Not that we had much time to chat today – couples were already starting to eat out with their valentine a day early. Hugo set up extra tables to cope and JC was already shouting “Sacre bleu!” down the telephone to suppliers when I reached my workstation. His mood softened for one nanosecond when I slipped a chocolate bar into his pocket – the last from the stash I’d brought over from England, in my bulging suitcase. It was a thank you for him teaching me how to braise duck the other night. Whilst my fave choccie from home contained vegetable fat, I thought even a connoisseur like him might find this particular one yummy.
After what seemed like a marathon of chopping veg and beating cream, the last dessert finally got sent out. I pulled off my skull cap and exhaled. Edward was working the evening shift and would be in to help set up in a couple of hours. I’d wait until then to pass him his phone charger, and this would give me time to quiz Hugo.
My stomach scrunched at the thought of seeing Edward. I was worried that if I got too close to that delicious mouth and those twinkling eyes, it would be all too easy just to fall back into his arms – if he’d have me back, and that was in doubt. Which was just as well, cos any reconciliation would inevitably mean another split – the pain would just be saved up for another day.
‘You pleased me today, Pudding,’ said JC in his thick accent. ‘Perhaps in a few days you can move on to preparing sauces. If you accomplish zat satisfactorily, ze next steps will be cooking meat, fish and pasta then helping to plate ze food. Your preparation skills are coming along nicely.’ He glanced at Cindy and the other kitchenhands who were staring at him open-mouthed. JC cleared his throat. ‘Ze chopping skills are geriatric though. More speed! Still lots to learn!’
Forehead beaded with sweat, JC headed off to the pantry. Cindy chuckled.
‘Well, howdy Cupid, I reckon our chef’s got himself a little crush.’
‘Cupid can point his bow elsewhere, at the moment,’ I muttered and unbuttoned the top of my white chef coat.
Cindy squeezed my arm, her eyeliner smudged – preparing over one hundred cute profiteroles had taken its toll.
‘Me and my big mouth – sorry, honey.’ She led me through to the wash-up area, grabbed two clean glasses and poured us each some water. ‘Ain’t there no chance of you two getting back together? You can’t go out for so long and then break up quicker than a hiccup.’
I gulped back the water. ‘We’d only been dating a few months.’
‘And you think he and Monique…?’
‘They’re more well-suited,’ I said. ‘Honestly, Cindy, it’s for the best.’
‘Perhaps,’ she said. ‘I mean, he don’t seem too fussed, laughing with the customers yesterday and…’ Her cheeks tinged pink, ‘Shoot, sorry, honey, I didn’t mean –’
‘It’s all right,’ I mumbled and we moved back into the kitchen as someone came in to empty the dishwasher. ‘At least now I’ve got more time to go to Disneyland, guilt-free.’ I forced a smile.
Cindy nodded and, after cleaning my workstation, I headed for the loos. My American mate was right – Edward was making the best of an awkward situation and I needed to follow his example. I shook myself. So, onwards with my secret mission. Bristly Hugo might open up to me more easily if I washed off the perspiration and squirted myself with perfume. After a shift in the kitchens I always smelt like the school canteen from junior school. A quick slash of lipstick, along with a brush through my sweaty hair, was probably in order too, so I pulled off the tight bobble. After a few minutes of dabbing, brushing and generally freshening up, I emerged from the ladies’ feeling much more like my usual self.
‘See you tomorrow, Gemma, we’re both working the morning shift again,’ said Cindy, having pulled on a bright red anorak.
I winked as she left, then with a deep breath, I headed to the mahogany bar where Hugo’s rail thin figure leant over a coffee. I pulled up a stool next to him and stared ahead at the mirrored wall.
‘Busy, today, wasn’t it?’ I said.
‘Oui. Good for the bank balance. Paris, Valentine’s Day… It’s a cliché but one that sells. Half the guests were foreign today – couples over to celebrate their love.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Others here for the First World War centenary big band concert this weekend.’
‘I’m exhausted,’ I said and gave him what I hoped was a winning smile. Perhaps a titch of alcohol would loosen his tongue. ‘How about a shot of something strong to help us recover, Hugo – my shout?’
