Paris Lights

by C. J. Duggan

  I approached the desk, clearing my throat. ‘Do you know where Louis is taking me?’ A shallow grave somewhere in the French countryside?

  Cecile smiled. ‘I think I have a pretty good idea.’

  ‘Where?’

  A car horn blasted from out the front, and we turned to the offending sound to see Louis’s elbows resting on the windowsill, a pair of Ray-Bans over his eyes. The car was running, and a cheeky grin spread across his face.

  Cecile laughed. ‘Looks like you are about to find out.’

  I swallowed, and walked to the car, my ballet flats clicking on the glossed reception floor as I approached my doom. I wove past the film crew, trying not to trip over a wayward cable that was strewn across the floor. I really couldn’t wait to get out of here, I just wasn’t so sure about the destination.

  What are you doing? You are about to get into a car with a lunatic. You’ve just received the most crushing news of your life – why aren’t you packing and going into witness protection so you can avoid the pity, the questions?

  ‘Bonsoir,’ Gaston said with a cheery smile, stepping up to the car and opening the passenger door for me. Was it my warped sense of reality right now or was everyone surprisingly happy and calm that I was about to get into the passenger seat with the devil? There was something unnerving about how happy Gaston was, but then what did I want him to be doing? Throwing himself across the bonnet screaming, ‘Don’t do it!’? I think I would’ve just liked to be reassured that wherever I was being taken, it wouldn’t be too traumatic, despite the company.

  I lacked the energy to do anything other than offer Gaston a weak smile as I slid into the Audi with its tan leather interior and new-car smell. This was definitely like no man’s car I had ever been in before. There were no empty week-old Coke cans or screwed-up Macca’s bags at my feet. It was like I was stepping into a whole new world: a grown-up world of riches. A world that had sharp, modern corners and elegant taste. The falling sun glinted off Louis’s wristwatch as his arm rested on top of the steering wheel. His Ray-Bans disguised his blue eyes.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Noire,’ he said without emotion, starting the car and glancing in his rear-view mirror.

  I quickly grabbed for my seat belt, as I tried to decipher what ‘Noire’ meant – or did he say ‘Nowhere’? His accent was pretty thick. My confusion must have seemed evident because Louis began to laugh as he pulled out and stepped on the accelerator, setting me back against the seat as he sped down the narrow avenue.

  ‘You don’t know what that is, do you?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ I lied.

  Louis smiled widely. ‘I like that you don’t,’ he said, taking a hairpin turn down another alley, shifting the gears like a racing-car driver. My hands gripped the edge of my seat as I tried not to look at the buildings that blurred by, making me feel nauseous. I wanted to yell at him to slow down, but somehow I didn’t think telling Louis what to do would work, so instead I tried to distract myself by spreading my hands on the roof to brace myself as he came speeding up to a set of traffic lights at a busy intersection. There always seemed to be an insane amount of chaos on the roads. There were apparently no road rules, going by the way everyone was navigating the traffic. But Louis seemed to be a law unto himself.

  I tried to busy myself by rolling the word ‘Noire’ around in my head. It sounded familiar: film noir? That was a thing, right? Were we going to see a film? That would be incredibly random, although me being in Louis’s car was incredibly random, to say the least. It had occurred to me that maybe Louis had seen me upset, that maybe this was his attempt at getting me away from the hotel as a means to distract me, but then that would require some form of human emotion, and so far he had hardly said two words, let alone displayed any social graces. The most animated gesture had been him peeling off his sunnies and running his hand through his messy hair.

  We cruised along, driving behind Palais de Chaillot before turning on to a beautiful tree-lined avenue where the sun tried to filter through its leafy canopies. We sped towards Avenue De New-York along the Siene. This part of the river wasn’t riddled with vendors with their stands, catering for the strolling tourists, luring them from street corners with their crumpled maps trying to orientate themselves, but it did still have a spectacular view of the tower. In the sun’s dying rays, the Eiffel Tower looked remarkable across the body of water. Maybe this was Louis’s way of deliberately torturing me.

