Forbidden Fruit

by Kojo Black

  “Come on.”

  Laurent picked up the basket and guided her out into the sunshine with a hand on the small of her back. His touch burned through her shirt like a brand.

  Out of her wet clothes and in her chef’s whites, Lisa felt a little calmer. What had come over her? Over both of them? She felt sure that kissing her hadn’t been Laurent’s intention when they took shelter from the downpour. It couldn’t happen again. She was here to educate the man, not let him seduce her. That wasn’t part of the deal at all.

  She spent several minutes brushing her hair, putting it back up into high ponytail, suitable for working in the kitchen. But as she twisted the elastic around her hair, all she could think of was how it had felt when he’d undone it. And the heavy cascade of hair on her shoulders with his fingers running through it.

  “Get a grip of yourself,” she hissed at her reflection in the mirror. Laurent was waiting for her in the kitchen and she needed to be the cynical nutrition expert, not a giddy girl with a molten middle.

  Laurent looked as crisp and professional as ever, back in his whites. He was issuing instructions to his team when Lisa arrived, and he gave her a quick nod of recognition before resuming. Lisa was happy to wait. It was a fascinating scene. As a nutritionist, her interest in food also ran to preparation, so to see a professional kitchen in full operation was a rare treat.

  Eventually Laurent appeared satisfied that he had everything under control. He beckoned Lisa to where he was standing by one of the fierce professional gas ranges.

  “Taste this.” He dipped a teaspoon into a giant copper pan that was bubbling ferociously on the hob. “Careful. It’s very hot.”

  Lisa took the spoon of orange liquid from him and blew across the surface gently. Then she gingerly dipped the tip of her tongue into it. Her mouth exploded with a burst of intensity—it was the sea, captured in one tiny mouthful. Salty, briny, fishy … shellfish, lobsters, prawns, cuttlefish, white fish … peppery and sharp, but rich and deep. So nuanced she couldn’t begin to describe it.

  “Unbelievable!”

  Laurent smiled. “Those are the parts of the fish and shellfish that most people throw away.” He took the teaspoon back from her and tossed it into a sink. One of his acolytes hurriedly picked it up and took it to a dishwasher.

  “Now, our brioche awaits.”

  The dough had quite literally doubled in size while they’d been gathering the berries. Laurent tipped it off its tray onto the floured surface of the work top, instructing Lisa on how to give it a final kneading. Luckily, this time he didn’t feel the need to work with her, as it needed only the minimal touch.

  “You’ll never persuade me that this dish can be any way healthy,” said Lisa, as she watched him easing the dough into a rectangular loaf tin.

  “Healthy? What’s healthy? Eating something bare and undercooked that leaves you unsatisfied. Or taking pleasure in a dish so delicious that it can lift your mood and boost your endorphins?”

  “While boosting your cholesterol at the same time?”

  “Bah! To eat healthy food would be to live a life so bland that I wouldn’t be interested in extending it.”

  “You’re talking about two extremes. I advocate a healthy balance.”

  “I think we must agree to disagree, mademoiselle, until you taste your pudding tomorrow.”

  After brushing the surface of the brioche dough with egg, he put it in the oven.

  “Now for the fruit.”

  They stood opposite each other across the work bench, picking over, hulling and stoning the various berries in dedicated silence. When Laurent offered her an enormous tayberry, Lisa was pleased with herself that she had the wherewithal to take it from him with her hand rather than her mouth. Did she see disappointment flicker in his eyes? Or was that her own wishful thinking?

  When the berries were all prepared, Laurent tipped them into a deep pan and set it on the stove. Lisa then watched in horror as he spooned sugar into them.

  “Whoa! Stop!”

  Laurent looked up from what he was doing with a roguish smile.

  “I knew I wouldn’t get through this step without a fight,” he said.

  “How much are you putting in?” said Lisa. “You haven’t even weighed it.”

  “I’ve tasted the berries. I know from experience,” he said with a shrug of one shoulder.

