A French Pirouette

  Au revoir old life, Bonjour Brittany!

  Parisian prima ballerina Suzette knows it’s time to hang up her pointe shoes before her next injury ruins her ankles for good. But dancing is all she’s ever known and she’s terrified of who she’ll be after that final curtain falls.

  Meanwhile, lonely Londoner Libby is pouring her life savings into buying an auberge that she and her late husband had loved visiting on holiday. It’s a huge risk that could leave her broke…as well as broken-hearted.

  And then there’s Odette who’s retired to the village for a slower pace of life, but who dreads seeing someone else run her beloved auberge.

  Three fresh starts…one unforgettable summer!

  A French Pirouette

  Jennifer Bohnet

  www.CarinaUK.com

  Contents

  Cover

  Blurb

  Title Page

  Author Bio

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Recipes

  Endpages

  Copyright

  JENNIFER BOHNET

  is a West Country girl now living in the wilds of rural Brittany, France. She’s still not sure how she ended up there! The saying ‘Life is what happens while you’re deciding what to do’ is certainly true in her case. She’s always written alongside having various jobs: playgroup leader, bookseller, landlady, restaurateur, farmer’s wife, secretary/p,a. – the list is endless, but does provide a rich vein of inspiration for her stories.

  For three years she wrote a newspaper column in The South Hams Group of Newspapers (Devon) where she took a wry look at family life. Since living in France, it is her fiction that has taken off – with hundreds of short stories and several serials published internationally.

  Allergic to housework and gardening, she rarely does either but she does like cooking and entertaining and wandering around vide greniers (the French equivalent of flea markets) looking for a bargain or two. Her children currently live in fear of her turning into an ageing hippy and moving to Totnes.

  To find out more about Jennifer visit her website:

  http://goo.gl/xviqQp

  or chat to her on Twitter: @jenniewriter

  For my mum who loved dancing and instilled a love of ballet in me.

  (Evelyn Page 1918 - 2008)

  Chapter One

  Suzette

  Suzette Shelby, the world-famous French ballerina, was soaking her feet in the bathroom of her Paris apartment. Something she did routinely even when she was ‘resting’. Ruefully she lifted her feet out of the water and studied them.

  Misshapen old lady’s feet with bunions and callouses stuck on the end of her thirty-eight-year-old legs. Legs that were still shapely with the taut muscled calves and thighs of a dancer. Picking up the soft-as-down large white towel she’d hung over the heated rail, she carefully wrapped her feet in it and gently began to pat them dry. The warmth cocooned her feet. Bliss.

  The ballet company’s official chiropodist was always stressing about her feet these days but aside from emergencies she refused to let anybody touch them. Removal of the callouses would only give her blisters. The bunions she’d deal with later when she retired.

  Retired. A scary word that had entered her vocabulary in recent months and was threatening to take over her life. It would have to happen soon she knew but what was she to do afterwards? She was lucky to have lasted at the top for so long. Many dancers were finished by their early thirties. Usually by then the injuries had mounted up and the RICE—rest, ice, compression, elevation—recovery times were lengthening.

  Towelling her feet dry Suzette grimaced. RICE. Such a funny expression for something that was as much a part of a dancer’s life as barre work, while rice the food, with all its carbohydrates, was forbidden in her low-carb diet. It was a constant battle to keep fit and strong enough to dance but stay fat free and trim.

  The last three weeks had been a mixture of low-key exercises and RICE after that last sprain in Covent Garden. But now it was time to get back on the treadmill again: hours of gruelling dance practice, long rehearsals and the need to network and help publicise the next show. The first of the publicity stints was starting with this afternoon’s recording of a chat show at the TV studio.

  Appearing on chat shows was not something that she did routinely but Malik had assured her that a) these days keeping her name in front of her audience was essential and b) she might even enjoy it. Could even lead to other things when she retired. There was that word again. Retired.

  She’d hoped that Malik would be back in Paris to escort her to the studios or at least meet her afterwards, but he was still down in Monaco. After tying things up there for the spring season he’d decided to stay on for a break. He’d asked her to join him but Suzette had said no, preferring to stay up here in town and get her ankle in tip-top condition before going down there to perform in a few weeks’ time.

  Malik had been her dance partner until three years ago when, after one injury too many, he retired and became a choreographer. His reputation these days was so good he could be selective and choose the ballet companies he wanted to work with. Suzette loved it when they worked together and was looking forward to their short season in Monaco.

  She missed dancing with Malik. They’d fitted together so well. Understood each other and picked up on each other’s vibes while on stage. Since he’d retired from dancing she hadn’t had a regular partner, dancing instead with one of the various top-flight male dancers contracted for the different ballets.

