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

by Karen Clarke

  I shook my head, my previous glow fading. ‘I reckon Fleur Dupont persuaded him it was better to address the rumours than ignore them, that’s all,’ I said.

  ‘What, and to talk about growing close to the potential source of the leak?’

  The glow reignited. It was true that Jay hadn’t needed to say it. I wondered what Fleur had made of his comment. She must have discussed possible culprits, perhaps even mentioned me by name, knowing I’d interviewed him, but he must have rejected the idea. Or had he? My thinking was getting muddled. Perhaps he’d just said it to put an end to the speculation. ‘I’m glad he spoke up, but he did it publicly instead of directly, which means he still doesn’t want to see me,’ I said, aware of Charlie scrutinising my face. ‘He’s done his interview with Fleur now, and whatever closeness there was between him and me doesn’t exist any more.’ The flame inside flickered and died. ‘I’m over it,’ I lied. ‘The public’s had their piece of Jay Merino, or Max Weaver, or whatever. Hopefully, he’ll be left alone now there’s nothing to report.’

  ‘Apart from the fact that he’s grown close to someone.’

  ‘Leave it, Charlie.’

  He frowned, and looked as if he was about to pursue it, but changed his mind. ‘Do you want to watch Maximum Force: The Beginning?’

  I tossed a cushion at him. ‘I’d like a beer and to watch something fluffy and feel-good, with no men in it whatsoever.’

  ‘In that case, I’ll go out and leave you to it.’

  He didn’t. We watched Horrible Bosses 2, because we both loved Jason Bateman, and I even managed to laugh in all the right places. We drank beer, ate a bowl of crisps, and I pretended not to notice Charlie’s occasional concerned look.

  As the credits rolled, he stretched and said casually, ‘Have my bed, I’ll take the sofa.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ My headache had crept back, and he’d made a big deal a while ago of some amazing pillows he’d bought online, which had cured his stiff neck.

  ‘Positive,’ he said. ‘I’ve slept on the sofa before when friends have stayed. It’s pretty comfy. And I’ve changed my bedding in your honour.’

  I was touched. ‘Thanks, Charles.’

  ‘You’re welcome, m’lady.’

  I barely had the energy to pull my pyjamas on and brush my teeth, and was on the edge of sleep, lulled by the hum of something sporty on the television in the living room – Charlie watching rugby on Sky Sports no doubt – when the Maximum Force theme music blasted from my phone, charging on the floor by the bed. Sticking a hand out, I picked it up, expecting it to be Mum or Dad, but I didn’t recognise the number.

  I sat up, clutching the duvet to my chest.

  ‘Jay?’ I whispered.

  ‘It’s Simon.’

  ‘What?’ I blinked at the pitch-black bedroom, which was like being underground, thanks to Charlie’s blackout curtains. ‘What do you want?’ I said. ‘It’s nearly midnight.’

  ‘I think Jay suspects it was me.’ His voice was hard with a catch at the end.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He asked me earlier if I knew who’d talked to the press.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean he thought it was you,’ I said. I remembered his instant defence when I’d suggested the leak could have come from Simon. ‘He trusts you.’

  ‘I could tell he did suspect me,’ he persisted, his voice an angry bite. ‘You put the idea in his head. He’d rather believe it was me than you.’

  ‘But Simon, it wasn’t me either.’ I groped my mind for something that would persuade him. ‘I promise, on my parents’ graves.’ I hated using them like that, but couldn’t think of anything more convincing. ‘It wasn’t either of us.’

  ‘I know it wasn’t,’ he said, surprising me again. ‘But until we know who it was, I reckon he’s always gonna suspect it was to do with one of us.’

  My heart tightened like a fist. Simon was right. Not about Jay thinking Simon had betrayed him, but that it must have been me – maybe not directly, but that I’d talked to someone who’d blabbed to the press, for reasons unknown. Mud sticks, wasn’t that how it went? No smoke without fire. To the public, Jay’s retirement, the foundation… it was already old news, a bunch of words that had been released to the world and confirmed by Jay himself. They had no idea (and wouldn’t care) about the ramifications – the effect on those he was closest to; the doubts and suspicions that could poison or even destroy a friendship, or a potential relationship.

