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‘So is your chef somebody I’m likely to have heard of? My biggest fear is that you’ve managed to entice Jean-Christophe Novelli back to the land of his birth to work for you. If you have, I’ll just give up now. I mean, there’s competition and then there’s Jean-Christophe.’ Rosie laughed as she said it, but deep down she was serious – and worried about his answer.
Seb shook his head. ‘You can stop worrying. It’s not him. But do you seriously think your little beach restaurant is going to compete with this place and the chef’s reputation?’
‘My cooking is as good as any chef,’ Rosie said, standing up. He’d put her biggest fear into words and she didn’t really want to hear what else he had to say. ‘Thank you for the coffee and pastries. I’d better go now.’
‘Have you heard of The Recluse restaurant? Head chef Sebastian Groc. He earned two stars for that place within four years.’
‘The Recluse in Monaco?’
Charlie had taken her there last year as a birthday treat. It was certainly a special place and the food had been superb. These days, though, Rosie tried not to think about the evening they’d spent there and the way it had ended.
Seb nodded. ‘That’s the one.’
‘Hang on a minute – what’s your surname? You’re not Sebastian Groc, are you?’ Rosie’s voice trailed away as Seb nodded.
Oh, brilliant. Not just one but two bloody Michelin stars in his last restaurant. And now he was next door to her and the Café Fleur. So much for not worrying about the competition.
CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_7e3a66e8-e54e-59cc-8baa-a70d96a8722b)
The bord de mer was busy with traffic despite the early hour as Rosie made her way to the local market for her fresh vegetables. She’d planned her plat du jour menus for the week and now she quickly picked up the potatoes, onions and fresh garlic that were basic to so many of her recipes.
She hesitated over bunches of new season asparagus. Her favourite – gently steamed and served with Hollandaise sauce. Expensive stuff to waste but she could always make soup, she decided, placing five bunches in the basket before moving on to the cheese counter.
Back at the café she switched on the espresso machine and opened the shutters. The beach was deserted. Things were quieter over at the hotel, too. No hordes of workmen rushing in and out. Just the occasional glimpse through a window of chambermaids moving from one room to another, preparing the newly decorated bedrooms for their first guests of the season.
Tansy, when she arrived, looked at the party invite Rosie had pinned to the noticeboard in the kitchen.
‘You going?’
Rosie shook her head. ‘Planning on being too tired.’
‘Might be fun?’
‘You can have the invite if you like.’
‘Any other Saturday night, I’d love it,’ Tansy said. ‘But Rob’s taking me clubbing when we finish here.’
The café phone rang and Tansy moved across to answer it.
‘Hi, Antoine. Table for two tomorrow? Fine. You’ll probably have the place to yourselves as it’s still quiet. See you at seven-thirty then.’
‘Who’s he bringing?’ Rosie mouthed at Tansy.
‘Antoine, who… sorry, he’s hung up,’ Tansy said, looking at Rosie apologetically.
‘It had better not be Charlie, that’s all,’ Rosie muttered, savaging the potato she was supposedly peeling.
As a busy morning turned into lunchtime, Rosie was pleased to serve half a dozen plates of daube provençale, her plat du jour, to a group of walkers on their way to the Cap d’Antibes.
Tansy left at three o’clock. ‘I’ll be back about six-thirty. Make sure you have a rest this afternoon. Go for a walk on the beach or something. We’re all organised for this evening.’
‘I want to check upstairs first. See if there is any way we can make use of the place,’ Rosie said. ‘See you later.’
Locking the door behind Tansy and turning the sign to Closed, Rosie turned the key in the door by the bar and began to climb the stairs. Steep and clad in threadbare carpet, they weren’t the easiest to negotiate and Rosie was glad when she reached the room.
It was larger than she remembered. There was even a walk-in shower in one corner. A halfway decent sofa bed covered in boxes was against one wall and there was a kettle on a wooden table. The whole set-up reminded Rosie of her very first bedsit at college.