  I’d thought that the expedition had only just begun, until Louis abruptly veered into a side street, parking alongside a collection of motorbikes. He killed the engine and looked at me expectantly. He seemed fascinated with the fact I appeared to be clinging onto life with white-knuckled intensity. I exhaled with relief that we had made it to our destination in one piece.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Oui,’ I said with a sarcasm that only seemed to amuse him.

  Opening his door, Louis moved out from behind the steering wheel with an air of gracefulness. I, on the other hand, clawed my way out of the passenger seat, struggling to stand on my wobbly legs. The ride had been so fast my brain was still catching up, my heart was still racing, my palms were clammy; I was probably pale from terror. The night air was cool on my cheeks as I braced myself against the car door, peering at Louis across its roof. He looked at me with a guarded interest.

  ‘Where are we?’ I asked, not recognising any landmarks aside from the river and tower across the way.

  Louis’s face seemed alight, like he was pleased that I had asked. He gave me a crooked smile.

  ‘Welcome to Noire.’

  Noire was definitely not a picture theatre. We entered via a rather inelegant back door from a side street, Louis holding the door open for me to walk through. When the aroma hit me, I knew exactly where I was. I didn’t need to ask if this was Louis’s famed restaurant, I had assumed so the moment he took off his jacket and hooked it near the back door. Louis was always self-assured – in his walk, the way he carried himself – but that was never more evident than when he had entered his little world, immersing himself in its militant chaos. He led me through one side of the galley-style kitchen and his presence inspired a definitive shift among his staff, a nervous energy, as heads lowered and chopping became faster and finer. The line of white-jacketed men with tall chef’s hats busied themselves, the only sound in the kitchen that of creating. There was no smiling or laughing among the chefs; it was all business.

  Louis vigorously shook the hand of a man who stood at the pass; he was smaller and younger than Louis, but his face bore lines of fatigue. They spoke in French, serious, concentrating, hands moving emphatically. It was hard to determine if the conversation was friendly until the man said something that had Louis smiling, almost laughing. The brotherly sparring seemed like it was something they always did.

  The young chef’s eyes turned to me, standing there awkwardly, not wanting to get in anyone’s way.

  ‘Claire, I want you to meet Jean-Pierre, my second-in-command.’

  Jean-Pierre stepped forward, offering his hand to me. ‘Except when he is off seeing to his celebrity chef duties.’

  ‘Va te faire foutre.’ Louis laughed, shoving at Jean-Pierre, who merely shook his head.

  ‘Louis, don’t swear in front of the lady.’

  ‘Oh, it’s okay, I don’t speak French,’ I said, enjoying the unusual sight of Louis bantering.

  ‘Jean-Pierre, do you want to give Claire a tour?’

  ‘Of course.’ Jean-Pierre winked at me, sweeping his hand to the side, showing me the way. ‘After you.’

  Noire’s tall bay windows overlooked the River Seine and the Eiffel Tower. The mauve and grey decor was ever so chic. In the dining room, lines of polished, sparkling glasses were being set by wait staff dressed impeccably in black, a regiment of soldiers who straightened cutlery and measured placements with precision.

  Jean-Pierre took me out front, to look at the streetscape of the restaurant, whic
h featured an illuminated sign: noire.

  ‘How long have you worked here, Jean-Pierre?’

  ‘Five years,’ he said, his dark eyes gazing up at the lights of the building, a bizarre thing to be admiring when in the distance the Eiffel Tower lights had started to sparkle. It was hard not to be distracted by their beauty.

  ‘And you like it here?’ I didn’t really expect a response, seeing as we both seemed distracted.

  ‘Oui, cooking is my life,’ he said.

  ‘And working for Louis, that must take a lot of … patience.’ I half laughed, expecting to hear him say that he was a pain in the arse, maybe, but that he respected him, or that it was a nightmare but he’d learnt so much.

  But Jean-Pierre responded quite honestly. ‘He is a good man.’

  Nothing more, nothing less. My look of surprise inspired a cheeky smile from Jean-Pierre, who gazed back up at the sign with an element of pride.

  ‘The problem with the passion and the beauty of Louis is his obsession with perfection,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘It takes a special kind of person. Being a head chef is physically difficult and mentally demanding – you have to be a little bit crazy.’

