Rosie’s Little Café on the Riviera

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.’

‘There’s room for both of us. I don’t see us as competitors – we’re aiming at two different markets. And yes, I expect a Michelin star within the first year.’

‘Oh, good,’ Rosie said. A crash from the kitchen made her jump. ‘Look, I’m sorry but I’d better go check that out.’ Grabbing a candle from the bar Rosie made her way into the kitchen.

Bloody typical. Just when she was beginning to think Seb was an okay bloke, he had to spoil things. Her cooking was as good as anybody’s – why didn’t he think she was capable of aiming for a Michelin star, too? Oh, not in their haute-cuisine section – she wasn’t that daft – but in their bistro section, where they highlighted the less pretentious places.

Tansy was scrabbling about in the candlelight picking up cooking tins and baking trays that had fallen onto the floor when a shelf had collapsed.

‘You okay?’ Rosie asked.

‘Fine. Who’s the candle guy?’

‘Seb. Owns the hotel,’ Rosie said, handing Tansy half a dozen trays to put on the work surface. ‘And he has Michelin aspirations for his restaurant when it reopens. That’s all I need – a bloody Jean-Christophe Novelli on my doorstep.’

‘Your cooking will get the punters in,’ Tansy said. ‘You know you can cook as well as any poncy chef.’

‘But I’m not a poncy French chef. Maybe I am being naive.’ Rosie sighed. For the first time she began to feel doubts creeping in about the Café Fleur being the success she wanted. ‘I know there’s a lot of competition out there. Let’s face it, every other building down here houses a restaurant or bistro. I just didn’t expect to have a major competitor right next door to me on the beach.’

‘Well, it’s a bit late now for second thoughts,’ Tansy said. ‘Think of the money you’ve already invested. You can’t just throw that lot away without even trying to make this place work – and it will work. Look at the reservations already in the book.’

Rosie took a deep breath. ‘You’re right, of course.’

She really did have to think about all the money she’d already invested. ‘Right. Back to Plan A – making the Café Fleur THE place to eat and be seen.’

Determinedly, Rosie pushed all traitorous thoughts of sexy hotel owners to the back of her mind, where she intended to keep them for the foreseeable future. This was not the time to let any man hijack the plans she now had in place for her life.

Men always wanted to be in control, do things their way, no argument. But the worst thing about men in her experience was they were totally unreliable. Charlie was living proof of that – and her father, of course.

This summer she was going to focus all her energies on making the Café Fleur the best beachside restaurant on the coast. No way was she going to let any local competition distract her from pursuing that plan.

CHAPTER FOUR

Escaping the office was always a bonus, especially on a sunny day, and Georgina George smiled happily to herself as she settled on one of the picnic benches at the Café Fleur. Her summer office was open.

Her normal desk in one of the most prestigious estate agent’s offices in town was an expensive necessity. One she needed for official meetings and for keeping her name ‘out there’. It made her legitimate in the eyes of clients. Never mind that in summer she did most of her paperwork on the laptop sitting at a café table. Bringing clients somewhere like this for an initial discussion over a relaxed coffee was always a good move, too.

At least the place was looking a bit more presentable this year. New name. New owner. The grapevine around the office was saying the new owner was English. She’d introduce herself when she ordered her coffee, find out for herself. With luck, the prices wouldn’t have gone up. Her budget was even tighter than last year thanks to Hugo raising the rent of her official desk.

A toasted sandwich and coffee for lunch was still a cheaper option than actually buying food and cooking it, though. As long as she had that at midday, she could survive on cereal at home.

‘Bonjour. What would you like? I’m afraid we don’t have a vast selection of food just now. Mainly baguettes, soup or toasties.’ The woman standing at her side, order pad poised, looked about Georgina’s own age.

‘Hi. Are you Fleur?’

‘Yes – although the name is really Rosie.’

‘I’m Georgina George. Yep, I know my parents had no imagination! Most people call me GeeGee.’ She smiled at Rosie. ‘A large coffee right away, please. And a croque monsieur in about half an hour – with another coffee. Thanks.’

While she waited for her coffee, GeeGee wrote an email to Stan, the sleazy landlord of her studio flat, reminding him she was waiting for the renewed lease to sign. Should have been sent over a week ago. As she pressed send, Rosie appeared with her coffee.

‘You’re a lifesaver,’ GeeGee said. ‘Need my coffee fix. How are things going with the café? I’m one of the regulars here, by the way.’

‘Fine so far,’ Rosie answered. ‘Looking forward to a busy season. You live around here?’

GeeGee nodded. ‘Out on the Cap d’Antibes. I’ve been down here eight years now and I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be – even if things have gone a bit pear-shaped recently.’

‘What do you do?’ Rosie asked.

‘I’m an estate agent and live off commission – which makes life a tiny bit scary at times.’ GeeGee picked up her coffee and took a sip. ‘Right now there’s a bit of a slump, but the signs are it’s slowly picking up. I’ve got a sale going through this month. And an apartment viewing this afternoon, which I have high hopes of selling.’ She didn’t add that she’d be in desperate straits if she didn’t sell another villa or an apartment in the next couple of weeks.

