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

by Karen Clarke

  ‘Take your time, it’s quietened down in there.’ She squeezed Charlie’s shoulder and winked at me, and I experienced a stab of guilt that my feelings for him would never be what she hoped. ‘Talk as long as you like,’ she added.

  ‘You heard her.’ Charlie grinned as she went back inside, the sun glinting off his untidy hair. ‘Anything else you’d like to share?’

  A memory of the night before shot into my head. ‘Oh my God, I haven’t even told you about meeting Nicolas Juilliard and Fleur Dupont.’

  * * *

  Dad wasn’t in when I got back, no doubt out on another date. I ran upstairs, fired up my laptop, and quickly emailed Nicolas, knowing it would be easier to put in writing what I’d struggle to say on the phone. I explained that the interview had happened already and promised I could work with what I had, and that he wouldn’t be disappointed once he read it.

  I was certain he’d be angry, but he replied straight away to say how much he was looking forward to seeing it.

  It is unorthodox, but that could work very well. It is good to surprise our readers, and whatever you have, it is nothing that anyone else has, so it will be good, Natalie. You must come to my office soon, and meet everyone.

  I read his message as though he was speaking, almost surprised to see only one ‘e’ at the end of my name. Then I read it again and clapped my hands. I was going to be in Magnifique! Well, my words were. And my photograph! I’d need a good headshot, like Fleur’s, perhaps in black and white. Maybe I should get my hair professionally straightened, so I looked less like a poodle. Not that I’d written anything yet. I still had no idea where to start, but the words would come, as they always did. I just needed to let them percolate for a while.

  I scrolled through the photos I’d shown Charlie, and had to admit they had an amateurish sort of charm. I was no Annie Leibovitz, and I wasn’t sure the pictures were magazine quality, but they were natural and well lit, thanks to the sun bouncing off the walls. In most of them, Jay was smiling and relaxed – the exact opposite of Max Weaver’s short-tempered scowl. Mostly, his face was angled away, but in one he was looking directly at the camera and when I zoomed in, my heart missed a couple of beats. He seemed to be staring right at me, and I wondered what he’d been thinking. Hopefully not, I wish to God she’d hurry up and leave me alone.

  Maybe I’d find out on Friday evening.

  Simon was in a couple of the shots, looking comically out of place in the sunny surroundings, with his all-black outfit and murderous eyes. I wondered what on earth he did for relaxation. I couldn’t imagine him putting his feet up with a novel, or playing tennis. I giggled, imagining he was a robot, and that Jay plugged him in at the end of the day to recharge.

  I sat for a moment and cracked my knuckles (a habit that made Charlie cringe), opening paragraphs for my interview rolling through my head.

  Women love him and men want to be him, but in the flesh, Jay Merino couldn’t be further from his alter ego, Max Weaver… a bit hackneyed.

  Jay Merino is SO much hotter in real life… definitely not. Even though he was.

  Despite mega box-office success, the man famous for playing Max Weaver is as much an enigma now as he was when he auditioned for… I couldn’t remember the name of the zombie film he’d starred in off the top of my head, and anyway, it wasn’t a good enough hook. More Chatter than Magnifique, the sort of paragraph Jackie would have loved. In fact, she would have killed for an interview with Jay Merino – it could possibly have saved the magazine from going under, and given it a bit more gravitas. Imagining her reaction made me think of Jools, and I got out my phone and tapped in a message.

  You’ll never guess who I spoke to today! Jay Merino!! He’s filming in Saint-Martin-de-Ré! He’s SO nice, not at all like he is on screen! Hotter, too!! Hope all’s well over there! X

  Too many exclamation marks, but it was that sort of message. Even so, as soon as I’d sent it, I wondered whether I’d done the right thing, and reassured myself it wouldn’t go any further. When she’d left her beauty editor job at Chatter, Jools had retrained as a massage therapist, and now worked at a top-end spa in Hertfordshire. She no longer had any connections to the magazine world (apart from me), having being scarred by her year at Gossip, where she had to schmooze Z-list celebrities at all hours, just to get an exclusive about their upcoming fitness DVD. Even when we’d worked together, she’d been the soul of discretion, much preferring the make-up freebies that came her way to inventing headlines for stories that were often made up. We’d kept in touch by text, and she’d been over to visit the year before, and was coming again in the summer. I knew she’d be thrilled that I’d talked to Jay Merino and wouldn’t tell anyone, just as I’d never revealed that she once massaged a famous boyband member with terrible back acne.

