* * *
Guy accompanied Romain a little way along the ramparts before he left him and made his way into Antibes. He’d decided to buy the cakes for the champagne afternoon welcome tea from the award-winning boulangerie/patisserie in the centre of Antibes from where he always bought the croissants and bread for the hotel. Jean-Pierre, the owner, greeted him with a firm handshake, a delighted smile and a jaunty ‘Bonjour’ from behind the counter.
After choosing a selection of cakes, Guy ordered daily croissants for the next fortnight.
Boxing up the cakes, Jean-Pierre asked, ‘Le restaurant? It is open again for the season?’
‘Non.Just for the next couple of weeks, private retreat,’ Guy answered. Opening fully to the public was definitely not on his radar this year – or any year for that matter. Once the retreat was over and done with, he intended to start thinking seriously about selling up and doing some travelling. Move away from all the memories.
Walking back to the villa, Guy saw a taxi turn down the small drive that led to Villa Celestia and guessed that at least one of the guests was arriving. He decided he’d use the side entrance before realising it was locked and he hadn’t brought the keys with him. Slowing down his pace, he loitered long enough to give whoever it was time to disappear into the villa. As the taxi reappeared and turned left back onto the bord de mer, Guy quickly crossed the road and made for the sanctuary of his kitchen without catching the attention of anyone.
Taking a cup of coffee and the slice of focaccia he’d treated himself to at the boulangerie, Guy sat out in the yard. It was a strange feeling hearing noises in the building and voices out on the terrace, knowing that he had no need to rush out and check people were happy. He was detached from an event that was beginning to happen in his own villa. No longer truly in charge, simply providing the things that Sandy wanted available. All he’d agreed to do was to supply the accommodation and the food. Sandy was the one who would ensure the success of the event – he just had to provide good food for the next fourteen days. He could manage that so long as he didn’t have to mingle with the guests.
Zoe arrived at three o’clock and he quickly set her to work laying the terrace table for afternoon tea. A nineteen-year-old French catering and hospitality student at the catering college in Nice, she’d appeared one afternoon when Guy and Sandy were busy sorting out the hotel, looking for a summer job. After reading the letter of recommendation her tutor had written, Guy had said yes, he did need someone – someone who didn’t mind what they did as the job would involve washing-up, prepping vegetables, generally helping in the kitchen, as well as waiting and being helpful with the guests.
‘A dogsbody really. But the truly bad news is that it would only be for a fortnight,’ he’d said. ‘Not the season.’ He had fully expected her to refuse, on the grounds she needed a job for the whole of summer. She didn’t even baulk at the jobs she was expected to do or the hours she would be working. Instead she’d given him a brilliant smile.
‘I don’t mind what I do. I wish it was for the whole of the season, but at the end of the fortnight I’ll have Villa Celestia on my CV, which will be really cool and should open a few doors for me. And I’ll be so good, you’ll give me a brilliant reference.’
Now, watching Zoe move around the kitchen efficiently doing the tasks he gave her, he knew that she was going to be a godsend. A good employee in the catering business was always worth their weight in gold. If he was going to open the villa this summer, he would definitely have been offering her a full-time job.
Hearing voices out on the terrace, Guy glanced at Zoe. ‘Time to get the food out on the table. While you do that, I’ll make the teas. The champagne will go out later with the cakes.’
Whilst Zoe carried the four platters laden with cucumber, ham and salmon sandwiches out to the terrace, Guy made tea in four white porcelain teapots and placed them on a tray with jugs of milk, slices of lemon and bowls of sugar. Zoe had already placed china cups and saucers, along with champagne flutes, on the table. Guy stood looking out of the window as Zoe picked up the tray and carried it out and watched as she chatted away with the women. Guy did a double take at one of the women. Surely that was Becky Taylor, an infrequent diner in the restaurant in the past and a resident of Beaulieu-sur-mer along the coast near Monaco. Not a young woman he would have expected to see at a writers’ retreat. English, with a bohemian sense of dress that sometimes bordered on the ridiculous, overly confident as well as a renowned lover of gossip, Becky Taylor was well known on the Riviera as an up-and-coming influencer. Thank goodness he didn’t have to go out there and be polite to someone he instinctively shied away from.
He was still standing in front of the window when Zoe returned. ‘Sandy wants to know if you’ll be taking the champagne out and pouring?’ Zoe raised an eyebrow at him when he shook his head.
‘No. And Sandy is well aware of that already. I take it you’ve learnt how to serve champagne correctly at college? Good,’ he said when she nodded. ‘Time to put that knowledge into practice. Cakes are on the stands. Champagne’s in the fridge. I’ve got some paperwork to get on with in the cubbyhole,’ he added, pointing at the large cupboard he’d turned into his mini-office, where the computer and the boxes of paperwork the restaurant and the bedrooms generated all lived. He had only opened the door in recent months to pile the unopened post on the shelf. So it wasn’t an outright lie. He did have paperwork to sort, but whether he’d actually do it was open to question.
Zoe gave him the kind of look his mother had often given him as a teenager when he did, or didn’t, do something she thought he should. Guy guessed that Zoe’s mum often treated her to the same looks. He knew she’d sensed that he was making excuses for not meeting the guests, but there was no way he was going out there. He’d warned Sandy he didn’t intend to meet her guests, so she should not have tried to pull a fast one.
