‘Thanks. This looks good,’ GeeGee said as she closed the laptop down. Reading another of Jay’s happy happy missives wasn’t what she wanted right now so it could wait until this evening – if she didn’t delete it unread before then. Right now she was going to enjoy her lunch.
***
An hour later, GeeGee waved goodbye to Rosie, left the beach and made her way through town to meet her client, Marc, and show him a new property on her list. A top floor apartment in one of the oldest townhouses on the coast road.
Marc and another man were waiting for her on the opposite side of the road to the house, their backs to the sea, looking at the four-storey terraced house with its pale-green shutters. Both men were in their early thirties, and both wore the regulation uniform of the ‘yachties’ who crewed on the large luxury yachts. Smart bermuda shorts, polo shirts with their yacht’s name embroidered discreetly on the pocket, and sockless feet in deck shoes.
It was Marc who had contacted her and booked the viewing, so she assumed he was the buyer and the other man was there to give him some moral support. Clients often brought friends along to voice their unbiased opinions and to help them decide about a property. Sometimes, of course, the friends were being just plain nosey. Or maybe Marc and his friend were an item and they were looking to buy together?
‘Hi, not late, am I?’ she said, searching in her bag for the keys.
‘No, we just thought we’d come and spy out the lie of the land first,’ Marc said. ‘This is Dan – my financial adviser,’ he added, laughing.
GeeGee held out her hand. ‘Nice to meet you, financial adviser Dan,’ she said, smiling at him.
As her hand was taken in a firm grip and shaken, unexpected tingles shot up her arm and she was glad when Dan released it.
‘Love the position of the house,’ he said. ‘Must have wonderful views.’
‘It does and it’s a really lovely apartment. The sort that’s on my personal wish list,’ GeeGee said. ‘Despite the fact it’s on the fourth floor and there isn’t a lift,’ she added.
‘How many apartments in the building?’ Marc asked as they made their way up the stairs.
‘Three apartments and a couple of studios. 4c at the top is the nicest apartment – and the most expensive.’
She could tell from the moment she opened the door to the apartment that it was Dan who really loved the place. Marc didn’t seem that enamoured of either the recently decorated sitting room or the slightly old-fashioned kitchen with its original butler sink and blue and yellow tiles on the walls. The ‘Juliette’ balcony off the sitting room with its French doors and sea view was, in his opinion, too small to be of any use.
Finally she led them up the spiral stone staircase into the room that opened onto the pièce de resistance as far as she was concerned – the roof terrace. The first time she’d seen it, she’d immediately pictured it with urns and pots full of plants and tumbling geraniums and hidden lights dotted around. A perfect romantic hideaway for two.
After warning Marc that the apartment had only been on the market a matter of days and the owner wouldn’t consider an offer – he wanted the full asking price – GeeGee stayed up on the terrace while Marc and Dan had a wander downstairs on their own.
Standing there by the railings, watching the people down below making their way along the narrow coast road pavement, she longed to own a place like this. Romantic suppers in the moonlight with a loved one. She sighed. Maybe one day.
Downstairs, Marc and Dan were talking too quietly for her to make out what was being said, but her gut instinct told her that Marc wouldn’t be buying the apartment. She turned to face them as they joined her on the terrace.
‘Have you seen enough?’
‘Yes, thanks,’ Marc said. ‘It’s a lovely apartment but…’
‘I’ll pay the asking price,’ Dan interrupted. ‘Where do I sign?’
Surprised, GeeGee looked from Dan to Marc. ‘I thought you were the one looking to buy?’
Marc shrugged. ‘We both are. But, to be honest, this place is much more Dan’s style than mine. I’d prefer a penthouse studio in one of the modern blocks with a swimming pool.’
‘That’s because you’ve no soul,’ Dan said. ‘Who needs a pool when you’ve got that twenty yards away…’ And he gestured towards the Mediterranean.
‘Right, Dan. I’ll contact the owner. Then you’ll have to sign the first part of the contract and you’ll need to notify your notaire,’ GeeGee said. ‘You do have a seven-day cooling-off period if you want to change your mind. But after that the notaire will start things moving.’