  He carried on, spooning more and more of what Lisa thought of as white poison into the fruit.

  “You can’t really expect me to eat that,” she said.

  “I can, I do, and you will,” said Laurent. “It’s part of the deal you agreed to.”

  “Sugar is poison.”

  Laurent sighed. “It’s just sugar.”

  “Possibly more dangerous than cocaine and certainly more addictive than heroin.”

  The jury was out on these claims but Lisa wasn’t above using them for effect. And she said them loudly enough to bring all work in the kitchen to a halt. The silent, shaven acolytes stared at her, mouths open and eyes wide.

  “Oh!” said Laurent, his mouth round with horror. “For that, I’m putting in an extra spoonful.”

  Lisa couldn’t bare it. She stepped forward and grabbed his arm. The spoon flew into the air. Sugar sprayed across the kitchen. The previously paralyzed cooks sprang into action, checking their works in progress for unwanted sugar, scurrying after the spoon as it skittered away and rushing for a mop.

  Lisa looked at Laurent, waiting for an explosion of Gallic temper which didn’t materialize. He simply stared at her, as he slowly stirred the fruit in the pan.

  “I apologize,” she said eventually. “Perhaps I should leave.”

  “I would be very sorry indeed if that were to happen,” said Laurent. “Perhaps we could forget your little outburst and continue with the pudding. The brioche is done and the fruit is ready.”

  Lisa’s brows knitted together angrily, but with regards to the challenge she felt on safer ground. Even if she had to force herself to have spoonful of the sweet concoction Laurent was creating, she knew full well she would hate it. Other than fresh fruit, she never ate anything sweet.

  “Tell me what to do,” she said, rearranging her face into a smile. She’d better try and get through the rest of this ridiculous challenge with all the good grace she could muster if she wasn’t going to end up looking like a fool.

  “Take the brioche from the oven,” said Laurent, handing her a pair of silicone oven gloves.

  The rush of hot air that emerged as she opened the oven door practically knocked her over. The sweet vanilla scent of eggs, flour and butter, transformed into a beautiful golden dome, was intoxicating. Lisa drew in deep, deep breaths as she carried the tin to their work area.

  “Do you know how to tell when bread is properly cooked?”

  “No.”

  “Tip it out from the tin onto the rack and then rap it on the bottom with your knuckles.”

  Lisa took off the gloves and did just that. The sound it made was hollow and deep, the crust crisp and flaxen.

  “Perfect. When it sounds like that, it’s done.”

  Once the bread had cooled, Laurent sliced it finely, setting Lisa to work cutting the crust from each slice.

  “Just the crust, mind you,” he said. “Don’t waste any of the bread.”

  They lined a round glass dish with the slices of brioche and then Laurent fetched the pan of fruit. He tasted the juice with a teaspoon, nodding his head.

  “Ha! Just the right amount of sugar.”

  He offered the spoon to Lisa but she shook her head.

  “You’ll taste it tomorrow and I guarantee you’ll find it delicious,” he said.

  Lisa bit back her retort.

  She watched as he lifted the heavy pan to pour the berries into the brioche-lined bowl. They rushed out amid a river of juice so dark
purple it was almost black. But Lisa’s eyes weren’t on the tumble of strawberries, raspberries, cherries and currants. She was studying the corded sinews of Laurent’s forearms as he slowly angled the pan, and the grasp of his tanned knuckles on its handle. Those fingers that just a few short hours earlier had run through her hair. Those hands that she had watched kneading the dough, and then imagined kneading her flesh.

  The berries settled into their plush, golden bed and the indigo juice flooded the soft bread. The sharp scent of the warm fruit wafted around them and Lisa’s mouth started to water.

  “Now,” said Laurent, putting down the pan. “Put on the lid.”

  Lisa raised her eyebrows.

  “The rest of the brioche.”

  As Lisa used the remaining slices to create a lid, tearing the warm bread to fit the round bowl, she was overcome with a desperate urge to pop a piece in her mouth. But bread was something she avoided whenever possible. Especially a sweet, white bread like brioche. Laurent watched her in silent amusement.