‘Bit like me then,’ Rosie said. ‘Not that I work on commission only, but I’ve sunk all my money into this place and need it to start earning me some money asap.’

‘Oh, it will,’ GeeGee said. ‘This place is a honey pot in season. Some days it’s impossible to find a spare table. My friend Erica and her daughter are always down here, too. We’ll spread the word for you, but trust me, you won’t need it.’

‘Thanks.’ Rosie smiled. ‘I’ll be back soon with your lunch.’

GeeGee sipped her coffee and watched her go before returning her attention to the spreadsheet she’d opened on the laptop and its rows of figures.

Twenty minutes later her concentration was broken as an email pinged into her box. Jay. She stifled a sigh.

‘Bon appétit,’ Rosie said, appearing with her lunch and another coffee.

‘Thanks. This looks good,’ GeeGee said as she closed the laptop down. Reading another of Jay’s happy happy missives wasn’t what she wanted right now so it could wait until this evening – if she didn’t delete it unread before then. Right now she was going to enjoy her lunch.

***

An hour later, GeeGee waved goodbye to Rosie, left the beach and made her way through town to meet her client, Marc, and show him a new property on her list. A top floor apartment in one of the oldest townhouses on the coast road.

Marc and another man were waiting for her on the opposite side of the road to the house, their backs to the sea, looking at the four-storey terraced house with its pale-green shutters. Both men were in their early thirties, and both wore the regulation uniform of the ‘yachties’ who crewed on the large luxury yachts. Smart bermuda shorts, polo shirts with their yacht’s name embroidered discreetly on the pocket, and sockless feet in deck shoes.

It was Marc who had contacted her and booked the viewing, so she assumed he was the buyer and the other man was there to give him some moral support. Clients often brought friends along to voice their unbiased opinions and to help them decide about a property. Sometimes, of course, the friends were being just plain nosey. Or maybe Marc and his friend were an item and they were looking to buy together?

‘Hi, not late, am I?’ she said, searching in her bag for the keys.

‘No, we just thought we’d come and spy out the lie of the land first,’ Marc said. ‘This is Dan – my financial adviser,’ he added, laughing.

GeeGee held out her hand. ‘Nice to meet you, financial adviser Dan,’ she said, smiling at him.

As her hand was taken in a firm grip and shaken, unexpected tingles shot up her arm and she was glad when Dan released it.

‘Love the position of the house,’ he said. ‘Must have wonderful views.’

‘It does and it’s a really lovely apartment. The sort that’s on my personal wish list,’ GeeGee said. ‘Despite the fact it’s on the fourth floor and there isn’t a lift,’ she added.

‘How many apartments in the building?’ Marc asked as they made their way up the stairs.

‘Three apartments and a couple of studios. 4c at the top is the nicest apartment – and the most expensive.’

She could tell from the moment she opened the door to the apartment that it was Dan who really loved the place. Marc didn’t seem that enamoured of either the recently decorated sitting room or the slightly old-fashioned kitchen with its original butler sink and blue and yellow tiles on the walls. The ‘Juliette’ balcony off the sitting room with its French doors and sea view was, in his opinion, too small to be of any use.

Finally she led them up the spiral stone staircase into the room that opened onto the pièce de resistance as far as she was concerned – the roof terrace. The first time she’d seen it, she’d immediately pictured it with urns and pots full of plants and tumbling geraniums and hidden lights dotted around. A perfect romantic hideaway for two.

After warning Marc that the apartment had only been on the market a matter of days and the owner wouldn’t consider an offer – he wanted the full asking price – GeeGee stayed up on the terrace while Marc and Dan had a wander downstairs on their own.

Standing there by the railings, watching the people down below making their way along the narrow coast road pavement, she longed to own a place like this. Romantic suppers in the moonlight with a loved one. She sighed. Maybe one day.

Downstairs, Marc and Dan were talking too quietly for her to make out what was being said, but her gut instinct told her that Marc wouldn’t be buying the apartment. She turned to face them as they joined her on the terrace.

‘Have you seen enough?’

‘Yes, thanks,’ Marc said. ‘It’s a lovely apartment but…’

‘I’ll pay the asking price,’ Dan interrupted. ‘Where do I sign?’

Surprised, GeeGee looked from Dan to Marc. ‘I thought you were the one looking to buy?’

Marc shrugged. ‘We both are. But, to be honest, this place is much more Dan’s style than mine. I’d prefer a penthouse studio in one of the modern blocks with a swimming pool.’

‘That’s because you’ve no soul,’ Dan said. ‘Who needs a pool when you’ve got that twenty yards away…’ And he gestured towards the Mediterranean.

‘Right, Dan. I’ll contact the owner. Then you’ll have to sign the first part of the contract and you’ll need to notify your notaire,’ GeeGee said. ‘You do have a seven-day cooling-off period if you want to change your mind. But after that the notaire will start things moving.’