‘Right,’ Dan said.
‘I can give you the names of a couple of a mortgage brokers,’ GeeGee asked. ‘They’ll make sure you get the right deal for you. Oh, I forgot you’re a financial advisor so you’ll have your own contacts.’ She grinned up at him, waiting for him to say Marc had called him that as a joke. But he didn’t.
Instead he said, ‘I’ll have the funds in place by next week.’ He held his hand out. ‘All business deals need to be sealed with a handshake.’
As her hand was again enveloped in his, GeeGee said, ‘Thank you.’ And prayed he couldn’t feel her trembling.
CHAPTER FIVE
Rosie bought a box of candles and went across to the hotel with them to say a proper thank you to Seb.
She knocked tentatively on the side door, which was ajar. ‘Hi. Anyone here? May I come in?’
No answer, so Rosie pushed open the door and walked in. The empty kitchen was gleaming with stainless-steel equipment, copper pots by the dozen hung in rows and huge refrigerators lined one wall. Close up, the range Rosie had seen being delivered last week was even more beautiful. God, did she covet that stove.
The saloon-style service swing doors were just too high for her to see over so, clutching the box of candles, she pushed her way through into the dining room. ‘Anyone here?’
A smell of paint still hung in the air from its recent decoration, and tables and chairs were arranged haphazardly, but even so, the room still managed to give off an air of luxury. Helped by the ceiling frescoes and the gold leaf that was literally everywhere. Round one – decoration and ambience – definitely went to Seb, although the Café Fleur being on the beach had to be worth some Brownie points.
Rosie was still standing there trying to take in all the details to tell Tansy later when Seb appeared and caught her snooping.
‘Seen everything you want?’
‘Umm, yes, thanks. These are for you.’ Embarrassed, Rosie thrust the box of candles into Seb’s hands. ‘The door was open. I did try to find someone. I’d better go.’
Seb shrugged. ‘No worries. Have a coffee.’ He moved back towards the gleaming espresso machine in the kitchen.
‘Sugar? Milk?’
‘Neither, thanks.’ Rosie watched as Seb placed a plate of tiny, delicious-looking pastries alongside the coffees on a tray.
‘We’ll take this through to reception. The chairs are comfy out there. Follow me,’ he ordered. Rosie followed meekly, wondering how long before she could leave. On a scale of one to ten of embarrassment, being caught snooping was a definite ten.
The reception area was pristine and clearly ready for the grand reopening. The requisite glamorous receptionist was already behind the desk, working away industriously. She glanced up as they approached.
‘Meet Miranda, my PA,’ Seb said. ‘She’s getting Saturday’s opening bash organised. Remind me to give you your invite before you go.’
‘Sorry,’ Rosie said. ‘I’ve got reservations for Saturday evening.’
‘It’s from eight till late so come over when you finish,’ Seb said. ‘I’ll make sure there’s a bottle of champers left for you.’
He was clearly a guy who didn’t accept a no easily – a bit like Charlie in that respect. Rosie decided it would be churlish to argue so she just shrugged and muttered, ‘Okay – if I’m not too tired.’
Sitting there, eating his delicious pastries and drinking coffee that was way too strong for her taste if she were honest, she began to feel an obligation to be polite to Seb. She needed to stop feeling awkward at being caught snooping around the place and at least make an effort to socialise politely. The guy had rescued her, after all, arriving like some gallant knight with candles. He didn’t deserve her cold-shouldering him – even if he was an annoying mix of sexy charm and arrogance.
She took another pastry. They really were divine.
‘Is this your first stab at running a hotel? Or have you done this kind of thing before?’ Rosie asked.
‘It’s my first time. I’ve been in the restaurant business for years but I fancied the challenge of a place of my own. And what about you – fed up with the yachts, I gather?’
Rosie looked at him. How did he know that?
‘I love cooking and having my own beach restaurant has been my dream for years. Besides, I couldn’t live the nomad life for ever.’