  I reminded myself Jools had a busy job and wouldn’t reply immediately, and busied myself with housework for the rest of the afternoon in an effort to calm my racing thoughts. I’d just finished, and was debating whether to give Mum a call, when the front door opened and Dad ushered in a birdlike woman with a crest of ash-blonde hair that made me think of a cockatiel.

  ‘Natalie, this is Yvette.’ He looked a bit bashful. ‘I’ve offered to teach her English,’ he said. ‘Yvette, this is my daughter.’

  This was a departure. Dad hadn’t brought back a date before, or offered to teach one English, as far as I knew. ‘Bonjour, Yvette.’ I stuck out a hand, determined to give her the benefit of the doubt. It wasn’t her fault she wasn’t Mum – or even Marie next door – and she had a pleasant enough smile, though her teeth looked pointy and sharp. She was dressed in a black blazer with a white turtleneck, black trousers and high-heeled boots, and her handshake yanked me forwards.

  ‘Bonjour, Natalie.’ She had a loud, sing-song voice. ‘It is so kind to meet you.’

  ‘Good,’ said Dad, too loudly.

  Misunderstanding, she nodded demurely. ‘Merci.’

  ‘No, I meant, “it’s good to meet you”.’ My insides scrunched up. Dad had over-emphasised ‘good’ as if she was five years old. ‘Good.’ He nodded slowly. ‘Not kind.’ He shook his head. This was going to be excruciating. ‘It is good to meet you.’

  Yvette gave rein to a shrill giggle. ‘Marty, you break me up,’ she said in heavily accented English.

  ‘Crack,’ Dad almost shouted. ‘Cra-a-a-a-ck,’ he repeated, stretching the word to breaking point. ‘Not break.’ He shook his head. ‘Crack.’

  Yvette’s throaty laughter quickly turned to wheezing. ‘Crack,’ she echoed, bashing her chest with her palm. ‘You crack me, Marty.’

  ‘UP. You,’ he prodded the air near her nose. ‘CRACK, meeeeeeee,’ his finger turned inwards, ‘UP!’ Now he was pointing at the ceiling, while Yvette nodded ferociously.

  ‘CRACK, meeeeeeeee, UP!’

  ‘I’m going for a walk,’ I said, pretending not to see the panicked look Dad threw me. But I didn’t miss the way his gaze fell on a photo partially hidden in the window recess, of Mum holding out the enormous cake she’d made for his fiftieth birthday, the words ‘To My darling Marty’ iced on top, circled by so many candles we’d joked about having the fire brigade on standby. As I closed the front door on another blast of laugh-coughing, I couldn’t help hoping this date with Yvette would be his last.

  In my hurry to get away and think some more about Jay, and how to write up our conversation, I almost crashed into Larry and Barbara.

  ‘We’ve been in Saint-Martin today,’ said Barbara, without preamble, her sculpted, straw-hued hair not moving in the gentle breeze. She was clutching Larry’s arm as though she might topple over without his support. Wearing high heels on the island’s cobbled streets was never a great idea.

  ‘Sounds lovely,’ I said, trying to edge past.

  ‘You’ll never guess who we bumped into?’

  I froze. Had Marie told them that Jay was staying at L’Hôtel des Toiras? Was that why they’d gone there? Did it matter? The toothpaste was probably o
ut of the tube anyway, as Dad would say. Word would have spread about filming by now, and while locals might not be bothered, it was bound to be a big deal to anyone visiting.

  ‘I think I probably can.’ In spite of myself, I couldn’t suppress a grin.

  ‘You might know him.’ Larry hitched up the straining waistband of his jeans. He was big all over, teeth and hair included, though his eyes were hard to see as his cheeks bunched up in a smile. ‘He’s pretty well-known, from what I gather.’

  ‘That’s an understatement!’ I suddenly wanted to sing from the rooftops that, not only did I know Jay Merino, I’d spent an hour with him that morning, and would be seeing him again very soon – that we were going on a date.

