I'll Be Home for Christmas: A heartwarming feel good romantic comedy

by Karen Clarke

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Ryan rubbed the side of his face along Delphine’s back and she closed her eyes in apparent bliss. ‘She loves Madame Bisset.’

  ‘OK, well, she hates me.’

  ‘Hate’s a strong word.’ He reached up to tickle her fluffy chin.

  ‘You know that cats would kill and eat us if they could?’ I said. ‘I read somewhere they’d start with your face if you died on your own in a room with one.’

  ‘That can’t be true,’ said Ryan, but he hadn’t seen the look Delphine was tossing my way when she thought he wasn’t looking. ‘I had a cat that slept on my pillow next to me, and Mum swore he used to cry when I went to school.’

  I rolled my eyes inwardly. ‘I wonder what Delphine’s doing here?’

  ‘She must have escaped again.’ Ryan tucked her inside his coat and kissed the tip of her ear. ‘Where’ve you been, likkle Delphy?’ Really?

  She snuggled against his chest and gave me a look of triumph. ‘Maybe Madame Bisset lives around here.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be weird if all the café customers lived on the same street?’

  ‘It would be odd,’ I agreed, taking a step back as I realised I was standing far too close to them both. ‘But why would Delphine run all the way from the café?’

  ‘Poor puddy-cat, could have got run over by a bicycle.’

  I was starting to feel like a gooseberry. Watching Ryan’s openly affectionate cuddling, I couldn’t help switching the cat for a baby in my imagination and could suddenly see him as a dad.

  ‘I’ll ask Gérard,’ I said, pushing the image aside, reminding myself Ryan had actually walked out on his children. ‘He might know where Madame Bisset lives.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  Still cradling Delphine, Ryan followed me out of the house to Gérard’s front door. It was ajar, and I gingerly pushed it open. ‘Gérard!’ I called, and heard Hamish bark from behind the closed kitchen door. ‘It’s Nina! Dolly’s niece. From the café. By the harbour. Le Café Belle Vie.’

  ‘I think he knows who you are,’ said Ryan, his voice teetering on laughter.

  ‘Gérard?’ I stepped inside and heard movement, then saw Gérard hurrying downstairs looking flustered, his white hair sticking up, his shirt half-untucked. ‘Are you OK?’ When he didn’t answer, seeming stunned by our presence, I turned to Ryan. ‘Is he OK?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He moved past me. ‘Are you OK, Gérard?’

  ‘Oui, très bien.’ Gérard smoothed his hair with both hands and offered an uncertain smile. ‘What ’ave you… Oh.’ His eyes widened with alarm when he spotted Delphine peering out of Ryan’s coat. ‘’Ow did…?’

  ‘She came into Margot’s house.’ The frantic scrabbling and snuffling from behind the kitchen door had increased. ‘Do you want to let Hamish out?’

  ‘Hmmm?’ Gérard looked oddly vague as he glanced behind me. ‘’E is not well,’ he said and tucked his shirt back into his waistband.

  I exchanged a look with Ryan, who raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

  ‘Do you have Madame Bisset’s address, so we can take Delphine home?’ I said to Gérard. ‘Où habite Madame Bisset?’

  His eyes scrunched. ‘I think Cécile is at the café, non?’

  Cécile. Of course, she had a first name. ‘Does she live near here?’

  He was backing away, and I wondered whether he was allergic to cats. ‘I suppose you could take Delphine back to the café,’ I said to Ryan. ‘Madame Bisset must be frantic by now.’

  I started at the sound of creaking stairs, and watched as a ghostly figure appeared and came towards us at surprising speed.

  ‘Delphine!’ It was Madame Bisset, a thick mass of pebble-grey hair tumbling to her shoulders, her lipstick worn away and panda smudges underneath her pouchy eyes. She was wrapped in a sheet that barely covered her bouncing, braless bosoms. ‘Tu es une vilaine fille!’ she cried. ‘Naughty!’

  I glanced at Ryan and could tell he was thinking the same thing. Delphine wasn’t the only one who’d been a naughty girl.

  As Madame Bisset made an attempt to grasp hold of the cat, her sheet started to slip, and Ryan hastily deposited Delphine into her outstretched arms.

  Gérard watched with the air of a child caught with his hand in the biscuit tin, while Hamish continued to yelp and scrape the kitchen door.