9
Out on the terrace as everyone sipped champagne and ate the delicious cakes, Sandy introduced herself. ‘I’m sure you’ve all read my bio in the retreat brochure, so you will know my background is in publishing in both the UK and here in France, where I still have lots of contacts. I belong to various organisations within the industry and still do the occasional editing job when asked for several publishers. Now it’s time for you to introduce yourselves. Isobel, would you like to start.’
‘I’m Isobel Peters and I write crime. This is my third AntibesRetreats and you will be amazed at how much you will enjoy the next fortnight – and the amount you will learn about the publishing industry from Sandy. I will be editing my next book whilst I’m here and hoping inspiration for the next one will strike.’
Helena went next. ‘I’m Helena Mitchell, I recently sold my second short story to a women’s magazine and I’m trying to write my first women’s contemporary novel. I’m hoping for lots of inspiration.’
Liz smiled at her. ‘That’s my genre – women’s fiction. I’m Elisabeth James, but everyone calls me Liz, and I’m hoping to?—’
‘Really? You’re one of my favourite authors,’ Helena interrupted. ‘I’ve read all your books. I wanted to come to the book signing you did in Bath Waterstones, where I work, for your last book, but I couldn’t make it at the last minute. I did manage to buy a signed copy, though. I can’t believe I’m now on a writing retreat with you.’
‘Thank you,’ Liz said smiling at Helena. ‘I’m another one hoping to be inspired this week as the deadline for my next book is only a couple of months away and, well…’ she shrugged. ‘I’m newly divorced after a difficult year or two and looking forward to the future, but the words aren’t flowing as they usually do.’ Liz picked up her glass and took a sip.
‘I’m Lorraine Barker and I’m a self-published author of several romantasy books,’ Lorraine said. ‘I’m hoping to finish my next book here and find lots of inspiration for my next one.’ She looked at Mandy with a smile. ‘Your turn.’
‘I’m Mandy Burnett and like Helena I’ve had a couple of short stories accepted. At the moment I’m writing a romcom set in a season of tennis Grand Slams or maybe just the French Open or Wimbledon. I haven’t quite decided yet.’
‘Pity you’ve missed it for this year, but I could have got you tickets for the Monte-Carlo Masters last month,’ Becky said. ‘I went for two days and it was great. Let me know if you want to go next year and I’ll organise a couple of freebies for you. Oh, my introduction – I’m Becky Taylor, you may have heard of me, I have a large Instagram and TikTok following. I’ve written a non-fiction bookHow to live in a Tax-Free Haven, so I reckon writing a novel is the next logical step.Finding Love in a Tax-Free Havencould be a good title, don’t you think? Could almost be autobiographical.’ Becky picked up her glass of champagne as she looked around at them, a bright, happy smile on her face.
As Becky introduced herself, Sandy shook a cross thought from her mind. She had never met Becky before but, of course, knew of her, knew her reputation as a young lifestyle influencer, gossip and creative non-fiction writer. Living down here, how could she not know of her? The book she’d mentioned had been a bestseller all along the Riviera last year and the news that she planned to write a novel was not a complete surprise. But if she’d realised ‘Rebecca Taylor’ on the booking form was in fact Becky Taylor, she would maybe have thought twice about accepting her booking or simply told her the retreat was full. She could only put it down to the fact that she was in such a state of limbo because of the flooded villa that she didn’t do her usual due diligence, checking out the last booking. Sandy mentally crossed her fingers and prayed that Becky wouldn’t be as disruptive as her reputation sometimes made her appear.
When Becky stopped speaking, Sandy pulled herself back into the present moment and began to explain how she expected the retreat to work. ‘Basically, you are all free to spend the time as you want: write all day if you want to, go out and explore Antibes or further afield for inspiration, get to know one another, even treat it as a holiday if you want to. I’m sure we’ll talk books over meals and we will discuss different aspects of being a published writer. I’m available for one-to-ones as well as group discussions. I know those of you who are unpublished at the moment will be keen to learn about the publishing industry so we can talk about that and what you might expect when you get a publishing deal or go the self-publishing route, which a lot of previously traditionally published authors are choosing these days. They like the freedom it gives them, but it does come with a lot of work. I’m sure Liz, Isobel and Lorraine will have lots of helpful information to share with everyone. And, of course, I’m here to pass on anything I can from my days as an editor. I generally hold an informal session here on the terrace at nine o’clock every morning for anyone who wants to talk writing and maybe set goals for the day. It’s up to you how much you participate.’
Sandy paused and took a sip of her champagne before continuing. ‘Breakfast and lunchtimes are flexible between seven and nine o’clock for a continental breakfast and twelve thirty until two o’clock for lunch. Everything will be in the dining room for you to help yourselves for both meals. There will also be coffee, biscuits and other snacks available in there all the time. Dinner is served at eight o’clock every night. If you’re going out for the evening, please tell me so I can pass the numbers onto the chef.’ She glanced down at her notes, making sure she hadn’t forgotten anything. ‘Tomorrow we’ll have our first informal session together to talk writing. Nine o’clock here on the terrace.’ Sandy looked around at everyone. ‘Any questions?’
‘I was hoping Guy Lyon was going to be around?’ Becky said. ‘I wanted to pass on my condolences.’