  Wait. It wasn’t a date, by any stretch of the imagination. It was two people who’d forged an unexpected connection, spending some time together, to hopefully get to know each other better. That’s a date, I imagined Charlie saying and my mood swung sky-high. In my head Charlie was right: I was going on a date with Jay Merino!

  ‘… absolutely divine,’ Barbara was saying, closing her eyes in apparent ecstasy, revealing a layer of pea-green shadow in the crease of her eyelids.

  ‘I can’t argue with that,’ I said, a little smugly.

  ‘You’ve eaten there?’

  ‘Sorry?’ My gaze swung to Larry.

  ‘You’ve eaten at his restaurant?’

  What was he talking about? ‘Restaurant?’

  Larry’s monstrous eyebrows shot up. ‘The one run by Jacques Blanc,’ he said, referring to a well-known chef, who’d appeared on several French cookery shows and was as renowned for launching careers as he was for being roguishly handsome to women (and men) of a certain age.

  ‘Ah, right, of course.’ I had a giddy urge to giggle, which was odd. I was acting like a lovestruck teen, assuming they’d meant Jay, looking for an excuse to talk about him. Was I in love? I couldn’t be, not this soon. But I hadn’t felt this strongly about Matt, even in the beginning. Maybe I was infatuated with Jay or – more likely – just overwhelmingly grateful that he’d thrown me a career lifeline by agreeing to let me interview him.

  ‘He was talking about his new cookbook,’ Barbara went on, pretending to swoon. ‘Talk about dish of the day!’

  Larry gave an indulgent eye-roll. ‘Good job I’m not the jealous type,’ he boomed, and I joined in their laughter as I carried on down the street, not sure where I was going. I thought about popping back to the café, but I’d distracted Charlie enough for one day, and rolling up again would only fuel Dolly’s daughter-in-law fantasies.

  As I dithered at the end of the street, debating whether to go to the beach where I could walk and think in peace, a nippy white Citroën drew up and the passenger window slid down. Simon leaned over, his face ruddy with heat – or anger, it was hard to tell – and barked, ‘Get in.’

  My heart gave a big thud. I peered inside, but the back seat was empty. Was Simon trying to kidnap me? ‘My parents warned me never to get in a car with a strange man.’ It was meant to be light-hearted, but came out sounding rude. ‘I mean, in a stranger’s car.’

  ‘You’ve met me before. Twice,’ he pointed out. ‘I saw you just this morning.’

  Yes, but I don’t know you, I thought, but kept it to myself. ‘Is… is that my bike?’ Peering closer, I could see the handlebars poking up from the boot.

  ‘You left it outside the hotel.’

  ‘Well, it’s very kind of you to bring it back.’ I was getting a crick in my neck from peeking in through the window. ‘How did you know where to find me?’

  ‘You told Jay yesterday where you lived, so it wasn’t exactly hard.’ He was starting to sound bored. ‘Are you going to get in?’

  ‘I can just get my bike out and wheel it back,’ I said. ‘The house is just up there.’

  ‘I know, I saw you come out, but time’s marching on.’ He looked closely at the clock on the dashboard, as if to push home the point. ‘You can get it out later.’

  Later? I supposed I ought to be reassured he was planning to bring me back. ‘Does Jay know you’re here?’

  He snorted. ‘Of course he does.’ He leaned over and thrust open the door. ‘Do you think I’d be here, otherwise?’ he said grimly. ‘He’s asked me to take you to his cottage in Sainte-Marie.’

  Thirteen

  Not completely convinced it wasn’t a ruse by Simon to get me in the car, so he could somehow dispose of me, I said, ‘Why didn’t Jay come and get me himself?’

  ‘Filming overran and he wanted to have a shower and meet you there.’ He didn’t hide his annoyance at being questioned and when I didn’t move, due to a dizzying sense of excitement, he added, ‘He wants to make dinner for you, OK?’

  What? Galvanised, I clambered into the car, my heartbeat loud in my ears. Simon might be lying, but I was willing to risk being murdered on the off-chance Jay Merino was actually going to cook for me at his cottage.

  Just in case, I rummaged for my phone in my bag with shaky fingers and shot off a text to Charlie.

  Off to Sainte-Marie to see X’s cottage!!!

  Better not write Jay’s name, but Charlie would know who I meant.

  I think he’s cooking me dinner there!

