The walk along the beach, filling their pockets with shiny pebbles and shells, engrossed them both and time was forgotten. It was only as they passed the café and Cammie said, ‘Can I have an ice cream please?’ that Erica looked at her watch and realised Cammie’s lunchtime – all two hours of it – was almost finished.
‘No time. We’ve only got five minutes to get you back to school. Besides, the café isn’t open yet,’ she said, glancing over at the Café Fleur. Seeing the shutters open and a woman moving around inside she added, ‘Maybe they’ll be open next time. Now let’s run or you’ll be late.’
Back at the shop Erica opened the mailbox and took out the day’s post. Among the usual promo leaflets there was an envelope with the notaire’s name stamped across it. At least the sick feeling in the pit of her tummy no longer pounced when she received envelopes like these. She was getting better at handling things. Things she’d never anticipated having to deal with.
Her heart did flip though, when she read the latest letter and saw the final amount of Pascal’s estate – including the insurance money. Her life with Pascal was now officially over – all formalities tied up and she was free to move on. Make a new life without him.
The problem though, was she didn’t want a new life courtesy of Pascal’s insurance money. She would prefer to have him around, for Cammie’s sake as much as her own. Thoughtfully she emptied her pockets of beach treasures and put them to one side for Cammie to sort later.
She didn’t have a clue as to the kind of life she wanted to live for the next few years while Cammie grew up. But having such a large sum in the bank – she’d have to do something with it. Providing for Cammie had to be top of her priorities. Pascal would expect her to do that. Invest it in something. Bigger shop premises? Mentally she shook her head. No. The Cupboard Under the Stairs worked as it was – a tiny space crammed with a mixture of unexpected things. A bigger layout would move it away from her original premise.
The Cupboard Under the Stairs worked as a bijou vintage shop selling an eclectic mix of new and second-hand stuff, from vintage clothes and handbags to kitchen paraphernalia, kitsch of all descriptions, pottery, cushions, books, even the occasional art nouveau piece when Erica was lucky enough to find one. She’d made The Cupboard Under the Stairs into the kind of shop, in fact, that she’d always loved to discover and browse in, full of irresistable bits and pieces.
Maybe she should spend the money on a bigger house? A villa with a swimming pool. Cammie would enjoy that. But would she want to move from their townhouse with its memories of Pascal? She’d have to talk it over with her. If she liked the idea, they could add house-hunting to their weekend itinerary along with vide greniers, looking to buy stuff for the shop.
Erica turned the shop sign to open. Not that she expected many customers. This time of year was all about stocktaking and gearing up for the coming season rather than making lots of sales. This year, too, a real spring clean was called for after her neglect of the past few months.
Everything looked a bit sad. She’d begin this afternoon by giving the place a thorough clean and rearranging the shelves. Start the summer season all spruced up.
Life had to go on so the quicker she could get back into a proper routine the better. She had to make the best life possible for herself and Cammie.
CHAPTER THREE
Rosie’s days flew past in a haze of painting, organising, cooking, panicking and not a lot of sleeping. By late Saturday afternoon, when she and Tansy hung the final painting on the wall of the restaurant, she was exhausted.
‘Is that level?’ Tansy asked, nudging a flamboyant modernistic painting, with its clashing red, mauve and blue colours, into a better line.
Rosie nodded, wondering how she was going to get through the next few hours of partying. ‘I can’t believe everything is done. I need a coffee – actually I need sleep but coffee will have to do. People will be here soon.’
As Rosie pushed open the swing door into the kitchen, James looked up from putting the finishing touches to the party food. ‘You look like you need a drink.’
‘Later. Right now a double espresso will fit the bill,’ Rosie said. James had appeared two days ago looking for work. ‘Antoine said you might need someone,’ he’d said. ‘I’ve trained as a sous-chef and want a job on a yacht but apparently I need more hands-on experience.’
‘I hadn’t planned on taking anyone on for a few weeks,’ Rosie had told him. ‘Tansy and I are used to working together and until the restaurant takes off I can’t afford to pay anyone else. Not even me. Maybe come back in a few weeks. Or you could try the hotel next door,’ she suggested.