The windows were curtainless and, through the back one, she looked directly into the conservatory sitting room of the hotel. Lloyd Loom chairs and matching small coffee tables were dotted around, palm trees in pots and Seb working on a laptop. Rosie stepped back out of view. The last thing she wanted was for Seb to look up and catch her watching him. He’d probably accuse her of spying on him after the way he’d caught her snooping around the hotel.
Rosie pulled at the lid of one of the boxes on the settee. Beautiful wine glasses. Mentally she made a note to remember them for special functions. The rest of the boxes, though, were filled with kitchen equipment well past its sell-by date. Rubbish really.
Back downstairs, Rosie locked up and set off for a walk along the beach. Strolling along inches from where the Mediterranean was gently lapping at the sand, enjoying the warmth of the sun, the temptation to paddle was strong. Her feet, though, were nice and snug in her trainers and she decided she wouldn’t torture them by placing them in water that was still certain to be on the cold side.
The gentle breeze that blew in her face was invigorating and by the time she returned to the Café Fleur the exercise had banished her tiredness from the busy morning.
A dog was lying under one of the terrace tables when she got back. ‘Hello. Where’s your owner?’ Soulful brown eyes that tore right into Rosie’s heart looked at her but the dog made no attempt to move.
‘You’re very thin,’ she said, gently stroking the dog’s head. She wasn’t wearing a collar, so no helpful name tag and address. ‘Stay there,’ and Rosie went into the kitchen to get some of the mince she had left over from the lasagne.
When she’d eaten and drunk, the dog managed a few wags of her tail before curling up under the table again and going to sleep.
Black and white, she reminded Rosie of the collie dogs her Aunty Elsie had kept on her Somerset farm. Whenever Rosie had visited with her parents there had always been at least two dogs bounding around for her to play with. And just once there had been a litter of puppies.
That litter of puppies had caused a family row Rosie had never forgotten when she’d begged to be allowed to take one home. Olivia, her mother, had said yes, but her father had said no, and however much Rosie had cried and begged, nothing would make him change his mind.
Rosie remembered shouting at him through a blur of tears. ‘I hate you. When I’m grown up I’m going to live in the country and have six dogs.’
Of course it had never happened – living in the country or the six dogs. Maybe the dog turning up unexpectedly was some sort of sign? Could she keep her?
Gently Rosie examined the dog’s ears. Every French dog was supposed to have a number tattooed in their ear. No tattoo. Which probably also meant no micro identification chip either. Rosie sighed. The lack of both would mean the paperwork would be immense and would probably mean the dog went straight to ‘death row’ at the local dog pound. No way could Rosie bear the thought of that.
There was only one thing for it. Tonight she’d take the dog home with her and, if nobody claimed her in the next few days, she’d keep her – and christen her Lucky. With the French being so laissez-faire about dogs in restaurants it was unlikely to be a problem.
CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_6352bdfb-e63d-5ac0-9df2-493106d8653d)
‘Why are you looking at houses, Mummy?’
Erica jumped. She’d left Cammie engrossed in her beach project at the kitchen table while she’d sneaked into the sitting room to look at some houses on the internet. No time to close the laptop now.
‘GeeGee was telling me about some of the lovely houses she gets to sell and I thought I’d take a look,’ Erica said evasively.
‘You’d have to be a princess to live in that one,’ Cammie said, pointing to the decorative turrets on the house Erica was looking at. ‘Like Rapunzel. Does GeeGee know a princess?’ she asked, her eyes opened wide in wonder as she looked at Erica.
Erica laughed. ‘I don’t think so but you never know.’ Would this be a good moment to talk about selling this house? She’d planned to introduce the subject casually one afternoon when they were walking back from school. Drop it into the conversation and wait for Cammie’s reaction. Now she felt unprepared and caught out.
‘If we didn’t live here, what kind of house would you like to live in?’ she said casually, thinking she might as well make the best of the opportunity and see how Cammie reacted.
