The Patron Saint of Lost Souls

by Menna Van Praag

  ‘I suppose,’ Mathieu concedes, reluctantly.

  ‘You’re a lucky bastard,’ François says. ‘To have that kind of love even once in a lifetime, it’s more than many of us ever get.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Mathieu says. ‘You’re right. And I’m … sorry I’ve been so …’

  ‘Forget it,’ François says. ‘At least it stopped you sulking for five seconds.’

  ‘Prick,’ Mathieu says and François laughs.

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Jude tries, she really does. Since seeing her sister, Jude has been doing her very best to make herself available to the possibility of love. She’s started making eye contact – longer than politeness requires – with her male customers, along with a little light flirting. Not, perhaps, that these men are aware Jude is flirting with them since she’s rather rusty on that front. She’s even, God forbid, joined three Internet dating agencies. Now, she hasn’t actually been on a date just yet but she’s certainly plucking up the courage to head in that general direction.

  ‘Auntie Jude, what were you doing with that man?’

  Jude is standing behind the counter with Gertie. Jude is busying herself with the till, mainly in order to avoid looking her niece in the eye, while Gertie pauses in her vigorous polishing of antique silverware.

  ‘What man?’ Jude asks, playing for time.

  Gertie gives Jude a ‘you’re not fooling me’ look and puts down her cloth. ‘Um, the only man – the only customer who’s been in the shop all day,’ Gertie says. ‘The one who just left five minutes ago with the first edition of Howards End that he’ll be reading to his wife in hospital, because he’s hoping to wake her up from her coma. That man.’

  ‘Ah,’ Jude says, as if she’s only just realised exactly to which man, of the hundreds of potential candidates, Gertie is referring. ‘That one.’

  Gertie narrows her eyes. ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘So, what do you mean, what was I doing with him?’ Jude stalls. ‘I was just talking with him, I was just being polite and friendly, as I am with all customers.’

  Gertie considers this. ‘Really? You ask all the customers what size jeans they wear, do you?’

  Jude blushes. ‘That … that was because I … I liked the style and I … I was thinking of maybe getting a pair for myself.’

  ‘A pair of jeans for men?’

  ‘Exactly,’ Jude says. A flash of inspiration hits. ‘I’ve been thinking I need to be a bit trendier. And I’ve heard men’s jeans are cool, like the boyfriend jumper.’

  Gertie frowns. ‘The boyfriend jumper?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Jude says. ‘It’s a thing. Read the fashion magazines, they’ll tell you. On second thoughts, don’t. They’re awful.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, because they pretend to be your best friend, promising articles to make you happier and pictures to make you smile,’ Jude says. ‘But really they’re the kind of friend who just wants to boast that their life is so fabulous so that you feel a fat, frumpy failure by comparison.’

  ‘Ah,’ Gertie nods sagely. ‘Like Evie Frank in my class. She’s like that.’

  ‘Right, exactly. Stay away from her, please.’

  ‘I do,’ Gertie says. ‘Far, far away.’

  Jude breathes a sigh of relief. ‘Good.’

  ‘You know what?’

  ‘What?’

  Gertie smiles. ‘I have a boyfriend.’

  Jude stops fiddling with the till. ‘You do?’

  Gertie nods. ‘He likes chocolate eclairs, like I do. And his mum died too.’

  ‘Oh,’ Jude says. ‘Poor boy.’

  ‘It was four years ago,’ Gertie says. ‘So he tells me things, about how to … anyway, he cheers me up a lot.’

  Jude smiles. ‘I’m very glad. But then, are you often sad?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Gertie says. ‘Not like that. It’s only when I really miss Mum and … I mean, he helps because he understands. He says things that … he gets me, too, you know what I mean?’

  Jude nods, though, in all honesty, she can’t really say that she does. When has she ever been intimate with another human being like that? If only she’d had her sister. Jude sighs.

  Gertie reaches over and pats her aunt’s hand. ‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘I think you’ll have a boyfriend soon too.’

  ‘You do?’

  Gertie nods. ‘Or, at least a friend who you can talk to, who will understand you, who likes the things you like.’

  Jude gives her niece a small smile. ‘Thank you, sweetheart. What would I do without you?’

  Gertie considers this. ‘You’d be in a right mess,’ she says.

  Jude laughs. ‘Yes, my dear. I think you’re right about that.’

