by Karen Clarke
‘… she genuinely wants to put things right between them.’ It was Charlie. ‘She says she’s changed and I think I believe her, and she wants to tell Ryan to his face.’
I guessed immediately that he was talking about Nicole. It sounded as if he’d spoken to her.
‘From what you’ve said, it’s for the best,’ said Dolly. ‘It’ll be good for them to properly clear the air.’
They seemed to be on Nicole’s side now, which was odd. Or maybe it wasn’t. Perhaps it was a good thing, especially if it meant Ryan could let go of his guilt about leaving her and the children again. It sounded as if a desperate Nicole had enlisted Charlie’s help – perhaps thrown herself on his mercy and begged him to talk to Ryan on her behalf. She must really love him a lot.
The voices drifted away, and the apartment was silent once more. I wondered whether Ryan had heard them talking, but the silence from behind his closed door suggested he was still sleeping. Had he sat up late, working on his novel? Banishing a mental image of him at his laptop, I returned to my room to find all my clothes needed washing, so I rooted through Dolly’s drawers for something to wear.
I found a pair of plain black trousers that were a bit short in the leg, but looked OK with my boots, and a crisp white shirt she’d probably bought for work and must have left behind when she moved in with Frank. The whole outfit was a bit ‘office manager’ (male), but a pink cardigan softened the look, and in the bathroom, after brushing my teeth, I dug a tube of lipstick out of my toiletries bag. It was called Kissable Lips and once I’d swiped some on, I pouted my mouth and made a kissy face in the mirror, imagining my lips meeting Ryan’s. No! I shut my eyes to wipe out the snapshot, and when my lids snapped open, I met his startled gaze behind me in the mirror.
I swung round, heart banging, wondering whether it was like one of those films where it turned out to be no one there, but there he was – smoothing the air between us with his palms, an apology in his eyes.
‘I didn’t realise you were in here. The door was half open and I just…’ He stopped and straightened. ‘I can’t believe you didn’t scream.’
‘It’s trapped,’ I squeaked, patting my chest. ‘It would have been a big one.’
Now he looked as if he was trying not to laugh. ‘I’m really sorry.’
‘You don’t sound it.’ He looked attractively rumpled in his navy dressing gown, one side of his hair flatter than the other, and I forced my eyes away from his lips, remembering the call from Nicole the night before. ‘Anyway, it’s all yours,’ I said. ‘The bathroom, I mean.’
Not stopping to ponder whether he’d seen my kissing face, I shot past red-faced and headed downstairs, only remembering as I reached the bottom that he had his own en suite, and must have been there because… oh stop it, I ordered myself. He was just passing, that was all.
Eighteen
‘How was Chez Phillipe?’ Dolly greeted me. She was leaning on the central island in the kitchen, her floured hands either side of a mountain of pastry, steam billowing from the open dishwasher. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t make it.’
‘The food was great,’ I said. ‘You didn’t have to pay for it, or send Ryan to keep me company.’
‘But you’re glad I did?’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Send Ryan over, I mean.’
‘Do you know how to make Mount Blanc?’
‘Mont Blanc,’ she corrected with a smile. ‘Of course, but it won’t be as good as Phillipe’s.’
I eyed her meaningfully. ‘Did you really have a salsa session?’
‘Of course I did.’ She brushed the back of her hand across her forehead. ‘Anyway, it was good to get Ryan away from his laptop, and you had a nice walk on the beach.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Ryan told Charlie when he got back last night and Charlie told me this morning.’
I wondered what else Ryan had told Charlie. ‘You know, I hadn’t realised the children weren’t Ryan’s,’ I said.
Dolly’s eyes widened. ‘You’re joking!’
I shook my head. ‘I thought he was awful for saying he wasn’t ready to be a father and walking away from them, but now I understand.’
Her astonishment gave way to a smile. ‘Well, that’s wonderful.’
I gave a rueful shrug. ‘I’m glad I know, but a meal and a walk on the beach isn’t going to make us more than friends.’
‘Friends is a start,’ I thought I heard her say, but then she was coughing hard, her forearm pressed over her mouth.
‘Are you OK?’ Looking closely, I noticed that her cheeks were more flushed than usual, her eyes somehow too bright, as if she was running a fever. ‘Dolly, you don’t look well.’