  “Your final task for today is to weigh it down.”

  They covered the surface with plastic wrap, then a plate that fit the top of the bowl exactly. Laurent produced a couple of old-fashioned brass weights from a kitchen scale and placed them on the plate.

  “There. Now the juice will soak through the bread to make the most beautiful pudding ever.”

  Then she was dismissed. Laurent was a busy man with a restaurant to run. She could amuse herself for the evening, in the grounds or in her room, and he would see her tomorrow for lunch.

  Lisa breathed a sigh of relief, as she went upstairs to change out of her chef’s whites. The man was so intense … No, it wasn’t that so much. It was her response to him that felt intense. He infuriated her and intrigued her at the same time, and if she wasn’t careful, she’d burn her fingers.

  The breeze rustled the leaves like a soft sigh, calming Lisa’s anxious heartbeat as she explored the moonlit garden. She’d dined alone in the small sitting room—on simple but delicious food—but she’d felt too restless to simply go to bed. Service was still in full swing in the restaurant and, as she’d walked across the darkened terrace, she’d been able to see into the bright dining room. It was spare and elegant, it’s Tudor origins still discernible but toned down. The table linens and settings were all plain white. It was evident that the star was the food. Though she was too far away to see what people were eating, she could see their expressions changing, lightening, each time they put a forkful into their mouths.

  Every table was taken up by couples or groups of smartly dressed diners. Most of them were middle-aged or older, but there were families with younger members, too. However, there were no children. She remembered reading on the website that children were only allowed to come at lunchtime. Through the open window, the buzz of conversation and the tinkle of glass and silverware made a distant chorus, while the swift, precise movements of the waiting staff became a stylized dance between the diners.

  She saw Laurent emerge from the kitchen and watched as he made his way round the tables. Without realizing what she was doing, she moved closer to the window, to see him better. He smiled and laughed, exchanging a few words with each of his guests, most of whom were completely in awe of him. Lisa took another step closer, then realized to her horror that a woman sitting near the window was pointing at her. She’d been spotted.

  She turned away into the darkness and hurried down the steps to the parterre. God, she hoped the woman wouldn’t mention to any of the staff—or to Laurent—that she’d seen someone peering through the window. Her feet crunched on the gravel path, making her slow down dramatically, and she quickly took advantage of an archway cut into the hedge along one side.

  She found herself at the start of a long avenue of towering chestnuts. The sounds of the restaurant had faded away, and now the soft rustling in the branches above her was all she could hear. She walked silently on a manicured grass path into which the silver moonlight carved the dark shadows of the trees. She allowed herself time to simply breathe, waiting for her heartbeat to return to normal as cool air washed over her like a balm.

  In her mind’s eye, she was still watching Laurent—in the restaurant, in the kitchen, in the cherry orchard, holding out fruit to her on juice-stained fingers. Standing in front of her, torso bared, in the temple of Pan. Pulling the hair band from her ponytail and spreading her hair around her shoulders. She tugged out the ponytail she’d been wearing since her afternoon session in the kitchen, liberating heavy waves of copper, letting drifts of it fall across her face as she shook it out. She could almost taste the cherries he’d fed her, the scent of the wet fruit rising to her nostrils even now.

  She walked as if dreaming until she ran out of avenue. In front of her stood another small folly, but this time with columns and a pointed roof rather than a dome. Cold air embraced her as she stepped inside and dried leaves crackled under her feet. There was no statue in this temple—just a bare, flat altar stone that took up most of the space inside. She leaned against it, breathing deeply.

  She lay on her back on the cold, flat stone, imagining she was waiting for someone to come to her. Waiting for Laurent to come to her. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. It tasted like the air in an old church or crypt. A familiar smell, but other-worldly at the same time. She shivered, wrapping her arms around her chest to stay warm.

