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

by Karen Clarke

  I directed him to the rue des Forages and he parked outside the house. The lights were off and I wondered whether Yvette was staying the night and had to quash an unpleasant imagine of her tucked up naked beside Dad.

  ‘I’ll get your bike out,’ said Jay, and had deftly removed it from the boot and propped it by the front door by the time I’d heaved myself out of the car. Soft music and voices floated from Marie’s house and I guessed she must still be up, entertaining her Americans. Part of me wanted to shout, ‘Look who’s here, with me,’ but I was starting to see Jay less as Jay Merino, the actor, and more as a man I happened to like a lot, so instead I said in a jokey tone, ‘I’d invite you in for a coffee, but…’ and let the sentence hang.

  Jay took my hot hand in his cool one and said, ‘I’d love to meet your dad, once I’m done with filming.’ My heart soared. He sounded as if he meant it. ‘Come and watch me filming tomorrow, around two o’clock,’ he said, impulsively. ‘I’m doing a scene at the lighthouse at Saint-Clément-des-Baleines. I have to pretend to throw Nova off the top, but of course, she escapes.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve been up the lighthouse a few times, on holiday,’ I said. ‘Are you sure your director won’t mind?’

  ‘I’ll tell Brian you’re there as my special guest.’ Jay’s fingers tightened round mine, and they felt like a pledge. ‘Simon will look out for you.’

  I could imagine how that would go down. ‘Great,’ I said, wondering whether my smile could get any wider.

  ‘We could grab something to eat afterwards.’

  My smile got wider. ‘I’ll see you there.’

  ‘Great.’

  Still smiling, I watched him get back in the car and waved as he drove off, though he probably couldn’t see me as there were no street lights to break up the darkness. When he’d gone, I let myself into the house and floated upstairs, and still had a smile on my face when I dropped into bed, five minutes later, and fell instantly asleep.

  Fifteen

  The dream I’d been having hurtled into the distance as I groped from under the duvet for my phone, which was blasting out the theme from Maximum Force. Simon had been chasing me along a quayside, and I’d had to jump in the sea to escape. Jay, wearing a pirate-style eye-patch, had leaned over the side of a super-sized yacht to grab me, but I’d never know now whether I made it to safety.

  Why was I dreaming about being saved by a man? It seemed so twentieth century. Even if the man was Jay in a sexy eye-patch.

  I finally yanked my phone from my bag, just as the call cut off, and a smile crept over my face as memories of the night before rolled in. I hadn’t expected to sleep at all, sure I’d spend the night going over and over everything that had happened, but events had clearly caught up with me. That, and the wine. And the kissing. Ah, the kissing.

  I needed to talk to Charlie. He’d be dying to know what had happened, especially after the message I’d sent him. I saw that he’d texted back, Dinner with Max Weaver??? What is happening to your life??? Be good (not!) X

  I chuckled, thinking how Charlie would laugh when I told him I’d been worried I was being kidnapped, and that I’d hoped he would come and find my dead body. Dad had replied too.

  Take care, Natalie. Remember what I taught you. Dad xx

  He was referring to the self-defence techniques, should I find myself being attacked: kick with both feet at once, thrusting my hips off the floor for extra power, then get up and run away as quickly as possible – which, sadly, would only work if I was lying down. Failing that, it was a kick to the groin and/or fingers jabbed in eyeballs… then run away as quickly as possible. He’d insisted for a while that I carry a special alarm that made a terrifying sound, but I once set it off in the cinema by accident, resulting in a panicked stampede to the exits.

  Still smiling (I couldn’t seem to stop), I pushed my duvet off my face, blinking as hazy daylight streamed through the window. I rarely drew my curtains because I liked waking up to a slice of blue sky, though today it was the colour of sterling silver, as though it might start to rain. Squinting again at my phone screen, I saw it was Charlie who had been calling. He’d tried earlier too – several times – but I’d been so deeply asleep I hadn’t heard my phone. With a lurch, I realised it was almost ten o’clock. He was probably wondering what had happened to me, or – more likely – wanted to know if I’d spent the night with Jay.