  Away from the theatre too she and Malik enjoyed a deep personal friendship. At one time everyone had expected their friendship to develop into something more but it had never gone beyond the special friendship stage. He was still her best friend in the dance world though. In all her worlds actually. Outside of dancing there were precious few people she could consider friends these days.

  Sighing, she stood up and hung the towel on the heated rail to dry. Time to get dressed. The car the studio was sending for her would be here soon. Time to put on her public face and smile for the cameras.

  The other guests were already enjoying wine and nibbles when Suzette was shown into the Green Room at the studios. She recognised a well-known actor and one of France’s ageing rock ’n’ roll stars.

  The other woman guest was a writer who immediately after they were introduced, asked brusquely, “Read my latest?”

  Suzette shook her head. “Desolé. Murder mysteries aren’t my scene. Prefer a romance. I’m sure it will do well though.” She smiled at the woman who tutted at her words and turned away.

  The show’s format meant that each guest was introduced individually until all five of them were sitting around a table laden with finger food the guest chef of the day had b
een coerced into providing. Bottles of wine were passed freely around in an effort to create an atmosphere of friends at lunch chatting intimately and enjoying themselves.

  Suzette had the actor on one side of her and a young wannabe star from a current talent show on the other. After initial hesitations, talk flowed between them as the experienced presenter drew them all in to the conversation. It was when the subject of hobbies came up that Suzette found herself in the spotlight.

  “Suzette, I know you are a keen photographer but you are also a very gifted needlewoman and accomplished embroiderer. Tell us how you got into that,” the presenter said.

  “Like all good things, I learnt it at my mother’s knee,” Suzette said. “I find it very relaxing and always have a piece in my dressing room to work on. It helps to pass the time when I’m not on stage.”

  “You were born and grew up here in Paris, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I grew up in Paris,” Suzette said, ignoring the first part of the question. “I had a happy childhood here—although being at ballet school it was also a very disciplined life.” She went on to explain how her world had revolved around ballet since the age of nine. “The discipline I learnt there is ingrained in me now.” She sighed. “Sometimes I wish I could just be me.” Oh, maybe that was not the right thing to say on national TV.

  “Of course I love what I do and hope to continue for some time yet,” she added quickly. “I’m really looking forward to my season here in Paris in the autumn.” There. At least Malik would be pleased with her for getting their show mentioned. She was relieved when the presenter didn’t press her on the subject of what ‘being just me’ would entail and then, five minutes later, wound up ‘lunch’ and the show was over.

  On the way home, Suzette sank back into the seat of the limousine and remembered the way the words about just being herself had come out without her thinking about them. But when she retired and gave up her life of dance altogether that was exactly what she could be. Herself. Whoever she was. And what kind of life would she lead outside the world of dance? Could she even survive without dance in her life?

  Thank goodness Malik was due back tomorrow and she could talk to him. The one person left who knew her well—although even he, as close as they were, didn’t know everything about her.

  Her local kiosque presse on the corner of two streets just yards from her apartment was busy the following morning when Suzette went to pick up the current issue of La Monde. A large photograph of the countryside on the side of the kiosk caught her attention as she stood in the queue. ‘Venez en Bretagne pour vos vacances’.

  She and her mother had gone to Brittany once for a holiday when she was, oh, about nine or ten. A long-ago memory of walking alongside a river watching boats and men fishing flashed into her mind. The countryside had been beautiful and she’d longed to stay for longer but at the end of the holiday she’d been dragged crying to the train station and they’d returned to Paris. Ballet school had taken over her life and her mother’s finances and there had been no more holidays.

  Since then of course she’d travelled all over the world but had never been back to Brittany. Maybe when she retired she’d take a holiday there—see if it was as beautiful as her childhood memories had painted it.

  Back in the apartment Suzette went through to the small room she laughingly referred to as ‘Le Boudoir’. Originally intended to be a guest bedroom she’d had it converted years ago into a mini dance studio with a wooden floor, mirrored walls and an exercise barre running the length of the room. After pulling on her ballet shoes and tying the ribbons she crossed over to the small table holding a CD player and a pile of CDs. Taking a compilation of slow piano pieces she placed it into the player and pressed the button. Within seconds she was concentrating on the familiar plié exercise routine that had been a part of her daily life—injury time excepted—for as long as she could remember.

  Waiting for Malik later that day Suzette picked up the white velvet evening cape she was personalising with some delicate embroidery beadwork. To celebrate his first evening back from the south of France they were due to go to the theatre and have supper afterwards in one of their favourite bistros.

  She glanced at her watch. Malik was typically late. She’d so wanted to talk to him before they left for the theatre but that clearly wasn’t going to be an option.

  Half an hour later than she’d expected him, Malik let himself into the apartment. “Desolé,” he said. “I got held up in traffic. That’s looking good,” he said moving closer. “Stunning in fact.”