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  As the train pulls into St Pancras Station, Mathieu stands, wobbling on his feet as the train judders to a stop. ‘I’m going back.’

  François looks up at him. ‘Back where?’

  ‘To Paris.’

  ‘What?’ François frowns with confusion. ‘I don’t – what the hell are you talking about? We’ve just come from Paris, why would we want to …?’ He trails off. Then smiles with realisation. ‘Ah, right, of course. Her.’

  ‘Yes, her,’ Mathieu says. ‘I’ve fucked up once, I’m not going to do it again.’

  ‘OK, I see that, I commend you,’ François says, as other passengers begin getting up and pulling their bags out from under their seats and from the racks above their heads. ‘But don’t you think a phone call might suffice for now? It’s New Year’s Eve, not the best day for travelling – I doubt they’ll even have another train going to—’

  ‘They do,’ Mathieu interrupts. ‘It leaves in twenty-seven minutes.’

  ‘How do you …’ François begins. ‘But, we don’t even have tickets, we don’t—’

  ‘Jesus!’ Mathieu exclaims. ‘Since when have you been such a fucking killjoy? I don’t want to wait. I don’t want to start the next year as a fucking coward, OK? This is karmic. I need to do this. Now. Alright? This is something I need to do!’

  ‘Alright. Alright!’ François snaps. ‘I get it, but—’

  ‘No buts,’ Mathieu snaps. ‘Stop wasting time, let’s go!’ Then Mathieu stops and looks at his son, still bent over his iPad.

  ‘Hugo.’

  Hugo doesn’t look up. Mathieu bends down and picks up the iPad. Hugo looks up, scowling. ‘Hey! What d’you do that for. I was about to beat—’

  ‘I have to ask you something crucial,’ Mathieu says. ‘Listen to me. Just for a moment, OK?’

  Hugo shrugs.

  ‘I want to go back to Paris,’ Mathieu says. ‘I want to ask Viola to marry me. But I won’t, not if you don’t want me to. Not if it’ll make you unhappy. OK? So, it’s up to you. You say “yes” and we’ll go home again. You say “no” and we’ll catch the train to Cambridge. And we’ll never talk about it again. OK. So, say the word.’

  Mathieu and François both fix their eyes on Hugo as he considers this.

  ‘Alright, but I’ll have to hurry you, kid,’ François says. ‘We’re on a bit of a time constraint. So, what’ll it be? Come on.’

  Then Hugo shrugs. ‘Sure, whatever,’ he says. ‘Let’s go back. Propose. I hope to hell it’ll cheer you up. You’ve been a miserable bastard ever since she left, I’m getting sick of you.’

  ‘Hugo!’ Mathieu glances at François. ‘That’s your influence, that is.’

  ‘Oh, chill out, Papa,’ Hugo says. ‘You really need to get laid.’

  ‘Hugo!’ Mathieu exclaims. He glowers at his brother, who just shrugs.

  ‘He’s got a point,’ François says. ‘You’ve got to admit it.’

  ‘Shut up, the pair of you,’ Mathieu snaps, handing Hugo his iPad, then pulling their bags from the racks. ‘Allé, on-y va!’

  Viola glances up at the clock on the kitchen wall as she braises her fifteenth chicken breast of the evening. The oil spits from the pan, scalding her skin, though she barely notices.

&n
bsp; 11.48 p.m. Twelve minutes until midnight, until the new year. She’s glad she’s here, serving exceedingly sumptuous and extortionately priced cuisine to patrons with great taste and deep pockets. She wants to work, so she doesn’t have to think about what she’s doing or, more importantly, what she’s not doing to celebrate the new year. And, since she really has nothing to celebrate, it’s only fitting that she spend her time assisting the celebrations of others.

  If only, she thinks. If only. If only it’d all gone differently. If only Mathieu had wanted her back. If only Hugo hadn’t hated her. If only she hadn’t been so scared. If only it’d all gone differently. If only she could wind back time, do it all over again, do it all differently. But, of course, she can’t. Such is the agonising nature of life. No reruns. No second chances.

  ‘Chicken to the pass!’ Henri shouts.

  Viola dashes, pan in hand, to him, placing the chicken breast on the plate.

  ‘Merci, chérie.’ Then he turns back to the kitchen. ‘Écoutez-moi tout le monde!’

