by Sandy Barker
I settled on, “You’ve become a man.”
“Oui,” he sighed out. “Taller, broader, my nose fits me now.” He laughed quietly at himself and handed back the phone.
I had another look at the photo I’d already committed to memory. “You were cute back then.”
“You are just being kind.”
There was a tiny glimpse of the teenager in his modesty, and I realised I needed to reassure him, this handsome, accomplished man. “No, I’m not, honestly. But you have changed. That’s why I didn’t recognise you when Jaelee accosted you on the street. I mean, you seemed familiar, but I thought you must have been a French actor or something.”
He laughed aloud and shook his head. “That is … no, definitely not an actor.”
“I mean, you looked familiar and you are like, super-hot, so I—” I cut myself off. I hadn’t even had any wine yet and I’d already confessed my attraction to him. There was no way to retract it.
He regarded me with raised eyebrows and a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Super-hot?” he said, dragging each word out as much as possible. It came out as “sooo-peh ot”.
“Jean-Luc Caron, you do not need me, or anyone else, to tell you that you are a handsome man, so stop with the false modesty.” I refrained from punctuating my rebuke with a tut.
He nodded his head, raising both hands. “D’accord, d’accord.” All right, all right.
A waiter flew past our booth, dropping a wine menu on the table, and mumbling something to us in Italian. I suspected it was something like, “Be with you in a moment.” Like the French, the Italians seemed to have perfected the “officious efficiency” type of service.
“You should probably order for us. You chose well last time,” I said, referring to the wine we’d had in Paris.
“I was thinking we should have some prosecco, yes, to celebrate our reunion.”
“Parfait,” I replied. It was perfect. He was perfect. He lifted his hand to call the waiter over and ordered two glasses—in Italian.
“So, you speak Italian too?”
“A few words.”
“Your accent was … you sounded Italian.” He shrugged. “What other languages do you speak, besides German?” I had my smattering of (bad) French, but other than being able to say “please” and “thank you” and “hello” in a handful of languages, I was like most native English speakers—embarrassingly inept at speaking anything other than my mother tongue.
He did the French thing of blowing out air through his lips while he thought. “Well, yes, the German, and I have Spanish, some Italian as you see, a little Portuguese, Dutch. But mostly when I am in the Netherlands, we speak English to each other. Actually, in Germany too—English. And, I also speak some Australian,” he added deadpan.
“You dag,” I teased, digging out one of my favourite Aussie slang words.
Smiling, he said, “You see? I even know what that means.”
“Seriously, though, the languages thing. It’s impressive.”
He shrugged. “Thank you, but it is part of my work. And the more I travel, the more I learn—something new every time, especially in Germany. They seem to have a word for everything.”
“Oh yes, they have all those nouns which are just a bunch of other nouns strung together.”
“Exactement.” Exactly.
Two glasses of prosecco, filled nearly to the brim, appeared on the table. Impressively, the waiter managed not to spill a drop.
“Grazie,” I called after him. I heard a distant “Prego” in reply.
“See? You are already perfecting your Italian.” I gave him a “ha-ha, very funny” look, which he seemed to ignore. “A toast. To old friends getting reacquainted.” There was nothing wrong with the toast—friend Cat loved it—but before I clinked my glass against his, I silently added to it.
To discovering what you look like under those clothes. The lusty part of me satisfied—for the moment at least—I smiled as our glasses came together.
***
“That cannot be true. I am trying to imagine it, but Ron is … he’s a man’s man. Is that how you would say it?”
“I would, yes. That’s exactly why it was so funny. But that’s not even the end.”
Jean-Luc had asked after my family, something we hadn’t got to in Paris, and I was telling him a story from my last visit home to Sydney.
I’d been out to lunch with some uni friends and was meeting my dad for a drink at a bar in Coogee, on the beach. My dad is notoriously early and while he was waiting, he started chatting to a guy at the bar. It was only when he said something funny and the guy laughed and put his hand on Dad’s leg that he twigged the guy was hitting on him.