  ‘Jay knows you better than anyone,’ I said. ‘In his heart…’

  ‘You’re in his bloody heart,’ Simon cut in, brusquely. ‘If he doesn’t want to believe it was you, then it has to be me, ’cos there’s no one else I can think of who would have done this that makes any sense.’

  ‘But it’s over now he’s appeared on the news. It’ll all die down in time.’

  ‘It won’t die down while we don’t know,’ he snapped. ‘Even if you two get together, it’ll be in the back of his mind.’

  My heart jumped at the possibility of getting together with Jay, then seemed to freeze like an ice cube. ‘We won’t be getting together,’ I said. ‘He’s made that clear.’

  ‘I thought you were the one who’d made it clear.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He got your number,’ Simon said, grudgingly. ‘The cleaner left it on his pillow. He tried to call you from my phone, but you didn’t reply.’

  I thought of the calls I’d missed earlier. I’d assumed they were both from Nicolas, and hadn’t checked.

  ‘I was on the toilet,’ I said and winced. ‘I didn’t think he’d really want to ring me.’

  ‘Yeah, well, it’s probably for the best that you didn’t pick up.’

  I digested that for a moment. ‘Do you know what he was going to say?’

  ‘No idea,’ said Simon. ‘I’m not even sure he knew, he just wanted to talk to you.’

  ‘I’m here now.’

  ‘He’s not.’ The anger had left Simon’s voice. He was matter-of-fact now. ‘He’s with that journalist, Dupont.’

  My heart dropped like a stone. ‘She’s still there?’

  ‘Apparently, she’s not due back in Paris until tomorrow and Jay was in a drinking mood. They’re at the bar.’

  My throat thickened with dismay. ‘Why aren’t you there?’ I wanted to lash out. ‘I thought you never left his side.’

  ‘I know when to leave him alone.’

  Great. ‘Can’t you invent a reason to get him back to his room – alone?’

  ‘He wouldn’t take any notice if I did, the mood he’s in tonight.’

  ‘Can you at least ask him to call me again?’

  ‘Maybe it’s best if he doesn’t.’

  ‘Ask him, Simon, please.’

  ‘Why should I?’ he said. ‘Everything was fine until you threw yourself at him.’

  ‘Isn’t that up to him to decide?’

  ‘I think he already has.’

  I pictured Jay and Fleur coming back to his room, arms around each other, tumbling onto his bed and tearing at each other’s clothes, and bile hit the back of my throat. ‘I have to go,’ I said, hoarsely.

  ‘Wait—’

  ‘I’m sorry if you think Jay doesn’t trust you, Simon, but there’s nothing I can do.’ I ended the call and threw my phone on the floor to the sound of cheering in the room next door, and Charlie shouting, ‘Yeeees!’ then, ‘Sorry, Nat, but Farrell scored a try.’

  I fell back on the (incredibly comfy) pillows and glared at the ceiling. Or rather, the dense, coal-like blackness where the ceiling should be. Charlie’s room was how I imagined purgatory would look, with nothing to see but my own tortured thoughts. I sat up again and shouted, ‘Charlie, can we please swap places?’

  Twenty-Two

  I arrived home, sleep-deprived and grouchy, not in the mood for a high-powered shopping trip with Mum. The sofa at Charlie’s had been every bit as uncomfortable as I’d suspected, and hadn’t done my hair any favours ei
ther. Mum took one look at me and declared that a ‘mooch’ around Saint-Martin would be much more fun than ‘traipsing to La Rochelle’.

  ‘If you’re hoping to see Jay Merino, it’s not going to happen.’ I threw myself on a chair at the kitchen table, like a bag of laundry. ‘He’ll be off somewhere, filming.’ Today was his last day on the island. Tonight, he’d be flying to Budapest and out of my life.

  ‘I wasn’t hoping to see anyone but you.’ Mum placed a mug of freshly brewed coffee in front of me. ‘Have you eaten?’

  ‘Not much,’ I said, feeling like a child again as she flitted around the kitchen, clearly used to the layout (thanks to my phone videos), sliding a pair of plates into the dishwasher and rearranging the bananas in the fruit bowl. ‘Just a couple of pastries for breakfast at the café.’

  ‘Shall I make you something?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks.’ I looked around the tidy kitchen. ‘Where’s Dad?’

  ‘He’s, er, getting dressed, I think,’ Mum said, and I realised I could hear a muted sound, like someone tuning a trombone. Dad was singing in the shower. ‘He’ll, er, be down shortly.’