  The thought sent heat searing through me, and I indulged a few seconds of reliving his kiss and the feel of his body against mine, imagining him naked. I’d already seen his chiselled arms and rippling abs when he’d stripped to the waist as Max Weaver, about to bed one of his ‘dangerously seductive’ women, but I somehow couldn’t associate the sight with real-life Jay – though the firmness of his chest beneath my palms the night before had hinted at what lay beneath. Conscious of my inferior level of fitness, I pitched out of bed and dropped to the rug, where I attempted to do a press-up, but although I managed to lower myself down, pressing up was beyond me. At least my thighs were vaguely toned from cycling or walking everywhere and my skin – though generally as white as a sheet of A4 – was smooth and blemish-free.

  A surge of energy propelled me to my feet, and I messaged Charlie to say I was on my way, before clicking on an email from Sandy at Expats. She loved my How Not to Impress an Actor on Location submission and was sure it would get a great response.

  ‘Yes!’ I fist-pumped the air, then put my phone on charge before diving into the shower, where I sang ‘Let Your Love Flow’ at full volume while washing my hair with the super-expensive, frizz-control shampoo I saved for special occasions.

  ‘You’re in an excellent mood,’ said Dad when I pitched up in the kitchen, dressed in fresh jeans and a barely ironed shirt, my hair still damp as I hadn’t got the patience to dry it. ‘I take it you had a nice meal with your friend?’

  ‘Lovely,’ I said, unable to prevent a blush sweeping over my face.

  ‘I hope he was nice to you.’ His eyebrows rose.

  My blush deepened. ‘No self-defence required.’

  ‘Glad to hear it.’ Luckily, Dad returned his attention to his notepad, tapping his teeth with one of his special pens. ‘How was your date with Yvette?’ I looked around, hoping she wasn’t about to appear, wrapped in his towelling dressing gown.

  ‘Oh, it didn’t work out.’ He absently scratched his head. At least his hair had almost returned to its natural colour, with just a faint trace of brown around the temples. ‘The language barrier was a bit of a problem.’

  ‘I thought her English was pretty good,’ I said. ‘She didn’t sound like she needed many lessons.’

  He gave me a mournful look. ‘The lessons were just an excuse,’ he said. ‘She made a pass at me, nearly as soon as you’d gone.’

  ‘She did?’ I wasn’t entirely surprised, considering the hungry looks she’d been throwing his way. ‘Isn’t that a good thing?’ Even as I said it, my mind rejected the idea. ‘She obviously liked you, Dad.’

  ‘She put her tongue in my mouth.’

  ‘That’s…’ revolting. ‘That’s normal, Dad, if someone finds you attractive.’ I really didn’t want to be having this conversation with my father. ‘Maybe it was a bit too soon?’

  He shuddered, as if the memory was too terrible to contemplate. ‘It felt all wrong,’ he said. ‘I’ve never kissed anyone before but your mother, and she never put her tongue in my mouth on our first date.’

  ‘Oh God, Dad.’ Despite the miles between them, he clearly hadn’t moved on from Mum as much as he’d been pretending. Not if their first date – a trip to the cinema to see The Terminator – was fresh in his mind.

  ‘Don’t worry, I called her a taxi and popped next door when she’d gone,’ he said, brightening. ‘Larry used to be a cop in LA. We compared notes and had an argument about gun control.’

  ‘I bet that was fun for Marie and Barbara.’

  ‘Oh, they joined in,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘We all had plenty to say. I didn’t g
et home until midnight.’

  So that was why the house had been in darkness when I got home. Not that my mind had been on anything but Jay, but it hadn’t occurred to me that Dad might not be there. I’d fallen asleep so quickly, I hadn’t heard him come in. ‘Well, I’m glad you had a nice time,’ I said, and when he looked like he was about to ask more about my evening, I glanced pointedly at the old-fashioned clock on the wall, which used to belong to his mum and which he’d insisted on bringing to France. ‘I’ve got to go to the café, I’m meeting Charlie.’

  ‘You and your men,’ he said fondly, as though I had a string of them competing for my affections. ‘Get him round here for dinner sometime, I want to try out a new recipe.’