‘One like Madeleine’s,’ Cammie said instantly. ‘With a big garden so I could have a dog.’
Erica pursed her lips and blew a soft whistle. Given that Madeleine’s parents lived in a belle époque villa in one of the most desirable areas of town, her daughter had good taste. And why the sudden desire for a dog?
‘A house like that would be too expensive for us but lots of villas have nice gardens – even swimming pools. How about…‘ She scrolled quickly through a couple of pages. ‘Something like this?’
Cammie shook her head. ‘It’s not very pretty.’
Erica clicked on another page and started to scroll through. Cammie stopped her when she reached a typical Provençal villa with a terracotta roof, olive-green shutters and a vibrant bougainvillea clambering over the walls.
‘That’s pretty.’
‘You like that one?’
Cammie nodded.
Reading the description and seeing the price Erica took a deep breath and said, ‘We could sell this house and buy that one. Would you like that?’
‘Could I have a dog if we lived there?’
‘Possibly,’ Erica said as her phone rang. Amelia, her mother-in-law, making her weekly ‘I’m not checking up on you. I’m just keeping you in the loop with family news from up here’ telephone call. This time it was a bit more. Amelia was planning a weekend visit next month.
‘That’s great,’ Erica said. ‘Already looking forward to it.’ She and Amelia had got on from the moment Pascal had introduced them. Both had been equally heartbroken when he died.
‘Is there any chance of you and Cammie coming up here for a visit before?’ Amelia said.
Erica sighed. Amelia asked the same question every time she phoned, and every time Erica shied away from telling her the truth. She couldn’t face it yet. The thought of being in Pascal’s family home without him made her want to cry.
She tried to soften her latest refusal. ‘I’m busy getting the shop ready for the summer at the moment.’
Amelia didn’t push her, saying simply, ‘I’ll see you both in a couple of weeks then. Take care.’
‘You, too. Give our love to everyone up there,’ Erica said, knowing she’d hurt Amelia with yet another refusal.
Slipping the phone into her pocket she turned back to Cammie. ‘So, shall we ask GeeGee if she can find us a new house?’
Cammie looked thoughtful before saying slowly, ‘Yes. But we will take Daddy’s things with us, won’t we?’
***
GeeGee poured herself a bowl of muesli, added a generous dollop of fromage frais, and mixed it all into a gluttonous mess before slicing the last five strawberries onto the top. A delicious supper. It would fill her up and she’d have a glass of rosé later.
Bowl in hand she opened the studio’s French doors and stepped out onto the minuscule balcony. So tiny one wrought-iron chair almost filled it, leaving no room for a table, but it was a good place to sit and relax at the end of the day.
A small ginger and white kitten was curled up on the chair. ‘Hello, Trouble,’ GeeGee said. ‘You here again? Your real home next door too noisy with all those children around?’
The kitten simply stretched its legs before curling up in a ball again, closing its eyes and ignoring her. GeeGee didn’t have the heart to disturb it so stayed standing to eat her supper.
There was a tantalising glimpse of the sea through the trees and shrubs that covered the acre of grounds that surrounded the villa. Grounds that she had no access to; grounds she was never invited to walk around. But nobody could stop her enjoying the smell of the night-scented jasmine that mingled with the lavender drifting on the air up towards her and she sniffed appreciatively.
Erica was always telling her there were nicer studios out there – with nicer landlords, too – but this location was perfect, giving her the solitude she’d craved when Jay had left. The fact that none of the wealthy neighbours were interested in making her acquaintance was an added bonus. Something that would have infuriated Jay. He did like to mix with what he called ‘the right set’.
Since Jay had gone and she’d moved here, coming home, closing the door and losing herself in her own space had been wonderful. Nobody to hear her crying.
Last year, when he’d upped and left with practically no warning, she’d been devastated. Her home and boyfriend both gone in a single stroke. There was no way she could afford to stay in their apartment.
