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

by Karen Clarke

  ‘Look at that seagull,’ said Dad, when we’d finished eating and I was starting to feel drowsy, my head on Mum’s shoulder, letting the atmosphere wash over me. ‘It could almost be British, don’t you think?’

  We burst out laughing, it was such a silly comment, but I was taken aback by the wistful note in his voice. ‘Do you miss England, Dad?’

  He gave Mum a sideways glance, as if determining whether or not to be honest, and I was surprised when he nodded and said, ‘A bit.’

  ‘But it’s so lovely here.’ Mum had eased her trainers off and tipped her head back to soak up the warmth. ‘Why would you want to go back?’ I felt a sudden tension in her body, as if his reply was vital.

  ‘It is lovely,’ Dad agreed, sticking his legs out and crossing his ankles, as though he was in an armchair in front of a roaring fire. ‘But I sometimes feel as if I’m still on holiday, and start to think it’s time I went home.’

  I straightened. ‘I didn’t know that.’ I wondered whether I should have known. ‘I thought you loved it here.’

  ‘I do, but it’s not home. Though it’s much more like home since you moved in, love,’ he added, as I opened my mouth to protest. But I knew that what he meant was, it wasn’t home without Mum. She was looking at him with an expression that made my throat swell.

  ‘You don’t feel at home here, Marty?’

  Now Dad was looking at her the same way. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Claire, I’ve met some amazing people and had some good times, done some interesting things...’ his gaze slid to me and away and I guessed he was hoping I wouldn’t mention his ill-judged attempt at looking young and cool. Luckily, I’d almost wiped it from my memory and had no intention of raking it up.

  ‘Home isn’t a place, it’s a feeling,’ I said, as they continued skirting around what they really wanted to say, just as they had three years ago, when they’d ended up going their separate ways, thinking they were doing each other a favour. ‘So, why don’t you crack on and sort yours out and I’ll meet you back at the car in half an hour.’

  I pressed a kiss on Mum’s cheek, then leapt up and strode away before either of them could protest. When I glanced back, they’d shuffled closer together and Dad’s arm was round Mum’s shoulder. It was a perfect photo moment. I took out my phone and snapped a picture, then surreptitiously checked for missed calls and messages. Nothing.

  Fighting a dip in mood, I headed to the nearest coffee shop and ordered a cappuccino, which I took to a table in a sunny spot outside. Coincidentally (or not), I found myself facing L’Hôtel des Toiras, where a bunch of visitors had gathered outside, perhaps hoping for a glimpse of Jay Merino. For a second, I wondered whether they knew something I didn’t, then forced my attention back to my phone and checked my emails. There was one from Sandy at Expats written in her typically formal style.

  Your column went down very well online, Natalie. We’ve never had such an enthusiastic response (I don’t suppose your actor was Jay Merino, was it?) but could we have a return to form for the paper next time, please? I know from feedback that my readers love your trademark facts with a bit of fun thrown in, and you do it so well. Very much looking forward to seeing what you’ve got next. Do swing by if you’re ever in town, it would be nice to see you.

  Unexpected tears sprang to my eyes. Dear, old-fashioned Sandy, with her rigid hair and Hawaiian shirts. I had no idea she, or ‘her’ readers, felt so strongly about my columns. I’d assumed they were just fillers. I vowed to start buying the paper again and to ‘swing by’ and visit her soon. The contrast between Sandy and Nicolas Juilliard was striking, but at least now I knew who I’d rather hang out with – and write for.

  I tapped back.

  My next one is about pets. I’ll have it with you by Monday! See you soon, Natalie x

  The kiss was probably a step too far, but I wanted to show Sandy I appreciated her faith in me.

  I sipped my coffee – never as good as at Café Belle Vie – and was about to have a look through Magnifique and check out Fleur’s latest interview (with a famous vlogger who’d climbed Mount Everest for a bet) when my attention was snagged by someone standing close to the hotel. A twist of black hair and upright posture, and the sort of wide-legged trousers I’d never get away with, unless I was auditioning to be Dr Who’s assistant. Fleur Dupont. As if magicked from the pages of the magazine in my hands.

  A klaxon went off in my head. Why wasn’t she on her way back to Paris? Unless the photographer hadn’t been able to drop everything the second he’d been called, and was maybe turning up today?