  Every sous-chef pauses in whatever they’re doing – freeze-framed – and looks up.

  ‘Right!’ Henri claps. ‘We’ve got three more dishes to get out before midnight, then we can celebrate – champagne’s on ice.’ The kitchen erupts in cheers. ‘Alright then, let’s go!’

  The next ten minutes hurtle past like a speeding train, a blur of braised chicken breast, sautéed beans, puréed cauliflower, jus of red wine and bacon, and Viola’s thoughts evaporate in the steam and the heat and the noise. In the glorious cacophony, she exists only in the speed of her hands, the sizzle of the oil, the spit of the pan.

  And so it is that Viola doesn’t notice when, all of a sudden, everything has stopped and all is quiet. She doesn’t see him kneeling at her feet. She doesn’t hear the words. She doesn’t spot the ring. It’s only when he taps her foot. It’s only when someone sneezes. It’s only when he speaks again that Viola pays attention.

  Henri gazes up at her, smiling. ‘So, I shall try again,’ he says, taking a deep breath and pausing for effect. ‘Viola Anne Styring, will you do the honour of being my head chef and my wife?’

  Viola stares at him. ‘Head chef?’

  Henri nods. ‘I love that this is the most important offer of the two. Your priorities are clear.’ He laughs. ‘I prefer to have a neglected house than a neglected kitchen.’

  ‘But how?’ Viola persists. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘We’re expanding,’ Henri says. ‘And I want you to head up the new restaurant.’

  ‘You do?’ Viola says.

  Henri nods.

  ‘Really?’

  Henri laughs. ‘Of course.’

  It’s her greatest desire, the one thing she’s wanted more deeply and for more years than she can remember. Before Henri, before Mathieu, before she’d known she wanted anything else at all. And, all of sudden, there is hope and possibility and opportunity. There is the chance to bury her sorrow, her longing, her loss. There is the prospect of new life.

  ‘Yes,’ Viola says. ‘Yes, I’ll be your head chef.’ She pauses, looking down into his expectant eyes. ‘And yes, I’ll be your wife.’

  The kitchen explodes again, cheers and laughter and clapping, lifting Viola aloft, until she is laughing too.

  Mathieu watches from where he stands at the edge of the restaurant. He watches and then, at last, he turns and walks away. And when Viola glances to the spot where he’d stood, Mathieu is already gone.

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Jude turns this way and that as she studies herself in a full-length mirror. She tries squinting. She tries more make-up. She tries a different dress. But, no matter what she wears and no matter from which angle she looks, all she sees is a fat, frumpy failure. And a fat, frumpy failure is how she feels.

  ‘I’m getting ready for a date,’ Jude says. ‘But I think I’m just going to call and tell him I’ve got chlamydia.’

  ‘What’s ka-mid-dea?’

  Jude sighs. ‘I’ll tell you when you’re older. And don’t worry, you don’t have it. Nor do I, more’s the pity.’

  Gertie regards her aunt with a mixture of confusion and curiosity. ‘Why would you want to have ka-mid-dea?’

  Jude smiles. ‘I wouldn’t,’ she says. ‘But I wouldn’t mind being at risk.’

  Gertie frowns. ‘I don’t understand. Why would you want to risk being ill?’

  ‘Oh, I’m only joking,’ Jude says. ‘Ignore me.’

  Gertie looks at all the piles of clothes strewn across Jude’s bedroom floor. Then she looks up at her aunt. ‘I don’t think it matters what you wear,’ Gertie says. ‘If he likes you, he won’t care.’

  ‘True,’ Jude concedes. ‘I suppose you’re right. But then … I’d just like to wear something that makes me feel good. Or’ – she sighs, pinching the roll of fat at her stomach – ‘I suppose good is a bit of a stretch. Something that doesn’t make me want to cry. That’d be a start.’

  Gertie brightens. ‘Let’s go shopping.’

  Jude shakes her head. ‘No, no, no. I hate shopping. I never go shopping. Especially not for clothes. No. Never.’

  Gertie stands and takes her aunt’s hand. ‘Don’t worry, Aunt Jude. I’ll come with you. It’ll be OK.’

  ‘That’s very sweet of you to offer, Gert. But I’m afraid I’d rather put my head in an oven.’ Jude glances back at the mirror, squinting. ‘This will have to do.’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ Gertie whines. ‘Don’t be such a scaredy-cat.’

