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Inside, dusty tables and chairs were arranged in neat rows, a pile of parasols leaned haphazardly against the far wall and faded curtains hung limply at the sides of the shuttered windows. In the kitchen a huge, old, white-doored fridge, which looked ancient enough to have graced Elizabeth David’s kitchen fifty years ago, held centre stage. Its presence dwarfing all the other, equally old, utensils. Rosie prayed it would all be in working order once she and Tansy had cleaned things.
No way could she afford to buy a lot of new equipment. Paying the notaire had seriously depleted her bank account. She needed to be open and putting money into her new business account as quickly as possible. Otherwise she would be in trouble financially before the season even got going.
‘Right, let’s get the shutters open and make a start,’ Rosie said.
‘What’s behind that door?’ Tansy asked, pointing to a door at the side of the bar.
‘Stairs to a store room,’ Rosie said. ‘I didn’t take much notice to be honest, I was more interested in down here. Come on, let’s get scrubbing.’ She handed Tansy a pair of pink rubber gloves before pulling on a pair herself.
While Tansy got to grips with the kitchen, Rosie went through to make a start on the restaurant. Sliding the bolts back on the front door, she stepped out onto the terrace to fold back the shutters with their peeling Provençal blue paint and stood for a few moments, visualising it busy with customers. Her customers. Eating outside on the terrace was an essential part of her plan for the café. People loved eating al fresco.
Two large eucalyptus trees gave some perfumed shade where the terrace ran down to the beach. The French phrase pieds en mer – feet in the sea – described it perfectly, Rosie thought, looking around. Oleander bushes already budding up. Yachts sailing in the distance. A woman and a young girl beach combing. Shimmering sea.
A vine with a thick, tree-like trunk covered the loggia running along the length of the restaurant. Rosie sighed. It really was an amazing location come true for her dream. It had to be a success for so many reasons. Not least because it was her final chance to make something of herself. And of course there was the little matter of being bankrupt if she didn’t make it work. She took a deep breath. Failure was simply not an option.
The Beach Hotel next door was undergoing a seasonal spring clean too, judging by the number of men carrying ladders, paint, new equipment, etc. who were swarming all over it. Rosie watched enviously as three men struggled to manoeuvre a large La Cornue range through a narrow door on the side of the building. That was a stove to die for. Pity her budget didn’t allow for gadgets like that.
What couldn’t she do to this place if she had a ‘no limits’ budget? New tables and chairs – some of those comfy, Paris bistro-type ones indoors, teak ones outside. New modern equipment in the kitchen. An up-to-date range. Different crockery and cutlery, pretty tablecloths, a florist to come in every day with fresh flower arrangements, rather than the silk ones she was planning to use. Original paintings on the wall – ah, but she was going to have those. Tansy knew someone who wanted to hang some paintings of local scenes, and a few exotic ones, with a view to selling them, so hopefully every few weeks the paintings would change.
A man sitting on the rocks down by the shoreline smiled and raised a hand in greeting. Rosie hoped he didn’t make a habit of sitting in front of her café – with his bare feet, tousled, sun-bleached hair, cut-off jean shorts, and a pink T-shirt bearing the faded word ‘Mustique’, he didn’t exactly fit the image she had of the customers she wanted in her cafe. Like he’d ever been there. Neither did she want his presence to attract any undesirable friends he might have.
Rosie politely raised her hand in acknowledgement but didn’t make eye contact, hoping he’d take the hint she didn’t want to talk. He didn’t.
‘Hi, I’m Sebastian. Seb to most people,’ he said, walking towards her and extending his hand, the leather friendship bracelets around his wrist tangling as they dropped forward. Reluctantly Rosie shook his hand. She didn’t want to be rude but she didn’t intend to encourage him to hang around.
‘I’m Rosie.’
‘Restaurant reopening soon? The old place could do with a makeover.’
‘A week today,’ she said.
‘Have you got all the staff you need? I might be able to help if you haven’t.’
His English was impeccable but tinged with a faint accent some people might have described as sexy. Did he want a job? Or was he just asking, making conversation? He probably didn’t even have any suitable work clothes and, while the dress code during the day in her restaurant might be casual, she certainly wasn’t going to allow the staff to dress tattily. In the evenings, dress would definitely be smart casual.
‘All organised, thank you,’ Rosie answered quickly. He didn’t need to know Tansy was the only staff she could currently afford. Looking at Seb’s tanned, olive skin and the general air of casualness that hung about him, she guessed he’d be more of a drifter than a steady nine-to-five type guy.
‘Look, I’m sorry, but I really do have to get on,’ she said. ‘So much to do.’ This time he took the hint.
