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

by Karen Clarke

I handed the phone back to Charlie with trembling hands. ‘I don’t understand.’ My voice was barely audible. ‘Nobody knew this stuff but me and you.’

  ‘I didn’t leak it,’ he said.

  ‘Of course you didn’t.’ It hadn’t even crossed my mind. ‘Neither did I.’

  ‘Obviously, but someone did.’

  His face blurred through a haze of tears. ‘But how would they have heard my conversation with Jay?’ I covered my face with my palms. ‘Charlie, he’ll think it was me.’

  ‘Drink your coffee,’ his voice softened. ‘You need caffeine.’

  ‘Who would do this?’ I lowered my shaking hands. ‘I thought sending a message about Jay to my former editor was bad enough.’

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘That’s what I was upset about just now, but this…’ I gestured to his phone. ‘This is so much worse.’

  ‘Why did you send her a text?’ Charlie sounded confused.

  ‘It was a mistake,’ I explained, the words like dust in my mouth.

  ‘Christ, Nat, you’ve really messed up.’

  ‘You think?’ I glared at him, then subsided. He was right. I’d messed up badly, yet the misdirected message wasn’t even the worst of my problems. ‘Nicolas will be so, so angry,’ I said, my stomach twisting with fresh anguish. ‘He’s bound to have got wind of this. Editors are always on social media, he must have seen it.’ But it wasn’t Nicolas’s reaction I was really worried about. It was Jay’s. ‘I have to go.’

  As I made to stand up, Charlie caught my wrist. ‘Natalie, what happened last night?’

  ‘It was amazing.’ A sob leaked into my voice. ‘I really like him, Charlie.’

  ‘Could someone at his end have done this?’

  My mind flew to Simon, but I quickly dismissed the thought. ‘Jay told me that no one knew he was planning to retire and he keeps himself to himself, most of the time. I just don’t see how anyone could have found out.’

  ‘He’s not…’ Charlie drew his hand away. ‘I know you won’t want to hear this, Natalie, but… pillow talk?’

  ‘He’s not sleeping with Susie and even if he was, I can’t imagine he’d tell her the stuff he told me.’ Charlie’s slightly pitying look sent fresh tears to my eyes. ‘I know you think I’m being blind, because of Matt, but I’m not. I’d know if I was being played.’

  He puffed out his cheeks. ‘It was the talk of the place first thing,’ he said, casting his gaze around the café, though if everyone had been gossiping before they’d now lost interest. ‘Giselle saw it trending online and started showing everyone.’

  Blinking, I turned to see her clearing one of the tables outside with a little more vigour than usual. ‘Charlie, you haven’t told her anything, have you?’

  ‘Of course I haven’t.’ He sounded hurt. ‘How can you even ask?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I shook my head, trying to clear my suspicions. ‘But you know she hates me—’

  ‘Even if I was seeing her, which I’m not, and madly in love, which I’m not, I’d never repeat anything you’d told me in confidence.’

  ‘I know you wouldn’t, Charlie, I’m sorry,’ I repeated. ‘I just… this is so awful.’

  ‘I know, but no one’s died, and if there’s anything between you and Max Weaver, he’ll believe it wasn’t you who leaked your conversation.’ He nudged my plate forward but the thought of eating made me want to retch. ‘You should probably talk to him, and to Nicolas Juilliard.’

  As he finished speaking, my phone vibrated. Fighting a wave of nausea, I turned it over. Jools had texted.

  I’ve just read that Jay Merino is filming in your neck of the woods! Any chance of you ‘bumping’ into him? I remember you telling me he’d promised to let you interview him one day! Hope you’re well, babe, speak soon XX

  ‘Oh God,’ I moaned. There was another message, from Mum.

  You didn’t tell me Max Weaver was on the island! Anything to do with the exciting assignment you mentioned? Call me soon, sweetheart (how’s your dad?). Love, Mum xx

  ‘At least your name wasn’t mentioned anywhere,’ said Charlie, concern etching his features. ‘I read the whole thing and it just mentions “a reliable source”. There’s speculation it was an extra from the film.’

  ‘The only reliable source as far as Jay’s concerned will be me.’

  ‘Someone must have overheard your conversation.’

