetite for more, but I knew I’d been given answers any journalist would sell their granny for. ‘That’ll do,’ I said. ‘Oh!’
‘What?’ He looked startled.
‘There have to be pictures,’ I said, urgently. ‘Nicolas was going to arrange a photographer to come with me, once I’d given him a time for the interview. And there was supposed to be a translator.’
‘Well, translation can be sorted out later, and we know you’ve got a camera on your phone.’
‘I can’t use that!’
‘Why not?’
For a start, because Simon looked to be on the verge of strangling me. ‘Fine,’ I said, whipping it out of my bag and looking around for a suitable location.
‘I’ll sit here.’ Jay dropped back on the chair and grinned at Simon, who dropped his head to his chest in apparent despair, and I snapped a load of shots from different angles, dipping and weaving, almost tripping over my bag at one point, hoping at least one of them would be useable. I daren’t even imagine what Nicolas would say, but it was better than nothing, which seemed to be the only alternative.
Jay sat still, watching me as I moved around, so that my limbs felt too long and uncoordinated, my hair falling across my face so I had to keep thrusting it back – all to a soundtrack of Simon’s barely concealed impatience. He was breathing so heavily, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see flames leap from his nostrils.
‘That’s great, thanks.’ I stuffed my phone in my bag without checking the pictures, to show Simon I was done.
Jay got to his feet, seeming as reluctant to leave as I was for him to go. ‘Listen, I was planning to take a yacht out after we’ve finished filming here on Friday.’
‘You have a yacht?’
Jay grinned. ‘I’m not some billionaire oligarch,’ he laughed. ‘No, but I have a licence, and was planning to charter a boat and take a look at the ocean before I leave.’
‘Just you?’
Simon gave a disgruntled huff.
‘Just me.’ Jay lifted one eyebrow. ‘Unless you fancy joining me.’
‘On the yacht?’ Idiot.
‘On the yacht.’
‘Hmm…’ Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, ‘I’ll have to check my diary.’
‘Don’t take too long.’ My senses picked up that we might be flirting again. ‘I’d like us to talk some more.’
I felt as if there were electrodes attached to my body, firing up my nerve-endings. ‘I’d like that,’ I said, deciding not to bother playing hard to get. ‘What time?’
Simon appeared to have stopped breathing.
‘Seven?’ Jay looked relieved, as if he’d actually thought I might say no. ‘I’ll meet you here.’
‘In the garden?’
He laughed, though I hadn’t been joking. ‘In Saint-Martin, at the marina,’ he said.
I nodded. ‘Of course, the marina.’
‘And, Natalie, thanks for coming today.’
He was thanking me?
‘Thank you for inviting me.’
For a second, neither of us spoke. The atmosphere seemed to inflate once more, then Simon thrust himself between us and said brusquely, ‘You ready now, mate?’ and I had no choice but to leave, waving a little goodbye, certain they were both watching as I hurried away, half-expecting Simon to strike me down with a thunderbolt.
It wasn’t until I was halfway back to Chamillon that I realised I’d left my bike behind.
Twelve
I staggered into the café and slumped at the nearest table with a smiling nod to Margot, an artsy, middle-aged writer with steeply piled-up hair, who frequented the same spot two days a week to work on her latest romance. She rarely chatted, apart from to Dolly, who would only say that Margot had been badly let down by men and preferred living in her fantasy world.
‘You look shattered,’ Charlie hailed me. ‘Have you been exercising?’
‘You could say that.’ It hadn’t seemed worth turning back to the hotel, so I’d carried on walking, powered by my conversation with Jay, replaying it over and over, trying to read the things he hadn’t said, as well as the things he had. I couldn’t help returning to the notion that he liked me. And not just because we’d kissed before he was famous, but because he found me interesting and attractive. It had been obvious in the way his eyes had lingered on my face, occasionally moving to my hair and back to my eyes – as if he was taking mental snapshots to look at later. Nicolas had looked at me in a similar way, but his interest had felt less pure, more primal. It was different with Jay. But was I imagining it?
‘Gut feelings are always right,’ said Charlie, after I’d offloaded my thoughts over a still-warm apricot croissant. ‘If you think he’s into you, he is.’
A thrill of excitement made my skin burn as I put down my glass of orange juice. ‘Why are you beaming like that?’
