by Karen Clarke
I wish.
‘So, you’ll be seeing him again?’
‘Well, probably not. He’s very busy.’
‘Do you know who did it?’ Mum removed the pan from the hob while Dad took out three bowls. I was starting to feel like Goldilocks. Or was it one of the bears? ‘When I saw that stuff about Jay Merino on the news, I had no idea you were involved.’
Tiredness rose in me like a wave. I couldn’t face going over it all again. ‘No, but it’s OK,’ I said, jumping up and taking three spoons from the drawer. ‘I’m doing this thing with Charlie now, about… about the, er, the restaurant industry, and how it’s… and cafés, and how they’re in competition. With restaurants. The crossover between cafés and restaurants and some behind-the-scenes stuff about what really goes on in the kitchen.’ I babbled. ‘I’m going to talk to Charlie’s friend, he owns a restaurant.’ It wasn’t a bad idea, now I thought about it. Henri was bound to have plenty of stories.
‘What about the interview for that posh magazine?’ Dad had slipped into Detective Marty mode, stroking his chin and furrowing his brow. ‘I thought it was a done deal.’
‘Oh, someone else is doing that now.’ I busied myself at the sink, rinsing out the dishcloth and swiping it over the taps. ‘She’s an experienced journalist, so it’s probably for the best.’
‘But, Natalie…’
‘Leave it, Marty.’ Mum spoke gently, giving me one of her searching looks. ‘She knows we’re here if she needs us.’
‘Thanks, Mum.’ Swallowing a surge of tears, I forced myself back to the table. ‘Can I have some porridge?’ I said. ‘And please make sure it’s not too hot or too cold.’
* * *
After breakfast, which went down surprisingly well, thanks to Mum’s intervention and a scattering of blueberries, I messaged Charlie.
Is the offer to stay with you still open?
Course it is, you donut he replied. Come whenever you’re ready x
I flung some things in my rucksack and checked my phone. No missed call from Jay, but I hadn’t truly expected one. For all I knew, Jeanne hadn’t had a chance to pass him my number and even if she had, he might have thrown it away. Even so, I felt a hard dip of disappointment in my stomach. That was it, then. Unless I went old-school and wrote him a letter and took it to the hotel, but even so, what could I possibly say? The fact remained that the things he’d told me had gone public in the most underhand way, and unless it was someone from his side (Simon) and I could prove it, nothing had changed.
My brain raked around for answers. Had someone overheard me talking to Charlie at the café about my meeting with Jay? But unless a customer had managed to slip through the café into the courtyard and somehow camouflaged themselves, it was unlikely.
Even if Dolly had overheard and understood our conversation when she’d brought out our coffees, there was no way she’d have called a newspaper and passed it on. The thought was ludicrous.
Tired of searching for answers, I looked for Mum and Dad instead and found them in the garden, admiring the colourful geraniums Dad had planted because they were easy to grow. After hugging them both, and promising Mum we could go shopping the following day, I cycled to the café beneath an overcast sky, hopeful that at least if my parents reunited, something good would have come of my fall from grace.
In the café, the air rang with chatter and the clatter of cutlery. Dolly was in the kitchen, preparing for what she called the lunchtime siege, and said Charlie had gone to the bank to get some change for the till. ‘He told me you’re staying the night,’ she said, oblivious to Giselle’s cold-eyed look as she coasted through with an armful of plates, catching Dolly’s words.
‘It’s platonic,’ I said, making sure Giselle could hear. If she felt about Charlie the way I’d started to feel about Jay, I didn’t want her to think there was anything between us.
‘That’s what I’m worried about,’ chuckled Dolly, thinking I was talking to her.
‘Seriously,’ I said to Giselle, who was standing with her back to me, radiating dislike. ‘If you want to ask Charlie out, be my guest, but if he says no, it’s nothing to do with me.’ I realised she wouldn’t understand and tried to find the right words in French, but she’d already turned and was heading back into the café, blowing out a disdainful laugh on the way.
‘I’ve no idea what that was about.’ Dolly stared after her with a look of bafflement. ‘Of course Charlie won’t go out with her, she’s not his type.’ She cast me a meaningful look. ‘Not his type at all.’
