Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
‘Bonne chance,’ the notaire said, counting the large wad of euros Rosie had given him before pushing a bunch of keys across the desk towards her. ‘The Café Fleur is now yours.’
Five minutes later and, juggling the keys happily, Rosie walked along the ancient ramparts edging the Mediterranean towards the beach and the Café Fleur. Day one of the rest of her life was here at last and it felt oh so good. It had seemed to take forever, but one of her lifelong dreams was about to became a reality.
Owning and running her own successful café had been her number-one dream for several years now. Her other dream of being married and having a family by the time she was thirty had been foiled by her own seeming inability to build a long-lasting relationship with any man.
It was after a wine-fuelled thirtieth birthday hangover that she’d decided enough was enough. Life was passing her by. Okay, she’d failed to meet and marry Mr Right, but owning her own café was still within her grasp. So, Dream Target No 1 became saving enough money to open her own beach café in the South of France. Now, a couple of months before her thirty-fifth birthday, she was about to realise her dream.
Glancing across the bay to where several boats were making their way to the marina entrance, her smile faded. She recognised the hull of the boat leading the way, flying the English ensign. A Sure Thing, the yacht she’d been chef on for the past few years, while she squirrelled away enough money to gain her independence, was returning to port.
Briefly she wondered if Antoine, the skipper, had forgiven her yet for deserting him. He’d been less than happy when she’d told him her plans.
‘Sacre bleu, Rosie, Charlie’s going to be furious when he finds out you’ve left. He’ll probably make William fire me for letting you go. Rosie, please, for me – one more summer?’
‘No. Definitely not.’ Rosie shrugged. ‘He already knows I’ve left, but Antoine, DO NOT, under any circumstances, tell Charlie the whereabouts of my restaurant. Understood?’
Antoine had given her a resigned nod and wished her well, knowing when he was beaten.
Rosie sighed. She could only cross her fingers and pray that the message had got through to Charlie that she wasn’t interested in a relationship, however much he wanted to rekindle their long-ago college affair. She had enough to do getting the Café Fleur ready to open without having to deal with him as well.
Hopefully the yacht was coming into port to take on fuel and stock up with food supplies and wouldn’t be staying long. Maybe they had plans to motor across to Corsica, one of Charlie’s favourite places. Corsica would be good. Go to Corsica, Rosie silently willed.
The longer she could keep the location of her new business from Charlie, the better. The scene he was sure to make when he realised what she was doing was not one she looked forward to. Not that she cared these days what he thought, but no way did she want him turning up at her opening party next week. He definitely wasn’t on the guest list.
Tansy, ex-stewardess on A Sure Thing, her best friend and, as of today, her sous-chef, waitress and chief washer-upper, was waiting for her in the car park at the back of the restaurant. ‘Signed your life away?’
‘Yep – and I’ve got the keys to prove it,’ Rosie said, stretching to raise the security grill before putting the first key in a lock near the top of the door and turning it. Another large, old-fashioned key went into a lock in the middle of the door and finally she bent down to insert a small, gold-coloured key into the lock six inches from the bottom, before turning the handle and opening the door.
‘I guess the last guy had a security obsession,’ she said. ‘At least, I hope that’s all it was.’
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