‘Yeah, right. See you around,’ Seb said with a smile and wandered off along the beach.
‘Good luck,’ she called out, feeling unexpectedly guilty about not being more friendly towards a guy who was clearly down on his luck. If he came back she would definitely offer him a couple of small jobs – cleaning the windows or washing the terrace down, something like that.
Seb didn’t turn round at her words, merely waved his hand in the air in acknowledgement.
Back in the restaurant Rosie set to work. She pushed the old upright piano in the corner by the French windows into the centre of the room, making a mental note to check the piano tuner was still coming Saturday morning. Musical lunches and suppers were all part of her plan to create a different ambience in the restaurant. And live music for the party was a definite necessity.
Three hours later, when Tansy made them both a coffee from the newly cleaned espresso machine that had sprung miraculously, if noisily, into life when she switched it on, they were both fit to drop.
‘Rob said he’d give us a hand painting tomorrow if you’d like him to,’ Tansy said, smothering a yawn.
‘Great,’ Rosie said. ‘I was going to make a start this evening but…’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I think I’ll just make a list of things I’ve got to get at the cash and carry on Thursday. Rob still okay about us borrowing his van?’
‘I’ve got to drop him off at the marina first, then we’ve got the van until three o’clock. Right, I’m off. See you in the morning.’
Closing the door behind Tansy, Rosie stood by the kitchen window for a few moments watching the continuing activities at the hotel. A large poster had been placed in one of the upstairs windows overlooking their car park: ‘Grande Réouverture Bientôt’.
Just how grand would their opening be? And how soon was soon? Would she be open before they were? Was she about to find herself in competition with a top-notch chef right on her doorstep? Would their food be better than hers? Rosie shook herself. She would not think negative thoughts.
The advertisement she’d arranged on the local English radio station would hopefully bring a few expats her way and kick-start a word-of-mouth buzz about the Café Fleur before the summer tourists started to arrive.
She’d worry about the competition next door when she knew more about it.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_e5f3395a-cc27-5eef-8d41-22a65ae9b321)
Locking the shop door of The Cupboard Under the Stairs, Erica ran down the narrow street behind the church before turning left into the town’s main square and dashing into the boulangerie. Thankfully, only two people were waiting to be served and Erica was on her way to the school gates two hundred yards down the road as the town hall clock struck midday.
She let out a deep breath as she reached the school. Made it. Cammie panicked when she was late meeting her and she hated being responsible for dredging up feelings of fear in her daughter. Cammie’s panic attacks, like the nightmares, were on the wane, thank goodness, and Erica wanted more than anything in the world for them to disappear totally. For her daughter to be happy again. For her own hurt to be healing.
Everyone had told her it would take time, lots of time, but she couldn’t help wishing she could speed things up. She hated the thought of Cammie’s childhood being blighted indefinitely by the events of last year.
‘Hi,’ she said now as Cammie ran to her. ‘Picnic on the beach today okay?’
‘Cheesy baguette? Yummy,’ Cammie said slipping her hand into Erica’s.
Five minutes later, as Cammie tucked into her cheese baguette, Erica asked, ‘How was school this morning?’ She held her breath waiting for the answer.
Cammie had been like a zombie going to school for the last few months – zero interest in anything, just listlessly doing anything she was told to do. Last week, though, during the weekly telephone call the school had instigated to keep Erica in the picture about her progress, her class teacher had said there were a few hopeful signs starting to appear.
‘It was okay. We have to find stuff to make a collage with for next week. I’m going to do a beach one so I’ll need shells, seaweed, pebbles – oh, lots of stuff.’
‘We’d better have a walk when you’ve finished your lunch and start collecting stuff then,’ Erica said, trying not to sound too pleased that Cammie was looking forward to getting involved with a project. Was it a real sign that she could finally be coming out of the terrible lethargy she’d sunk into after Pascal’s death last August? Starting to come to terms with what had happened.
The walk along the beach, filling their pockets with shiny pebbles and shells, engrossed them both and time was forgotten. It was only as they passed the café and Cammie said, ‘Can I have an ice cream please?’ that Erica looked at her watch and realised Cammie’s lunchtime – all two hours of it – was almost finished.
‘No time. We’ve only got five minutes to get you back to school. Besides, the café isn’t open yet,’ she said, glancing over at the Café Fleur. Seeing the shutters open and a woman moving around inside she added, ‘Maybe they’ll be open next time. Now let’s run or you’ll be late.’
Back at the shop Erica opened the mailbox and took out the day’s post. Among the usual promo leaflets there was an envelope with the notaire’s name stamped across it. At least the sick feeling in the pit of her tummy no longer pounced when she received envelopes like these. She was getting better at handling things. Things she’d never anticipated having to deal with.
