Chapter 1.
It never ceases to amaze me how life can change in an instant. One minute you’re trundling along thinking ‘is this it?’ And within a nano-second your destiny has altered beyond belief. This is what happened to me one mediocre Monday morning as I was about to dish up lunch for customers in The Loft.
Me. Charlotte Emily Gilbert, aged 39 1/2, whose only claim to fame until then had been winning a baking competition which resulted in a picture of me and my lemon drizzle cake in the local paper.
The very same Charlotte Emily Gilbert, now shamed on the front page of every tabloid in the land, stalked by the paparazzi and threatened with the most gruesome forms of torture by Twitter trolls. I stood to lose everything I valued and held dear to me. But if you’d warned me on that damp chill September morning, where the fickle finger of fame might be pointing, I would still have ignored you and followed it.
‘You will never guess who’s just ordered a shepherd’s pie,’ announced Jess, as she skidded into the kitchen.
‘A shepherd? I don’t know. Give me a clue,’ I said as I carried on stirring the cock-a-leekie soup.
She took a deep breath and whispered loudly: ‘Daniel French!’ I could feel Jess staring at me and glanced up to be met by dark brown eyes wide with disbelief. ‘Daniel French. The Daniel French. The superstar Daniel French. The Daniel French who had a hit with…’ and she started to sing his last number one, “My Kind of Woman” very badly.
‘Oh, that Daniel French,’ I said peering out of the serving hatch at a guy in a denim jacket and plaid scarf sitting with his back to the kitchen.
‘Why, is there another one?’ asked Jess, looking bemused. ‘Oh, you’re making a joke, sorry. Yeah, he moved into Great Morton a couple of months ago. You know that posh village where footballers live? Morton Manor. Massive house with a swimming pool and tennis courts. And he’s got the most gorgeous dark chocolate Labrador called Oscar,’ said Jess, who, if she was ever on Mastermind would have celebrities as her specialised subject.
‘What am I missing?’ asked Pat, who had been sitting outside on the iron fire escape steps having a crafty cigarette. The last time a ripple like this went through our kitchen was when Jess spotted the local mayor with a young brunette who clearly wasn’t his wife or daughter.
I re-joined Pat at the serving hatch where I could see that the man in the plaid scarf had been joined by another with a mop of curly hair wearing a very dodgy Norwegian-looking jumper.
‘What am I supposed to be looking at?’ asked Pat, cleaning her glasses on her apron.
‘It’s Daniel French,’ said Jess, squealing with excitement.
‘What? The Daniel French?’ asked Pat, who was leaning so far out of the serving hatch, I had to yank her back in. ‘How do you know it’s him? It might be one of those lookalikes.’
‘He’s got the same cool hairstyle,’ said Ryan, who had deserted the little musical world he lived in courtesy of his permanent earphones, and joined us.
As if sensing four pairs of eyes on him, the man in question turned round momentarily. Moving as one, we drew back into the kitchen so that he couldn’t see us. Not being a huge fan, I’d never spent much time studying Daniel French. Not even when he was in the boy band Three to One. I was much more a Take That girl. So, I couldn’t be a hundred percent sure it was him.
Pat sounded more certain. ‘Judging by those yummy mummies gawping on the next table, it’s either him or his twin brother.’
Jess looked puzzled. ‘I didn’t know he had a twin brother. Oh,’ she said, checking our faces for clues, ‘is that another joke?’
Pat was busily texting. ‘My Frank is never going to believe this. Do you think he’ll do a selfie with me?’
I opened the oven and slid out the freshly cooked shepherd’s pie. ‘Look we all need to calm down and get these meals dished up. Even if it is him, he’s only a customer like anyone else.’
Jess’s voice rose an octave in protest. ‘No he’s not. He’s a megastar. I’ve just checked and he’s got four and a half million followers,’ she said, showing me his Twitter profile.
The next thing I knew, Pat had disappeared out of the kitchen and was wiping down the table next to the two men, engaging them in conversation. A few seconds later and she was back.
‘It’s him! I knew it was. And he says yes he’ll do a selfie with me,’ she said fishing around in her bag for her mobile phone.
So, Daniel French. What was he doing in my vintage café, of all places? Okay, so The Loft wasn’t exactly mine. It belonged to Marsha who owned the antiques emporium, Pandora’s Box downstairs. On my way in this morning, she’d stopped me.
‘Charlotte, could you re-do the blackboard menu outside when you get a moment?’ she’d asked, sounding more annoyed than usual. ‘Some smart Alec with a piece of chalk has drawn a rather unfortunate picture next to the cock-a-leekie soup.’ I tried to swallow the giggle which was just about to burst forth and put on my serious face. ‘Of course Marsha. I’ll get onto it.’
‘Make sure you do. Pornography gives a very bad impression.’ That time I had to disguise my laugh as a cough. If I didn’t love my job so much, I’d probably have been out of here months ago. But Pat, Jess, Ryan and me had become like a little family, which was just as well. If not, I don’t think we could have coped in a kitchen the size of a cupboard and as hot as a sauna.
‘My hands have gone all shaky,’ said Pat, giving a little giggle as she hurried out of the kitchen. ‘Maybe his friend will take the photo.’
As Daniel French stood up to pose with Pat, I couldn’t resist spying through the serving hatch. When he looked straight at me, my stomach did a somersault. What was I feeling so excited about? He was only a guy who had popped in for a bit of lunch. Within seconds the three yummy mummies were on their feet and clamouring for photos.
