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 jazz. Rosie sighed. It was years since she had danced with anyone like that. Working on the yachts it was impossible to have a shore-based relationship with anyone. Away at sea for weeks at a time, particularly after William had bought A Sure Thing eighteen months ago, her days off were 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