  Again, I thought of Simon, appearing and disappearing; never far from Jay. He’d made his distrust of me plain, which would be a good cover for his own betrayal. But what would he have to gain by contacting the press? Unless Jay’s imminent retirement meant he was worried he’d be out of a job – that Jay would no longer require the services of his old friend.

  A million thoughts collided as I switched off my phone and swung my laptop bag over my shoulder. ‘I’ll call Nicolas, then I’m going to Saint-Clément to try to talk to Jay.’

  ‘Shall I come with you?’ Charlie stood too, shoulders hunched around his ears. ‘You could use some support.’

  More tears threatened to spill over. ‘Thanks, but I’ll be fine,’ I lied, catching Dolly firing frantic eye signals at Charlie. ‘Besides, it looks like you’re needed here.’

  * * *

  I half-ran back to the house, powered by panic and despair, and burst through the door to find Dad sat on the arm of the sofa, watching the news on TV. A ticker tape rolled beneath a shot of Max Weaver, and I didn’t need to read the words on it to know all the channels had picked up the story about Jay’s imminent retirement.

  ‘Did you know about this?’ Dad turned down the volume as the photo switched to one of Max Weaver hurtling out of a helicopter, arms outstretched, his face distorted by high velocity while someone fired a round of bullets at him.

  ‘Yes,’ I whispered, with a plummet of misery as I remembered Jay telling me he did his own stunts. Even before the shot switched to a bank of reporters clustered outside his hotel, I knew that whatever had started between us would now be over. ‘He told me it all yesterday, in confidence.’

  Dad turned, alerted by my dry and creaky voice. ‘How come it’s ended up on Sky News?’

  I burst into tears. ‘I’ve no idea.’

  In an instant, I was in Dad’s arms, and he was stroking my hair and shushing me, just as he used to when I’d had a nightmare, and he had to reassure me there wasn’t a porcelain doll underneath my bed, about to come to life (I’d been banned from watching Are You Afraid of the Dark? after that episode). ‘What’s happened?’ he said, when my sobs had subsided to an undignified snivel and I was squashed beside him on the sofa, a tissue pressed to my eyes.

  When I told him, his brow puckered. I recognised what Mum and I used to call his ‘Detective Marty’ face. ‘What’s the likeliest explanation?’ he said, crossing his ankles and wagging his foot – a sure sign he was thinking things over very carefully.

  ‘That someone overheard Jay and me talking in the garden at the hotel.’

  ‘There you are, then.’ He squeezed my hand. ‘Tell him that and you’ve nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Nothing to worry about?’ I leapt off the sofa and almost fell over the coffee table. ‘Things Jay told me in strictest confidence, because he trusted me, are plastered all over the news and social media, and as a result, there are reporters here on the island, outside his hotel and God only knows how they found out where he was staying, which he’ll be furious about, he hates publicity and…’ I was jabbing the air with my finger and emphasising like mad. ‘Not only that, his exclusive interview is no longer relevant because everyone knows about his future plans now, including his director, who, by the way, was hoping to make another film with Jay and will be livid.’

  ‘I thought this film was called The End?’

  ‘He wants to resurrect Max Weaver, but that’s not the point, Dad.’ Bits of shredded tissue floated to the floor as I waved my arm about. ‘Jay told me some things for the interview but some of it he told me as a… as a friend.
’ I almost choked on the word, imagining what Jay must be thinking now. He was probably regretting speaking to me at all.

  ‘He must really like you to have told you all that.’ Dad seemed unmoved by my outburst, as if he had every confidence that a simple conversation could resolve everything. And he must surely know from his policing days that life was never that simple. ‘You have to talk to him, Natalie.’

  ‘I’m planning to,’ I said. ‘If I can get near him, which I doubt.’

  ‘You have to at least try.’

  I nodded. ‘First, I need to explain all this to the editor at Magnifique.’ I blew my nose on a fresh piece of tissue from the toilet roll Dad had produced. ‘I’ll be in my room.’

  ‘I’ll fetch you a cup of tea.’

  As soon as I’d closed my bedroom door and switched on my phone, I saw that I’d missed several calls from Nicolas’s office, and my heart dropped through the floor.