‘I’ll work for free for a few days,’ James offered. ‘Antoine says you’re really good and I’d learn a lot working for you.’
Amused by his blatant flattery, Rosie had smiled. ‘Okay. You free to help Saturday afternoon and stay for the evening party?’
‘What time?’
‘Two o’clock.’
‘I’ll be here.’
And he was. Everything she’d asked him to do in the past couple of hours he’d done quickly and efficiently. Now, as she watched him work the coffee machine, she hoped she’d be able to employ him officially in the next couple of weeks. He’d be a real asset. She must remember to thank Antoine the next time she saw him for sending James in her direction.
‘You’ve put enough champagne in the fridge?’ she asked now, taking her coffee. ‘And rosé?’
‘Yes,’ James said. ‘Drink that and then go and change. Tansy and I have everything under control.’
Resisting the urge to make a sarcastic rejoinder along the lines of, ‘Well, of course you’ve got everything under control – you’re practising to be a typical bossy man,’ Rosie flew into the ladies loo.
With less than half an hour to go before people arrived, there was no time to do more than change her clothes and slap on some make-up. She pulled on her white jeans and a spaghetti-strap black top and slipped her feet into her one pair of Jimmy Choos. No time to do anything with her hair other than push it up into its usual style with a huge glittery clip. Slipping on her amber ring, so big it dwarfed her hand, she was ready. She took a deep breath – time to party and raise the curtain on Café Fleur.
James was already handing round champagne to the early arrivals. Tansy was in the kitchen doing some last-minute food prep and waved her away. ‘Go circulate.’
Rosie began to work her way around the room greeting people, accepting their congratulations and their good luck cards.
The pianist, playing a medley of jazz, smiled at her as she placed a glass of champagne within his reach, before standing to look around ‘her’ restaurant.
People were helping themselves to the plates of finger food laid out on the bar. Smoked salmon blinis, fois gras on crisp toast, slices of quiche, individual pissaladières and lots of bowls of nuts, crisps and peanuts were scattered around. For those with a sweet tooth there were tiny individual tartes abricots with rosettes of crème frêche piped on top, demitasse servings of chocolate mousse and a bowl of fruit salad.
Tansy had placed the cheese board, with its selection of brie, roquefort, boursin and cantel on a separate table. And Rosie knew that, out in the kitchen, a cauldron of home-made parsley soup stood on the stove, ready to be heated at the end of the evening as people left.
An hour later the place was buzzing. Her pile of business cards on the bar had shrunk and the reservations book by the till had several bookings pencilled in. Rosie allowed herself a secret smile of satisfaction. ‘Café Fleur’ was on its way.
The lights were dimmed, couples were wrapped in each other’s arms, swaying to the romantic jazz. Rosie sighed. It was years since she had danced with anyone like that. Working on the yachts it was impossible to have a shore-based relationship with anyone. Away at sea for weeks at a time, particularly after William had bought A Sure Thing eighteen months ago, her days off were invariably spent alone in whi
chever port they were currently moored in: St Tropez, Monaco, Corsica.
All of which sounded far more glamorous and romantic than it was, with no one special to spend time with. And now, if she was to make a success of the Café Fleur, she had to continue to put any ideas of meeting someone and having a serious relationship out of her mind. All her energies had to be focused on the Café Fleur . . .
A scream pierced the babble of music and general noise as the restaurant was plunged into darkness. The emergency lighting in the kitchen and behind the bar area flickered weakly before fading completely.
‘Any idea where the fuse box is? And do you have a torch?’ James asked.
‘Cupboard in the cloakroom,’ Rosie said. ‘And no, sorry, no torch.’ Mentally she added torch and candles to the ever-growing ‘essential items’ list still hanging on the board in the kitchen.
Helpful guests started to give quick flashes from their cigarette lighters and James was able to find the trip switch in the cupboard and flip it up. Nothing.
