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

by Karen Clarke

  Hurt by this criticism, I said, ‘The column’s just a stop-gap until I get a job at Magnifique. At least, it was.’

  ‘A stop-gap that’s lasted a year?’ He rose, pushing his fingers through his hair. ‘You’re worth more than that, Nat.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You once told me that when you worked for Chatter, the reason you cared about what you wrote is because the readers cared, and that’s why you did your best to write a good feature, however silly the topic.’

  ‘I did,’ I said. ‘Even the one about zombies invading a campsite and terrifying a woman into giving birth in her tent.’

  ‘I bet they were on their way to a fancy-dress party.’

  ‘Yes, but the best bit was that the woman who gave birth – the one who called the magazine with the story – had been there on a break with her girlfriends after being dumped, and she fell in love with and married the zombie who helped deliver her triplets.’

  ‘Wow.’ Charlie took a moment to digest this. ‘But that’s my point,’ he said, swiftly rallying. ‘You should be writing for ordinary people who care, not some hot-shot magazine publisher, who dumps you the second there’s a whiff of scandal, or because he knows you won’t sleep with him, and is playing you and Fleur against each other for fun.’

  I stiffened. ‘Nicolas Juilliard didn’t want to sleep with me.’ I recalled his hand on my elbow and the weight of his gaze on my body, and wasn’t so sure. ‘And he’s not playing us against each other.’ I wasn’t sure that was true, either.

  ‘I’m playing devil’s advocate.’ Charlie sounded so exasperated, I couldn’t help wondering whether he’d wanted to say something like this for a while. ‘Why don’t you just keep writing about stuff that matters to you, or that you find amusing, and get it out there? Start linking editors to your blog and see what happens, and stop acting like being a freelancer, and not having your own desk in a fancy office, is the worst thing in the world because, from where I’m sitting, it really isn’t.’

  Anger rose, taking me by surprise. ‘You accuse me of hiding out here, but you escaped to this café too when things went wrong in England.’ I knew I was hitting below the belt but couldn’t stop myself. ‘And you’re still here, nearly four years later,’ I ranted. ‘Living with your mum, serving cappuccinos and chatting to people for a living.’ It was a grossly unfair statement. Charlie’s job involved a lot more than chatting, but it was also one of the reasons people came back to the café, day after day. ‘You have a degree in precision engineering, for God’s sake.’

  Anger pressed his mouth into a grimace. ‘A degree I hated, but stuck with because my ex wanted a boyfriend who could make a lot of money,’ he said. ‘And maybe living with my mum isn’t ideal, but I love working here. I just didn’t know I would until I came.’

  ‘You’re scared of having a relationship.’

  A muscle twitched in his jaw. ‘You know why.’ He stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets and hunched his shoulders. ‘My ex—’

  ‘Broke your heart, I know,’ I cut in, matching his exasperation. ‘But that doesn’t mean all women are like her, or that you can’t be happy with someone else.’

  ‘You can talk,’ he muttered. ‘You haven’t exactly been putting yourself out there.’

  I couldn’t find an answer to that, apart from a very weak, ‘True.’

  ‘Not until you met Max Weaver, anyway.’

  ‘You mean Jay Merino.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘You do.’

  ‘Fine.’ The rain had stopped and the sky had brightened, and a sliver of sunshine pushed into the room. ‘OK, so maybe we’ve both been hiding.’ Releasing a sigh, Charlie let his shoulders drop before moving to the wall to switch the light off. ‘If I promise to think about meeting someone, will you do something about this thing you’ve just written?’

  ‘Think about settling down?’

  To my relief, he grinned. ‘When I next meet someone I like, I won’t immediately imagine her running off with my cousin.’

  ‘Deal?’

  He gave a decisive nod. ‘Deal.’

  I stood and we shook hands, and he pulled me in for a hug.

  ‘Friends?’

  ‘Friends,’ I said.

  ‘Sorry for getting mad at you.’

  ‘Me too.’ He started rocking me from side to side until I couldn’t stop giggling, and as we were pulling apart, Dolly appeared in the doorway. To her credit, she merely smiled and said, ‘Do you fancy coming down for the taster session, before Madame Bisset feeds everything to her cat?’

