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

by Karen Clarke

  Wishful thinking, I felt like saying. It all came back to him. For all her ‘career woman scraping her way to the top by sheer hard work’ spiel, there was a part of her just trying to impress a man. ‘Well, you must be thrilled that this has happened,’ I said. ‘Have you spoken to Jay already?’

  Her smile was edged with triumph. ‘I am meeting him later,’ she said, repositioning the gold-chained strap of her bag. ‘We are having dinner here, in the hotel, where no paparazzi can take his picture. Just the great Phillipe Baptiste.’ Even I knew he was a top photographer, famous for his intimate celebrity portraits. ‘He has dropped everything to be here this evening.’

  ‘Well, good luck,’ I said dully. She’d got what she wanted. I hadn’t. There was no point continuing the conversation. ‘I hope it goes well.’

  ‘Luck does not come into it,’ she said, eyes glittering behind her glasses, and I remembered Jay saying being lucky’s not the same as being happy. ‘It will go well, because I am good at what I do.’ I could see she was happy, and genuinely excited – this interview would be up there with meeting Brad Pitt – and was shot through with envy. ‘I am going to wait for him here, so…’ she dipped her chin. ‘Goodbye, Natalie.’

  I watched her stride off in the direction of the restaurant, looking as if she owned the place, and a feeling of desolation washed over me. There was nothing else I could do, short of hanging around and delivering my number to Jay in person, but the chances of succeeding after our earlier encounter were slim to none.

  I heaved in a breath and turned to leave, almost bumping into a short, stout woman, standing right behind me. ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I said, leaping back. ‘I didn’t see you.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ she replied in careful English. Her face was soft and round like a bap, surrounded by a cloud of greying curls. I realised I’d seen her before, going into Marie’s house. ‘You’re Jeanne,’ I said.

  She nodded, a smile stretching her plump lips. ‘I ’eard you talking,’ she said. She was carrying a bale of white towels and nodded over the top. ‘You like me to give to ’im?’

  I followed her gaze. She was talking about the balled-up piece of paper in my fist, and I remembered she was the one who’d told Marie that Jay was staying at the hotel, despite the non-disclosure agreement, and this thought lit another. Jeanne had appeared out of nowhere, and must have overheard my conversation with Fleur from the shadows. Could she have eavesdropped on Jay and me in the garden? Her spoken English sounded good; her understanding might be even better. She came into contact with all nationalities, working at the hotel.

  ‘Jeanne, were you here yesterday?’ I tried not to think how offended Marie would be if she knew I was questioning her friend. ‘Mardi?’

  Her brow wrinkled. ‘Non,’ she said, with a decisive shake of her head. ‘Eez day off. I go wiz my ’usband to La Rochelle to visit our daughter, Marielle.’ It was clear she was telling the truth and I felt a combination of relief and disappointment as I wondered whether she’d told her daughter about Jay, and realised it didn’t matter. People gossiped when something out of the ordinary happened – it was human nature. And Jeanne wasn’t the one who’d ruined things for me with Jay. Looking at her more closely, I couldn’t even imagine her switching on a computer, though I was probably over-generalising.

  ‘You give?’ One careworn hand shot out from beneath the towels, and I found myself passing her my phone number. She palmed it into her apron pocket and with a nod and wink, vanished as quietly as she’d appeared on soft-soled shoes, and it wasn’t until I was driving back to Chamillon that I realised Fleur hadn’t asked me the obvious question: why I’d sabotaged my chances of interviewing Jay. Either, she didn’t care, or she knew that I couldn’t – wouldn’t – have done it.

  * * *

  I stopped at the café on the way back, unable to face Dad until I’d diluted what had happened by talking to Charlie, though I’d replied to Dad’s anxious texts, telling him not to worry and that I was fine.

  Charlie was outside, chatting to his friend Henri, who owned a restaurant in Saint-Martin. When Henri saw me, he slapped Charlie on the back and strode away with a friendly wave.

  ‘How did it go?’ Charlie peered more closely at my tear-ravaged face before taking my elbow and steering me across the road to the marina. After hoisting himself up onto the railings – which usually scared me in case he toppled backwards into the water – he said, ‘That bad?’