‘I’m sorry, folks, but it looks like the party’s over for this evening,’ Rosie said. ‘Thank you for the support and Café Fleur will…’ Her voice trailed away as Seb walked in through the open terrace doors carrying a lit candle.
‘I’m guessing you haven’t got a supply in yet,’ he said, placing a bundle of candles on the bar before lighting a couple from the flame of the one in his hand and carefully positioning them on the counter. ‘Any food left?’
‘Yes, of course. Thank you,’ Rosie said, grabbing a plate and filling it with a selection of nibbles. ‘Champagne?’ She poured a large glass and handed it to him.
As Tansy and James placed more candles in strategic places, the pianist started playing again and people drifted back to the small dance floor, arms around each other.
Rosie poured herself a glass of champagne and sipped it as she looked at Seb. Not so scruffy tonight – the shorts had been changed for a pair of fashionably torn jeans, and a plain white T-shirt accentuated his tan. His hair was still tousled, though.
‘I can’t thank you enough for the candles. I definitely owe you,’ she said.
Seb shrugged. ‘This is good. Did you make it?’
‘What… oh, the mackerel pate. Yes.’ She glanced at him. ‘So, did you make a special journey to bring me candles?’
‘Yep. All twenty metres of it.’ Seb pushed his empty plate away and held out his hand. ‘Dance?’
‘Uuh…’ But Seb had already taken her by the hand. ‘Twenty metres – but that’s the hotel. So you work at the hotel?’
‘I own it.’
Rosie stood still. ‘But I thought…’
‘I know what you thought,’ Seb said. ‘You thought I was a down and out.’
‘You could have said. I was going to offer you some odd jobs when I saw you again,’ Rosie said. ‘I feel so stupid.’
Seb shrugged. ‘You shouldn’t. You weren’t to know. But you shouldn’t judge people so quickly – especially down here. Millionaires often dress like tramps.’
‘You’re a millionaire?’
‘You saying I was dressed like a tramp?’ Seb countered, shaking his head. ‘No, I’m not – yet.’
‘But you own the hotel. So we’re competitors? When does your restaurant open? Just don’t tell me you’ve got a Michelin star chef lined up.’
‘There’s room for both of us. I don’t see us as competitors – we’re aiming at two different markets. And yes, I expect a Michelin star within the first year.’
‘Oh, good,’ Rosie said. A crash from the kitchen made her jump. ‘Look, I’m sorry but I’d better go check that out.’ Grabbing a candle from the bar Rosie made her way into the kitchen.
Bloody typical. Just when she was beginning to think Seb was an okay bloke, he had to spoil things. Her cooking was as good as anybody’s – why didn’t he think she was capable of aiming for a Michelin star, too? Oh, not in their haute-cuisine section – she wasn’t that daft – but in their bistro section, where they highlighted the less pretentious places.
Tansy was scrabbling about in the candlelight picking up cooking tins and baking trays that had fallen onto the floor when a shelf had collapsed.
‘You okay?’ Rosie asked.
‘Fine. Who’s the candle guy?’
‘Seb. Owns the hotel,’ Rosie said, handing Tansy half a dozen trays to put on the work surface. ‘And he has Michelin aspirations for his restaurant when it reopens. That’s all I need – a bloody Jean-Christophe Novelli on my doorstep.’
‘Your cooking will get the punters in,’ Tansy said. ‘You know you can cook as well as any poncy chef.’
‘But I’m not a poncy French chef. Maybe I am being naive.’ Rosie sighed. For the first time she began to feel doubts creeping in about the Café Fleur being the success she wanted. ‘I know there’s a lot of competition out there. Let’s face it, every other building down here houses a restaurant or bistro. I just didn’t expect to have a major competitor right next door to me on the beach.’
‘Well, it’s a bit late now for second thoughts,’ Tansy said. ‘Think of the money you’ve already invested. You can’t just throw that lot away without even trying to make this place work – and it will work. Look at the reservations already in the book.’
Rosie took a deep breath. ‘You’re right, of course.’