‘Like the name Café Fleur, by the way,’ Seb said. ‘Good idea to change it – sends a message to the locals that this summer it’s not the place it was.’
‘What d’you mean?’
Seb shrugged. ‘The local gendarmes took exception last year to drugs being dealt on their patch.’
Rosie gazed at him appalled. ‘Drugs?’ No wonder there were all those locks on the door.
‘Don’t worry about it. The people involved are enjoying a holiday in Marseille courtesy of the Republic. The gendarmes will be keeping an eye on you.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
‘I’ll get your invitation for Saturday,’ Seb said before walking over to Miranda.
The embossed card he handed Rosie was impressive.
‘Thank you. Will your chef be here in time for Saturday?’
Seb nodded. ‘He’s here already. He made those pastries you evidently like,’ he said, glancing, amused, at the plate.
Rosie pushed the plate, with its single remaining patisserie, towards him. Moreish didn’t begin to describe how delicious she’d found them.
‘So is your chef somebody I’m likely to have heard of? My biggest fear is that you’ve managed to entice Jean-Christophe Novelli back to the land of his birth to work for you. If you have, I’ll just give up now. I mean, there’s competition and then there’s Jean-Christophe.’ Rosie laughed as she said it, but deep down she was serious – and worried about his answer.
Seb shook his head. ‘You can stop worrying. It’s not him. But do you seriously think your little beach restaurant is going to compete with this place and the chef’s reputation?’
‘My cooking is as good as any chef,’ Rosie said, standing up. He’d put her biggest fear into words and she didn’t really want to hear what else he had to say. ‘Thank you for the coffee and pastries. I’d better go now.’
‘Have you heard of The Recluse restaurant? Head chef Sebastian Groc. He earned two stars for that place within four years.’
‘The Recluse in Monaco?’
Charlie had taken her there last year as a birthday treat. It was certainly a special place and the food had been superb. These days, though, Rosie tried not to think about the evening they’d spent there and the way it had ended.
Seb nodded. ‘That’s the one.’
‘Hang on a minute – what’s your surname? You’re not Sebastian Groc, are you?’ Rosie’s voice trailed away as Seb nodded.
Oh, brilliant. Not just one but two bloody Michelin stars in his last restaurant. And now he was next door to her and the Café Fleur. So much for not worrying about the competition.
CHAPTER SIX
The bord de mer was busy with traffic despite the early hour as Rosie made her way to the local market for her fresh vegetables. She’d planned her plat du jour menus for the week and now she quickly picked up the potatoes, onions and fresh garlic that were basic to so many of her recipes.
She hesitated over bunches of new season asparagus. Her favourite – gently steamed and served with Hollandaise sauce. Expensive stuff to waste but she could always make soup, she decided, placing five bunches in the basket before moving on to the cheese counter.
Back at the café she switched on the espresso machine and opened the shutters. The beach was deserted. Things were quieter over at the hotel, too. No hordes of workmen rushing in and out. Just the occasional glimpse through a window of chambermaids moving from one room to another, preparing the newly decorated bedrooms for their first guests of the season.
Tansy, when she arrived, looked at the party invite Rosie had pinned to the noticeboard in the kitchen.
‘You going?’
Rosie shook her head. ‘Planning on being too tired.’
‘Might be fun?’
‘You can have the invite if you like.’
‘Any other Saturday night, I’d love it,’ Tansy said. ‘But Rob’s taking me clubbing when we finish here.’
The café phone rang and Tansy moved across to answer it.
‘Hi, Antoine. Table for two tomorrow? Fine. You’ll probably have the place to yourselves as it’s still quiet. See you at seven-thirty then.’
‘Who’s he bringing?’ Rosie mouthed at Tansy.
‘Antoine, who… sorry, he’s hung up,’ Tansy said, looking at Rosie apologetically.
‘It had better not be Charlie, that’s all,’ Rosie muttered, savaging the potato she was supposedly peeling.