  Fleur was in the shadows and I strained to see her expression, heart racing as I scanned the area for signs of Jay, or Simon. Someone familiar.

  And there was someone, drawing up beside Fleur on a bicycle, blonde hair streaming down her back, her skinny black jeans encasing her endless legs, giving them a spider-like appearance as she swung them over the saddle and pecked Fleur on both cheeks.

  Giselle. Giselle, who supposedly had a dentist’s appointment, and was now talking animatedly to Fleur Dupont, gesticulating with one hand, gripping the handlebar of her bike with the other. Their exchange seemed to happen in slow motion, activity around them frozen in time like something from one of Jay’s films, as my brain tried to assimilate what I was seeing. Giselle knew Fleur. Fleur appeared to have been waiting for Giselle. Fleur seemed angry, her lips moving in a torrent of words, and now Giselle looked to be crying, brushing the back of her hand across her face.

  As I watched, transfixed, a memory popped from some inner recess of my brain and the thought I’d been grasping for the day before suddenly zoomed into view. I got up and hurried closer, in time to hear Giselle practically shout, ‘It wasn’t my fault, you cannot blame me.’ Her voice rose. ‘I did not know it would be like this.’ Fleur said something in French, her voice much lower, then glanced at her watch before stalking off, just as she had that night at the restaurant with Nicolas, letting her silence speak volumes. I shrank back, but she moved past without seeing me. Giselle stared after her, but didn’t follow. Instead, she pulled a tissue from the little black belt-bag around her hips and blew her nose, then jumped back on her bike and began to cycle furiously in the direction of Chamillon – presumably headed for the café, where she would no doubt act out being in pain to go with her cover story of visiting the dentist. She was a far better actress than I’d given her credit for.

  When she was out of sight, a rush of adrenaline sent me racing back to the car, where Mum and Dad were kissing in the front as if kissing had just been invented.

  ‘Jesus,’ I panted, throwing myself in the back and slamming the door. ‘I don’t need to see that.’ But I couldn’t help grinning as they pulled apart, at Mum’s hair all mussed, their eyes bright and unfocused. ‘I guess you won’t be needing my bed tonight.’

  Mum turned, her eyebrows lifting. ‘I didn’t use it last night.’

  ‘Your stuff was in my room.’

  ‘Ah, yes, I hope you don’t mind, the light in there is really good for putting on my make-up.’ She touched her mouth, which was currently a lipstick-free zone.

  ‘You didn’t sleep in there?’

  She and Dad exchanged coy smiles. ‘We nodded off on the sofa,’ he said, which explained Mum’s blushing and stuttering when I’d asked if they had a nice evening. ‘Not that we did much sleeping.’

  ‘Dad!’

  ‘Marty!’ Mum said, slapping his hand, but we were grinning again and it didn’t seem necessary to say anything else – their expressions said it all.

  ‘Back to the house?’ Dad started the engine.

  A wave of anger crashed me back to the moment. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Drop me at the café.’

  Twenty-Three

  ‘Where is she?’ I barged around the café kitchen, as though Giselle had sensed I was coming and hidden in the fridge.

  Dolly, busy wiping the worktops down after the lunchtime rush, gave me a startled look. ‘Where’s who?’

  ‘Gisell
e.’

  ‘Oh, she’s had a filling, which is giving her a bit of pain.’ Dolly was giving me a funny look, as if she’d seen the steam I was sure must be blowing out of my nostrils. ‘She’s having an early break.’

  ‘She’s just had a break,’ I snapped. ‘I saw her in Saint-Martin.’

  ‘It was hardly a break.’ Dolly’s look changed to one of puzzlement. ‘She lives over that way. It makes sense that she’d go and see a dentist there.’

  ‘She wasn’t seeing the dentist,’ I said, in danger of grinding my own teeth down to the gums. ‘She was meeting someone.’

  Dolly’s head jerked back. ‘A boyfriend?’

  ‘Definitely not a boyfriend.’

  ‘You’re not making any sense, Natalie.’

  Charlie came through at that moment, carrying a loaded tray, his face alight with the sort of excitement I associated with toddlers on Christmas Eve. ‘Have you told her?’ he said to Dolly.