‘“My shout”? That means…?’
‘Oh, sorry, um that means I’ll pay. A treat for us both. What would you recommend?’
His eyes narrowed. ‘I’m not a drinking man. Anyway, why would you want to share a glass with someone almost old enough to be your papa?’
I rested my head in my hands. ‘As you’ve probably heard, me and Edward have split up – and then I’ve just spent my shift making meals for love-sick strangers. I need a drink. Join me, don’t join me, I don’t care… We’re colleagues, in our place of work – it’s not illegal, is it?’ I held my breath.
‘Okay,’ he said eventually and glanced sideways at me. ‘Today I don’t have to rush home. I’ll pour us two cognacs. I don’t like the sweet stuff like a pastis or triple sec.’
Whilst he did that I took out my purse and left some money by the till. Then we moved over to a corner table and sat in silence for a while. Pierre appeared, went to the bar, and flicked on the radio which played jazz music. He looked across at us and nodded and then proceeded to water the pots containing big glossy ferns.
I watched him work, whilst Hugo fiddled with his phone. When Pierre had finished he got out a step ladder and dusted the massive wrought iron chandelier. Then he disappeared into the staff room.
‘So, Paris, all this love stuff…’ I sipped my drink, ‘You aren’t a romantic then, Hugo?’
‘Je sais pas. Ask my wife.’
I gasped. ‘You are married? I mean, oh, I see, it’s just…’
‘I don’t seem the marrying type?’ Hugo gave a wry smile and swirled his cognac around it its glass. ‘How about this then – I’m also a dad and have four children under the age of ten to support.’
Wow. No wonder he was so grumpy – leaving a gruelling shift here, to head home to what must be a mega hectic family home. That explained why he knew about cheap places to visit in Paris. On his wages, bringing up four kids must be tough.
‘The, um, Queen had four children,’ I said, hoping to find out exactly why he hated the Windsors.
‘Pah! And probably four nannies… How can your monarchy, with its palace and golden carriages, relate to ordinary people?’
As he ranted about royals across Europe, it became clear that his “hate” of the rich was really resentment of their wealth. And when he finally moved on to talk about his busy family life, I reckoned he was way too concerned with school runs and homework supervision, to be involve in an assassination plot.
‘Between them, mes infants do ballet, horse-riding, piano, football, violin and dance.’ Hugo tipped his glass from side to side. ‘If I am not waiting on people here, I am often chauffeuring children, whilst my wife works at the local supermarket. Make the most of your twenties, Gemma. You and Edward breaking up is a good thing – settling down at your young age narrows your options.’
I stared at his receding hairline and faint wrinkles around his eyes. Yet as super-spy G, I needed to cover all of the bases. Like Sean Bean in GoldenEye who was actually a double agent, Hugo’s stressed family man front could be intentionally misleading.
‘And your children, what are they called?’
He circled his finger around the rim of his glass. ‘Honore, Heloise, Henri and Herbert…’ Hugo looked sheepish. ‘Seeing as my name and my wife’s – Hélène – both start with H, she thought it would be nice for the infants as well.’
‘Nice idea,’ I said and met his gaze again. ‘And… were they born here? Do you come from Paris?’
Hugo’s eyes narrowed again.
‘Merde alors, you ask a lot of personal questions!’ But his eyes twinkled.
‘Oh, you know us English…’ I blustered. ‘It’s called small talk – just a way of passing the time.’
‘Eh bien… As long as we don’t talk about the boring weather… If you must know, yes, all the children, and Hélène were born here – we live in a northern suburb. However I come from Marseille in the south. You might have noticed the difference in my accent…’
And whilst I insisted on fetching us both another drink, I thought about the way he spoke. ‘Yeah, you kind of pronounce words more fully than everyone else, emphasising the last letters…’ I said, on returning to our table.
‘Bon. Well spotted,’ he said as I sat down again and pushed another cognac towards him.
It was a triple in his glass, not that he seemed to notice. I felt a little guilty as he obviously wasn’t used to strong drink. But Queen and country came first – better a hangover than royal murder and, according to Joe, I had no time to lose.