  Outside, a car door slammed and a familiar child’s voice pierced the fog in my brain. ‘Gérard,’ I whispered urgently, remembering Jacqueline’s words before she’d left the café. ‘Your granddaughter is here with Holly.’

  His eyebrows flew up. ‘Ils viennent demain.’

  ‘No, not tomorrow,’ I hissed. Delphine’s ears twitched. ‘They’re here now – maintenant – to surprise you.’ I scratched around my brain for the right words, but could only repeat ‘maintenant!’ more loudly, hoping he’d get the message.

  His eyes swivelled to the door. Either Delphine had mastered the art of sliding back bolts (it wouldn’t surprise me) or Cécile hadn’t closed it properly when she arrived for her afternoon delight. ‘Maintentant?’ Gérard’s face twisted with horror. ‘Mon Dieu,’ he whispered. ‘I cannot tell Jacqueline. She will think I do not love Maggie any more.’

  Reading the situation, Ryan shoved the door shut and locked it. ‘You should probably leave,’ he said to Madame Bisset, who seemed frozen to the spot, Delphine now sleeping peacefully across her chest. When she didn’t answer, too caught up in murmuring soothing words to the slumbering cat, he turned to Gérard. ‘Ask her to leave,’ he said gently. ‘Unless you’re ready to explain to your granddaughter what’s been going on.’

  ‘Gérard,’ I urged, and as if he’d been prodded with a stick, he sprang to life and spoke in rapid French to Madame Bisset, whose mouth dropped open in a circle of shock.

  ‘’Ere.’ Without warning, she thrust Delphine into my unsuspecting arms and bolted upstairs, sheet flapping around her calves.

  ‘She’s really fit,’ I said.

  ‘Must be all the exercise,’ Ryan murmured back, while Gérard paced up and down, and Delphine squirmed out of my arms and shot after her mistress.

  There was a loud knock on the door and Gérard came to an abrupt halt, as if his batteries had died. ‘C’est terrible.’

  I actually thought Jacqueline might be pleased for him, but realised I couldn’t be sure, and that it might be better for him to break it gently, when the woman he’d been… entertaining hadn’t just risen from his bed.

  ‘He can’t leave them out there, they’ll think he’s collapsed,’ I said to Ryan. His brow was furrowed, eyes focused as if making a plan. In the kitchen, the barking had reached a crescendo. ‘And Hamish will collapse if someone doesn’t let him out.’

  ‘Look, I’ll keep them talking outside for a few minutes while you escort Madame Bisset out of the back door,’ he said.

  ‘What will you say?’

  ‘That I’ve been talking to Gérard about his memories of the area for a future book I’m planning. Or something.’

  ‘That’s good,’ I said.

  Gérard nodded, though I wasn’t sure how much he’d understood. ‘Ryan has been talking about, er… la lèvre,’ I said. I was pretty sure that meant book.

  He looked startled. ‘La lèvre?’

  ‘Oui.’ I steered him towards the kitchen, a question rising in my mind about the letters, even though it was hardly the time. ‘Gérard, what was Maggie’s surname before you were married… nom de famille?’

  ‘Quoi?’ He threw me a befuddled look.

  ‘Maggie… Smith?’ I doubted he’d had heard of the actress with the same name.

  He shook his head, frowning. ‘Maggie Kendall.’

  William Kendall. I filed the name away.

  Gérard’s smile was filled with regret. ‘Maggie would tell me I am being a silly old bugger.’

  ‘No, you’re not.’ I gave his arm a Dolly-style squeeze. ‘You deserve a bit of…’ I averted my mind from an image of him shirtless under the duve
t with Madame Bisset ‘…happiness,’ I said. ‘Bonheur.’

  As he entered the kitchen, he was greeted by an ecstatic leap of wiry fur and glimpse of flapping pink tongue.

  ‘Go on,’ Ryan said to me, as there was another, more urgent knock at the front door. ‘I’ll try and give you a few minutes and then I’ll head back to the café.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I threw him a quick smile and slipped upstairs to the main bedroom, to find Delphine washing her paws on the bed with the entitled air of a princess, while Madame Bisset pushed her hair inside a big fur hat. Not only had she dressed with miraculous speed, managing to put on tights and button her voluminous coat, she’d even refreshed her lipstick, which was ladybird red to match her scarf and gloves.

