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

by Karen Clarke

  I shuddered. He no longer resembled the young man with the gentle voice I’d spoken to in my friend’s garden. He looked like the sort of person I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of. He’d clearly been toughened by his troubled, early life and subsequent rise to fame, as well as his struggle to stay out of the spotlight. What did he do when he wasn’t filming? Did he have a girlfriend? Nothing had been reported in the press since his appearance with the tormented singer, but he’d no doubt learned his lesson after that and made sure to either stay single, or only date women who were happy to stay out of the limelight. Perhaps he made them sign non-disclosure agreements, too.

  I twizzled the ends of my hair and paced some more, trying to focus my energy. I would cycle over to Saint-Martin early the following morning and try to catch him before he started filming. I had no idea of his itinerary and he didn’t have a publicist that I knew of, so there was no point trying to find out where he’d be. The only thing I could be sure of was that he’d have to leave the hotel at some point, and when he did, I’d be there. Unless he came out in disguise and I didn’t recognise him. And what if it was all a massive red herring and he wasn’t staying at the hotel at all, even though Marie had said the rooms had been booked by the film company for the week? Or, what if they’d already gone out filming by the time I turned up, and didn’t return until it was too late to meet Nicolas with proof? What if I did bump into Jay and he didn’t recognise me, or he did and told me to get lost, or had me arrested?

  My brain felt like it was melting and when my phone rang, I screamed.

  ‘Mum, you made me jump.’ I wished she hadn’t insisted we use our cameras so she could see me whenever she called – which was invariably as I was about to get in or out of bed, or jump in the shower, or have something to eat, so I always looked vaguely irritable. ‘I didn’t realise you were going to call today.’

  ‘I didn’t realise I had to make an appointment to call my daughter,’ she said benignly. Like Dad, her temper was rarely ruffled, to the point where I used to prod her sometimes to try and get a reaction. ‘Are you working?’

  Mum always said this when she called, as if she might have interrupted a particularly tricky writing project, and while I appreciated her unshakeable belief that I was a prodigy, my guilt that I was barely working at all made me unusually tetchy. ‘No, Mum, I’m not working right now, as you can see.’

  I swung the phone around, so she could scan the room. She loved to see the house when she called – I’d had to do a video tour for her when I moved in, and she always asked to see what room I was in. Dad’s bedroom, as it turned out. I didn’t even remember coming in.

  ‘What’s that on the bed?’ Mum’s face loomed close to the screen, bringing what she called her ‘life-lines’ into view. In spite of them, she was ageing well. Her blue eyes were as bright and inquisitive as ever, her mouth always verging on a smile, while her newly styled platinum bob gave her a touch of the Helen Mirrens. ‘Isn’t that our old duvet cover?’

  I glanced at the bed, surprised. ‘I think it is,’ I said, wondering why I hadn’t recognised the duck-egg blue cover before. It clashed with the orange and yellow striped curtains, crimson lampshade and brown furry rug, but Dad always put it straight back on after washing.

  ‘That’s so sweet.’ Mum sounded delighted. ‘Let me have a proper look around.’

  Sighing, I passed my phone over the room, lingering on the photo Dad kept on the nightstand by the bed of Mum, doing the can-can with her sister Harriet at a Christmas party in the nineties, caught mid-kick, her face bright with laughter. She hadn’t visited the house since Dad moved in, though I knew she must be dying to. She’d said it wouldn’t be fair to intrude on his new life, inserting her personality into his home when he was trying to make a fresh start, and although I knew Dad would have loved her to come, offering an open invitation, he hadn’t pushed her when she turned him down. Sometimes, I wanted to bang their heads together.

  ‘Where is he?’ she said.

  I pulled the phone from the view through the window, of pale blue sky above rooftops, to see her eyes ranging around as if Dad might leap out from behind the oak chest of drawers.

  ‘He’s… out,’ I said, recalling her reaction when I’d mentioned Marie’s wonderful suppers, and how we sometimes ate at hers. I might as well have told her that Dad was getting remarried. She’d wanted a full description of Marie – I’d drawn the line at sending a photo – and a rundown of what we’d talked about, and had finally drawn the conclusion that Dad must be desperate for company because he ‘didn’t even like brunettes’.