‘Frank has come down with this awful virus that’s been going around.’ Recovering her breath, she passed the back of her hand across her forehead. ‘I didn’t get much sleep.’
‘Should you even be here?’ I said. ‘It sounds contagious, and you don’t want to pass anything onto the customers, especially this close to Christmas.’
‘Oh, I’m fine.’ She wafted a hand in front of her face. ‘It’s a bit hot in here, that’s all, and I was up half the night, looking after Frank. He was delirious at one point.’
‘That’s awful,’ I said, alarmed. ‘He was OK the other evening.’
‘He said he didn’t feel well yesterday morning.’ Her voice had developed a worrying tremble. ‘He normally comes in to help, but was still in bed when I left the cottage.’
‘You didn’t mention it.’
‘I thought he just wanted an excuse to stay at home and hang the doors on my walk-in wardrobe as a surprise for when I got back.’
‘But he didn’t?’
She shook her head. ‘He was still in bed.’
‘Poor Frank.’
‘He couldn’t eat a thing.’ She pressed her lips together, as if to stop herself crying. ‘He was rushing to the bathroom all night.’
‘Sounds grim.’
‘Believe me, it was.’ She sniffed. ‘I’ve never seen him poorly.’
‘I’m sure he’ll be fine, Dolly.’ I moved round and gave her a hug, hoping I was immune to whatever it was Frank had. ‘Why don’t you go home?’ I said. ‘Charlie can manage things here.’
‘I can’t just leave.’ She cast a frantic look around the kitchen. ‘Stefan’s brother’s off sick too, so there’s no one to clear tables and wash up and I’ve got baking to do. We’ve run out of croissants, and the knitting group’s due in later. I always join them for a chat.’
‘Could that other lady, the one who used to own the café, come in and do the baking?’
‘Mathilde is visiting a friend in hospital today.’
It didn’t seem right to ask if she could visit this friend another day. ‘But Celeste and Stefan know the ropes.’
‘I suppose so.’ She hesitated. ‘It’s just a case of rolling this out.’ She patted the dough. I hadn’t properly noticed before how small her hands were. Small but strong, like Mum’s. ‘You need to fold it, shape it into crescents, tuck the ends in and pop them in the oven.’
I took a step back. Was she actually considering going home? ‘By you, you mean me?’
She nodded. ‘Remember, I showed you how to make croissants when you stayed before.’
‘That was six years ago, Dolly.’ And I hadn’t exactly taken it in then. ‘You know I don’t really bake.’ Ever.
‘That’s good, because it’s not really baking, it’s just putting them in the oven for twenty minutes.’ It sounded like the very definition of baking.
‘But…’ I stared at the raw pastry, as if it might magically transform into the required shape. I didn’t want to mess things up but my aunt needed me, for the first time ever. ‘I mean, if you trust me to help out, I’ll do my best.’
‘I think I really do need to take care of Frank,’ she said. ‘I’m a married woman now, in sickness and in health. And I must admit, I’ve got a stinking headache.’
I knew it must be bad. I remembered
Mum being worried when Dolly told her she rarely had a day off, and hadn’t been on holiday since buying the café. ‘Just like being married to a farmer,’ I’d pointed out, which had prompted Mum to book a spa-day with her friend from the village – except, she didn’t go because a sheep got milk fever and ‘needed company’.
‘Go,’ I said to Dolly, snatching an apron off the back of the door. ‘We’ll manage just fine.’
‘Really?’ The gratitude in her eyes was almost unbearable – mostly because I knew it was misplaced. ‘You don’t mind taking over?’
‘Charlie’s here, I’ll be fine.’ I fastened the apron, then realised it was on back to front. I switched it round, hoping Dolly hadn’t noticed. ‘Go and look after Frank,’ I ordered. ‘And yourself.’
‘Don’t forget to wash your hands.’
‘I won’t.’ I crossed to the sink and switched on the tap to prove it.
‘You’re a lifesaver.’ Dolly came over and gave me a squeeze from behind, and I tried not to breathe in any germs. ‘The café practically runs itself,’ she said, almost as if she was trying to convince herself. ‘You’ll be fine.’