‘Right,’ Dan said.

‘I can give you the names of a couple of a mortgage brokers,’ GeeGee asked. ‘They’ll make sure you get the right deal for you. Oh, I forgot you’re a financial advisor so you’ll have your own contacts.’ She grinned up at him, waiting for him to say Marc had called him that as a joke. But he didn’t.

Instead he said, ‘I’ll have the funds in place by next week.’ He held his hand out. ‘All business deals need to be sealed with a handshake.’

As her hand was again enveloped in his, GeeGee said, ‘Thank you.’ And prayed he couldn’t feel her trembling.

CHAPTER FIVE

Rosie bought a box of candles and went across to the hotel with them to say a proper thank you to Seb.

She knocked tentatively on the side door, which was ajar. ‘Hi. Anyone here? May I come in?’

No answer, so Rosie pushed open the door and walked in. The empty kitchen was gleaming with stainless-steel equipment, copper pots by the dozen hung in rows and huge refrigerators lined one wall. Close up, the range Rosie had seen being delivered last week was even more beautiful. God, did she covet that stove.

The saloon-style service swing doors were just too high for her to see over so, clutching the box of candles, she pushed her way through into the dining room. ‘Anyone here?’

A smell of paint still hung in the air from its recent decoration, and tables and chairs were arranged haphazardly, but even so, the room still managed to give off an air of luxury. Helped by the ceiling frescoes and the gold leaf that was literally everywhere. Round one – decoration and ambience – definitely went to Seb, although the Café Fleur being on the beach had to be worth some Brownie points.

Rosie was still standing there trying to take in all the details to tell Tansy later when Seb appeared and caught her snooping.

‘Seen everything you want?’

‘Umm, yes, thanks. These are for you.’ Embarrassed, Rosie thrust the box of candles into Seb’s hands. ‘The door was open. I did try to find someone. I’d better go.’

Seb shrugged. ‘No worries. Have a coffee.’ He moved back towards the gleaming espresso machine in the kitchen.

‘Sugar? Milk?’

‘Neither, thanks.’ Rosie watched as Seb placed a plate of tiny, delicious-looking pastries alongside the coffees on a tray.

‘We’ll take this through to reception. The chairs are comfy out there. Follow me,’ he ordered. Rosie followed meekly, wondering how long before she could leave. On a scale of one to ten of embarrassment, being caught snooping was a definite ten.

The reception area was pristine and clearly ready for the grand reopening. The requisite glamorous receptionist was already behind the desk, working away industriously. She glanced up as they approached.

‘Meet Miranda, my PA,’ Seb said. ‘She’s getting Saturday’s opening bash organised. Remind me to give you your invite before you go.’

‘Sorry,’ Rosie said. ‘I’ve got reservations for Saturday evening.’

‘It’s from eight till late so come over when you finish,’ Seb said. ‘I’ll make sure there’s a bottle of champers left for you.’

He was clearly a guy who didn’t accept a no easily – a bit like Charlie in that respect. Rosie decided it would be churlish to argue so she just shrugged and muttered, ‘Okay – if I’m not too tired.’

Sitting there, eating his delicious pastries and drinking coffee that was way too strong for her taste if she were honest, she began to feel an obligation to be polite to Seb. She needed to stop feeling awkward at being caught snooping around the place and at least make an effort to socialise politely. The guy had rescued her, after all, arriving like some gallant knight with candles. He didn’t deserve her cold-shouldering him – even if he was an annoying mix of sexy charm and arrogance.

She took another pastry. They really were divine.

‘Is this your first stab at running a hotel? Or have you done this kind of thing before?’ Rosie asked.

‘It’s my first time. I’ve been in the restaurant business for years but I fancied the challenge of a place of my own. And what about you – fed up with the yachts, I gather?’

Rosie looked at him. How did he know that?

‘I love cooking and having my own beach restaurant has been my dream for years. Besides, I couldn’t live the nomad life for ever.’

‘Like the name Café Fleur, by the way,’ Seb said. ‘Good idea to change it – sends a message to the locals that this summer it’s not the place it was.’

‘What d’you mean?’

Seb shrugged. ‘The local gendarmes took exception last year to drugs being dealt on their patch.’

Rosie gazed at him appalled. ‘Drugs?’ No wonder there were all those locks on the door.

‘Don’t worry about it. The people involved are enjoying a holiday in Marseille courtesy of the Republic. The gendarmes will be keeping an eye on you.’

‘I hope you’re right.’

‘I’ll get your invitation for Saturday,’ Seb said before walking over to Miranda.

The embossed card he handed Rosie was impressive.

‘Thank you. Will your chef be here in time for Saturday?’

Seb nodded. ‘He’s here already. He made those pastries you evidently like,’ he said, glancing, amused, at the plate.

Rosie pushed the plate, with its single remaining patisserie, towards him. Moreish didn’t begin to describe how delicious she’d found them.

‘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.’