Rosie’s Little Café on the Riviera

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.