  I wanted to add a gazillion emojis to sum up how I was feeling, but felt the burn of Simon’s gaze as he pulled up at the junction leading out of the village.

  He’s sent his miserable git of a bodyguard, Simon, to pick me up xx

  At least if I went missing, Charlie would know where to start looking, and who to point the finger at when my grisly remains were found.

  ‘You’d better not be giving out details,’ Simon warned, with faintly sinister undertones. ‘You ever heard of security?’

  ‘Have you ever heard of good manners?’ I fired back. ‘I don’t even know if you’re telling the truth about where we’re going.’

  ‘Why did you get in then?’ His knowing smirk suggested he knew exactly why I’d dived into the car. ‘Do you normally drop everything,’ he made everything sound suggestive, ‘to meet someone you barely know, or only famous people?’

  I supposed he had a point. ‘I’m just saying, I’m not vanishing for the evening without letting my dad know where I am.’ To prove a point, I typed a message to Dad.

  Eating out with a friend, should be back by 10.30, have a great evening! X

  Maybe with me out of the way, he’d relax a bit with Yvette, and show her his pen collection, or... maybe not his pen collection. Perhaps he could talk to her about his days in the police force… maybe not, considering it was ‘nothing like CSI’ and she might be either horrified or bored. Maybe his love of fishing. Or not. Most of the women he’d told had apparently glazed over after the first five minutes.

  Glancing at Simon, I noted his pained expression, and guessed he was trying to hold back a sneer at me texting my dad my whereabouts, like a fifteen-year-old.

  ‘Should we make small talk, or shall I just look at the scenery?’ I said.

  ‘Look at the scenery.’ His beard twitched and I thought I saw something that wasn’t fury in his eyes, but then he was staring stonily at the road ahead.

  ‘You could tell me a bit about yourself, and what it’s like working for Jay,’ I said. It was a twenty-minute drive to Sainte-Marie, but would feel a lot longer if we weren’t going to speak. ‘Do you carry a gun?’

  ‘You want me to talk, so you can publish it somewhere,’ His voice hardened. ‘I know what you journalists are like.’

  ‘I’m not a journalist, I’m a writer,’ I said, which prompted him to open his mouth and close it again, presumably at a loss. I felt a childish pinch of victory, until he said, ‘Either way, you have an agenda when you talk to people and I don’t like it.’

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ I said. ‘I’ve no interest in writing about bodyguards.’ His hands tightened on the steering wheel and, for a second, I thought I’d gone too far.

  ‘It’s nothing like you see in films.’ There was slightl
y less steel in his voice. ‘There’s a lot of standing around, and it’s not as if you can just zone out.’

  Encouraged, I said, ‘My dad says the same thing about being in the police force. That it’s different in real life, I mean. Like, overnight stake-outs with piles of empty coffee cups and food wrappers in the car, it just doesn’t happen in reality.’

  He nodded, but didn’t ask any questions.

  I thought about his dead mum and felt a softening. ‘Did you ever want to do anything else?’

  ‘Scenery,’ he said gruffly.

  Hiding a smile, I turned my attention to the view outside. Saint-Marie was the most rural village on the island, home to oyster farmers and wine growers, and the view seamlessly transitioned from sea, sand dunes and low-level rock shelves to vineyards and bramble-filled moors, where I’d taken long walks with Dad when I first came to the island, pouring out my heartbreak about Matt reuniting with Steph – though, in truth, once I’d left the UK, it had started to take on a lot less significance. The quick sale of our house and subsequent injection of cash had helped. At least I hadn’t had to worry about money, even if I’d been left with trust issues and an abiding dislike of Xboxes.

  As the Gothic church tower came into view, spotlit by early evening sunlight, my heart began to freewheel and my mind leapt forward to what might lay ahead. Simon – who’d proved to be a surprisingly careful driver – pulled the car down a winding road and turned into a driveway sheltered by trees. The cottage, like a lot of homes on the island, was a simple, one-storey dwelling with exposed stone walls, topped by a roof of round tiles, the shutters painted a delicate clover-green. But the real surprise was the pretty, enclosed garden, filled with laurels, mimosas and fig trees, all of which I could identify as I’d written a column about gardening for Expats, inspired by Dad’s attempts to recreate something similar to the garden Matt had created at home (not very successfully).