‘Would it be okay to get his autograph for my mum?’ asked Ryan, slipping a pad and pen into his pocket.
‘I don’t see why not,’ I said, checking my celebrity customer wasn’t being hassled too much by his mini fan club. ‘But maybe wait until he’s finished eating.’
For the next ten minutes there was frantic activity in the kitchen while we dished up shepherd’s pie and peas fit for showbiz royalty. Normally I wouldn’t mind if I spotted a splodge or two of gravy on the rim of the plate. But Jess meticulously wiped it clean as she prepared to deliver it to the man himself. His friend – he didn’t look like a minder, he was too skinny – had ordered steak and kidney pie and chips which Jess dished up as carefully as if it were caviar. Nothing like a celeb to spice up a dull Monday morning at The Loft. And I must admit, listening to the excited hum of the chat from the café, I was feeling a bit of a buzz myself. It wasn’t everyday a superstar walked in to taste my food.
Jess hurried back into the kitchen. ‘He wants to see you.’
‘Why? Is there something wrong?’
‘No, he just said he’d like to meet the chef.’
‘You can’t go out like that,’ said Pat, unknotting the scarf at the back of my neck and releasing my curls which immediately sprung up out of control. With my sleeve, I wiped the steamed-up mirror hanging on a nail. ‘I look as if I’m having a hot flush – not that I’ve ever had one.’
‘He probably wants to praise your food, not propose,’ said Pat, sorting me out a clean apron.
‘Quick. He’ll be gone otherwise,’ said Jess virtually pushing me out of the door. Daniel’s friend was watching me closely as I tried to sashay nonchalantly across to their table, tripping over a chair leg. He muttered something under his breath, at which point the star himself turned round. The sight of him so close up took my breath away.
There is something about being near to someone who is so famous. Someone you’ve seen so often on TV or read about in magazines, that you feel you know them, except they don’t have a clue you exist. It was probably my imagination, but he seemed to have some sort of aura around him, mixed with intense familiarity.
‘Hi, it’s Daniel, isn’t it?’ I said, hearing my voice going all wobbly. What a stupid thing to say. ‘I’m Charlotte Gilbert, the chef.’
‘Great to meet you Charlotte,’ said Daniel holding out his hand. He was certainly a bit gorgeous. Short spiky fair hair and mesmerising green eyes, which gazed at my face, and a three-day beard that gave him that rugged look. It was as if some sort of celebrity spell had been cast over me making me go all gooey. For Heaven’s sake, it wasn’t as if he was George Clooney. Then I really would have been a gibbering wreck. I should have stopped talking there and then but I couldn’t. It was as if I had a mission to explain everything I ever said.
‘You can call me Lottie. All my friends do. That is, I know we’re not friends, but if you’d like to. Lots of people do. Especially the customers, unless they have a complaint, then I’m Charlotte, so…’
‘No complaints, so Lottie it is,’ he said, gently freeing his hand from my nervous grip.
‘So what made you call in at our modest little caff?’ Caff? What was wrong with me? I never called it a caff. I was making it sound like a greasy spoon instead of the beautiful old café that it was, with food served on bone china plates. Very boho chic with distressed pine furniture, and rich red brickwork walls decorated with framed Hollywood movie posters.
‘I think it was the interesting art work on the blackboard outside,’ he said with a totally straight face. Oh heck the rude drawing next to the cock-a-leekie! I’d forgotten to rub it off. Marsha would kill me.
He laughed in a sort of husky sexy way. What a great laugh. A great everything really. He was so relaxed, with a smile that lit up the room and those amazing white teeth that don’t come cheap. I loved his Yorkshire accent too. Of course I’d heard him talk before, but in person his Northern pronunciations sounded stronger.
‘It was the thought of a home-cooked meal,’ he said. ‘The sort I wish my mum had cooked me.’ His mum? I hoped I didn’t remind him of his mum. I wasn’t that ancient. I was pretty sure he was a bit older than me.
I managed to tear my gaze away from him long enough to be introduced to his personal manager Kevan O’Brien. ‘That’s Kevan with an A. He’s from Dublin,’ he said as his friend nodded at me with a bored look.
‘We were driving back from London and Kev decided he was hungry. But then he’s always hungry,’ he said giving his manager a friendly punch on the arm.
‘Come on master, we need to be leaving,’ said Kevan whose deep voice had an Irish lilt. Hidden behind nerdy black glasses, he had serious blue eyes, an expression which gave nothing away, mad curls which were even wilder than mine if that was possible, and a terrible taste in sweaters.
‘I’m sure you’ll see us again Lottie,’ said Daniel, his eyes smiling into mine as he flung his scarfaround his neck.
‘Oh gosh, that would be…thank you for…it’s been…I’m so pleased you…’ I gushed, as he waved to the yummy mummies and blew a kiss to a couple of old ladies who were beaming with delight. There was a flutter of excitement as the celebrity party left the building.
Back in the kitchen Jess was madly texting her friends, and Ryan was on the phone to his mum, while Pat was chuckling to herself as she wiped down the work surfaces.
‘Okay. Fun over,’ I said trying to sound stern. ‘There are other customers waiting to be served and we need some fresh coffee.’
Jess appeared to be ignoring me as she slid open the serving hatch and looked out. Everything had gone strangely quiet.
‘He’s back,’ she said.