She really did have to think about all the money she’d already invested. ‘Right. Back to Plan A – making the Café Fleur THE place to eat and be seen.’
Determinedly, Rosie pushed all traitorous thoughts of sexy hotel owners to the back of her mind, where she intended to keep them for the foreseeable future. This was not the time to let any man hijack the plans she now had in place for her life.
Men always wanted to be in control, do things their way, no argument. But the worst thing about men in her experience was they were totally unreliable. Charlie was living proof of that – and her father, of course.
This summer she was going to focus all her energies on making the Café Fleur the best beachside restaurant on the coast. No way was she going to let any local competition distract her from pursuing that plan.
CHAPTER FOUR
Escaping the office was always a bonus, especially on a sunny day, and Georgina George smiled happily to herself as she settled on one of the picnic benches at the Café Fleur. Her summer office was open.
Her normal desk in one of the most prestigious estate agent’s offices in town was an expensive necessity. One she needed for official meetings and for keeping her name ‘out there’. It made her legitimate in the eyes of clients. Never mind that in summer she did most of her paperwork on the laptop sitting at a café table. Bringing clients somewhere like this for an initial discussion over a relaxed coffee was always a good move, too.
At least the place was looking a bit more presentable this year. New name. New owner. The grapevine around the office was saying the new owner was English. She’d introduce herself when she ordered her coffee, find out for herself. With luck, the prices wouldn’t have gone up. Her budget was even tighter than last year thanks to Hugo raising the rent of her official desk.
A toasted sandwich and coffee for lunch was still a cheaper option than actually buying food and cooking it, though. As long as she had that at midday, she could survive on cereal at home.
‘Bonjour. What would you like? I’m afraid we don’t have a vast selection of food just now. Mainly baguettes, soup or toasties.’ The woman standing at her side, order pad poised, looked about Georgina’s own age.
‘Hi. Are you Fleur?’
‘Yes – although the name is really Rosie.’
‘I’m Georgina George. Yep, I know my parents had no imagination! Most people call me GeeGee.’ She smiled at Rosie. ‘A large coffee right away, please. And a croque monsieur in about half an hour – with another coffee. Thanks.’
While she waited for her coffee, GeeGee wrote an email to Stan, the sleazy landlord o
f her studio flat, reminding him she was waiting for the renewed lease to sign. Should have been sent over a week ago. As she pressed send, Rosie appeared with her coffee.
‘You’re a lifesaver,’ GeeGee said. ‘Need my coffee fix. How are things going with the café? I’m one of the regulars here, by the way.’
‘Fine so far,’ Rosie answered. ‘Looking forward to a busy season. You live around here?’
GeeGee nodded. ‘Out on the Cap d’Antibes. I’ve been down here eight years now and I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be – even if things have gone a bit pear-shaped recently.’
‘What do you do?’ Rosie asked.
‘I’m an estate agent and live off commission – which makes life a tiny bit scary at times.’ GeeGee picked up her coffee and took a sip. ‘Right now there’s a bit of a slump, but the signs are it’s slowly picking up. I’ve got a sale going through this month. And an apartment viewing this afternoon, which I have high hopes of selling.’ She didn’t add that she’d be in desperate straits if she didn’t sell another villa or an apartment in the next couple of weeks.
‘Bit like me then,’ Rosie said. ‘Not that I work on commission only, but I’ve sunk all my money into this place and need it to start earning me some money asap.’
‘Oh, it will,’ GeeGee said. ‘This place is a honey pot in season. Some days it’s impossible to find a spare table. My friend Erica and her daughter are always down here, too. We’ll spread the word for you, but trust me, you won’t need it.’
‘Thanks.’ Rosie smiled. ‘I’ll be back soon with your lunch.’
GeeGee sipped her coffee and watched her go before returning her attention to the spreadsheet she’d opened on the laptop and its rows of figures.
Twenty minutes later her concentration was broken as an email pinged into her box. Jay. She stifled a sigh.
‘Bon appétit,’ Rosie said, appearing with her lunch and another coffee.
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