‘Neither am I, Dolly.’ I was suddenly tired of fudging the issue, and giving her false hope. ‘You must know by now, there’ll never be anything between Charlie and me but friendship,’ I said. ‘I love him, but like a brother, that’s all. I’m sorry.’ Her face sank into a mix of hurt and acceptance, but I felt a freeing sense of relief at getting the words out at last – though the time and place could have been better. Luckily, the staff were too absorbed to take notice, or so I hoped.
Dolly searched my face, as if looking for signs that I was telling the truth, and I had the feeling she was seeing me properly for perhaps the first time. At last, she nodded. ‘I always wanted a brother,’ she said, and I knew the topic was closed. ‘My sister was OK, but she used to steal my boyfriends.’
Charlie returned to find me up to my elbows in flour as Dolly tried to show me how to make puff pastry (her secret was grating in partly frozen butter) as she was making some millefeuilles for one of her tasting sessions, held after hours for regulars – like a pub lock-in but without the alcohol.
‘She didn’t make a single suggestive comment about you staying the night,’ he said later, leading me up to the apartment, my rucksack hoicked over his shoulder. ‘What did you say to her?’
‘That you’re like a brother to me and will never be anything more.’
He paused on the landing and gave me a soulful look. ‘That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said.’
‘Not true,’ I said. ‘I told you once that you had very nice hands for a man.’
‘That’s true, you did.’ He held one out and studied it. ‘Then you spoilt it by saying it was because I didn’t work hard enough.’
‘So I did.’ I smiled, glad I’d come to the café after all. I hadn’t thought about Jay for at least half an hour. ‘By the way, my mum’s turned up and I think she and Dad might be getting back together.’
‘So, that’s why you’re really here.’
‘I thought I’d leave them to it.’
We chatted for a while on the cheerful orange sofa that dominated the living room, not mentioning Jay or the magazine, until Charlie said he’d better get back to the café. ‘Are you coming down?’
‘I might stay here and work on a new column for Expats,’ I said, looking around the small but cosy space, which was filled with mismatched furniture and clutter on every surface, the air sweet with the smell of baking. ‘And I might update my blog.’
‘Business as usual then?’
‘I suppose so.’ I gave a weak smile, trying not to think of the interview I’d hoped to be writing.
‘Don’t go online and don’t keep checking your phone.’
I sank back on the sofa. ‘I don’t want to look online, or check my phone.’
‘So, just writing then.’
‘Just writing.’
‘Good,’ he said and flicked me a thumbs-up. ‘Do you want some coffee?’
‘I’ll come down if I do.’
When his footsteps had faded, I quickly checked my phone. Jay hadn’t called (obviously) but there was a message from Jools.
Is everything OK, babe? Jackie’s been in touch, asking about Jay Merino and that time you told us you knew him before he was famous. I think she was digging for information, you know what a viper she can be. With all the stuff in the news about him, I reckon she’s hoping for some sort of exclusive. I didn’t tell her anything, FYI!
Thanks, J I typed back. You’re right, she’s digging
. My fault, I sent her a message about seeing him here I’d meant to send to you, then refused to write a piece for Gossip x
Good for you she replied. We need to talk SOON. Call if you need to chat, anytime. Can’t wait to see you in July xxx
I felt an unexpected pang for the days when we’d worked together, grabbing lunch from the deli next door or at the pub down the road – anything to get out of the office for an hour – and was tempted to call her, to talk to someone who didn’t live on the island, but I doubted there was anything she could say that Charlie hadn’t already.
I sat for a moment, staring at a framed photo on a pile of magazines that doubled as a table, of a Yorkshire terrier wearing a little blue waistcoat. The dog had been Charlie’s when he was a little boy – a fact I’d deeply envied. Could I write something about pets for my column? It was an idea I’d had before and I’d made some notes, and I didn’t have anything else. I took out my laptop and moved to the two-seater dining table by the window, but all I could think of were the opening paragraphs I’d planned to write for my interview with Jay. The interview that Fleur would now be writing. Should I write it up anyway, for practice?