  It wasn’t like Mum to stammer, or blush like a teenager, and in spite of last night’s events, my spirits lightened a little. ‘Did you have a nice evening?’

  ‘It was lovely,’ she said, coming to rest on the chair opposite, cradling her mug of coffee. ‘We went for a meal at L’Ecailler with the American couple next door.’

  ‘Barbara and Larry?’ I said, as though there was more than one set of Americans staying with Marie. ‘I thought when you said you were eating out, you meant you and Dad.’

  Mum had been smiling since I walked in, and showed no signs of stopping. ‘He told me about them and they sounded fun, and they were at a loose end so…’ She shrugged one shoulder, and I suddenly realised she was wearing the peacock embellished jacket Dad clearly hadn’t got around to returning, over her shirt and faded jeans.

  ‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ she said, seeing me looking and fingering the fabric. ‘Your dad said he saw it and thought of me.’

  Thinking back to how tight it had looked on him, I had a feeling that was true. ‘It suits you,’ I said. ‘Did you meet Marie?’

  ‘Oh, she’s lovely.’ Mum spoke in her accepting way and I was glad she wasn’t jealous after all, or blaming Marie for trying to ‘steal her man’. I remembered the article I’d posted online and felt a leap in my stomach as I wondered if anyone had read it. I hadn’t been online yet; had only checked my phone (about forty times) to see whether Jay had called back. He hadn’t.

  ‘No news?’ Charlie had asked over breakfast, looking well-rested after a good night’s sleep on his comfy pillows, but didn’t push it when I shook my head and turned down a third pain au chocolat.

  ‘Apparently, that actor was on the news last night,’ Dolly had said, also looking well-rested, despite not getting home until 2 a.m. She’d salsa-ed into the living room and yelped with fright when she saw me on the sofa, having forgotten I was staying over. ‘He’s not doing Max Weaver any more.’

  If she’d wondered why Charlie and I didn’t respond, she hadn’t said anything, but Giselle had hurried in at that moment and announced she had to go to the dentist’s again at lunchtime, and would need a few hours off. At least, that’s what I’d gathered from the burst of French I’d overheard.

  ‘Apparently, Marie’s been teaching your dad to cook,’ Mum said, cutting across my thoughts.

  ‘And to speak French, although it’s not working very well.’

  ‘Avez vous oon cuppa?’ she said in Dad’s voice and we giggled. ‘So, how did your writing project go?’

  ‘Oh, it, er, it went well,’ I said. ‘Actually, I changed my mind in the end and wrote a piece about how women should be more supportive of each other.’

  ‘Good for you.’ Mum patted my hand. ‘When is it being published?’

  ‘I posted it online.’

  She put her mug down. ‘But surely you won’t get paid.’

  ‘No, but someone might see it and commission a piece for a magazine, and I will get paid for that.’

  She nodded. ‘I suppose that’s how it’s done these days,’ she said. Unless you’re Fleur Dupont, I thought. ‘Well, I’d love to read it.’

  ‘I’ll send you the link,’ I promised.

  ‘And the assignment you mentioned?’

  ‘It fell through.’

  She looked at me closely. ‘Something else will come along.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  Dad bounded in, looking chipper and smelling of my coconut shampoo, and planted a kiss on my forehead. ‘Everything OK, sweetheart?’ he said, but I noticed his eyes were on Mum, whose face colour now matched the red-painted ceiling beams.

  ‘I’m fine.’ I knew it was what he wanted to hear and didn’t want to spoil the mood by revealing that, actually, I felt as if my heart was being squeezed and my headache was tightening like a vice. ‘You two look happy.’

  ‘I’ve got a new myth,’ Dad announced, pouncing on his notepad, clearly desperate for a distraction. I guessed he was trying to preserve the notion that parents didn’t discuss their love lives with their children, which was a bit rich when he’d very recently filled me in on Yvette’s ill-fated attempt at seduction.

  ‘Go on,’ I said, smiling at Mum as he scribbled something down. She always asked how his book plans were going and I’d kept her posted about his notes.

  He held up his pad and read out, ‘Victims don’t fly through the air when they get shot, and the officer doesn’t go over and kick the gun away.’

  ‘Nice one,’ I said. ‘What about an officer pulling a bartender across the bar, like they do in films?’