  ‘Monsieur Juilliard, please,’ I said, as soon as the assistant picked up. It was the same one I’d spoken to before, but this time she didn’t bother with small talk, just said, ‘I’m putting you through,’ in a tone that could have cut through concrete.

  Seconds later, Nicolas’s voice filled my ear. ‘Natalee, I would not ’ave believed this of you.’ His tone was heavy with remonstration and regret, and although I’d found it slightly creepy at the time, I wished he’d go back to finding me alluring. ‘I gave you the opportunity you sounded so desperate for, and you throw it in my face like this?’ I imagined him flicking a hand up in despair. ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘It wasn’t me, Monsieur Juilliard.’ I was careful to keep any trace of tears or panic from my voice. ‘I’m devastated that this has happened.’

  ‘But, where else would this ’ave come from?’ he said, not unreasonably. ‘’E ’as not talked to anyone else. I take it only you ’ad this information.’

  ‘Exactement.’ It was hardly the time to impress him with French words – especially ones a five-year-old would have mastered – plus, I had talked to someone else, but only Charlie knew it all and he would never have gone to the press with it. ‘Why would I ruin my chance to work at Magnifique when it was my dream?’

  ‘Only you can answer that, Natalee.’ Nicolas paused, releasing a weighty sigh. ‘Maybe you wanted the notoriety, the five minutes of fame, or to be on, what is eet you English are obsessed with? To go in ze jungle and eat insects, or be on ze Love Island, non?’

  ‘Definitely non!’ A blast of anger burned through my anguish. ‘I’m a writer, I don’t want bloody notoriety. I want to be taken seriously.’ Something struck me. ‘Anyway, none of it was attributed to me, so how would I even achieve notoriety, as you put it?’

  ‘I ’ave no clue, Natalee. I agree something does not make sense, but ze fact remains, all ze news about Jay Merino is now public knowledge, so I ’ave no need for you to write anything.’

  I dropped on my bed, the mattress sagging beneath me. I wanted to throw back my head and howl, but instead pinched the bridge of my nose and said, ‘Monsieur Juilliard, I can put this right, I promise you. I’ll talk to Jay, persuade him all this will be great publicity for his foundation, if he’ll agree to the interview going ahead.’ Fat chance, screamed an inner voice. He won’t give you the time of day, after this. ‘There are things that weren’t revealed, for instance, he likes to go sailing to relax and—’

  ‘Fleur has already reached out to him,’ he smoothly interrupted. ‘She ’as an idea ’ow to turn things around, to make this work in ’is favour.’

  Fleur had reached out to Jay? Of course she had. She was probably loving this. I could just imagine her persuading him that I wasn’t to be trusted, that she knew – from Nicolas – I’d been to the hotel to talk to him and that, even if it had been indirectly, the leak must have come from me. ‘But I can do that,’ I said. ‘Please, Nicolas, just let me try.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Natalee.’ To his credit, he sounded as if he meant it. ‘Whatever ’as ’appened, I cannot work with people ’oo are indiscreet.’

  My body sagged like a collapsed tent. I had been indiscreet. Confiding in Charlie, texting Jackie accidentally, like an overexcited teenager; writing a column for Expats about Jay – albeit without his name attached – partly because I’d been short of alternative ideas. What sort of writer didn’t have ideas? I didn’t deserve to write for Magnifique. Or even Expats.

  ‘Would you like to ’ave dinner again sometime?’ Nicolas’s voice turned treacly. ‘We can still ’ave a nice time, Natalee. I like to be around young people with spirit, they remind me why I got into zis business in ze first place, and why I find eet so ’ard to give up.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Nicolas,’ I snapped. ‘You don’t ’ave to, I mean have to give it up altogether, but you could hand over the day-to-day running to Fleur, if that’s what she wants. You know she’d do a bloody good job, but maybe that’s what you’re scared of – that a woman could do a better job than the mighty Nicolas Juilliard.’

  I cut him off before he could reply and felt a leap of horror. Talk about burning all my bridges at once. At least while he’d found me ‘charming’ there was a possibility he’d have given me another chance to write for the magazine down the line, which was more than Fleur would do.