  ‘Out?’ Her tone was casual, but her eyes demanded a response. ‘Who with?’

  ‘A friend?’ I hadn’t meant it to come out as a question.

  ‘What sort of friend?’

  ‘Mmm… not a friend, exactly. She’s—’

  ‘She?’ Mum’s eyes lasered through screen. ‘Why do you look like that?’

  ‘Like what?’ I glanced at the corner of the screen. I looked like I normally did; maybe a touch more flushed, and my curls more springy than usual and perhaps my eyes were too bright, but otherwise totally myself.

  ‘Like you did as a child, trying to stay awake on Christmas Eve.’

  ‘I look like an overtired toddler?’

  ‘It always ended in tears.’

  ‘Yes, because I didn’t understand why I wasn’t allowed to stay up and stroke Rudolph.’ I’d never been interested in seeing Santa, only his reindeer. ‘I still don’t.’

  Ignoring my attempt at humour, Mum said, ‘Is your dad meeting a woman?’

  I caught sight of my exaggerated wince and knew the game was up. ‘He thinks he might be ready for a new relationship.’

  Mum appeared to have dropped the phone. There was a view of grass, her favourite glittery trainers and a five-bar gate.

  ‘Mum?’

  Her face reappeared, a smile fixed in place. ‘Sorry about that.’ She gave herself a little shake. ‘I thought he was happy on his own, that’s all.’

  ‘What about you and Gareth?’

  ‘Gareth?’ As her head jerked back, I spotted a horse looking over a fence.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I came out for a run,’ she said. ‘And there’s nothing going on between Gareth and me. He’s my life coach, nothing more.’

  ‘But you’re at a yoga retreat with him, and you talk about him a lot.’

  ‘Oh, Natalie, that doesn’t mean we’re… sexual.’

  ‘Oh God, Mum.’ I shook away an image of her clasped to Gareth’s hairy chest. I knew it was hairy because I’d met him at Mum’s last Christmas, when he’d bought her a badly wrapped book called The Power of Breathing (as though she might have forgotten how), and his beard had met the hair poking above his collar. ‘But you said he was handsome.’

  ‘Your friend Charlie is handsome, and you talk about him all the time, but he’s not your boyfriend, is he?’

  She had me there. ‘How’s it going at the retreat, anyway?’

  ‘Oh, it’s got a bit tedious.’ She tilted the phone so her face dipped into shadow. ‘All that breathing and navel-gazing and chanting.’

  ‘Chanting?’

  ‘It makes me want to laugh,’ she said. ‘And everyone takes it so seriously.’

  ‘It’s not just you and Gareth?’

  ‘Of course not, there are ten other people here.’

  ‘Ah.’ Maybe they really were just friends.

  ‘It’s not as relaxing as I expected.’ She sounded unusually impatient. Mum had run her charity shop for years, handling a constant flow of volunteers, and was the most patient person I knew. ‘It’s making me think too much.’

  ‘But you like thinking.’

  ‘It’s making me angry.’

  I felt a ping of alarm. ‘Sounds like you should leave.’

  Her face bounced back into view, stippled with sunlight. It was an hour earlier over there, still mid-afternoon. ‘Do you know what?’ she said. �
�I think I might.’

  I was starting to feel bad now for mentioning Dad’s date. Although their split had been amicable, my parents had been married for over thirty years and it must be hard for them to contemplate the other with a new partner. I didn’t like it either, but I was their daughter. I preferred them as a unit, but sooner or later a step-parent might be on the cards, a thought that gave me childish shivers. ‘I don’t think it’s serious,’ I said. ‘Dad and this woman, I mean.’ I headed down to the kitchen. I was parched, and still hadn’t had my cup of tea. Jay Merino bobbed into my head, but I determinedly pushed him aside. ‘He’s been on a few dates, but none of them—’

  ‘He’s dating?’ Mum’s voice bordered on shrill.