  Resting my arms on the rail beside him, I stared across the water, knowing if I so much as looked at him, I’d start crying again. ‘Worse,’ I said, and recounted what had happened, fixing my attention on a pair of blue and white fishing boats, bobbing side by side.

  When I’d finished there was silence, and I turned to see Charlie’s shoulders shaking with laughter. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, after making an effort to control himself, ‘it’s just the thought of you tearing up those steps with that bodyguard chasing you.’ He pressed his lips together, as if to stop more laughter erupting. ‘Imagine if they’d been filming and you turn up in Maximum Force.’

  ‘I’m glad you find it funny,’ I said, but felt myself smile. It was pretty funny. I’d have found it hilarious, if I hadn’t been the one being chased. ‘I didn’t know I had it in me to run that fast.’

  ‘So, Jay was angry?’

  ‘No,’ I said with a sad shake of my head. ‘I think I’d have preferred it if he was.’

  ‘He was disappointed.’

  ‘Exactly.’ My heart was heavy with the crushing realisation that I’d probably seen him for the last time – at least in real life. Tears threatened again. ‘As if I’d let him down.’

  ‘And you don’t think Fleur Dupont had anything to do with it?’

  ‘I don’t see how she could,’ I said. ‘Unless she was skulking about at the hotel when Jay and I were chatting. But no one apart from you and Dad knew I was going to meet him at that point. I didn’t even tell Nicolas.’

  ‘Maybe she’s been following you.’

  ‘Unlikely,’ I said. ‘She’s based in Paris.’

  ‘Except, she keeps turning up where you are.’

  I shrugged. ‘I’m sure she has better things to do than trail around after me.’

  ‘Maybe you’ll never know who it was.’ Charlie’s voice was sober now. ‘It might be better to let it go and move on.’

  ‘I don’t know if I can.’

  ‘At least your name still hasn’t come up anywhere.’

  ‘But Jay thinks it had something to do with me and that’s all I care about.’

  ‘Do you reckon that was the point?’ Charlie was massaging his chin, looking thoughtful. ‘Whoever it was, they wanted to make him doubt you?’

  ‘But no one knows he likes me like that.’ Apart from Simon.

  ‘No, but maybe they wanted to kill your interview.’

  ‘Only Fleur would have that motive, and I don’t see how she could have found out.’

  ‘Maybe someone’s got it in for Jay,’ suggested Charlie. ‘They wanted to make trouble for him, maybe with the director, to get their own back about something.’

  ‘Which brings me back to his bodyguard.’ But although we hadn’t seen eye to eye, I didn’t believe Simon capable of something like that, and told Charlie so.

  ‘You don’t really know him though, do you?’

  ‘True.’ I drew in a breath and let it out. ‘Maybe you’re right and I’ll never know, and it doesn’t matter anyway, because the damage has been done.’

  ‘Why don’t you come up and have something to eat?’ Charlie planted his feet back on the ground and dusted his hands together. ‘We’re closing shortly. I’ll cook us some dinner.’

  ‘Thanks, but I should get back.’ My nerve-endings felt raw and I was overcome with a longing for my bed. ‘Dad will be wondering where I am.’

  ‘Well, if it gets too much there, you can always stay over here.’ Charlie tried to engage me in a grin. ‘Mum would love that.’

  ‘I know
she would.’ I gave him a weary smile, feeling as if I’d aged ten years since I arrived at the café that morning, suspended in a bubble of bliss. ‘That’s probably why I shouldn’t.’

  ‘At least have an early night,’ he said, and I was comforted by his steadying hand on my shoulder. ‘Will you be OK?’

  I nodded, and with a final concerned look, he headed back to the café where Giselle, standing in the doorway, greeted him with a cheerful smile – though I noted he merely nodded at her as he walked past.

  It was a relief to find the house empty when I returned. There was a note from Dad on the kitchen table, letting me know there was some leftover soufflé if I was hungry. He must have gone on another date, unless he was back at Marie’s. I glanced at the fridge, but couldn’t summon the energy to open it. I hadn’t eaten for hours and was vaguely curious to know if Dad’s soufflé-making session had been a success, but couldn’t face food.