I opened a new document and arched my fingers over the keyboard, but something powerful stopped me. It felt wrong, like stealing Jay’s words. Words he’d given to me, like a gift – a gift I’d abused. Sighing, I stared at the blinking cursor at the top of the page, then logged onto my blog instead, but no words would come. I read the comments beneath my last post, marvelling that so many people had read and enjoyed it, and felt the corners of my mouth turn up in spite of everything. I’d always believed in the power of words, even if I’d never quite worked out what I wanted to do with them, but reading ‘this made me smile, even though I was having a bad day’ was enough to spur me on. I opened a document and began to type:
The French are generally unsentimental about pets, and animals in general, and keep them as much for practical purposes (e.g. to guard premises or catch vermin) or as fashion accessories as for companionship.
I stopped and stretched my fingers. It sounded too factual, and wasn’t even true. Nicolas treated Babette like a baby, while Gérard seemed almost surgically attached to Hamish, and there wasn’t a more photographed feline in France than Madame Bisset’s Delphine.
My gaze drifted to the window and I twitched the gauzy curtain aside and looked out. The weather had worsened and in the gloomy light, raindrops glittered like glass. The courtyard gate was ajar, a curl of smoke drifting through. Seconds later, Giselle appeared, looking furtive. She’d obviously been smoking and knew Dolly wouldn’t approve. She extracted a packet of chewing gum from her apron pocket and pushed a piece in her mouth, before disappearing from view. She’d be furious that I knew her little secret – not that I planned to tell anyone.
I thought of her icy stares; the way she attempted to monopolise Charlie whenever I was around, as though I had no right to breathe the same air as him, never mind be his friend. And Fleur, with her cold little smile and her easy dismissal of me. She seemed to assume that only she had the right to aim high and do whatever she wanted. That her desires were more important, the only ones that mattered.
Suddenly, I knew what I wanted to write. I turned my attention back to the document, and almost of their own volition, my fingers began to dance across the keys.
Twenty
‘So, what did you write?’ Charlie’s voice penetrated a dream I’d been having of a giant yacht, powering towards me through choppy waters. It was coming to save me, but I’d grown a mermaid tail and was able to flip easily to the shore and squeeze water from my luxuriant waist-length hair.
‘Mmmmfff, sorry, wha…?’ I peered at him blearily through sleep-puffed eyes. After my burst of writing, I’d lain on the sofa, intending to have a little rest before heading down to the café, and must have nodded off. Where most people developed insomniac tendencies during times of crisis, it seemed I could sleep for France. ‘Siesta,’ I muttered, pushing myself upright, wishing I felt refreshed. My legs still ached and now my head was throbbing. I checked my hair, but my bun wasn’t where it was supposed to be.
‘It’s slipped down.’ Charlie gave it a helpful nudge.
‘Ow, it hurts.’ I wrenched the band from around my wodge of hair and shook it free, which increased the pounding in my temples. ‘I’ve got a headache.’
‘I’m not surprised, carrying that lot around.’ Charlie bounced a hand off my curls. ‘How much does it weigh?’
‘Gerroff!’ I stood up, wavering as pain circled my skull. ‘I shouldn’t have gone to sleep.’
‘You didn’t do any writing then?’
‘Actually, I did.’ I jammed my forearm over my eyes as he flicked on the overhead light. Rain was lashing the windows, and it looked even more gloomy outside. ‘Is it evening?’
‘Pretty much,’ he said, crossing over to my laptop on the table. ‘Can I read it?’
‘Knock yourself out,’ I said. ‘Do you have any headache tablets?’
‘Kitchen drawer.’ He was already sitting down, eyes fixed on the screen as I staggered through the adjoining door to the cramped old-fashioned kitchen, which was barely used for more than storage, as the cooking and baking mostly happened downstairs.
I found a packet of aspirin in the cutlery drawer, and swallowed two with several gulps of water from the tap, then filled a glass. I felt dehydrated from all the crying I’d done, plus I hadn’t drunk anything but the cup of tea Dad had made after our porridge that morning.
‘This is brilliant,’ Charlie said when I returned to the living room, feeling marginally better. ‘Where did it come from?’