I knew that wasn’t true. Without Dolly at the helm, the café would be like a ship without a captain. But Charlie was a good second-in-command, and Stefan and Celeste were a great crew and the regulars were understanding passengers… stop with the sailing comparisons, Nina. Plus, it was only for a day. What could possibly go wrong?
‘What is making the smell of fire?’ Celeste appeared through a cloud of smoke as I threw the back door open and slammed a metal tray onto the worktop.
‘I’ve cremated the croissants.’ I stared in horror at the charred, misshapen chunks in front of me. ‘I don’t know what went wrong. They were definitely cooked at the right temperature.’
‘Maybe they are not the right size.’ Celeste gingerly poked what looked like a chunk of coal. ‘They have to be bigger than this.’
I felt like crying. ‘I couldn’t fold them properly,’ I said, unable to look at them any longer. ‘I tried to do what Dolly said, but it didn’t work.’ The pastry had proved impossible to handle, my hands like shovels as I’d tried to mould it. I’d resorted to pulling off clumps and slapping them on the tray, hoping they’d transform as they baked.
‘What is this?’ Celeste peered with watering eyes at the tray still waiting to go in the oven.
‘I thought I’d roll the pasty flat and cook it in one go, then cut it into croissant shapes afterwards.’ Saying it aloud made me ashamed. ‘Not the best idea I’ve ever had.’
Celeste kept switching her bewildered gaze from the pastry to my face, as if trying to determine whether I was being serious. Or maybe her English wasn’t up to translating my words. They didn’t make sense to me either.
‘There is some prepared in the freezer.’ She moved past slowly, as if afraid I might pounce, and I guessed I looked as wild-eyed and crimson-faced as I felt. ‘For emergency,’ she clarified, and I was embarrassed that things had apparently become critical when I’d only been left in charge for half an hour. ‘Maybe you go round counter and I do this.’ She had pulled out some ready-rolled pastry strips. ‘There is only almond and cinnamon, but they will make do.’
‘Make do.’ I nodded gratefully, suddenly reluctant to leave the kitchen, which felt like a sanctuary compared to the café, where actual customers would require my attention. ‘I can probably manage those.’
‘Is fine, I will do now, for Dolly.’ Celeste didn’t stop smiling, but I could see the uncertainty in her eyes and felt terrible that I was the cause.
‘OK, good idea.’ I brushed flour from my apron, which was almost white. I’d tried to emulate Augustine who, when baking at the farmhouse, would liberally sprinkle flour around when rolling out pastry, though I couldn’t remember why. I’d thought it might help, but I’d only succeeded in spreading it over myself and the kitchen floor. ‘If you’re sure,’ I said, to double-check.
‘I’m sure.’ Celeste’s smile was crumbling at the edges, so I quickly washed my hands, swapped my apron for a clean one and mumbled my apologies and thanks as I slipped into the café, hoping no one would take any notice of me.
‘Nina, you must help!’ Far from his usual quiet, self-effacing persona, Stefan looked to be teetering on the edge of a meltdown. ‘I cannot do all this on myself.’
Blinking, I looked around. So many people, where had they come from? Maybe it was always this busy, but I was seeing it from another perspective – one that was making me wish I’d grabbed the letters out of my bedside drawer and gone straight to Gérard’s. ‘Where’s Charlie?’
‘He had to do errands and is not returned.’
Great. Dolly hadn’t bothered to mention that. Then again, she’d been feeling unwell, so it wasn’t really surprising. ‘I’ll start by clearing some tables, shall I?’
Stefan nodded so hard his hair shook, and so did the mistletoe sprigs on his Christmas jumper. ‘I need you to help here, too.’ He switched off the foamer, or steaming device (I couldn’t recollect what Dolly had called it), and cast a desperate look at the waiting queue.
‘Celeste will be through in a moment.’
‘You help.’
The man next in line, who had a thin moustache and a rose tattoo on his neck, raised expectant eyebrows at me and fired off an order in French I had no chance of understanding. ‘Back in a minute,’ I said, shooting past and picking a cup and plate off the nearest table. I needed a cloth to wipe it – and a tray to put the crockery on. Damn.