  ‘Never happens.’ He picked up his pen and wrote it down. ‘Or officers chasing a criminal and jumping onto a moving bus or train. They’d end up with a serious injury, or maybe even dead.’

  I couldn’t help smiling at his serious tone.

  ‘I bet real officers can’t pick a lock with a paperclip,’ said Mum.

  ‘Good one, Claire.’ Dad wrote it down, eyebrows scrunched. ‘And a parking space isn’t magically available whenever required, either.’

  She nodded. ‘These are really good, Marty. I was reading your notes last night while you were getting changed,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know about the fingerprint one.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Dad flicked to the previous page and read out, ‘You don’t scan a fingerprint into a computer and get a match in seconds, because making an identification requires countless hours of work from a fingerprint examiner, and weeks to complete.’

  ‘Could be catchier,’ I said.

  ‘And you’re going to help your dad get published?’ Mum looked expectant.

  ‘I, er, yes, I’m trying.’ I felt a guilty flush rise up my neck. I hadn’t been trying very hard. Or at all. It couldn’t hurt to send out a few feelers to some non-fiction publishers. ‘I’m on it,’ I said.

  ‘She is,’ Dad confirmed, though he hadn’t even mentioned it for a while.

  ‘Two writers in the family,’ said Mum, her smile still in place. ‘I’m so proud of you both.’

  ‘Listen, why don’t I go and get changed and then we can make a move,’ I said, getting to my feet. Left to my own devices, I’d only end up replaying Simon’s phone call, and Jay’s TV appearance, or picturing Jay and Fleur on his yacht somewhere, eating oysters – an image that had lodged in my head as I’d pushed my bike home, too tired to get on it and pedal. ‘I honestly don’t mind if you want to go to La Rochelle.’

  ‘No, really,’ Mum said, her smile becoming a beam. ‘I haven’t been to Saint-Martin for so long, I’d love to see it again.’

  ‘You don’t mind if I come too, do you?’ Dad put his notepad down.

  ‘Of course not.’ Mum had replied before I’d opened my mouth. ‘It’ll be wonderful to go out as a family.’

  Things were taking on a foggy non-reality, as if I’d wandered onto the set of a gentle comedy-dram
a. ‘Just give me ten minutes,’ I said. ‘And is it OK if we go in the car?’ I tentatively stretched my legs. ‘I’m not up to cycling today.’

  * * *

  I couldn’t deny that part of me hoped I might bump into Jay, or that he would be hanging around outside the hotel on the off-chance I might pitch up, but when we arrived and Dad had found a parking space on the quayside, there was no sign of a film crew and just the one reporter still lurking about. I glanced at a rack of newspapers outside the convenience store, but although Jay’s TV appearance was all over social media it hadn’t quite made it to the front pages of the tabloids; the printed word was always a day behind. There was a new issue of Magnifique and I bought a copy, in spite of myself, while Mum browsed the old-fashioned postcard stand with Dad. Whatever I thought about Fleur Dupont, her interviews were worth the price alone, and reading the French version improved my language skills.

  Mum linked arms with me as we wandered around, keen to reacquaint herself with the place she’d last visited when I was a teenager, exclaiming over the things that had changed (not much) and the things that hadn’t: the indoor market, the gift shops and the Île de Ré Chocolats & Caramels shop, where we’d once watched the chocolate being made, and sampled so many, we’d all felt sick by lunchtime.

  ‘What I’d really love is to see the lighthouse at Saint-Clément,’ she said, as we queued to buy ice creams at La Martinière. ‘Do you remember how we used to run up all those steps?’

  My sore thighs twinged in recognition. ‘Of course I do.’ I banished an image of Jay’s expression when I’d collapsed in front of him in the lighthouse keeper’s room. ‘Do you really want to go up there again?’

  She flashed me a look. ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘Maybe not today,’ I said.

  She looked at me a moment longer. ‘OK, love.’ She squeezed my arm. ‘I’m happy to do whatever you want to do.’

  When we’d chosen our ice creams – pecan vanilla for me, apple and honey for Mum, bitter orange and ginger for Dad – we sat on one of the benches overlooking the harbour, and as I licked the creamy concoction and watched the sun glance off the boats and dance across the water, I tried to empty my mind of everything else and enjoy being with my parents. I had no idea how long Mum was staying, or what her being here meant, but it had been so long since we’d all been together, I wanted to make the most of it.