Rosie’s Little Café on the Riviera. Jennifer Bohnet
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.
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