  I paused, hand outstretched to the kettle. ‘Isn’t that what I said?’

  ‘No, you didn’t.’ The screen went muffled and black, as if she’d pressed the phone to her chest. I half expected to hear her heartbeat. ‘Do you know,’ Mum’s face reappeared, pink patches on her cheeks. ‘Your dad once said to me, “Claire, wherever you are, that’s where I want to be.”’

  ‘Dad said that?’ I was impressed. The most romantic thing Matt had ever said was, ‘I’m glad you’re not like my mother.’ (She had no filter and would say things like, ‘You’re not fat, Natalie, just short.’)

  ‘Well, it was in a film, but he said afterwards that he felt the same way about me.’

  ‘That’s so lovely.’ My eyes had gone prickly.

  ‘Anyway, how’s work?’

  It took me a second to switch gear. ‘Good, good,’ I said, my stock answer. ‘I’ve got an exciting assignment coming up.’ A thrill of anticipation was immediately followed by a nosedive of dread. ‘I can’t talk about it just yet.’

  ‘Intriguing,’ Mum said warmly. ‘I can’t wait to hear all about it.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I suppose I’d better get back.’ She sounded cheerful again, like her normal self. ‘I’m definitely leaving this place,’ she said. ‘I can’t stand another day of eating oatmeal. And why do they call it oatmeal instead of porridge? What’s wrong with calling it porridge?’

  ‘Not American enough, I guess.’

  ‘Anyway, say hi to your dad for me.’

  ‘I will.’ Though I wished she’d say it herself. ‘Say hi to Gareth from me.’

  ‘He’s practically stuck in a downward dog all day.’ I assumed she was referring to a yoga pose. ‘He’s so flexible, he can turn his head round like an owl.’

  The call ended with giggles, but as soon as Mum rang off my thoughts returned to Jay, and even two cups of tea, followed by Dad’s early return (his date had been ‘money-obsessed and too tall’) and dinner with Marie, couldn’t distract from the task that lay ahead.

  Six

  I’d got out of the habit of rising early since moving in with Dad – which I’d treated as an extended holiday, until it sank in that real life had to resume – but the following morning, I was up and dressed by seven. I’d barely slept, going over my half-baked plan and failing to come up with anything better, as well as wondering what I should wear for my meeting with Nicolas Juilliard, but in spite of a band of tension across my chest, I felt wired and alert.

  Once I’d showered and dressed and written a note for Dad, telling him not to bother making me tea (a habit I was trying to get him to break by escaping to the café as soon as I rolled out of bed), I snuck out the back door. I rejected taking the car – it was only three miles to Saint-Martin and a lovely morning – and cycled down to Café Belle Vie, my hair already escaping the clips I’d stuck in to restrain it.

  I knew Charlie would be up as the café opened early and sure enough, he was cleaning the windows inside with cheerful concentration. When he saw me, he did a comedy double-take and came out, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles.

  ‘Very funny,’ I said, dismounting awkwardly. I still hadn’t mastered the art of getting gracefully off a bike; I had fallen off more times than I could count the first time I’d joined Charlie on a tour of the island, having got out of the habit of cycling.

  ‘What’s happened?’ He tucked his cloth into the belt of his jeans. ‘Has your house burnt down?’

  ‘You just can’t stop being hilarious, can you?’ I said. ‘I’ve got plans.’

  ‘Proper plans, that don’t involve looking at dogs in tuxedos online?’

  ‘You know I don’t like seeing dogs dressed up, it’s undignified.’

  ‘You don’t mind seeing Hamish in his stripy top,’ he said, as Gérard strolled up to the café, the little dog tucked neatly under his arm. I thrust my bike at Charlie so I could stroke the dog’s black furry head, while Gérard looked on indulgently. Hamish adored being petted, and had only tried to bite me once, when I forgot he was under the table and stood on his tail.

  ‘Hamish is different,’ I said, once Gérard had escaped. ‘He suits knitwear.’

  Charlie smirked, indecently bright-eyed for the time of day. He was the sort of person who sprang out of bed in the mornings, ready for anything. ‘I take it your call to Nicolarse went well?’