  Seeing me in the doorway, she nodded to the cat. ‘She is always running to the man.’ Her English was so much better than my French. ‘She ’as got the fancy for ’im.’

  ‘Ryan?’ I queried, though it couldn’t have been anyone else.

  ‘Like you.’ Her smile was knowing as she picked up a canvas bag from the floor by the bed, and I quickly averted my gaze from the messy duvet.

  ‘No, not me and him. We’re… I barely know him.’

  She pulled down her mouth, shaking her head to say she didn’t understand.

  ‘We’re friends,’ I lied. ‘Nous sommes amis.’

  Her softly wrinkled face cleared. ‘Like Gérard et moi. We are… ’ow you say? Copains chambre.’ Oh God, no.

  ‘We’re really not “bedroom buddies”,’ I began, when I heard the clatter of claws in the hall downstairs. Hamish. ‘Listen, we have to go.’

  ‘He cannot see my Delphine.’ Madame Bisset scooped the cat into her bag, like a pile of washing and jabbed her gloved finger at the floor. ‘Le chien, he will kill mon minou.’

  ‘No animals are going be killed, I promise.’ I hoped that was true as I herded her out of the room and down the stairs, willing Delphine to keep her head in the bag.

  Luckily, Hamish had trotted into the living room, as if he couldn’t keep out now it had been transformed. Gérard peered round the door and I gave him a thumbs up, while Madame Bisset continued through the kitchen to the back door, casting him a last, lingering look.

  I accompanied her round the side of the house, keeping hold of her arm so she didn’t slip on the snowy surface, and looked round the front in time to see Jacqueline and Holly disappear inside the house. I hoped that Gérard would look suitably surprised – and pleased.

  Ryan, who’d pulled up the hood of his coat, spotted me and nodded and gave a thumbs up. I raised my hand in a wave, feeling as if we were in a spy movie – a silly one, featuring Austin Powers.

  ‘Can I walk you home?’ I asked Madame Bisset, once Ryan was heading in the direction of the café.

  ‘Non, merci.’ She checked Delphine was safely tucked away and I caught an evil glint of green from the depths of her bag and shivered. ‘My daughter will collect me,’ she said. ‘I sent her the text message.’

  When she’d managed to do that, I had no idea. ‘She knows where you are?’

  ‘She likes me to get out of the ’ouse when she is at school.’

  I reeled back. ‘How old is your daughter?’

  ‘Fifty-one.’ Madame Bisset patted her hat, as if checking it was still there. ‘She is ze ’eadmistress.’ I almost laughed, but stopped when I saw her face.

  ‘That’s nice?’ Something was telling me it wasn’t.

  ‘She is an angry woman.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘She think I am under her feet too much.’

  Sympathy rose. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I ’ave photographs.’

  By the time a small blue car had pulled up, I’d seen so many pictures of her angry-looking daughter and Delphine that their faces had merged into one, and it was almost a shock when the stern-faced woman at the wheel turned out not to have whiskers – though her expression was eerily similar to Delphine’s. As they drove away, the daughter’s mouth making angry shapes, and I headed back to Margot’s, I couldn’t help hoping that one day Gérard and Cecile might end up being a lot more than bedroom buddies.

  Fourteen

  Back at the café, I made light work of a bowl of French onion soup and some crusty bread topped with grilled Gruyère cheese.

  ‘Was she pleased?’ Dolly said, slipping into the chair opposite. ‘Margot?’ she added when I looked at her blankly. All the way back, I’d been focused on eating, my stomach protesting loudly at the lack of sustenance.

  ‘She seemed to love it,’ I said, recalling her face and murmurs of appreciation as she’d moved from the living room to the dining room, where I’d arranged her table and chairs, filled her white-painted dresser with the best pieces of crockery I could find, and positioned her painting beneath a mounted picture light.

  ‘I did not know what I wanted, but this is it,’ she’d finally declared, back in the living room, doing a slow spin to take it all in, a pensive smile on her face. ‘I will not be lonely here.’ She’d picked up a photo and stroked the glass. ‘Not with Raphael.’

  ‘Your son?’ I’d asked, having spotted a likeness in their whimsical smiles, and she’d nodded, eyes brimming with tears, before trying to press a wad of euros into my hand.

  ‘Don’t let her give you any money for me,’ I said to Dolly. ‘I refused, and she said she would find a way.’

  ‘It was a job, not a favour,’ Dolly said sternly. ‘She can afford to pay you.’

