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