‘Because, in the year or so that I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you like this,’ he said. ‘I do believe you’re falling for Max Weaver.’
‘It’s Jay,’ I said, and dropped my head in my hands. ‘And please don’t go around saying things like that, you’ll get me in trouble.’
‘Imagine though, you and Max Weaver.’ He leaned across the table and said in a growly voice, ‘I love you, and now I’m going to have to kill you.’ His appalling Irish accent made me laugh and Giselle, who happened to be passing, gave me a chilly stare that reminded me of Fleur Dupont.
I snapped my fingers. ‘I need to email Nicolas,’ I said. ‘Tell him I’ve spoken to Jay, and that the interview’s done.’
‘Can’t you tell me first?’ said Charlie. ‘What did you talk about?’ He was as avid for gossip as any girlfriend (probably because he too was in love with Max Weaver) but Jay’s words – so many of them, filling my head, looping round and round – felt too big and important to impart in a public place, and revealing such personal details, even to Charlie, felt disloyal. On the other hand, I had to tell someone or I would implode.
‘Not here,’ I said, looking round. ‘Too many ears.’
‘I’m taking a quick break, Mum,’ he said to Dolly, as we nipped through the kitchen to the courtyard, swiping a freshly made macaron on the way.
‘Take all the time you need.’ Her eyes twinkled with delight as she slid a batch of buttery brioche rolls into the oven. ‘I’ll fetch you both some coffee.’
‘Maybe I should tell her about you and Max,’ said Charlie, once we were seated at the picnic table outside. ‘Get her off our backs.’
‘There is no me and Jay, and don’t you dare,’ I said, wagging a warning finger. ‘This is all top secret, Charlie. In fact, I’m going to refer to him as X, just in case.’
‘Can’t I call him Max?’
‘No, you can’t, it’s too obvious,’ I said, still hesitant, even though we were outside.
‘X it is.’ He gave a solemn nod and pressed two fingers to his forehead.
‘What was that?’
‘Scout’s honour, or something.’ He leaned forward, adopting a listening face. ‘Now, spill.’
‘Don’t say spill,’ I said, though it perfectly described the way I was overflowing with words. Even so, when I opened my mouth, my throat felt frozen.
Charlie’s face sobered. ‘That bad?’ he said.
‘Not bad, just… a lot.’
‘I’m listening.’
After a couple of false starts, still feeling as if I was betraying Jay’s confidences – especially surrounding his brother – I recounted our conversation, tripping up in some places so that Charlie had to urge me gently to carry on, and as I talked, I remembered how it had felt, being with Jay – as if we could have talked for hours without it being awkward. And maybe
it was wishful thinking on my part, but I was certain he’d felt it too.
‘I’m gutted he’s retiring,’ said Charlie when I’d finished, his hair a mess from pushing his hands through it. ‘And the stuff about his brother’s just awful.’
‘I know.’
‘It sounds like he’s been through such a lot.’
‘At least he has a good relationship with his mum now.’
‘He’s obviously a solid bloke, judging by this foundation he wants to set up. He can’t be an arsehole if he wants to help young people and invest in affordable housing.’
‘He’s definitely not an arsehole,’ I said. ‘We’re very different, though.’ I traced a figure of eight on the table. ‘I doubt we’ve got a single thing in common.’
‘You’re both good people.’ Charlie looked serious. ‘Maybe he spoke to you because you’re different from the people he usually hangs around with.’
‘How come you’re such an oracle on relationships, when you’re not even in one?’
‘I’m naturally wise and all-knowing,’ he said with a pious smile.
Although I tutted and swatted his arm, I felt better for sharing, knowing it wouldn’t go any further. Charlie’s perspective had clarified that Jay had talked to me because, for some reason, he liked and trusted me, and I allowed a nugget of hope to blossom, that this was the start of something important.
It was hard to fathom that two days ago, I’d been talking Dad out of a clothing crisis and worrying about my career.
We chatted a bit longer, and Charlie said he hoped that Max would come to the café and sample its delights, and asked if he could join him on the yacht instead of me.
‘It’s Jay,’ I hissed, clamping my mouth shut as Dolly brought out two coffees and put them down, passing an expectant smile between us, as if hoping we’d been discussing marriage plans and babies.