  ‘I am not.’

  ‘You are too.’

  ‘Am not.’

  ‘Are too.’

  ‘Alright then, I am,’ Jude admits. ‘But I don’t care. I’m still not going.’

  ‘Come on!’

  ‘No. No. Not in a thousand years. No.’

  After an exhausted and emotional journey through the dress shops of Cambridge, Jude refuses to go any further. Even with Gertie holding her hand, Jude has come close to having a nervous breakdown every time she enters a changing room. It doesn’t help that the shops are crammed full of bustling shoppers squeezing between racks of discount clothes, vying for the dregs of what’s left after the Boxing Day sales. After six hours, Jude holds up her hands in surrender.

  ‘I give up,’ she says. ‘I can’t take it any more. I need to go home. I need to have a good cry.’

  ‘Just one more shop,’ Gertie says. ‘The next one will be the right one, I can feel it.’

  ‘No,’ Jude says. ‘If I don’t go home right now, I’m sitting down in the street and sobbing right here.’

  Gertie rolls her eyes. ‘You’re such a drama queen. OK, what we need is cake.’ She nods towards a cafe across the street: Afternoon Tease. ‘There. Let’s go.’

  Seeing the neon sign in the window, Jude almost smiles. ‘Alright, then. A cup of tea, a slice of cake, one more shop and then we’re going home. Deal?’

  Gertie nods. ‘Deal.’ She reaches out her hand and Jude shakes it.

  They find the little shop down All Saints Passage. They would have missed it altogether, except that Gertie spotted its little blue door as they were walking past and insisted that they try.

  ‘Come on,’ Gertie says. ‘This is the one, I can feel it.’

  Jude sighs. ‘You’ve said that about every single shop we’ve been in today. And they were all awful. Frankly, I’m afraid to say, I don’t think you know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Whatever,’ Gertie says, undeterred. ‘This one’s different. Trust me.’

  ‘Trust you, trust you,’ Jude mutters, as Gertie drags her inside. ‘I must be some sort of crazy to be trusting you in the first—’

  As she steps inside the shop, Jude loses her words entirely. Indeed, she can’t remember what she’d been talking about at all as she looks around, open-mouthed. Dresses in every style hang on racks, clustered together as if holding hands and gossiping among themselves. Sequins flash from sleeves, sparkling beads swish
from hems, and every colour that Jude could possibly imagine (and a good number she couldn’t) shimmer and twinkle like galaxies of stars bottled in jars. Rows of shoes sit on shelves above the dresses, dyed every hue and tone, each pair a perfect match to one of the dresses beneath. The walls are wrapped in silk, the floor carpeted in velvet. And the air is filled with music – Mozart, Jude thinks, though she can’t be certain – as if it is the very breath of the shop.

  ‘Oh,’ Jude says, at last. ‘Oh …’ But all her other words seem to have disappeared.

  ‘It’s so beautiful,’ Gertie whispered. ‘It’s the most beautiful shop I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘Why, thank you.’

  Jude and Gertie both start to see a tiny woman with long white hair and a mischievous smile step towards them.

  ‘I’m glad you like it,’ she says. Then she fixes Jude with her large blue eyes. ‘Why don’t you take a look around, see what takes your fancy.’

  Jude looks at the proprietor as if she’d just suggested Jude strip naked right there and then.

  ‘Oh, no,’ she mumbles. ‘No, I couldn’t possibly. They—these dresses are all so—None of them would suit me – that’s to say, I wouldn’t suit any of them, they’re far too, too …’

  ‘Oh, you’d be surprised,’ the tiny woman with the mischievous smile says. ‘I think, if you take a look, you might find one that will suit you just perfectly.’

  Still shaking her head, Jude steps towards a rack of dresses. She’s just being polite. Not wanting to offend the proprietor, Jude decides she’ll browse for a few minutes, then make her apologies and leave. And so she looks, beginning to ruffle through a clutch of expectant dresses, casting occasional furtive glances to where the tiny woman now stands behind the counter. And then, Jude stops, her tentative fingers having landed on a whisper of dark-blue silk that seems to float in the air of its own accord.

  ‘That would look beautiful on you.’ The proprietor is suddenly at her side. ‘Why don’t you try it on?’