  ‘It’s not another take on a French classic, is it?’ I recalled his attempt to recreate bouillabaisse, using sardines and turnips. I hadn’t realised my gag reflex was so strong.

  ‘Marie’s going to show me how to make a soufflé.’ He threw down his pen and pretended to crack an egg. ‘I’m popping round there later.’

  ‘That sounds great,’ I said. The more time he spent with Marie the better, as far as I was concerned. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  After gathering my things, I set off for the café, swinging my laptop bag – I wanted to make a start on my interview with Jay, once I’d filled Charlie in on last night. I was glad to see a brightening in the sky as the sun began to creep through. It was a sunshine kind of morning. A sing-song kind of day. Sing-song kind of day? I laughed at myself. I wanted to twirl round lamp posts and buy ice creams for passers-by. Luckily, there were no lamp posts – or ice-cream parlours – nearby.

  The colours of the fishing boats in the marina looked more appealing than usual, and the café especially welcoming in the feeble sunlight, the tables outside separated by olive trees in terracotta pots. They were a recent addition by Dolly that Charlie had been opposed to, on the grounds that they might be a health and safety hazard, but they added a touch of class. In my elevated mood, I resolved to compliment Dolly. The continuing success of the café was due to more than her baking, and she deserved to be told so.

  As I stepped through the door, the smell of warm, buttery pastry assailed my nostrils, and I closed my eyes and inhaled, wondering whether I really could bring Jay here one day, and introduce him to the best pains au chocolat in France.

  ‘Natalie!’

  My eyes snapped open. Charlie was beckoning urgently from behind the counter. ‘Where have you been?’ he said, once I’d weaved through the tables, aware I was beaming in a way he’d probably never seen before. ‘I’ve been trying to call you for ages.’

  ‘I know, I slept right through,’ I said. ‘Until your last call, but you’d rung off by the time I found my phone.’

  A customer nudged past, and I realised I’d pushed to the front of a small queue. The café was busy, Giselle and the rest of the staff occupied, while Dolly was replenishing the pastries, her cheeks glowing with exertion. She didn’t even look up.

  ‘Go and sit down. I’ll be over when I’m done here,’ Charlie hissed. He sounded stressed, and his hair was more mussed than usual. Giselle slid me a contemptuous look as she shuttled back and forth behind the counter, a tray balanced on her upturned hand.

  ‘OK,’ I said cheerfully to Charlie, not wanting to add to his workload. ‘I’ll have my usual, but there’s no rush.’

  ‘Gee, thanks,’ he said, with what sounded like sarcasm. But Charlie was never sarcastic, at least not with me. I was in an over-sensitised state, I reminded myself, and must be imagining things.

  Humming beneath my breath, I found a vacant table tucked in a corner between the counter and the wall, and took out my phone while I waited, wishing Jay had a phone so we could have exchanged numbers and messaged each other. How was he feeling this morning? The same way I did – as if I was made of marshmallow but also invincible – or would it be business as usual? He would have to switch off from real life in order to become Max Weaver. I should have asked him about his acting method, but that could be a conversation for another day – a private one. My lips seemed permanently fixed in a smile, and I hoped I didn’t look deranged to onlookers. Not that anyone cared – apart from Giselle, who was flashing me hostile glances as she took an order from a couple at the next table. Probably wondering if I was planning to make a move on Charlie.

  Ignoring her, I turned back to my phone to check my messages. No reply yet from Jools, but, surprisingly, there was a text from my former editor, Jackie. We’d rarely texted since she started working for Gossip. I’d had the sense she was embarrassed to have moved to the competition, which she’d once derided as ‘publishing for the lowest common denominator’. Intrigued, I opened the message, and felt an instant wash of coldness.