Her heart did flip though, when she read the latest letter and saw the final amount of Pascal’s estate – including the insurance money. Her life with Pascal was now officially over – all formalities tied up and she was free to move on. Make a new life without him.
The problem though, was she didn’t want a new life courtesy of Pascal’s insurance money. She would prefer to have him around, for Cammie’s sake as much as her own. Thoughtfully she emptied her pockets of beach treasures and put them to one side for Cammie to sort later.
She didn’t have a clue as to the kind of life she wanted to live for the next few years while Cammie grew up. But having such a large sum in the bank – she’d have to do something with it. Providing for Cammie had to be top of her priorities. Pascal would expect her to do that. Invest it in something. Bigger shop premises? Mentally she shook her head. No. The Cupboard Under the Stairs worked as it was – a tiny space crammed with a mixture of unexpected things. A bigger layout would move it away from her original premise.
The Cupboard Under the Stairs worked as a bijou vintage shop selling an eclectic mix of new and second-hand stuff, from vintage clothes and handbags to kitchen paraphernalia, kitsch of all descriptions, pottery, cushions, books, even the occasional art nouveau piece when Erica was lucky enough to find one. She’d made The Cupboard Under the Stairs into the kind of shop, in fact, that she’d always loved to discover and browse in, full of irresistable bits and pieces.
Maybe she should spend the money on a bigger house? A villa with a swimming pool. Cammie would enjoy that. But would she want to move from their townhouse with its memories of Pascal? She’d have to talk it over with her. If she liked the idea, they could add house-hunting to their weekend itinerary along with vide greniers, looking to buy stuff for the shop.
Erica turned the shop sign to open. Not that she expected many customers. This time of year was all about stocktaking and gearing up for the coming season rather than making lots of sales. This year, too, a real spring clean was called for after her neglect of the past few months.
Everything looked a bit sad. She’d begin this afternoon by giving the place a thorough clean and rearranging the shelves. Start the summer season all spruced up.
Life had to go on so the quicker she could get back into a proper routine the better. She had to make the best life possible for herself and Cammie.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_84364a69-8731-5134-b9ce-f5edc6743144)
Rosie’s days flew past in a haze of painting, organising, cooking, panicking and not a lot of sleeping. By late Saturday afternoon, when she and Tansy hung the final painting on the wall of the restaurant, she was exhausted.
‘Is that level?’ Tansy asked, nudging a flamboyant modernistic painting, with its clashing red, mauve and blue colours, into a better line.
Rosie nodded, wondering how she was going to get through the next few hours of partying. ‘I can’t believe everything is done. I need a coffee – actually I need sleep but coffee will have to do. People will be here soon.’
As Rosie pushed open the swing door into the kitchen, James looked up from putting the finishing touches to the party food. ‘You look like you need a drink.’
‘Later. Right now a double espresso will fit the bill,’ Rosie said. James had appeared two days ago looking for work. ‘Antoine said you might need someone,’ he’d said. ‘I’ve trained as a sous-chef and want a job on a yacht but apparently I need more hands-on experience.’
‘I hadn’t planned on taking anyone on for a few weeks,’ Rosie had told him. ‘Tansy and I are used to working together and until the restaurant takes off I can’t afford to pay anyone else. Not even me. Maybe come back in a few weeks. Or you could try the hotel next door,’ she suggested.
‘I’ll work for free for a few days,’ James offered. ‘Antoine says you’re really good and I’d learn a lot working for you.’
Amused by his blatant flattery, Rosie had smiled. ‘Okay. You free to help Saturday afternoon and stay for the evening party?’
‘What time?’
‘Two o’clock.’
‘I’ll be here.’
And he was. Everything she’d asked him to do in the past couple of hours he’d done quickly and efficiently. Now, as she watched him work the coffee machine, she hoped she’d be able to employ him officially in the next couple of weeks. He’d be a real asset. She must remember to thank Antoine the next time she saw him for sending James in her direction.
‘You’ve put enough champagne in the fridge?’ she asked now, taking her coffee. ‘And rosé?’
‘Yes,’ James said. ‘Drink that and then go and change. Tansy and I have everything under control.’
Resisting the urge to make a sarcastic rejoinder along the lines of, ‘Well, of course you’ve got everything under control – you’re practising to be a typical bossy man,’ Rosie flew into the ladies loo.
With less than half an hour to go before people arrived, there was no time to do more than change her clothes and slap on some make-up. She pulled on her white jeans and a spaghetti-strap black top and slipped her feet into her one pair of Jimmy Choos. No time to do anything with her hair other than push it up into its usual style with a huge glittery clip. Slipping on her amber ring, so big it dwarfed her hand, she was ready. She took a deep breath – time to party and raise the curtain on Café Fleur.