  She already knew she was wet. She didn’t need to put her fingers between her legs to find out. She put them there to make herself wetter. Easing them slowly into her briefs, her jeans only half undone, just enough to give her the space she needed. She placed her other hand on her shirt, feeling the hardness of her nipple against her palm. Her breathing quickened.

  She wondered what might have happened in the temple of Pan if they hadn’t stopped at a kiss. She remembered the taste of Laurent’s mouth, then imagined it kissing her elsewhere. Her hips pressed down against the hard stone, urging her to explore deeper. She undid her jeans fully and slipped them down as far as her knees, then quickly unbuttoned her shirt. With knees bent and splayed, her fingers could reach deeper.

  With her other hand, she slid her bra cups aside, allowing the cold air to draw her nipples to attention. The skin surrounding them puckered. She rolled one between finger and thumb, pinching hard enough to cause a sharp intake of breath. Her clit mirrored their swelling when she touched it. She kneaded the soft flesh above it with the heel of her hand, as if she was again working the brioche dough.

  Laurent’s hands were practiced at kneading, his long elegant fingers strong and dexterous. She’d felt his touch so briefly, but it had been enough to make her lie here on the stone alter imagining it in more intimate places. Pushing her fingers deeper still and twisting her nipple more sharply, Lisa came. Two short gasps and a long exhalation marked her climax, her knees jerking together. Her breath softened as she rode down the other side, her hand gripping the front of her pubis, waiting for the pulses to stop, for equanimity to be restored.

  A twig snapped outside and Lisa’s blood froze in her veins.

  She sat up on the altar and hurriedly fastened her shirt as she peered out into the darkness. Everything seemed still apart from the slight sway of the branches. She held her breath and listened to the silence until her ears rang. It must have been an animal. No one would be wandering around in this remote part of the garden at this hour. It was after eleven o’clock.

  She pulled up her jeans as she dropped off the altar onto the floor. She was a little shaky on her legs—she’d hardly recovered from her orgasm and the noise outside had thrown her into full fight-or-flight mode. But she knew she needed to get back to the house. At some point the doors would be locked for the night and she didn’t want to have to wake some poor member of staff, or worse yet, Laurent, to let her in.

  She hurried back up the avenue of trees and emerged onto the gravel path of the parterre. Ahead of
her, climbing the steps to the terrace, she saw a figure dressed in white. At the crunch of her footfall, he turned to look back.

  It was Laurent.

  When morning came she was still trying to convince herself he hadn’t seen her. The snapping twig had been an animal. Laurent had merely been taking a breath of fresh air in the parterre after a long night in a hot kitchen. But she hadn’t been able to sleep, despite the luxurious softness of her bed, with its goose down pillows and Egyptian cotton sheets. What if he’d seen her, lying on that alter with her jeans around her knees and her breasts exposed? Kneading her own flesh, gasping with pleasure.

  Thinking about it made her light-headed.

  She looked in the bathroom mirror, expecting to see traces of her shame written across her face. But she looked the same as ever. She spent time putting her hair up into a neat bun. She would be all business today. She’d taste the pudding, give her verdict. Then she’d leave.

  Breakfast was brought to her in her room, so thankfully she didn’t see anyone. Specifically, she didn’t see Laurent, which was the main thing. After she’d eaten—just a selection of fresh fruit and some green tea—she got out her laptop and worked on an article she needed to finish. The benefits of eating seeds. Safe territory. She would have liked a stroll in the garden but, no. Too much risk of bumping into Laurent. And she knew that if she went outside she’d be drawn back to the scene of the crime.

  There was a knock on the door. Lisa glanced at her watch and saw it was just before one.

  “Come in,” she called.

  It was one of the waiters.

  “Monsieur Gillou is ready for you now in the private dining room.”

  Lisa took a last glance in the mirror, smoothing her white silk blouse and tucking it into the neat black cigarette pants she wore. She didn’t know what she was expected to wear, but as far as she was concerned, she was working. This outfit emphasized her trim figure—a result of eating the healthiest of diets rather than the sort of cuisine championed by her host.