  “Thank you. I’m really pleased with it,” Suzette answered. “I decided I needed a cover-up to go with that dress I wore for the Cannes Film Festival last year. The one with no back, remember?”

  “The scarlet one that caused such a sensation?” Malik said smiling. “The one a certain film star was very jealous over?”

  “That’s the one,” Suzette said, carefully placing the material on the special cloth she wrapped her work in.

  Malik bent over to take a closer look. “It’s beautiful,” he said studying the intricate butterfly, vine and flower layout Suzette was painstakingly creating.

  “It’s meant to be a tribute to Lesage—I adore his designs. I hope to finish it in time for Monaco. Talking of Monaco how did it go?”

  Malik shrugged. “I would prefer to be using the Princess Grace Theatre but the Grimaldi Forum has everything we need.” He glanced at her feet. “How’s the ankle?”

  “As good as it ever gets these days,” Suzette said glancing at him. “Can we talk? I need your advice.”

  “Over supper,” Malik promised. “But now we need to get to the Champs Élysées or we will miss the First Act.”

  “And whose fault would that be?” Suzette gently grumbled at him.

  After the performance, it was nearly eleven o’clock before they were shown to a secluded table in the bistro and she was able to begin to voice her worries and fears to Malik about what the future might hold for her.

  “I can’t believe I said that line about just wanting to be me, on live TV,” she said. “I mean, it’s almost as bad as saying ‘I want to be alone’. Which I don’t,” she said laughing at the absurdity of it.

  Malik, when she looked at him wasn’t laughing.

  “It must be all this thinking about retiring getting to me.” She sighed. “The truth please, Malik. Do you think my inevitable retirement from dancing is getting ever closer?” she said as he poured their champagne.

  Carefully he put the bottle in the ice bucket, handed her a glass, picked up his own and took a sip before answering her.

  “You still dance beautifully and are rated as one of the top ballerinas in the world, but I think the injuries are mounting up, which will become more and more a problem for you.”

  Suzette sighed and waited. Malik was confirming what she already knew deep down.

  “After Monaco the only date you have is the short season here in town with me for Swan Lake at the Paris Opera, no?”

  Suzette nodded. “Not even been asked to do The Nutcracker this Christmas.”

  Malik reached across the table and took her hand in his. “I think after Paris, ma chérie, you would be advised to think about taking a new direction. Perhaps teach? Choreography? Non! I forbid choreography.” He wagged a finger at her. “I do not need the competition.”

  “As if I would ever be as good as you,” Suzette said.

  “Maybe I take you on as my assistant, that way you have a new career and I need not worry.”

  Suzette shook her head at him before taking a sip of her champagne. “So it seems Swan Lake will be my personal swansong. My life over.”

  “Non—you will have a new beginning,” Malik said. “Look at me. I thought it was the end of my world when I had to retire but I’m fine. I love my new career. You will too. I will help you find a new career.”

  “Doing what, Malik? I honestly don’t think I want to go down the choreography route—not even as your assista
nt. And I’m not at all sure I’ve the patience for teaching—I still remember how horrible my friends and I were to our teachers.” She drained her champagne glass before continuing. “As for dealing with all the pushy yummy mummies who are convinced their little darling is going to be the star of the decade.” She shook her head. “Couldn’t do it.”

  She watched as the waiter placed a salad niçoise in front of her and steak and frites in front of Malik. “That’s another thing—one day I want to be able to eat what I fancy without worrying.”

  “If it will make you feel better have a frite,” Malik said piercing one onto his fork and holding it out.

  “Thank you.” Suzette chewed the frite slowly, making it last. “Life would be a lot simpler if only I had a family and a patient husband waiting in the wings to whisk me away to live a normal life.”

  “Pshaw!” Malik said. “Who wants a normal life anyway? It would be boring. Something will turn up; you’ll see. Paris is months away yet. You’ve got plenty of time to think and make decisions.”

  Bleakly Suzette smiled at him. The trouble was, she realised with a pang, she was starting to yearn desperately for a husband and a normal family life—always had really, but dancing had taken precedence over everything.

  “Have you truly never wanted to marry? Have a family?” she asked.

  Malik shook his head. “Never been high on my agenda, no. I’ve told you before—my home life wasn’t that great. I didn’t see the need to re-create a stressful situation that I was happier without. But then, unlike you, I don’t have a biological clock ticking away.”

  “No, you don’t,” Suzette said. “And you have at least been true to yourself. Whereas I…” she paused “…I have danced my life away, never really listening to the ticking of that clock. Perhaps retiring at the end of the year will be a good thing. I’ll certainly have time to listen to, and maybe, if it’s not too late, do something about the ticking.” She’d certainly have all the time in the world to just be herself, whether she liked it or not.

  She sighed. It was just that the word ‘retirement’ made her feel so old. So past it.