  ‘Don’t be rude.’ I filled him in and he listened with an avid expression, while a steady stream of people flowed past, into the café.

  ‘So now you need to talk to Jay Merino?’

  ‘Shush.’ I looked around, noting several customers at a table nearby and Stefan taking their order. ‘Don’t broadcast his name.’

  ‘The French aren’t like us,’ he said, folding his arms. ‘They’re used to celebrities around here. I doubt anyone will bother to turn up to watch filming, especially if it hasn’t been made public.’

  ‘I bet they will, and anyway, it’s half-term in the UK, so there’ll be plenty of visitors from over there.’

  ‘I wish I could come and watch.’ Charlie adopted a Maximum Force style pose, flicking up his shirt collar and moodily staring down the barrel of his finger-gun.

  ‘Maybe Dolly will let you have some time off.’ Even as I said it, I knew this was something I wanted to do on my own.

  ‘Not today,’ he said. ‘She’s having her hair done once she’s finished the breakfast rush.’ Still in character, he trousered his pretend gun, speaking with a brow-furrowed gravitas that made me giggle. ‘And Giselle’s not in, she’s got a dentist’s appointment this morning.’

  ‘Well, maybe it’s best if you don’t come,’ I said. ‘It might ruin the mystery to watch him being touched up between takes.’

  ‘Touched up?’

  I gave him a hard stare. ‘His make-up.’

  He pulled a face. ‘I don’t want to think about Max Weaver in foundation.’

  ‘You mean,’ I lowered my voice, ‘Jay Merino.’

  ‘Same thing.’

  Dolly emerged, fair hair tucked beneath a mustard-coloured scarf, carrying a tray of coffee and a plate of bread and pastries. ‘You’re here bright and early.’ Her twinkling eyes flicked from Charlie to me and back, as if trying to bind us together. ‘I’ve brought you both some breakfast.’

  ‘I’ve already eaten,’ said Charlie, helping himself to a hunk of buttered baguette. ‘I’ll just have a tiny snack.’

  For once, I wasn’t tempted, my stomach rolling with a mix of adrenaline and nerves. ‘I can’t stay,’ I told Dolly. ‘I’ve got somewhere to be.’

  A knowing smile curled her lips. ‘And yet, you came here first,’ she said. ‘Your home from home.’

  ‘Well, it was kind of on my way.’

  Charlie ate his snack and rolled his eyes.

  ‘Oh?’ Dolly’s neatly trimmed eyebrows rose. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Just to Saint-Martin.’ I hoped she wouldn’t ask why.

  ‘Why?’ She drew her head back. ‘What’s in Saint-Martin at this hour?’

  She made it sound like the middle of the night. ‘I just fancy the exercise.’

  ‘There’s an actor staying there.’ Charlie spoke at the same time, seeming not to notice me signalling ‘shut up’ with my eyes. ‘Natalie’s hoping to interview him. Wh
at?’ he said when I tutted. ‘Mum’s the soul of discretion. She won’t say anything.’

  ‘I’ve better things to do than gossip,’ she agreed, waving to Gérard, who was settling himself at a window table with his newspaper, Hamish by his feet. ‘Maybe you could interview this actor in the café?’

  I smiled at such an unlikely scenario. ‘I haven’t even spoken to him yet,’ I admitted. ‘That’s why I’m going over there. I want to catch him before he starts filming.’

  ‘Him?’ Her grip on the tray tightened, betraying her interest. ‘Anyone I know?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t say.’

  She pursed her lips then nodded, eyeing the café again as a regular group of early-morning runners gathered inside for their usual order of coffee and muffins. Later, there’d be the school mums, lingering over sweet pastries and lattes, and Dolly’s book group would assemble this afternoon to sample her ‘special of the day’ (and maybe talk about books) and I knew they were more important to her than some actor she’d never met. ‘OK,’ she said briskly. ‘Mum’s the word.’

  ‘Get a selfie with him.’ Charlie brushed crumbs off the front of his shirt. ‘That’s all the proof you need.’