The heart. ‘It just sort of flew into my head,’ I said, a burst of warmth heating my cheeks. ‘I kept thinking about Fleur Dupont, and how mean she was to me when really she had no reason to be, and Giselle, who hates the sight of me because she’s in love with you. Or fancies you, or whatever. But why hate me? Why not hate you, for not loving or fancying her back? Although that wouldn’t be fair either.’ I was warming up now. ‘It’s just so unfair that women blame each other, or hate each other for the wrong reasons, not that there are any right reasons, unless you’ve murdered a member of their family, or run over their dog on purpose or something. I mean, why can’t we just support and help each other? I’m sick of it,’ I finished glumly.
‘It really comes through.’ Charlie’s expression was admiring. ‘I always said you were a good writer, that you can make people think.’
‘It’s just my opinion.’ Enthusiasm draining, I returned to the sofa. ‘Who cares what I think?’ But even as I sat down and picked at my cuticles, I remembered the comment I’d read: ‘You made me smile, even though I was having a bad day.’
‘Lots of readers.’ Charlie’s tone was urgent. ‘Honestly, Nat, you should send this to Nicolas Juilliard, or… or better still, post it on your blog. It’ll get more views that way.’
‘You know that’s not how I want my career to evolve.’ I sounded like a nineteenth-century scholar. ‘I was hoping Nicolas might still give me an assignment one day, if I haven’t pissed him off completely.’
Charlie’s eyes rolled. ‘I get that you want to bag an A-list interview that will be talked about on Front Row, or Good Morning America or whatever, and be the next…’ He flung out an impatient hand. ‘Fleur Dupont, who, by the way, isn’t even a very nice person, if that’s who you’re talking about here, and from what you’ve told me, but I don’t—’
‘What’s wrong with wanting to bag an A-list interview?’ I butted in.
‘Nothing, I guess, but…’ He bit down on his lower lip, stopping himself from saying anything else, and I got up and bent over his shoulder to read my article again. I had to admit it was good – maybe the best thing I’d ever written. The words had flowed like water, as if they’d downloaded spontaneously into my head, and although I’d missed the ‘f’ out of ‘shift’ (attitude shit?), it barely needed editing.
‘“Supporting eac
h other’s goals and objectives should be standard. It’s not only rewarding, it’s the best way to receive the support you need when you need it. Can’t we just shine, be happy, be in love, be successful, without some woman feeling threatened and acting like a bitch?”’ Charlie gave me a delighted grin before carrying on. ‘“Don’t you realise it says more about you than me when you blame me for ‘taking’ your job, or slut-shame me for ‘stealing’ your man?’” He stuck his palm up and I gave him a half-hearted high-five. ‘“No one is solely successful on their own, someone will have helped you get there, and if a man wants to have a relationship with you, he will. Stop blaming his best female friend, or his mum, or any other female for stopping it happening, because if it’s meant to be, it’ll happen.”’ Charlie winked at me. ‘I think I know who you’re talking about.’
‘I’m not stopping you seeing Giselle, am I?’
‘Of course not,’ he said, pulling his chin back. ‘And after our chat the other day, I’ve made sure she knows I’m not interested in her, that way.’
‘Yet she still somehow thinks it’s my fault.’
He turned back and read, ‘“There’s so much tearing down of women in society, when it should be our duty to uphold each other.” Hallelujah!’ He slapped the table. ‘Here’s to the sisterhood!’
I couldn’t help being pleased by his reaction. ‘Maybe I should have ended with that line.’
‘You’ve got to do something with this.’
‘Delete it?’
‘You’re kidding.’ He looked at me as if I’d grown wings and flown around the room. ‘Come on, Nat, it needs to be read.’
‘It was just something I had to get off my chest.’ I slouched back to the sofa and flumped down. ‘Didn’t you say something about cooking dinner?’
‘That was yesterday.’ He turned to face me, pressing his hands on his knees. ‘I’m being serious, Nat. I love you coming to the café every day, but we both know you’re escaping real life, hiding behind that column of yours, which, by the way, would be a lot more entertaining if you wrote them all like the one about mistaking Jay for a potential murder victim.’