In those first dark, lonely weeks she’d read and reread his infrequent emails, looking for any sign that he was missing her. That he’d made a mistake leaving. That he was coming back. Mostly, though, he said he had to find himself.
Gradually, as his emails became full of news about people she didn’t know, and waxed lyrical about both his work and social life in London, GeeGee started to skim-read and then stopped automatically replying to them. She couldn’t bring herself to tell him to stop writing to her; she just hoped her silence would give him the message.
Over the past couple of months the emails had been more subdued. Almost as though he was tiring of his new life. Which, knowing Jay’s low boredom threshold, wouldn’t surprise GeeGee at all.
Today’s email had been shorter than usual. Maybe he’d noticed she wasn’t replying to every one he sent. There was no point. He wasn’t coming back. The relationship was clearly over – time to move on. It wasn’t as if Jay had been the love of her life. Working together, they’d simply drifted into a relationship.
Absently GeeGee spooned the last of the muesli mixture into her mouth. She was on her own now. A state of affairs she was beginning to enjoy, even feel happy about. Time to begin making plans for herself.
Tomorrow there would be some money in the bank when the sale of a small villa in Cannes La Bocca completed and her commission was paid. Mentally she ticked off the bills waiting to be paid: a month’s rent on the studio; a quarter’s desk rent to Hugo; a month’s car lease payment – plus petrol in the tank.
She’d need to do a supermarket shop, too, see if the English hairdresser’s in Antibes could fit her in… stop! It wasn’t that much commission. Anything else she wanted, needed, would have to wait for the next commission payday which, fingers crossed, was due in about a fortnight if the notaire was on the ball. And then Dan’s purchase of apartment 4c would be the next in about six weeks.
Ah, Dan. He was so… so nice. An over worked word but one that described him perfectly. She’d seen him briefly when he’d come into the office to sign the first of the official papers and she’d been struck by his old-fashioned manners and courtesy. Before leaving the office he’d thanked her profusely for her help and asked if he could buy her a coffee.
Smiling, she’d agreed and had been reaching for her tote when his mobile had rung.
‘GeeGee, I’m sorry, I’m wanted back onboard. We’ll have to do coffee another time. Completion day maybe?’ And he was gone. Now things were in the hands of the notaire there would be no need for him to contact her again; the notaire would answer all his questions.
Music and sounds of laughter from the grand villa on the corner of the road drifted on the air. The new owners had moved in then. Russian, Hugo had said when he’d gleefully told her he’d made the sale. A sale he’d virtually snatched from under her nose and for which she had yet to forgive him. The commission on that property alone would have set her up for the summer.
The buzz of the bell made her jump. Nobody ever visited her here, not even Erica.
‘Evening, babe,’ sleazy Stan, her landlord, said as she opened the door. ‘Beginning to think I’d have to use my master key.’
‘I hope that’s a joke,’ GeeGee said.
‘You’ll never know will you, doll?’
GeeGee gritted her teeth. No way was she going to let him rile her tonight. ‘You bought my new lease for me to sign?’
‘Nope. There isn’t one. Don’t know why you thought there would be. Studio’s a winter let only. Always has been. You’ve had an extra month as it is.’
Dumbly GeeGee stared at him. She’d gone through that lease several times. It had been a standard six-month renewable tenancy agreement. Nowhere had it said anything about it being a winter let.
She’d wanted a year’s lease but Stan had said take it or leave it. Desperate at the time, she’d signed. She’d been stupid enough to believe that renewing every six months would be automatic. Should have realised what the scum-bag was up to.
‘But you have to give me a new lease.’
Stan shook his head. ‘No, I don’t. I’ve got holidaymakers coming in here soon. You can come back in October if you want but I want you out of here by the end of next week. And make sure you take that cat with you.’
GeeGee didn’t have the energy to say the cat wasn’t hers. What the hell was she supposed to do now? Finding another place needed money for a deposit, rent in advance, etc. Money she didn’t have.
CHAPTER EIGHT (#ulink_2b00e464-2c74-5149-ab2c-b606b62337db)