  At once, her face took on a similar expression to Charlie’s. ‘I haven’t had a chance,’ she said archly. ‘Natalie’s in a bit of a tizz about something.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what I’m in a—’

  ‘He was here.’ Charlie clattered the tray down and clasped his hands under his chin in a parody of excitement – except, he really was excited in a way I hadn’t seen since the England rugby team made it to the World Cup.

  ‘Who was here?’ I was annoyed that the wind had been taken out of my sails. ‘Spit it out, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Max Weaver,’ he said, flinging his arms wide, as if to catch me when I fell.

  My mouth dropped open. ‘Jay… Jay was here?’ I jabbed a finger at the floor, as though he might be buried underneath it. ‘He’s been here, at the café?’

  ‘Yes, he has,’ Charlie mimicked, flexing his biceps and adopting his Max Weaver scowl. ‘Tell her, Mum.’

  Dolly’s head was bobbing up and down, and I looked around to see that all the staff were giving off the same air of barely contained glee – exactly as if a movie star had unexpectedly dropped in. ‘Stefan got a selfie,’ she said, far too breathless for a woman who claimed to have better things to do than be awed by celebrities.

  Stefan obligingly held out his phone and I stared, thunderstruck. All the staff were in the picture, and several regulars too. Gérard was holding Hamish aloft like a furry trophy – though Gérard probably had no idea who Jay Merino was – and Madame Bisset’s lips were painted in a deep, red bow.

  Jay was standing between Charlie and Dolly, an arm around each of their shoulders in a way that suggested he’d been coerced – probably by Dolly. Stefan must have used a selfie stick to fit everyone in, their smiles manic and tinged with disbelief, including Jay’s.

  ‘He came in here, and let you take a selfie. With a stick?’ It wouldn’t quite compute. Selfie sticks were fiddly. What had they talked about while Stefan fixed it to his phone? ‘Who carries a selfie stick?’

  ‘One of the customers lent it to Stefan,’ Dolly explained, her tone suggesting it wasn’t the most important part of the story.

  ‘But why was Jay here?’

  ‘He’d heard how great it was, so thought he’d pop by for some of Mum’s quiche.’ Charlie was clearly enjoying my reaction.

  ‘I was the one who told him how great it is here.’ For the first time, I fully understood the term ‘dazed and confused’. ‘I didn’t think he’d come, though.’

  Charlie did a comedy eye-roll. ‘He came to see you, you idiot.’

  ‘Oh.’ As his words sank in, I slapped my hands to my cheeks. ‘But I wasn’t here.’

  ‘Your powers of observation are remarkable, Miss Bright.’

  ‘Stop it,’ said Dolly, flicking him with her cloth before shooing everyone back to work. ‘He went to your house,’ she said, when the staff had dispersed, chattering among themselves. ‘When there was no answer, he remembered you saying you came to the café to work most days and thought he might catch you here.’

  It beggared belief. I’d been in Saint-Martin, staking out the hotel, and he’d come here, looking for me. ‘I thought he was filming.’

  ‘Apparently, they started at 4 a.m. to get a sunrise shot and finished early,’ said Charlie, who’d obviously had quite the chat with Jay. ‘I told him we saw him on TV last night and I could tell he was dying to ask me what you’d made of it—’

  ‘—but he asked instead if you’d meet him at the marina tonight, as arranged,’ finished Dolly. She let go of a sigh. ‘I know I said you’d never find anyone better than this one,’ she nodded at Charlie, who took a bow, ‘but I was obviously wrong.’

  ‘Charming,’ he said, good-naturedly. ‘Perhaps you’d like to adopt him.’ His eyes grew wide. ‘Actually, please adopt him, Mum. Imagine having Max Weaver as my brother.’ He began skulking around the kitchen like a vigilante killer seeking assassins, pulling open cupboard doors, and brought his fist down on a torn-off chunk of baguette. Dolly chortled her appreciation and shook her head. ‘What’s he like?’ she said fondly. They were acting giddy and I realised it was probably always like this for Jay – that no one had a normal reaction to seeing him, apart from the people he’d known for most of his life, and it was easier than ever to understand why he craved time away from the cameras, when he could be himself. Presumably, if we became an item, the people closest to me would get used to him as Jay, and stop seeing him as Max Weaver… I sliced off my thoughts, shocked at the direction they’d taken. He might have invited me to the marina to say goodbye, for all I knew.