  Instead, I made a mug of tea and took it to my room, where I settled back on my bed and sipped the milky liquid, fighting a memory of Jay not quite meeting my eyes at the top of the lighthouse – as if, after all, I’d confirmed his worst suspicions about human nature.

  I checked my phone – no messages – and went online, heart racing. #JayMerino was trending on Twitter, but there wasn’t anything new and no one seemed to be interested in who had leaked the news. Comments ranged from speculation about Jay himself to deep love and admiration for Max Weaver, and plenty of crude comments along the lines of what they’d like to do to him that I quickly scrolled past without looking at.

  I skim-read a piece posted several hours ago by The Sun, but it was only a rehash of what had already been posted, the only fresh news a single line at the end: The actor has declined to comment. I imagined Jay fending off reporters; pictured them thrusting microphones at him, spitting questions, demanding answers, bringing up his brother’s death, and I wondered whether one of them was Jackie’s contact, snapping pictures of Jay’s furious face for Gossip. I gave a strangled sob as I switched off my phone. This was all my fault. I may not have talked to the Daily Mail, or whoever, but if I hadn’t gone looking for Jay, we wouldn’t have had the conversation and there’d have been nothing to leak. If only Marie hadn’t told Dad that Jay was staying on the island. If only Jeanne hadn’t told Marie…

  The slice of sky outside my window grew inky and I wondered what Jay was doing. I’m sorry, I thought, willing the words across the airwaves to wherever he was. Probably in a clinch with Fleur Dupont, after being beguiled by her over dinner, determined to cast me from his mind – if he hadn’t done so already.

  The thought was like a knife in my heart and I put my mug down, slid under my duvet, and cried myself to sleep.

  Nineteen

  I woke to daylight and lay in a haze, blissfully blank – until my mind flashed back to the day before. I groaned and rolled over, trying to blot out the memories, and heard voices chatting downstairs, one male and one female. Dad’s date must have stayed overnight.

  ‘Yuk.’ I yanked a pillow over my face, then remembered his reaction to Yvette’s attempted kiss and put it back. It was more likely that Marie had popped in, or maybe Barbara, suggesting an outing somewhere with her and Larry. Dad would probably offer to show them the eco-museum of salt marshes in Loix, which was one of those places he found endlessly fascinating. The island was full of salt workers, still using age-old techniques, and I’d written about them for Expats (‘Things to See and Do on the Île de Ré!’) but had a limited interest in salt – other than as an accessory to chips.

  ‘Natalie!’ he called up the stairs, as if he’d intuited I was awake. My door was ajar, and when I realised he must have checked on me when he came in, the twist in my stomach tightened. I was living with my dad, still causing him anxiety, as if I was sixteen again. Except, at sixteen, the worst I’d gone through was a phase of rising at sundown at the weekend, like a vampire, leading him to worry I was depressed. (It was laziness.)

  ‘I’ll be down in five!’ I called back, knowing he’d come up if I didn’t. My legs felt like concrete when I swung them out of bed; a reminder – as if I needed one – of yesterday’s wild pursuit, and the sight of my puffy, swollen-lidded face and crumpled clothes in the mirror sent me scurrying to the bathroom, tearing my top off as I went. After a brief shower – no humming this morning – and an attempt at repairing my face with concealer and mascara, I pulled on clean jeans and a long-sleeved top, and scraped my hair into a tight, high bun. I didn’t have the energy to deal with it properly.

  I slowed as I made my way downstairs, leg muscles throbbing with fatigue, pasting a smile on my face so as not to scare Dad’s guest, but when I saw who he’d been talking to, I was the one who cried out in surprise.

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘Oh good heavens, Natalie, I barely recognised you with all your hair off your face.’ She moved quickly towards me and pulled me into a tight embrace.

  ‘How can you not recognise your own daughter?’ I hugged her back, happy to see her. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘What do you think?’ She drew away and placed soft hands on my cheeks, staring into my eyes like a hypnotist. ‘Your dad called yesterday and said he was worried about you.’