‘Ah, you are Dolly’s young lady. Très charmant.’ A gentleman of around eighty, with swept-back white hair and twinkly eyes, had turned in his chair to offer up a smile, revealing big white teeth. ‘I should offer a kiss, but Dolly explained it is not right to be in a young lady’s space.’ He waggled his hands in the area between us, then swept them grandly over the papers in front of him, which were scattered with musical notes. ‘I joined the Orchestre National de Lyon in 1969, and played violin with them for many years, and now I am writing a symphony for their fortieth anniversaire.’
‘How lovely!’ I forced a polite expression, not wanting to let the side down. Dolly would no doubt sit and chat to the old man, while managing to stay in control, but I seemed incapable of picking up a cup and smiling at the same time. ‘Good to meet you,’ I said as pleasantly as my mounting panic would allow, and retreated back to the counter to look for a tray. And a cloth. And an invisibility cloak.
‘Deux chocolat chaud et un tourbillon de cannelle.’ Tattoo-Neck was clearly fed-up of waiting.
‘Two hot chocolate and one cinnamon whirl,’ Stefan translated as he tipped steaming milk into two mugs for the woman at the front of the queue. ‘You know how to do?’
Oh hell. ‘Erm…’ I eyed Annabel, who looked somehow malevolent with her curvy frontage, steam hissing from one of her pointy things. ‘I… I might be able to remember.’
I turned to flash a smile at Tattoo-Neck, whose eyebrows were climbing towards his receding hairline. ‘Un instant, s’il vous plaît.’ I had a feeling it would take more than a moment, as I tried to recall Dolly’s instructions from the day before. Why hadn’t I taken a barista course, instead of buggering about with bloody horse whispering? Had Dolly even explained how to make hot chocolate? I seemed to remember espresso had been mentioned a lot. Milk. There would definitely be milk.
I picked up a cup and put it down, then looked at the waiting line of people. Most of them seemed happy to wait, scanning their phones, or chatting, but Tattoo-Neck was starting to look pissed off. ‘Why don’t you go and sit down and I’ll bring it over?’
‘Quoi?’
‘Erm… asseyez-vous.’ I mimed sitting and he scanned the café, then made a pantomime of scratching his head and looking puzzled when it became clear there were no clean tables.
‘You like for me to sit on floor?’ he said, in a parody of my accent. He’d be giving the café its first one-star review on TripAdvisor next.
‘Non.’ I held up a finger, a rigid smile fixed in place. ‘Une minute.’
I shot into the kitchen, where Celeste was lining up golden pastries, singing softly – it sounded like ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’ – as though all was well with the world. As though things weren’t about to descend into something resembling mealtime at Ban Kwang Central Prison. (I’d seen a documentary about it once. Although, hopefully, none of the food here was infested with maggots.) ‘You have to help Stefan,’ I said, feeling closer to hysteria than I could ever remember. I was letting Dolly down on her one day off in… probably since her wedding day. Where the hell was Charlie?
‘Do not worry, all is good,’ Celeste said warmly, calm now that she’d rescued the pastry situation. ‘I will go.’ She nodded at the tray of cooling pastries. ‘Maybe you bring them in?’
‘Yes!’ I wanted to kiss her cheeks. ‘I can definitely manage that,’ I promised rashly. ‘And I’ll come and clear some tables too, I just can’t… I can’t do the drinks.’
‘OK, but I am to go soon, for my hair.’ She pointed to her plait. ‘It is time for grey ones to leave.’
‘What?’ Don’t go. ‘I can’t see any grey,’ I said, scanning her hair. I could, but wasn’t about to admit it. ‘Could you not go tomorrow instead?’
Her smile faltered. ‘I have made appointment with salon. It’s for Christmas, I have party to attend.’
‘Right, that’s fine, it’ll be fine, it’s all good. I’ll bring these cinnamon whirls through.’
‘Almond croissants.’
‘Whatever.’
As she left, I sagged over the worktop, feeling as though I’d attempted to scale Everest in high heels, rather than failed to make a cup of hot chocolate for a man with a dodgy tattoo. How did Dolly do this every day? Her management gene had gone squarely to Charlie, with none whatsoever left over for her ‘favourite niece’. It was probably why I’d failed to get my travel blog up and running.