  I smiled at that, thinking I could attest to the crazy. I walked over to the menu displayed behind glass, failing in my efforts to not be visibly shocked by the prices of the selections.

  Jean-Pierre didn’t miss a thing.

  ‘Everything is beautifully cooked, beautifully presented, with no expense spared on the finest ingredients.’

  ‘Amazing,’ I breathed. ‘So what’s the meaning behind “Noire”?’ I asked, feeling I could have honestly asked anything of Jean-Pierre and he would answer me in a very open way. It was a fascinating conversation to have with someone who probably knew Louis better than anyone. I felt like I was getting an insight into a whole other side of Louis, one that was far removed from his shouting television persona, and the more I dug, the more captivating the discovery.

  ‘Noire means black; when Louis started up his own restaurant he was considered a bit of a dark horse in the culinary world – and a black sheep in his family, for becoming a chef.’

  ‘How fitting,’ I mused. ‘So if I asked you to sum up Louis Delarue, what would you say?’

  Jean-Pierre thought for a moment. ‘He’s a culinary sportsman.’

  Oh. For someone who had so much to say, I was somewhat disappointed with his answer. I thought he might elaborate, seeing as he was looking at me with a little smirk.

  ‘What?’ I pressed. ‘You like him.’

  ‘What?’ I cried. Where the hell had that come from?

  ‘It’s just you have spoken about nothing but Louis.’

  Oh my God, had I?

  ‘No, I just, I just – I’m working with him and I don’t know what it is that makes him tick and he is terribly frustrating and confusing and I just never know where I stand with him.’ As I stumbled over my manic reply, Jean-Pierre’s amusement only seemed to grow as I babbled.

  I was saved by an unexpected tapping on the glass of the bay window. Louis stood there, waving us inside.

  Jean-Pierre acknowledged his summons with a nod. ‘Ready?’ he asked me.

  I was slightly off balance. No, I wasn’t ready. I was deeply disturbed by the conversation. I had wanted to talk more about what Jean-Pierre had implied, but that seemed a little too defensive, and besides, there was no time, we were heading through the front door and back to the kitchen.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  All the chefs in the kitchen seemed pensive, slightly tense, as they waited for another fully booked night to kick off. It was the calm before the storm. Jean-Pierre said I was welcome to leave my coat and bag in the office for safe keeping, so I made my way tentatively to the back room. Rounding the corner, I slammed straight into Louis, who was coming out of the office.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, almost dropping my belongings and stepping back. Louis’s hand touched my upper arm as if he was afraid I might lose my feet, but it wasn’t until I focused on him standing in front of me that I did feel I might actually lose my balance. Louis was dressed in a stark white, double-breasted jacket, dark pants, and had a blue and white striped apron in hand. Never had I seen him in anything other than his stylish suits; this was something else altogether.

  ‘Claire?’

  ‘You look beautiful,’ I blurted, instantly cringing at the fact that, yes, I just said that out fucking loud. I want to die.

  Louis’s face registered his surprise. For the first time since I’d met him he seemed to be so taken aback he had no words of retaliation, no smartarse quip or response. But he didn’t need one, because once he finally processed my mortifying words he did something so much worse than saying anything. He smirked, crookedly and smugly – he was saying ‘I know’ or ‘You’re only human’. He was so utterly infuriating that I was tempted to reach for an industrial frying pan and wipe the smile from his face.

  I swallowed. ‘I-I’m just leaving my things in the office, Jean-Pierre said that I could.’

  Louis seemed confused, his eyes dropping to the jacket and bag in my hand. ‘Why don’t you just take it to your table?’

  Now I was the one who was confused. ‘My table?’

  Louis sighed, taking my arm and practically frogmarched me back through the kitchen. It must have been funny, although none of the robotic chefs dared raise a smile, aside from Jean-Pierre, who looked on with interest.

  ‘Mathias, show Mademoiselle Shorten to her table.’ Louis motioned to the head waiter, who with a sharp nod swung into immediate action, leading me into the restaurant. I followed, looking over my shoulder to the pass where Louis stood, watching me go.