  I quickly logged on to the Expats website to see that Sandy had posted my column up and read it through half-shut eyes. Actually, it wasn’t half bad, and Jay’s name wasn’t mentioned. Maybe she hadn’t seen the breaking news and guessed who I’d been talking about, and had simply uploaded it in good faith. Unlike most editors, she wasn’t interested in publishing at any cost – though I doubted my words would reach a very wide audience anyway. Until I scrolled down and saw the comments. There were triple the usual amount already and all of them complimentary (words like hilarious and wish that had happened to me! jumped out) even though it was clear they didn’t know I was talking about Jay. It had been shared numerous times and I allowed myself a small thrill of achievement. I thought I’d done well with a blog post I’d written in January about experiencing winter in a country I’d only previously visited during summer. Who knew it could rain for days on end on the Île de Ré, and that the sky would be the same shark-grey as it is in the UK? It had prompted twenty-five responses from readers detailing their experiences, but this was on another level.

  Then I reread the news articles and had to squeeze my eyes shut to stop the tears from leaking out. How could I ever convince Jay I wasn’t the source? It was almost word for word what he’d told me. When I imagined confronting him, all I could see was the picture I’d looked at online, his eyes like those of a tiger crouched to attack as he spotted the long lens of a camera trained on him. But I knew I had to try.

  Seventeen

  Dad offered to drive me to Saint-Clément where Jay was filming, probably wary of my state of mind and the fact that I’d barely driven since moving to the island.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ I insisted, trying to moderate my tone so as not to alarm him further. ‘I promise I’ll be careful.’

  He didn’t argue as he plucked the key out of the kitchen drawer, where it tended to languish most days, but in the rear-view mirror his face was a mask of anxiety as he watched me drive away. When I stalled at the end of the street, he started jogging towards me, and I lurched into gear and pulled away with a cocktail of emotions churning in my stomach.

  If I could just talk to Jay, I was sure I could sort this out. He’d said he trusted me and, after last night, he surely wouldn’t believe I could betray him. He must know I’d have nothing to gain and everything to lose by contacting the press and revealing everything he’d told me. As I drove, I wondered how he’d found out – whether it had been when reporters turned up outside the hotel, or whether he’d seen the story online. I imagined his phone endlessly ringing, then remembered he didn’t have one. A small blessing, but all the same, panic clawed at my throat as I imagined his reaction. I had to see him whatever it took, and try to work
this out.

  I arrived at Saint-Clément on autopilot, grateful I’d at least remembered to stay on the right side of the road. The thought of being incapacitated by a car accident, with Jay believing I’d royally stitched him up, was excruciating.

  The lighthouse was at the furthest point of the island like the bow of a ship, and as I parked by one of the nearby cafés, I could already see two tiny tussling figures at the top – presumably Max Weaver and Nova, battling for supremacy. Gathered around the base of the lighthouse were crew, cameras and cables, and beyond that, an assembled crowd, no doubt drawn by the action unfolding. It was almost a shame that Jay would be too busy fighting his ‘opponent’ to take in the sweeping view of the best beach on the island. As I jumped from the car, I imagined for a heady second us having a picnic on the long curve of pale sand once filming was done for the day. I could drive to the market five minutes away for provisions and we’d eat on the cashmere blanket Dad kept in the boot of the car as we watched the sun go down.

  Then reality roared back. The last thing on Jay’s mind would be having a picnic with me – or doing anything else, apart from bitterly regret the day I’d (literally) thrown myself at him. My distress hardened into determination as I rushed towards the lighthouse, skirting the museum in front to avoid being seen, but as I drew closer, Brian spotted me and said something to Simon, who whipped round and stalked towards me. Even from a distance, his face looked thunderous, and any hopes I’d nursed that the news somehow hadn’t got through, instantly died. Simon looked like a man on a mission – one that could end in my murder.

  We stopped abruptly, a few feet from each other, as though a trapdoor had opened, and Simon’s face wrenched in disgust. ‘You’ve got a nerve coming here, after what you’ve done.’

  ‘I haven’t done anything.’ Forcing myself to breathe, I shielded my eyes with my hand as the sun slid out from behind a passing cloud. ‘And Jay invited me here.’