  Hey, Natalie, good to hear from you. This is amazing!! I can’t believe you got to speak to the man himself! I remember you trying to contact his people back in the day, and not getting anywhere. I think I might have doubted you really knew him, ha ha, but this is fantastic news! I’m assuming you want us to run an interview? Thanks for thinking of me, Nat, you must have heard that circulation’s down. Name your price, darling x

  I felt as if someone had doused me in icy water. How did Jackie know I’d talked to Jay? Surely Jools wouldn’t have forwarded my message. I read it again, and felt as if my blood had pooled at my feet when I realised what had happened. I’d been imagining Jackie’s reaction when I decided to text Jools, and had sent it to her instead. No wonder Jools hadn’t responded. Oh God.

  I quickly typed.

  Hi Jackie, could I ask you a favour? Please don’t do anything with this. Even if – somehow – Jay was OK with a puff piece appearing in a British magazine, I’d promised Nicolas Juilliard an exclusive interview and – more importantly – it was an issue of trust, of keeping my word to them both.

  I was shaking as I waited for Jackie’s response, which came immediately. Why did you get in touch, if you don’t want to write about him?

  It was a mistake. I replied, deciding to be honest. The message was intended for someone else.

  Another magazine? I’ll pay double whatever they’re offering.

  Not another magazine, a friend. I didn’t know whether that was better or worse.

  You can’t expect me to sit on this, Natalie, it’s HUGE. Just a few details will do, and a photo, if you have one.

  I don’t. I lied. PLEASE, Jackie, it’s personal. Don’t print anything. I tried to think rationally. He’s doing an exclusive interview with a magazine over here. After it comes out, you can do what you like. It wouldn’t matter, then. My photos, the feature, they’d be in the public domain, and would be reproduced anyway. You won’t even have to pay me! Gossip’s budget was obviously stretched, but I knew an interview with Jay Merino – even a quick Q&A about his favourite things – would be too tempting for her to pass up.

  There was a pause, during which I was aware of Charlie sliding a cup of milky coffee in front of me. ‘Reply, reply,’ I muttered, imagining Jackie rapping her scarlet nails on her desk, lips pursed as she considered my plea.

  The reply, when it came, nearly choked me. Now I know he’s filming there, I can put something together myself and get one of my contacts to try and get a pic of him, thanks Natalie. Take care x

  ‘Nooooooooo,’ I wailed, dropping my phone and pushing my hands through my hair – or as far as they would go in my mass of air-dried curls.

  ‘I take it you’ve seen the damage,’ said Charlie.

  I raised my head, which felt exceptionally heavy. He was sitting opposite, his usual smiley expression replaced by something grimmer. A grim-faced Charlie. I hadn’t seen that look since… I’d never seen that look. ‘Yes,’ I mumbled. ‘Wait.’ I yanked my hands free and sat up. ‘What damage? What are you talking about?’

  He pulled out his phone, jabbed the screen and held it in front of me.

  ‘I thought you didn’t like Twitter,’ I said, trying not to look, knowing I wasn’t going to like whate
ver it was. ‘You said it’s full of trolls.’

  ‘Look.’ He pushed the phone so close, the writing started to blur, but not before the words had leapt out and imprinted themselves on my brain.

  No more Max Weaver! Jay Merino to retire after Maximum Force 3: The End. The actor – currently filming scenes for his latest movie on the Île de Ré in France – says he’s done with films and wants to set up a foundation in dead brother’s name!

  I stared at Charlie in horror.

  ‘It’s gone viral,’ he said.

  Sixteen

  ‘I don’t believe this.’ I grabbed Charlie’s phone and read the headline again. The Daily Mail had posted the story, and so had The Telegraph and French newspaper, Le Monde. It had been liked eight thousand times and retweeted more than that. ‘Someone’s talked to the press.’

  ‘Clearly.’

  I couldn’t bear to read the whole story, just segments… not happy with fame… reconciled with his mother… NO to Bond… property investment… Almost everything Jay and I had talked about was there – all the personal details he’d confided to me. I wanted to be sick as I looked at the comments.

  Max Weaver, NOOOOOO, I love you, don’t retire!!!

  * * *

  Wasn’t his brother a druggie?

  * * *

  I wouldn’t mind earning his money.

  * * *

  Didn’t he dump Carly Sweet for his co-star on Max Force 2?

  * * *

  I want to marry Max Weaver!!