This all happened before I got there and to his credit, my dad’s response was something like, “Good for you, mate, being yourself, but I’m not interested.” The guy had left by the time I arrived.
“So, when I get there, I give Dad a kiss on the cheek and the bartender comes over and says, ‘It’s a good thing you got here when you did. Your husband’s been chatted up by some gay bloke.’”
“Oh, my God.”
“I know. I wasn’t sure which part to respond to first—that he thought I was married to my dad, or that Dad had been chatted up by a guy, or that the bartender sounded horribly homophobic. Meanwhile, my mouth is hanging open and my dad’s just sitting there laughing to himself. He says to me, ‘Don’t worry about it, love. But let’s go somewhere else.’ So we did.”
“I always liked Ron. He was good to me. And your mother. I liked being with your family.”
“They loved you, especially Sarah. Actually, I spoke to her yesterday—no, sorry, the day before. Anyway, she says hello. She says you were like a baby brother to her.”
“Oh, that is very nice. And she is happy? She has a good life?”
“Yes, I think so. She does now, anyway. Earlier this year, she broke up with this awful guy she’d been dating. I never met him, which is probably a good thing, ’cause I would have slapped him—he cheated on her. She was in a bad way for quite a while, but then she went on this incredible trip to Greece—a sailing trip. A couple of months ago now.”
“And you? Did you go as well?”
“No, I was teaching.” He nodded. “But she stayed with me afterwards. You know, she met someone in Greece—actually, two someones.” He looked surprised. “I know, right?” I laughed. “She basically came back from Greece with two boyfriends.”
“So …?”
“So, what happens next?”
“Oui.”
“Well, she’s spending time with both of them and I guess, eventually, she’ll have to decide.”
“This is … I have many questions …”
“So, one is older than her—James—he lives in London—and the other is younger—Josh. He’s American. And in December, she’s going to Hawaii with Josh for New Year’s, and James is going to Sydney to see her in January.”
“This is like a film.”
“Hah! That’s what I said. Anyway, I suppose it will all play out over the next few months. But, for me, the most important thing is that she seems happy. And while she was with me in London, she talked about finding her ‘bigger life’—you know, really embracing life, not just existing. Greece was good for her. I think she needed the shake-up.”
“And what about you? Do you aim for a big life? Is also this your philosophy?”
Sarah had committed to shaking up her life, and though she’d only been back in Sydney a couple of months, it was thrilling to see her actively live her life. But I hadn’t any impetus to make huge changes to mine. I loved my life. Well, I definitely liked it.
How many people could say that?
Even so, it was a hefty subject to dig into with Jean-Luc and I wasn’t quite ready. He watched me with unblinking eyes, not letting me off the hook. “Oh look, our glasses are empty,” I said, presenting him with a cheeky smile instead of an answer.
He raised his forefinger, “We
will return to this.” He flicked through the extensive wine list. Apparently, they had over a thousand different wines by the bottle. He turned to the “wines by the glass” section, which also looked impressive. “Do you like French wine?”
“Sure.” He looked up, his eyes narrowing. “I mean, I’ve had French wine before—lots—but I’m not good at remembering varietals and labels, so …” I trailed off. “Oh, gamay!” I exclaimed. “We had that at the chateau and I liked that.”
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Perhaps a better question is, what characteristics do you enjoy in a wine?”
That was a better question—and an easier one. “I like crisp white wines—not heavy oaky ones—and for reds, I like it best when they taste like Christmas. Does that help?”
He responded with a smile and a slow nod of his head. “Oui, it does.” He went back to studying the menu, then signalled for the waiter and ordered for us.
“You haven’t told me about your work, your teaching,” he said when the waiter retreated. “You enjoy it?”
“You know, I really do. My pupils, they’re so worldly now. So much more so than I was—maybe even more than you were. They are bright and interested in the world. They have such great questions. I’m stumped by them constantly, almost daily.”