  ‘All I did was tidy up a bit.’

  ‘You have to stop calling it that.’ She sounded quite ferocious, clearly having forgotten that’s what she’d called it in the past. ‘What about that woman who’s made a million, getting people to throw things away?’

  ‘Marie Kondo? That’s decluttering,’ I said. ‘I just like…’ I paused, not sure how to describe the process. ‘I like bringing a room to life.’ I could feel a blush coming on. ‘I know that sounds ridiculous.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t.’ Dolly brushed her fringe aside. ‘I get it, I really do.’

  ‘You told me off when I tidied your house when I stayed with you once, remember?’

  ‘Ah, yes, I do.’ Her face puckered. ‘I felt a bit ashamed, if I’m honest,’ she admitted. ‘Charlie’s dad used to call me a scruffy so-and-so, and I suppose I felt you were judging me.’

  ‘Never,’ I said, shocked. ‘I should have asked.’

  ‘It’s ancient history, and if you remember, I invited some friends from work round for dinner to show it off.’

  I hadn’t remembered that bit and a smile stretched over my face – then dimmed when I remembered Charlie’s dad had taken a fancy to one of the friends.

  As if recalling it too, Dolly said briskly, ‘Now, how about I show you how the coffee machine works?’

  ‘Really?’ I’d been planning to look at the letters again and think about how to source some more information about William Kendall. ‘I’m not very technical.’

  ‘It won’t take long and you’ll enjoy it,’ Dolly insisted. ‘Come on.’

  ‘I suppose I can’t say no, after that delicious lunch,’ I said as Stefan moved in to clear the table. ‘Where’s Charlie?’

  ‘He’s on his break,’ said Dolly as we made our way to the counter. ‘Either talking to Elle or bothering Ryan.’

  My heart gave an odd little leap at the mention of his name. ‘He’s here?’

  ‘Of course.’ Dolly gave me a sideways look. ‘I gather you bumped into him at Margot’s.’

  I held her gaze. ‘Don’t pretend that wasn’t your intention.’

  ‘Not at all.’ She’d come over all innocent again. ‘I thought he’d be gone by the time you got there.’

  ‘Oh?’ I couldn’t tell whether she meant it, but she’d already turned her attention to the scary-looking machine behind the counter, with its knobs and handles and scary noises.

  ‘Say hello to Annabel,’ she said.

  I’d forgotten Dolly’s tendency to name inanimate
objects. ‘Hi, Annabel!’ I beamed, then stopped when I saw my distorted reflection in the shiny chrome.

  Celeste, pouring frothy milk into a jug, gave me a bright smile as she made a cup of hot chocolate, which she placed on a tray with two mince pies before whisking the lot to a waiting customer.

  ‘She makes it look simple,’ I said.

  ‘It is.’ Dolly launched into a series of words, among them, ‘grinding the beans properly’, ‘use the right coffee-to-water ratio’ and ‘pull the shot for the correct amount of time’, but none of them made much sense. ‘Annabel needs at least fifteen minutes to warm up,’ she continued, while I watched Stefan carefully arrange a pile of almond croissants in the display cabinet with a pair of tongs. ‘It’ll give her time to heat the water and build the pressure that’s needed to force water through the grounds.’

  ‘Right.’ I forced my eyes back to the machine and tried to concentrate as Dolly said things about tamping, beans and temperatures.

  ‘Nina!’

  My head jerked back. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Did you get that?’

  ‘Of course I did.’ I sounded like I used to whenever Mum asked whether I’d done my homework. ‘Go on.’

  ‘What did I just say?’

  ‘Don’t worry if the Portaloo overflows.’

  Dolly’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘Filter,’ I corrected. ‘Portafilter.’

  She shook her head and picked up a cloth. ‘You have to clean the steam wand before and after using it, to make sure no contaminants get into the milk.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Let the steam blow for about five seconds and then close the valve to turn it off.’ She demonstrated, the whooshing sound making me jump. ‘The bean release gate on the grinder has to be open while you’re working to keep the process going.’

  ‘Your job would be so much easier if everyone drank tea.’

  Smiling, Dolly put down the cloth. ‘It drove me mad at first, latte this, espresso that,’ she admitted. ‘You soon get used to it, and if a complicated coffee gives people pleasure, where’s the harm, when there’s so much in the world to feel bad about?’