  ‘Does a one-legged duck swim in circles?’ Charlie rubbed his hands together, back to his usual self. ‘Nat?’ He cocked an eyebrow, and I sensed he was double-checking we were OK.

  ‘Sounds good.’ I mustered a smile. ‘I’ll just go and freshen up.’

  ‘We’ll see you downstairs,’ said Dolly, briskly refastening her apron as she retreated.

  When she and Charlie had gone, I glanced through the window and a thought floated into my head, but vanished before I could grasp it. I stared at the bruised purple sky, the remnants of my headache pulsing behind my eyelids, and almost collapsed with fright when a burst of dramatic music erupted behind me. I’d forgotten that Charlie had changed my ringtone to the theme tune from Maximum Force.

  Shaking my head, I carried on to the bathroom. It would only be Mum or Dad, checking up on me, but my stomach had started to rumble, reminding me I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. I’d call back after dinner.

  I was in the middle of a wee by the time the call rang out, and it started again straight away. I sighed. They obviously weren’t giving up and would worry if I didn’t respond.

  Then it hit me. Jay! What the hell was I doing on the toilet, ignoring my phone?

  I staggered back to the living room, knickers and jeans bunched around my thighs, but by the time I got there and snatched up my phone, the music had stopped.

  I didn’t recognise the caller ID, which meant it must have been Jay.

  Heart jumping like a tennis ball, I pressed call.

  ‘Ah, Natalee, thank you for calling me back.’

  Nicolas. I planted my bare bottom on the sofa. ‘What do you want?’ I said, not bothering to hide my annoyance.

  His laughter was hearty. ‘Natalee, you are so funny,’ he said. ‘I wanted to ask you, about somezink you said when we last spoke.’

  ‘Go on.’ It was funny, but I no longer seemed to care what he thought, despite a part of me still hoping he’d give me a writing assignment.

  ‘You said I was worried zat a woman might do a better job zan me at running ze magazine.’

  ‘Correct.’ My sentences were getting shorter.

  ‘I do not like zis insinuation.’

  I remained silent.

  ‘Natalee?’

  I caved in. ‘It’s obviously struck a chord if you’ve been thinking about it,’ I said. ‘I just get the feeling that if Fleur were a man, you wouldn’t hesitate to hand her the reins.’

  ‘It ees ’ard work, overseeing an empire, Natalee.’ Empire? ‘Eet requires a different skill set entirely.’ I’d been right about Nicolas. Where women were concerned, he was stuck in medieval times. ‘It requires a certain amount of… balls.’ He clearly relished the word, rolling it around like a sweet.

  ‘You can only have two balls, and they’re really not necessary to run a magazine,’ I said, rolling my eyes so hard they were in danger of falling out. ‘But if we’re talking metaphorical balls, Fleur has them and they’re massive.’

  He chuckled. ‘Call me old-fashioned, Natalee, but I prefer ladies wizout ze balls.’

  ‘You’re old-fashioned,’ I obliged. ‘Look, it’s not the 1950s, Monsieur Juilliard. If you shift your thinking a bit, you’ll realise you’ve found a worthy successor to your “empire”.’ I couldn’t help giving the word some sarcastic emphasis, and Nicolas guffawed so loudly, I had to hold the phone some distance from my ear.

  ‘I would very muc
h like to marry you, Natalee,’ he said when he’d finished. ‘Things would be so hot in ze bedroom.’

  ‘Only if I set fire to your pyjamas.’

  He roared. ‘Oh, my days,’ he said. ‘You must come to Paris soon. I zink I can find a place for you ’ere on ze team.’

  I imagined Fleur’s reaction to that, and how Nicolas would love to see the two of us, circling each other like a pair of wild cats, vying for his attention, and realised it wasn’t an attractive proposition. ‘I have to go,’ I said, and rang off.

  After wriggling my jeans back up, I washed my hands and splashed my face with water in the bathroom, which made me think of Dad saying, ‘Have you noticed in movies, how people are always splashing water on their faces, usually before or after they’ve murdered someone?’

  ‘Nat, there’s hardly anything left,’ Charlie hollered. ‘And Hamish is looking hungry.’

  ‘I’m coming!’

