Rosie’s Little Café on the Riviera. Jennifer Bohnet
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seen GeeGee for a few days should have rung alarm bells in her mind. She knew GeeGee skipped meals when commissions dried up and money was tight.
‘How’s things?’
GeeGee shrugged. ‘Things are so-so.’
‘Want to come back with us for lunch?’ Erica said. ‘And before you say no, I could do with talking to you.’
‘Lunch would be great.’
‘Actually,’ Erica said as a sudden thought struck her. ‘There’s something else, too. Have you got your car here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Brilliant. Fancy an ice cream?’ And Erica led the way to the picnic area and the catering van. She handed the shopping basket over to GeeGee before giving her a ten-euro note. ‘You two have whatever you want and wait here. I’ll be back.’
Finding the stand with the tiffany lamp took Erica some time, and when she did finally find it she had to wait for the woman to finish serving an elderly man who wanted to discuss the provenance of a glass plate he was buying. Erica crossed her fingers while she waited, hoping he wouldn’t want the lamp as well. He didn’t. Fifteen minutes later, the lamp was wrapped in protective bubble wrap and Erica was making her way carefully back to Cammie and GeeGee.
‘You can take everything back to the house in your car while Cammie and I walk back, OK?’ she said. ‘I’ll pick up a roasted chicken in the market.’
‘Don’t forget the sautéed potatoes,’ GeeGee said, knowing Cammie loved them but Erica rarely bought them.
‘Here’s the house key. There’s a bottle of rosé in the fridge. Help yourself. I’ll see you in a bit.’
Sunday morning, when Tansy arrived for work, Rosie was tired and grumpy having tossed and turned more than she’d slept.
‘James not in yet?’ Tansy asked.
‘Not coming in.’
‘Why?’
‘I fired him. Those carrots need peeling,’ Rosie said, slamming the oven door closed on the rib of beef.
‘I’m not doing another thing until you tell me what’s happened.’
Rosie sighed. ‘I went to Seb’s party last night. Charlie was there.’
‘How is he?’ Tansy had a soft spot for Charlie and had never understood Rosie’s reluctance to get involved with him again.
‘Antoine forgot to tell us that Charlie’s dad, William, got married recently. It turns out that Charlie is James’s newly acquired stepbrother. He sent James to spy on me – so I fired him. End of.’
‘Oh. But James is so good. Just what we need.’
Rosie shrugged. ‘I can’t really afford him at the moment anyway. We’ll find someone else for later in the season. Now, can we please get on with preparing Sunday lunch?’
Tansy shrugged. ‘Okay.’
Rosie left her to it and went through to the restaurant to open up and set the tables ready for customers. Keeping busy kept Charlie out of her thoughts. She placed the reserved tags on the five tables already booked for a total of fifteen people. Not bad for a Sunday so early in the season. People were out and about on the beach, too, so hopefully there’d be some passing trade.
Three hours later, when a tired but happy Rosie was saying goodbye to the last of her lunchtime customers and about to close the door, Charlie walked in and sat at one of the window tables.
‘Hi again, Rosie.’
‘What d’you want?’
‘Sunday lunch, of course. And don’t say I’m too late.’ This as Rosie glanced at her watch. ‘I know last orders are at two and it’s only ten to.’ He picked up the menu.
‘I’ll have the asparagus soup followed by the beef. Oh, and tell Tansy the usual, easy on the veg but the more roasties the better.’
Wordlessly Rosie turned and marched away.
‘And open a bottle of decent red for me, would you, please?’ Charlie called out after her. ‘And bring a glass for yourself.’
‘One soup, one beef, heavy on the roasties, lose the veg,’ she said to Tansy through gritted teeth.
Tansy glanced up from the soup she was pouring into a fresh bowl ready for the fridge. ‘Charlie’s here?’
‘Yep. And he wants me to open a decent red for him,’ Rosie replied, standing in front of the wine rack. ‘He wants decent – I’ll give him decent.’ And she opened the most expensive Chateau Margaux currently on her wine list.
She ignored the request to take another glass for herself. No way was she going to have a drink with him. Carefully she poured a taster into his wine glass and waited for Charlie to take a sip.
‘Nice. Can I afford it?’
‘Sure you can.’
‘Where’s your glass?’
‘I don’t drink with the customers.’
‘I don’t see any customers,’ Charlie said, looking around the empty restaurant. ‘Only me, and I reckon I rate higher than a mere customer anyway.’
Tansy appeared with Charlie’s soup and a basket of bread rolls. ‘Hi, Charlie. Good to see you.’
Rosie glared at her.
‘Thanks for sending Jamie our way. Can you now please persuade Rosie to unsack him? I could do with some help around here and he was good,’ Tansy said, ignoring Rosie.
‘I’ll fire you, too, if you don’t stop interfering,’ Rosie threatened. ‘Kitchen?’
‘You can’t fire me – you need me too much. Okay, I’m going…’ And Tansy disappeared back into the kitchen.
‘I am not having one of your relatives spying on me in my own kitchen,’ Rosie said. ‘Talking of relatives – tell your dad congratulations from me. I hope he’s very happy.’ She liked William and was pleased he’d met someone new. She knew he’d been lonely since Charlie’s mum died a couple of years ago.
‘I’ll pass the message on. But he’ll be down soon and you can tell him yourself. He’s sure to drop in for lunch – if you’re still in business then.’ Charlie paused. ‘I didn’t send James purely to spy on you, He does genuinely need the experience and I thought you could do with someone keen to learn from you. He’s really upset you don’t want him any more.’
‘He should have told me the truth then… What d’you mean – if I’m still in business next month?’ Rosie demanded.
‘Charlie shrugged. ‘Oh, come on, Rosie. You know how prejudiced the French are about “les rosbifs” and their cooking skills. They’re not going to be rushing to support an English woman. I wish you’d talked to me before you took on this place. I could have saved you a lot of money.’
‘Well, I’ll just have to be the exception to that rule, won’t I?’ Rosie said. ‘My cooking will get them in. And if the French don’t come, the English will.’
‘The French don’t care who cooks their lunchtime frites for them, but at dinner they want the whole gourmet experience, which they believe only a Frenchman can give. Nobody English in their right mind opens a restaurant in France – not without employing a French chef, anyway.’
‘I’ll get the staff to call me Fleur and start speaking with a French accent then, shall I? You could be more supportive,’ she added quietly. ‘You know this is my dream. What I’ve been working towards all these years and the reason