‘So, Hugo,’ I said, ‘your knowledge of menus must be huge. What do you consider to be the best meal and drink in Paris? I’ll have to try it before I leave.’
His face was flushed now and he actually smiled. ‘Nothing beats a really good cassoulet,’ he said.
‘That’s a pork and bean stew, right?’ I watched it being made on the telly last night – there wasn’t much else to do at the flat, without Edward around.
‘Oui – but so much more. It is satisfying, warming… reminds one of childhood. And to accompany it, a single glass of rich Merlot. Although, before we had the children, my wife and I loved going to the flea market in Porte de Clignancourt to pick up some bargain ingredients, which always included a jar of our favourite Tunisian hot chilli pepper harissa sauce. That is another favourite – it is très bon in lamb stew.’ He shrugged. ‘We don’t go to that market often now, with four children, though. It is so crowded, we would probably come home with none. I remember going once, as a teen, and my friend got knocked over in the crowds.’ His brow furrowed. ‘Some youth kicked him in the ribs, “for a joke”.’
I shook my head. ‘Bet you gave him what he deserved…’
Hugo raised an eyebrow. ‘You mean, strike back? Non. I am not a violent man. Most problems can be solved by mediation. I simply held his collar firm, until the police arrived.’
I sat upright. ‘So, you could never condone, say, terrorism…’
Violently Hugo shook his head. ‘Non! Never! Although the pacifist in me made school challenging. One of the bullies often struck my face, knowing I’d not retaliate back.’ He shrugged. ‘I got my own back eventually, though. His school crush couldn’t bear fighting and went out with me instead.’
Shoulders relaxed, I leant back. Guess that answered my questions about Hugo. Much as he hated the royals, he wouldn’t want them harmed.
Edward would arrive in about half an hour, I thought, as Hugo ran a hand across his eyes and gave a yawn.
‘Seeing as tomorrow is Valentine’s Day, are you and Hélène doing anything special?’ I said.
‘The usual Friday night treat for the children – homemade burgers with fries.’
‘Burger and chips!’
Hugo shrugged. ‘Oui. Anti-Americanisation as I am, some things have become firmly embedded in the French way of life. Eh bien – it is many years since Len and I have celebrated Valentine’s Day.’
Len? Cute nickname!
‘But that’s not romantic!’ I said and smiled sweetly.
‘Pah! You judge me, a married man with four children?’ he said, abrupt Hugo back for a second. ‘At least I have kept a relationship going all these years.’
My cheeks burned. He was right.
‘But still… A little love stuff goes a long way – why not buy her a rose or write a poem…?’
I waited for the sarcastic reply. Instead Hugo stared into the distance for a second.
‘I used to write Len poetry, before les enfants came along. She said I had quite a talent,’ he said, now slurring a couple of words.
‘There you go!’ I said and nipped to the bar, coming back with a pad and pen – I pushed it towards him, glad for a little light relief after interrogating him. I giggled. ‘Hugo! You should see your face – it’s as if I’d asked you to climb Mount Everest!’
The four cognacs must have been working, because even Hugo gave a chuckle. ‘That would be preferable to putting my emotions on paper, after all these years…’
‘Come on,’ I said and took the pad. ‘Let me start. “Chère Hélène – Len – your breath is like a gentle summer breeze. Your–”’
‘It isn’t after eating garlic the night before,’ muttered Hugo and pulled a face.
‘Please! Try to be romantic!’
He pulled back the pad, put the pen behind his ear and thought for a moment.
‘Okay. How about…’ He stared right at me. ‘Since the moment I first met you, my heart has beat a salsa rhythm. Your eyes, your lips, your hips, fill my dreams and direct my ambitions. I–’
A cough disturbed us both and I looked up. By the bar, an open-mouthed Edward and Monique stood listening. Sugar. With jazz music playing, and concentrating on the poetry, I hadn’t heard the door open. He’d arrived early and it must have looked as if I was already enjoying the attention of another man…
Chapter 12
On my way to work the next morning, I bought Le Monde newspaper for a change – for self-preservation, seeing as the tabloids would be full of slushy Valentine’s Day messages… Unfortunately, flicking through the pages, I came across the name Monique Masson in a headline.