  With renewed energy, I shot back to my laptop, titled my document ‘Other Women are NOT my Competition’ and posted it on my blog. Then, before I could change my mind, I linked it to my Twitter page and went downstairs to sample what was left of Dolly’s millefeuilles.

  Twenty-One

  ‘I can’t believe you turned down a job offer from the mighty Nicolarse,’ said Charlie. We were slouched on the sofa in front of the BBC News on TV after the tasting session (I hadn’t been able to resist sharing with Hamish) and I’d spoken to Mum on the phone – she and Dad were going out to eat, she’d reported, with a lightness to her tone I hadn’t heard in a while.

  I hadn’t mentioned Nicolas’s call while we were in the café, happy to listen to Dolly’s plans for a trip to England before the summer season started, Charlie’s idea of applying for a liquor licence to serve wine at the café, and the plot of Margot’s latest romance, which seemed to involve a lot of al fresco sex.

  ‘I’m not sure Nicolas even meant it,’ I said, rubbing my temples as my headache threatened to return. ‘But I don’t think I want to work for someone who holds as much power as he does, and has such old-fangled views about women in the workplace.’

  ‘Well, I’m proud of you.’

  ‘Why thank you, Charles.’

  ‘What do you think?’ Dolly came through from her bedroom and shook her hips in a way that made Charlie groan. Frank was taking her to a salsa festival in La Rochelle and she’d dressed for the occasion in a gold velour jumpsuit that should have looked terrible, but somehow worked.

  ‘It’s a bit tight,’ said Charlie, his eyes seeking a safe place to land. I knew he liked Frank and was pleased for his mum, but still wasn’t quite comfortable seeing her in ‘girlfriend’ mode – a feeling I could wholly relate to, since Dad had flung himself into the dating ring.

  ‘You look lovely,’ I said.

  Charlie studied the label on his beer bottle. ‘Shouldn’t you wear a coat?’

  Dolly and I shared a smile.

  ‘A coat would spoil the effect,’ she said, patting her fringe down. ‘Like scaffolding around the Taj Mahal.’ She winked at me and picked up her sequinned bag, just as the doorbell chimed. ‘Don’t wait up, I won’t be back before midnight.’

  ‘Her social life’s better than ours,’ said Charlie, once she’d left on a cloud of perfume, singing ‘I’m in the Mood for Dancing’. ‘How she manages to be up at 5 a.m. is beyond me.’

  ‘To be fair, she doesn’t go out that often,’ I said. ‘And she seems really happy with Frank, so...’ I caught an odd expression on his face as he looked at the TV screen. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Look.’ He reached for the remote control and turned up the volume. ‘It’s Max Weaver.’

  I sat up fast enough to give myself whiplash. ‘Where?’ Eyes bolted to the screen, all I could see was a shot of a hotel… the hotel. In Saint-Martin-de-Ré. And suddenly there was Jay, in front of a bank of microphones like a police commissioner, or president, about to make a serious pronouncement. ‘Oh my God.’

  ‘Shush,’ ordered Charlie, increasing the volume to maximum.

  ‘…want to address the rumours,’ Jay was saying, his deep, cocoa-brown eyes directed straight down the lens. My heart was racing. He looked so attractive in dark jeans and a khaki T-shirt that showed off his muscly (but not overworked) arms – arms that had wrapped around me just two nights earlier. He was projecting an air of tension, not used to being himself on camera, and I longed to reach through the screen and reassure him – until I reminded myself he was there because of me.

  ‘It’s true that I’m giving up acting,’ he said, and the resulting roar of disappointment made him smile a little and his posture softened. ‘Max Weaver’s been good to me and I’ve loved playing him, loved putting all those bad guys away, but I want a different life now,’ he continued, his voice solid and sure. ‘It’s also true that I want to establish a foundation that funds programmes to help people like my brother…’ As he broke off and swallowed, tears sprang up in my eyes. ‘Young people who need help to turn their lives around,’ he went on. ‘A place where they can get help, maybe learn new skills and be mentored, and have an opportunity to make something of themselves, so they don’t end up like he did.’ I caught the glint of brightness in his eyes. The reporters and onlookers were silent now, hanging on his every word, as I imagined everyone watching at home would be. Max Weaver hadn’t cried onscreen since the funerals of his wife and son – but Jay Merino was real, his emotions on display, and I suddenly wanted to yell at everyone to leave him the hell alone; tell him he had every right to protect his privacy, to not bare his soul for the world to see, and that nobody had a right to know what he was feeling, just because he’d generated a level of fame even he hadn’t envisaged.