As a busy morning turned into lunchtime, Rosie was pleased to serve half a dozen plates of daube provençale, her plat du jour, to a group of walkers on their way to the Cap d’Antibes.
Tansy left at three o’clock. ‘I’ll be back about six-thirty. Make sure you have a rest this afternoon. Go for a walk on the beach or something. We’re all organised for this evening.’
‘I want to check upstairs first. See if there is any way we can make use of the place,’ Rosie said. ‘See you later.’
Locking the door behind Tansy and turning the sign to Closed, Rosie turned the key in the door by the bar and began to climb the stairs. Steep and clad in threadbare carpet, they weren’t the easiest to negotiate and Rosie was glad when she reached the room.
It was larger than she remembered. There was even a walk-in shower in one corner. A halfway decent sofa bed covered in boxes was against one wall and there was a kettle on a wooden table. The whole set-up reminded Rosie of her very first bedsit at college.
The windows were curtainless and, through the back one, she looked directly into the conservatory sitting room of the hotel. Lloyd Loom chairs and matching small coffee tables were dotted around, palm trees in pots and Seb working on a laptop. Rosie stepped back out of view. The last thing she wanted was for Seb to look up and catch her watching him. He’d probably accuse her of spying on him after the way he’d caught her snooping around the hotel.
Rosie pulled at the lid of one of the boxes on the settee. Beautiful wine glasses. Mentally she made a note to remember them for special functions. The rest of the boxes, though, were filled with kitchen equipment well past its sell-by date. Rubbish really.
Back downstairs, Rosie locked up and set off for a walk along the beach. Strolling along inches from where the Mediterranean was gently lapping at the sand, enjoying the warmth of the sun, the temptation to paddle was strong. Her feet, though, were nice and snug in her trainers and she decided she wouldn’t torture them by placing them in water that was still certain to be on the cold side.
The gentle breeze that blew in her face was invigorating and by the time she returned to the Café Fleur the exercise had banished her tiredness from the busy morning.
A dog was lying under one of the terrace tables when she got back. ‘Hello. Where’s your owner?’ Soulful brown eyes that tore right into Rosie’s heart looked at her but the dog made no attempt to move.
‘You’re very thin,’ she said, gently stroking the dog’s head. She wasn’t wearing a collar, so no helpful name
tag and address. ‘Stay there,’ and Rosie went into the kitchen to get some of the mince she had left over from the lasagne.
When she’d eaten and drunk, the dog managed a few wags of her tail before curling up under the table again and going to sleep.
Black and white, she reminded Rosie of the collie dogs her Aunty Elsie had kept on her Somerset farm. Whenever Rosie had visited with her parents there had always been at least two dogs bounding around for her to play with. And just once there had been a litter of puppies.
That litter of puppies had caused a family row Rosie had never forgotten when she’d begged to be allowed to take one home. Olivia, her mother, had said yes, but her father had said no, and however much Rosie had cried and begged, nothing would make him change his mind.
Rosie remembered shouting at him through a blur of tears. ‘I hate you. When I’m grown up I’m going to live in the country and have six dogs.’
Of course it had never happened – living in the country or the six dogs. Maybe the dog turning up unexpectedly was some sort of sign? Could she keep her?
Gently Rosie examined the dog’s ears. Every French dog was supposed to have a number tattooed in their ear. No tattoo. Which probably also meant no micro identification chip either. Rosie sighed. The lack of both would mean the paperwork would be immense and would probably mean the dog went straight to ‘death row’ at the local dog pound. No way could Rosie bear the thought of that.
There was only one thing for it. Tonight she’d take the dog home with her and, if nobody claimed her in the next few days, she’d keep her – and christen her Lucky. With the French being so laissez-faire about dogs in restaurants it was unlikely to be a problem.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘Why are you looking at houses, Mummy?’
Erica jumped. She’d left Cammie engrossed in her beach project at the kitchen table while she’d sneaked into the sitting room to look at some houses on the internet. No time to close the laptop now.
‘GeeGee was telling me about some of the lovely houses she gets to sell and I thought I’d take a look,’ Erica said evasively.
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