  ‘Dad,’ I chided. He was stirring something in a pan on the hob, looking faintly embarrassed but pleased – for me, or because Mum was here, it was difficult to tell. Probably both. ‘I told you I was fine.’

  ‘You didn’t look it.’ He gave Mum a look so layered, it was impossible to tell which emotion was uppermost. ‘I knew your mother would understand,’ he said. ‘We speak the same language.’ I had the feeling he was referring to more than actual language. ‘She got the first available flight and I went to meet her at the airport.’

  So that’s where he’d been when I got back. ‘You didn’t have the car,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Marie lent me hers.’

  Mum was hugging my arm and stiffened at the mention of Marie. ‘I must pop round and thank her later.’ She reached up to pet my bun as if it was a hamster. ‘This is adorable.’

  ‘Mum,’ I said with a smile, feeling about seven years old. I seemed to be ranging through all the ages but my actual one, since waking up.

  ‘So, what’s been going on?’ she said, pulling me across to the table. ‘Dad was telling me it’s all to do with the actor.’

  ‘Ah, so that’s why you’re here.’ I perched on the edge of the table while Mum settled herself on a chair, looking perfectly at home – as if we were back in our kitchen in England. ‘You’re hoping to get a look at Jay Merino.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ she said, taking hold of my hand. ‘Although, if you can arrange it…’ Her eyebrows did a little jig. ‘I’m joking,’ she said, while Dad chuckled indulgently.

  They seemed perky for a pair who must not have had much sleep. Both were fully dressed, Dad in the clothes he’d worn the day before, Mum in smart blue jeans and a maroon sweatshirt with a horse’s head on the front. Dad’s boots and Mum’s trainers were side by side on the mat by the door, next to her little silver suitcase on wheels. ‘Have you been to bed?’ I said, realising at once how it sounded. ‘I mean…’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Mum said calmly, stroking a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘We’ve been talking all night.’ She and Dad exchanged a look that reminded me of a time when I’d come home from school to find them side by side on the sofa, Mum’s head on Dad’s shoulder, watching a black and white film, the curtains partly drawn. ‘Daddy took the day off,’ Mum had said, drawing me down between them. ‘It’s our wedding anniversary today.’ They’d looked at each other in a way that had made me feel soft inside, and I realised now that look – the one that had summed up what they meant to each other – was back, as if it had never been away. ‘We want to help,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t you have things to do back home?’

  She flicked a dismissive hand. ‘Nothing that can’t wait,’ she said. ‘There are things that matter mor
e.’

  Dad briefly stopped stirring, as if hoping her words encompassed him, and I realised that even if I was incapable of sorting out my own life, I could help them sort out theirs.

  ‘Honestly, Mum, I’m glad you’re here, but I’m fine.’ Before she could reply, I added, ‘Has Dad shown you around?’

  ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘We didn’t want to wake you up.’ Her eyes skimmed the kitchen appreciatively. ‘I must say, it’s even nicer than it looks on video.’

  ‘On video?’ Dad dropped the wooden spoon.

  ‘I mean, in the pictures Natalie showed me.’ Mum was as close to blushing as I’d ever seen her and I wondered whether, if I’d told Dad she’d insisted I show her every room – plus the garden and even the shed – on my phone, he might not have been so keen to start dating again. He might even have picked up the phone and had a proper conversation with her. But although I’d suspected Mum’s curiosity might be rooted in jealousy, I’d assumed it was because he appeared to be managing without her, not because she longed to be here with him.

  ‘Listen, you can have my bed if you like, Mum,’ I said, impulsively. ‘I’m staying at the café tonight. I’m working on an assignment with Charlie.’ It would be a good way to give them some time alone – providing Charlie didn’t mind.

  ‘Oh, I’d love to see him while I’m here.’ Mum rose and whipped the wooden spoon off Dad, just as she used to whenever he’d tried to make porridge at home, saving it before it burnt.

  ‘What assignment?’ Dad’s eyebrows crinkled with suspicion. ‘I thought you were trying to sort out this interview mess.’

  ‘Oh, it’s sorted.’ I made sure to inject my voice with conviction. ‘I spoke to Jay yesterday, and he knows it wasn’t me who leaked the news. He’s not angry or anything.’