  I don’t know what I had expected exactly: at first maybe I had thought he had wanted to show me what a real restaurant looked like, and then seeing him in his chef finery – okay, I really didn’t want to think about that. I cringed. I thought that maybe, since he seemed to be working tonight, I might be placed in the office out of the way or sat in a corner on a stool. So when Mathias led me to a beautiful circular white linen and crystal–clad table instead, pulling the plush chair out for me to sit, I was taken aback.

  The kitchen and all that went on behind the scenes was displayed behind an enormous sheet of glass; it was like the chefs were on a stage and the diners were the audience. Patrons would probably have booked months in advance to secure a coveted window seat so as to overlook the sparkling Eiffel light show and the Seine, but I was more than pleased with my front-row seat to the action in the kitchen. The glass almost acted like a shield for the chefs, who seemed unperturbed by the fact that people were watching and there was no room for error. Except, as the wealthy, stylish women and jacketed men filtered into the restaurant, it appeared that no one seemed as invested as I was in observing the steely focus of Louis, or the sudden pinched, serious lines on Jean-Pierre’s face as he shifted into his second-in-command role. It felt deliciously voyeuristic.

  Mathias was an absolute star, speaking perfect English and delivering a wine menu with helpful recommendations. I swallowed deeply, ever aware of the price of everything, and the list of wines made my eyes blur. I wondered how it would be received if I just ordered water, and told Mathias I wasn’t hungry, even if the traitorous rumble of my stomach said otherwise.

  ‘Chef Delarue recommends 2011 Saumur “Clos des Carmes” Domaine Guiberteau.’ Mathias offered the open wine bottle elegantly, his eyes looking at me questioningly. My eyes quickly returned to the menu, searching for the name on the wine list.

  Holy shit. Yeah, I couldn’t afford that, I most definitely couldn’t afford the bottle, or the glass or even a sniff of such a wine. But before I could protest, my silence was taken as a yes and Mathias began to pour. I felt ill. I was definitely not eating tonight.

  ‘Um, Mathias, maybe I should move out back; it’s just that I don’t feel very hungry and I think that the table should probably go to someone who is.’

  Mathias looked uncomfortable, as if h
e wasn’t really capable of dealing with such a request. ‘No, mademoiselle, you are a guest of Chef Delarue; while you sit at his table, you can have anything you want.’

  I squirmed in my chair. Please don’t make me say it out loud, I thought, and as if by some magical form of telepathy, or maybe just because he was an excellent waiter, Mathias lowered his voice a little.

  ‘Mademoiselle, chef has instructed there be no charge for your table tonight.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  Mathias smiled, taking the opportunity to top my glass up a little more. ‘So, what will you be having tonight?’

  I felt all kinds of strange. But mostly, I felt emotional. Course after delicious course began to arrive at my table. They were just like Jean-Pierre had described: beautifully cooked, beautifully presented. I know, because as I sipped my impossibly expensive wine I watched through the window into the kitchen. Louis was lit up like a god; the heat lamps reflecting off the stainless steel benches highlighting his angular face as he spoke to his team.

  I was so conflicted because despite having been given the worst possible blow from Liam, here I was sitting in a Michelin-starred restaurant on the banks of the Seine, sipping wine and delving into culinary delights. I was completely lost in the bliss of it, watching Louis and Jean-Pierre in action, meticulously altering and analysing every plate that came to the pass. Louis worked his kitchen like a well-oiled machine: he yelled and they responded; he pushed and they delivered.

  I couldn’t help but be in awe of him. I didn’t even resent the way I felt about him. Jean-Pierre’s character assessment was right: Louis gave the best and expected the best, and that was the attitude he had brought to the Hotel Trocadéro each day, so when Gaspard’s food was unseasoned, or the front reception was unmanned, then that simply wasn’t good enough. He wasn’t being a tyrant without reason, he had every reason, as well as the knowledge, to make a change. I suddenly felt mortified for having been so defiant toward his approach. I would definitely have to apologise – no, wait, he didn’t like that. Well, I would just have to make it up to him in some way, not that I had a single clue how. I wasn’t exactly capable of producing magnificent meals and bottles of wine worth hundreds of euros. Perhaps it was the wine that was influencing my rambling, fangirl thoughts now; I decided it was time to lay off the good stuff and just settle down a bit, reaching instead for the glass of water.