“But this is a good thing, yes?”
“Oh, absolutely. You’ve tapped right into what I mean. I love that they challenge me, that I learn from them. And when we come up on something which raises those more complex questions, we work it out together.
“Sometimes, they are more like young colleagues, you know. Honestly, with Brexit and Trump going for a second term and all the craziness in the world—even back in Australia, there’s constant political upheaval—I have this overwhelming sense that everything will be all right, that this generation of children have it figured out and, somehow, they’ll save us from ourselves.”
“That’s … that’s wonderful, Catherine. I think you must make a fine teacher.”
“Thank you. I like to think so. Most days, in any case.”
“And if they misbehave?”
I waved it off. “Oh, you know, they’re young adults by the time they come to me. Sometimes, they don’t do what they’re supposed to, but if that happens, I just talk to them. I mean, I sit them down and we talk. There’s usually some reason for them behaving like a little troll.”
He chuckled. “You love them.”
“I suppose I do. Collectively, at least. Some more than others. But I do love teaching.”
“Your passion, it shows.”
“Thank you.” I took the compliment, somewhat proud of myself. Teaching was something I was good at.
“So, I remember this expression,” he said, playing with the stem of his glass, “you are still ‘on the hook’, non?” Bollocks. I’d hoped he’d forgotten. He lifted his eyes from the glass. “You are happy with your life? It is big enough, like Sarah’s?”
The weight of the question was stifling. Tempering my tone, I replied, “I think I am happy with my life, yes.” Those Kelly-green eyes narrowed again, scrutinising me. I tried to focus on anything besides how sexy he was when he looked at me like that.
“You said you don’t have someone in your life right now.” Had I? I’d said I was single, which wasn’t quite the same thing. I thought about my current fuckbuddy, one of the casual teachers from school. Casual teacher, casual lover—we typically saw each other once a month or so, maybe more. Although I was not going to divulge anything about Angus to Jean-Luc.
And, I knew what Jean-Luc had meant.
“No. I’m not in a relationship—not since Scott.” I saw him wince ever so slightly at Scott’s name, and I felt a pang of guilt. Why did I say his name?
“It is such a long time ago, Catherine. Really, no one since then?”
“Nope.” I tried to sound confident, totally at ease with the state of my love life. He peered at me and I thought I detected a smidge of pity. I needed to steer this conversation in any other direction—immédiatement.
“I am sorry, but it is hard to believe. You are beautiful, you are intelligent, funny … It is a little, how do you say? Baffling.”
I went on the defensive—I couldn’t help it. I’d been backed into a very tight corner and I wanted out. “What about you? Since your divorce?” The word sat fat and heavy in my mouth. “Have you been in love?” I was pulling out the big guns, my tone bordering on cynical.
“Of course.” Of course? “It is like breathing, non?” Non, Jean-Luc, being in love is not like breathing. Because if it was, I’d have been dead a long time ago.
In a moment of imperfect timing, our wine showed up. I snatched mine off the table and gulped a mouthful. Damn him, it’s delicious.
“Catherine.” I looked up to see him studying me, concern etched onto his handsome features. He reached across the table and took one of my hands. “I have upset you.” It was a statement, not a question, and stupid frigging tears prickled in my eyes. I willed them to bugger right off, but they slid down my face as I gulped in breaths of air. “I have. I am so sorry. Please, tell me what I can say.”
I shook my head. The truth was, I didn’t know why I’d reacted like that. What the hell was wrong with me? I was happy in my life. I had a good job and a nice flat and a wardrobe full of designer clothes I’d bought for a bargain. I went on mini-breaks and had good sex from time to time. I had friends and I was close to my family. Yes, I’d messed up with Alex, but he was moving out soon, and Jane and I would find the perfect flatmate. Maybe, we’d even get a pet, like a fish or something.
Seriously, what was wrong with me?