I screwed up my face, deciphering the high-brow French… Oh my God! Some stalker had broken into the theatre last night and shot her whilst on stage! Clean through the head. Bang, bang! The wicked witch was dead.
I folded the newspaper and shoved it into my bag. Okay, I was fantasising. The headline had been on the arts page – a five star review of Le Malade Imaginaire… Apparently Monique’s performance was “exquisite”. I pulled my scarf tighter and as I passed Place du Tertre, nodded at some artists I recognised, already setting up. Today a buzz was in the air – clearly everyone hoped Valentine’s Day would bring them more trade. One restaurant caught my eye – it had a special menu in the window covered in lovehearts. At least Chez Dubois hadn’t gone that far, although Pierre was going to swap the usual yellow roses on the tables for red ones and play some soppy music in the background. Plus JC had created an awesome Valentine’s Day pavlova.
As I turned into yet another cobbled street, I wondered if Edward had spoken to anyone back in England, trying to imagine how the old earl and Lady C would take our break-up. I’d finally texted Abbey and as usual she’d made me feel much better, saying that the cliché of visiting romantic Paris would be huge pressure on any relationship.
Struggling to ignore the loved-up faces of a passing couple, I headed into the comforting glow of Chez Dubois, veering around a man in blue overalls and a flat cap who was washing the restaurant’s windows. Once inside, the burnt orange wallpaper and mahogany panelling added to the sense of warmth. Edward looked up from the bar – this morning we were working the same shift. I headed over. Hugo was laying the tables. I caught his eye, waiting for some comment about the head waiter’s poetic words towards me. To my amazement Edward gave a small smile
I put my leopard-print handbag on the bar and opened it to pull out a small white bag containing a fresh chocolate pastry from The Golden Croissant. It was My Ex’s (see, I’m getting better as saying that) favourite. Well I could be all grown-up too, couldn’t I? We could stay friends. I handed it over.
‘Oh…That’s jolly kind,’ he said and ran a hand through his honey curls. I tried not to look at the first few buttons of his shirt, which were undone to reveal a chest beaded with small globules of sweat. And thinking about it, his hair looked sexily bedroom ruffled and his cheeks flushed. Plus he was slightly out of breath.
‘Every
thing all right?’ I said and stared at his waistcoat buttoned up the wrong way.
‘Just a run in with a pickpocket on the way to work. I gave chase, managed to catch him and held firm until the police arrived. They are coming later, to take a statement.’
I gasped. ‘Edward, you could have got hurt!’
‘Pah – I wasn’t going to let that weasel get away.’
I stepped forward to do up his shirt buttons, blushing as my fingers touched his skin. Then I stood back and cleared my throat, afraid I might throw myself at him and let the chemistry convince me we had a future together. A graze marked his chin.
‘Let me clean that,’ I said and lifted my hand but Edward gently gripped my wrist and pushed my fingers away.
‘No. Honestly. It’s not your concern.’
Ouch, that comment hurt. But he was right.
‘So – you believe that there is nothing between me and Hugo,’ I said.
‘Of course.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘I can see why Monique thought it looked suspicious, but Hugo emailed me to explain that you were only trying to help him woo his wife… Apparently he finished the poem and gave it to her this morning.’ Edward dabbed the graze with a nearby napkin. ‘By the number of lipstick smudges on his cheek, and his whistling today, I’d say it went down a storm.’
I unbuttoned my duffle coat. ‘I’d never move on to another relationship within a matter of days, Edward – you should know that.’
He nodded.
‘Look… Perhaps we should go out for coffee some time – just as friends?’ I said, continuing with my resolution to be ultra mature. Plus I was also shocked at how easily he was switching from treating me as a lover, to a run-of-the-mill pal. There were no dark shadows under his eyes, as if he’d spent the night in turmoil. His tone sounded rudely normal!
From Paris With Love Page 11