James was already handing round champagne to the early arrivals. Tansy was in the kitchen doing some last-minute food prep and waved her away. ‘Go circulate.’
Rosie began to work her way around the room greeting people, accepting their congratulations and their good luck cards.
The pianist, playing a medley of jazz, smiled at her as she placed a glass of champagne within his reach, before standing to look around ‘her’ restaurant.
People were helping themselves to the plates of finger food laid out on the bar. Smoked salmon blinis, fois gras on crisp toast, slices of quiche, individual pissaladières and lots of bowls of nuts, crisps and peanuts were scattered around. For those with a sweet tooth there were tiny individual tartes abricots with rosettes of crème frêche piped on top, demitasse servings of chocolate mousse and a bowl of fruit salad.
Tansy had placed the cheese board, with its selection of brie, roquefort, boursin and cantel on a separate table. And Rosie knew that, out in the kitchen, a cauldron of home-made parsley soup stood on the stove, ready to be heated at the end of the evening as people left.
An hour later the place was buzzing. Her pile of business cards on the bar had shrunk and the reservations book by the till had several bookings pencilled in. Rosie allowed herself a secret smile of satisfaction. ‘Café Fleur’ was on its way.
The lights were dimmed, couples were wrapped in each other’s arms, swaying to the romantic jazz. Rosie sighed. It was years since she had danced with anyone like that. Working on the yachts it was impossible to have a shore-based relationship with anyone. Away at sea for weeks at a time, particularly after William had bought A Sure Thing eighteen months ago, her days off were invariably spent alone in whichever port they were currently moored in: St Tropez, Monaco, Corsica.
All of which sounded far more glamorous and romantic than it was, with no one special to spend time with. And now, if she was to make a success of the Café Fleur, she had to continue to put any ideas of meeting someone and having a serious relationship out of her mind. All her energies had to be focused on the Café Fleur . . .
A scream pierced the babble of music and general noise as the restaurant was plunged into darkness. The emergency lighting in the kitchen and behind the bar area flickered weakly before fading completely.
‘Any idea where the fuse box is? And do you have a torch?’ James asked.
‘Cupboard in the cloakroom,’ Rosie said. ‘And no, sorry, no torch.’ Mentally she added torch and candles to the ever-growing ‘essential items’ list still hanging on the board in the kitchen.
Helpful guests started to give quick flashes from their cigarette lighters and James was able to find the trip switch in the cupboard and flip it up. Nothing.
‘I’m sorry, folks, but it looks like the party’s over for this evening,’ Rosie said. ‘Thank you for the support and Café Fleur will…’ Her voice trailed away as Seb walked in through the open terrace doors carrying a lit candle.
‘I’m guessing you haven’t got a supply in yet,’ he said, placing a bundle of candles on the bar before lighting a couple from the flame of the one in his hand and carefully positioning them on the counter. ‘Any food left?’
‘Yes, of course. Thank you,’ Rosie said, grabbing a plate and filling it with a selection of nibbles. ‘Champagne?’ She poured a large glass and handed it to him.
As Tansy and James placed more candles in strategic places, the pianist started playing again and people drifted back to the small dance floor, arms around each other.
Rosie poured herself a glass of champagne and sipped it as she looked at Seb. Not so scruffy tonight – the shorts had been changed for a pair of fashionably torn jeans, and a plain white T-shirt accentuated his tan. His hair was still tousled, though.
‘I can’t thank you enough for the candles. I definitely owe you,’ she said.
Seb shrugged. ‘This is good. Did you make it?’
‘What… oh, the mackerel pate. Yes.’ She glanced at him. ‘So, did you make a special journey to bring me candles?’
‘Yep. All twenty metres of it.’ Seb pushed his empty plate away and held out his hand. ‘Dance?’
‘Uuh…’ But Seb had already taken her by the hand. ‘Twenty metres – but that’s the hotel. So you work at the hotel?’
‘I own it.’
Rosie stood still. ‘But I thought…’
‘I know what you thought,’ Seb said. ‘You thought I was a down and out.’
‘You could have said. I was going to offer you some odd jobs when I saw you again,’ Rosie said. ‘I feel so stupid.’
Seb shrugged. ‘You shouldn’t. You weren’t to know. But you shouldn’t judge people so quickly – especially down here. Millionaires often dress like tramps.’
‘You’re a millionaire?’
‘You saying I was dressed like a tramp?’ Seb countered, shaking his head. ‘No, I’m not – yet.’
‘But you own the hotel. So we’re competitors? When does your restaurant open? Just don’t tell me you’ve got a Michelin star chef lined up.’