If I was going to spend the rest of the evening with Jean-Luc—if we had any chance of salvaging it—I needed to get a grip. I imagined all my rogue emotions swirling inside me, gathered them up and tucked them into a box and closed it. The visualisation helped. I took some slow breaths and, eventually, I was able to meet Jean-Luc’s eyes. His expression nearly busted open that box, but I held it together. I squeezed his hand, then took mine back.
“I’m sorry. Just touched a nerve, I think. It’s all good. This wine is delicious, by the way.” Deflection is the best defence.
I could see the thoughts flash across his face and remembered he’d been like that as a teenager—an open book. It was one of the things I’d loved about him. Oh dear. I didn’t mean love exactly.
His face settled into the perfect picture of kindness and he smiled warmly at me. I was free and clear. “So, tell me about your family,” I said, abruptly changing the subject. “What’s Cecile up to now?” I sipped more wine.
He leant back in his seat. “Well, I think the biggest news is that I am an uncle.”
“Oh, my God, you are? That’s wonderful. Nieces? Nephews?”
“Two nieces. They have two and four years.” He said their ages the French way—“I have this many years.” “Here.” He took his phone from his pocket and scrolled through his photos. The one he settled on was the three of them together, both girls sitting on his lap and giggling. He was looking at the older one and grinning. My heart skipped a beat. There was so much love in that photo.
He leant over the table and pointed to the screen. “Abigail—Abby—and Alice.” “Ah-leese”, he’d said—also the French way.
“They’re so sweet,” I said, handing the phone back. “They obviously love their Uncle Jean-Luc.”
He laughed, his affection for them dancing in his eyes. “It is mutual. They are fun. Lots of energy. I am like a playground. They always want to climb all over me.” I wanted to climb all over him.
“Do they live in Paris?”
“No, Lyon. One of the reasons I try to go back at least once every month.”
Seriously, is there anything wrong with this man? I thought. Oh right, he equates love with air.
At that thought, I could feel the chance of ever seeing him naked slipping away.
Chapter 11
Jean-Luc caught me up
on the rest of his family as we finished our wine. I had never met them, but he’d written about them so often, I’d been fond of them from afar. He was obviously still close to his family, something we shared. Although he got to see his family a lot more than I saw mine.
And seeing how Jean-Luc’s face lit up as he talked about them made me feel a rush of affection for mine. Maybe I would look at flights to Australia when I got back to London.
“Are you hungry?” he asked as we left the wine bar.
“Starving.”
“Excellent. I am taking you to one of my favourite places here in Roma.”
“You have a favourite place? How often do you come here?”
“To Roma? Ahh, five or six times a year.”
“Wow. No wonder your Italian is so good.”
“My Italian is okay.”
“I thought we talked about false modesty. It’s a very unattractive trait,” I teased. “Uh, do you mind if we slow down a bit?” I was having to speed walk to keep up with him—one of the disadvantages of being under five-two. There are others—many others—that I won’t bore you with.
“Oh, yes. I am sorry. I just love Roma. I am excited like a little boy, but no need for jogging,” he said mischievously. We slowed down. “I should say, it is not an extravagant place, but the food! It is incredible.” “On-kwoy-ab-le”, he’d said. It was quite sexy how he peppered his English with French words. “I always try to go when I am here.”
“So, they must know you by now.”
“Ah, oui, you will see.” He grinned down at me with that gorgeous smile of his. It was impossible not to reciprocate.
It was about a ten-minute walk from the wine bar to the restaurant and Jean-Luc spent most of the time talking about some of the dishes he’d had on previous visits to this mystery restaurant.
“They must have a high rating on Google.”
“I don’t know. Peut-être. It is very small. A family place. And we are here.” He stepped to the side of a doorway, so I could go on ahead of him, but it wasn’t clear where to go. There was only a plain door.
“In here?”
“Oui.” I tentatively opened the door, and a waft of delicious smells and a burst of Italian chatter greeted us. With his hand on my back, Jean-Luc guided me into the tiny restaurant.