  ‘I won’t be giving any more interviews,’ he concluded, holding up a hand as a barrage of questions followed his pronouncement. ‘But I’d like to thank everyone for supporting my career, for loving Max as much as I’ve loved playing him. I wouldn’t be here without you.’ There was a roar of approval. ‘And, just for the record, I never bribed my stuntman to pretend to be me – that was you guys following the wrong man. And I’ve never once,’ he arched his eyebrows, ‘requested a hot tub to be installed near my trailer.’ Laughter rippled through the crowd. ‘I mean, can you really see Max Weaver in a hot tub?’

  More laughter. ‘Only if it was with a naked woman,’ someone called.

  ‘Except she’d try to drown me,’ Jay deadpanned and the crowd expressed their delight. Even I was smiling.

  ‘He’s actually good at this.’ Charlie’s voice made me jump. I’d almost forgotten where I was. ‘I can see what you like about him.’

  ‘Hush.’ I was on the edge of the sofa, unable to tear my eyes from the screen as the camera panned out. Simon was standing close by in his customary pose, eyes scoping the area as if for a gunman, and the hotel owner was there, smiling benignly, as if she had famous actors staying all the time – which, to be fair, she probably did.

  A familiar face made my heart drop. Fleur. She was standing to one side in a mannish suit that somehow enhanced her femininity, wearing an enigmatic smile that could have meant anything, including that her interview with Jay had been a great success and she was proud of him. Was she the one who had persuaded him to confront the press; convinced him it would be good publicity for his proposed foundation? It would also generate more interest in her interview when it was published. I wondered whether she was waiting for him to mention it, but Jay was backing away now, hands raised in a goodbye gesture.

  ‘Do you know who leaked the news of your retirement?’ The lone voice seemed to ring out above the others and Jay’s expression tightened. Charlie reached over and squeezed my hand. ‘There are rumours you’ve got a stalker here.’ The same voice – it was one of the reporters I’d seen hanging around the hotel. Perhaps he’d been at the lighthouse and seen me charging inside or – more likely – being escorted out. ‘Was it her?’

  My breath had stuck in my throat.

  ‘There�
�s no stalker,’ said Jay, leaning towards the nearest microphone, eyes seeming to look directly into my soul. ‘She’s someone I’ve known a long time and grown close to.’

  ‘Whaaaat?’ Charlie’s gaze met mine, equally wide.

  A frenzy of questions were being flung at Jay as we turned back to the TV.

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Does she live on the island?’

  ‘Are you getting married?’

  ‘Is she French?’

  He ignored them all. ‘I don’t know who leaked the news, but it definitely wasn’t her.’

  And just like that, he was gone, swept inside the hotel, leaving behind a clamour of voices.

  ‘Who was it then?’

  ‘Was it your bodyguard?’

  ‘Is your new girlfriend an actress?’

  ‘Good luck with your foundation!’

  ‘Love you forever, Max!’

  ‘That was Jay Merino, confirming that he is indeed retiring from acting after his latest movie is wrapped,’ said a shiny-haired presenter back in the studio. ‘Which means we can rule him out as the next Bond.’ She made an inappropriately sad face. ‘And, now, the rest of today’s news…’

  Charlie switched off the TV. ‘I did just see that, didn’t I?’ He wobbled his head and did some comedy blinking. ‘I didn’t hallucinate that you just made the top story on the national news?’

  ‘I did not.’ Shock gave way to a glowing warmth that spread through my veins. ‘I mean, he didn’t mention my name, thank God.’ But I couldn’t believe he’d mentioned me at all. Jay Merino, so famously reticent about his private life, had gone public, and more or less told the world that he didn’t believe the woman he might have been seen with had betrayed him. But why not tell me to my face?

  ‘Did you see the look down the camera?’ Charlie was clearly tickled, shaking his head and grinning. ‘He’s obviously into you.’