Rosie’s Little Café on the Riviera. Jennifer Bohnet

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 politely raised her hand in acknowledgement but didn’t make eye contact, hoping he’d take the hint she didn’t want to talk. He didn’t.

      ‘Hi, I’m Sebastian. Seb to most people,’ he said, walking towards her and extending his hand, the leather friendship bracelets around his wrist tangling as they dropped forward. Reluctantly Rosie shook his hand. She didn’t want to be rude but she didn’t intend to encourage him to hang around.

      ‘I’m Rosie.’

      ‘Restaurant reopening soon? The old place could do with a makeover.’

      ‘A week today,’ she said.

      ‘Have you got all the staff you need? I might be able to help if you haven’t.’

      His English was impeccable but tinged with a faint accent some people might have described as sexy. Did he want a job? Or was he just asking, making conversation? He probably didn’t even have any suitable work clothes and, while the dress code during the day in her restaurant might be casual, she certainly wasn’t going to allow the staff to dress tattily. In the evenings, dress would definitely be smart casual.

      ‘All organised, thank you,’ Rosie answered quickly. He didn’t need to know Tansy was the only staff she could currently afford. Looking at Seb’s tanned, olive skin and the general air of casualness that hung about him, she guessed he’d be more of a drifter than a steady nine-to-five type guy.

      ‘Look, I’m sorry, but I really do have to get on,’ she said. ‘So much to do.’ This time he took the hint.

      ‘Yeah, right. See you around,’ Seb said with a smile and wandered off along the beach.

      ‘Good luck,’ she called out, feeling unexpectedly guilty about not being more friendly towards a guy who was clearly down on his luck. If he came back she would definitely offer him a couple of small jobs – cleaning the windows or washing the terrace down, something like that.

      Seb didn’t turn round at her words, merely waved his hand in the air in acknowledgement.

      Back in the restaurant Rosie set to work. She pushed the old upright piano in the corner by the French windows into the centre of the room, making a mental note to check the piano tuner was still coming Saturday morning. Musical lunches and suppers were all part of her plan to create a different ambience in the restaurant. And live music for the party was a definite necessity.

      Three hours later, when Tansy made them both a coffee from the newly cleaned espresso machine that had sprung miraculously, if noisily, into life when she switched it on, they were both fit to drop.

      ‘Rob said he’d give us a hand painting tomorrow if you’d like him to,’ Tansy said, smothering a yawn.

      ‘Great,’ Rosie said. ‘I was going to make a start this evening but…’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I think I’ll just make a list of things I’ve got to get at the cash and carry on Thursday. Rob still okay about us borrowing his van?’

      ‘I’ve got to drop him off at the marina first, then we’ve got the van until three o’clock. Right, I’m off. See you in the morning.’

      Closing the door behind Tansy, Rosie stood by the kitchen window for a few moments watching the continuing activities at the hotel. A large poster had been placed in one of the upstairs windows overlooking their car park: ‘Grande Réouverture Bientôt’.

      Just how grand would their opening be? And how soon was soon? Would she be open before they were? Was she about to find herself in competition with a top-notch chef right on her doorstep? Would their food be better than hers? Rosie shook herself. She would not think negative thoughts.

      The advertisement she’d arranged on the local English radio station would hopefully bring a few expats her way and kick-start a word-of-mouth buzz about the Café Fleur before the summer tourists started to arrive.

      She’d worry about the competition next door when she knew more about it.

CHAPTER TWO

      Locking the shop door of The Cupboard Under the Stairs, Erica ran down the narrow street behind the church before turning left into the town’s main square and dashing into the boulangerie. Thankfully, only two people were waiting to be served and Erica was on her way to the school gates two hundred yards down the road as the town hall clock struck midday.

      She let out a deep breath as she reached the school. Made it. Cammie panicked when she was late meeting her and she hated being responsible for dredging up feelings of fear in her daughter. Cammie’s panic attacks, like the nightmares, were on the wane, thank goodness, and Erica wanted more than anything in the world for them to disappear totally. For her daughter to be happy again. For her own hurt to be healing.

      Everyone had told her it would take time, lots of time, but she couldn’t help wishing she could speed things up. She hated the thought of Cammie’s childhood being blighted indefinitely by the events of last year.

      ‘Hi,’ she said now as Cammie ran to her. ‘Picnic on the beach today okay?’

      ‘Cheesy baguette? Yummy,’ Cammie said slipping her hand into Erica’s.

      Five minutes later, as Cammie tucked into her cheese baguette, Erica asked, ‘How was school this morning?’ She held her breath waiting for the answer.

      Cammie had been like a zombie going to school for the last few months – zero interest in anything, just listlessly doing anything she was told to do. Last week, though, during the weekly telephone call the school had instigated to keep Erica in the picture about her progress, her class teacher had said there were a few hopeful signs starting to appear.

      ‘It was okay. We have to find stuff to make a collage with for next week. I’m going to do a beach one so I’ll need shells, seaweed, pebbles – oh, lots of stuff.’

      ‘We’d better have a walk when you’ve finished your lunch and start collecting stuff then,’ Erica said, trying not to sound too pleased that Cammie was