  ‘Did he say anything else?’ I asked, faux-casual.

  ‘Yes,’ said Charlie, passing a pile of clean trays to Stefan, who kept bobbing back into the kitchen as if suspecting Jay might have returned. ‘He asked Mum to marry him.’

  ‘Charlie!’

  ‘I wish,’ said Dolly, then winced. ‘Don’t tell Frank I said that.’

  ‘I think he said he’d be at the marina at seven o’clock, and the boat is called Moonlight, didn’t he, Mum? I was too busy wondering whether he could introduce me to Nova to really take it in.’

  ‘You mean Susie Houlihan,’ I said faintly.

  ‘It’s a yacht, not a boat.’ Dolly pulled a tray of choux pastry tubes from the oven, which I knew in an hour would be oozing fresh cream and topped with chocolate fondant. ‘He said he’ll wait for you as long as it takes.’

  ‘He didn’t say that,’ said Charlie.

  ‘OK, he didn’t,’ Dolly admitted. ‘But I could tell he was thinking it.’

  There was a movement at the back door and Giselle came in, smelling slightly of cigarettes and chewing gum. She gave me a hard stare, before turning a sweet smile on Charlie, and the sight of it brought back the anger that had fled in the wake of Charlie’s news. ‘How did it go at the dentist’s?’

  ‘Pardon?’ She paused in the act of retying her apron and gave me a querying look. A faint pinkness around her eyes gave away that she’d been crying, otherwise I might have believed I’d imagined the scene with Fleur.

  ‘Comment ça s’est passé chez le dentist?’ I said, hoping it passed muster.

  ‘Bien.’ Her smile was slightly less certain as she looked from me to Dolly and back to Charlie, before returning her attention to her apron. I noticed her hands were shaking and the sight gave me courage for what I had to say. ‘You were smoking outside that day, weren’t you?’

  ‘Quoi?’

  I wanted to stamp my foot in exasperation. ‘Stop pretending,’ I said. ‘I know you speak English. I heard you an hour ago, talking to Fleur Dupont in Saint-Martin.’

  She instantly burst into tears. ‘Oh no, I am so sorry, je ne voulais pas le faire, mais elle a dit qu’elle pourrait m’aider, I am so bad, je n’aime pas être trompeuse.’ Her distress was so sudden and acute, complete with hand-wringing, that I found myself shepherding her out to the courtyard and trying to calm her down. Part of me wondered whether she was deploying her acting skills, but if she was, she deserved an Oscar. Charlie and Dolly had foll
owed us out, their faces masks of confusion – and no wonder, considering I’d reduced her to a weeping wreck.

  ‘What’s going on?’ said Dolly, but before I could speak, she was summoned back inside by Stefan.

  ‘’Amish ’as widdled on ze floor,’ he said, clearly tickled to have learnt a new word from Dolly. ‘Pipi.’ He mimed lifting his leg like a dog.

  ‘Go, Mum,’ urged Charlie. ‘We’ll fill you in.’ She retreated with a worried look.

  ‘Do you want me to go too?’ he said, turning to me.

  ‘No,’ I said grimly. ‘I need a witness for this.’

  Giselle’s crying had increased to the point where she was doubled over, arms belted around her waist, and I worried she might actually be sick, but when Charlie moved to comfort her, she flung herself at him and snuffled into his shoulder. Annoyingly, she still looked stunning; her cheeks dewy rather than blotchy, her eyes great liquid pools. If I cried like that, my face took on a pumped-up appearance and my eyeballs disappeared.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Charlie said. He was patting Giselle in a functional way, rather than with any passion, but I noticed her wiggle closer and felt a flash of despair.

  ‘She knows Fleur Dupont,’ I said, feeling suddenly chilled. It was almost a surprise to see that the sun was out, casting shadows across the courtyard. ‘She was smoking outside the gate. She overheard our conversation about Jay and leaked it to the press. She understands English.’ I was speaking in quick-fire sentences, keen to get it out. ‘Then she spoke to Fleur. I don’t know why. Or what was in it for her.’

  Charlie let go of Giselle. ‘Is that true?’ He leaned back, as though keen to put some distance between them. ‘Did you leak a private conversation?’