Paris Lights

by C. J. Duggan

  Everyone in Paris has their own little corner of paradise, so where would I look to discover some much-needed space?

  Hello, Galeries Lafayette! My own piece of heaven was on Boulevard Haussmann on the 9th arrondissement.

  I entered the perfume and cosmetic area only to be instantly dazzled by a huge monitor showing the beautiful Charlize Theron sashaying down a hall of mirrors at Versailles Palace, advertising Dior. Sometimes you just want an experience, and for me, winding my way through the shoppers, craning my neck, was definitely an experience. I stopped under the magnificent leadlight dome and I got out my phone to capture what was absolutely an Instagram moment. Was there any better feeling than experiencing something for free? And to be honest, it really had to be – after I’d made my one allowance to actual retail therapy of course. Going to the Chanel counter, I chose a lipstick in my favourite shade and a decadent mascara, pushing my credit card quickly across the counter to the chic shop assistant, not wanting to think of the currency conversion too much. She swiped the card and placed my purchase into a dainty bag. This was happiness, and I would remember this feeling, savour it until my credit card statement came.

  I had to keep moving, pushing through the crowds, feeling the heat from the enclosed spaces and the intense, brightly lit counters that were acting like a solarium. I tied my hair back, feeling flushed and overwhelmed as I skimmed my eyes over all the beautiful things I couldn’t afford, from every designer you could think of: Tiffany, Dior, Chanel, Louis Vuitton. Ugh, Louis. I really didn’t need to be reminded of that name; after all, I had come here to escape. The memory of him pinning me against his door flashed through my mind, and if I wasn’t hot before, I was now. I had to get some air. As I climbed each level by escalator, so did the temperature. When I mercifully reached the roof terrace on the seventh floor, any trace of uncertainty or discomfort was wiped away the instant I took in the panoramic city views. This had to be by far the best city-gazing hot spot I had managed to stumble on. Views of the Eiffel Tower, the Opéra Garnier and Sacre Coeur: I couldn’t think of a better way to recharge my spirit and my soul, with boulevards and Haussmannian architecture spreading out before me, dramatic cloud formations overhead, and uninterrupted people-watching. I blinked against the wind that cooled my heated skin.

  Yeah, I think I’m going to be okay.

  Despite my earlier black mood, I did funnily enough feel a spring in my step, a lightness in my body, but as I made my way back to Hotel Trocadéro, I had an unnerving sense of something sweeping over me, and as each step brought me closer to the hotel, my mood darkened. Despite all my efforts to brainwash myself, there was no use. When I thought about last night with Louis … I really wanted to do it again.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The Hotel Trocadéro was a madhouse.

  The dreaded television crew that I was avoiding at all costs was setting up for ‘before’ shots of the hotel and conducting on-camera staff interviews. I could only hope that they had received the memo to avoid the grumpy Australian lurking in the shadows.

  I narrowly dodged a tradesman who blindly swung around from the back door of his van holding large tins of paint. He was too busy arguing with another tradie in his native tongue to see me. I kind of wished I had taken the chance to clear my head more seriously, because if I was looking for ongoing peace I was not going to be getting it here. I went to stand beside Gaston, who held the door open and out of the way.

  ‘And so it begins.’ He grinned, clearly excited about all that was happening.

  ‘And where exactly do they begin?’ I asked.

  ‘They are starting by refurbishing the rooms.’

  Of course. It was a part of the Louis Delarue experience.

  ‘I pick my uniform up tomorrow.’ Gaston’s smile broadened. Never before had I seen such excitement over a uniform – he was positively adorable.

  ‘I can’t wait to see it. I bet it will look amazing.’

  ‘Oui, it will match the awnings,’ Gaston said, pointing above us. I looked up, confused, then paused, barely believing that I hadn’t even noticed.

  In my absence, the sign and exterior awnings had been replaced with a rich, lush-looking navy blue signage and canvas. It was a perfect match to the uniforms that would be worn by the hotel staff, but more than that it was an idea I had briefly mentioned, one that had been met with a brooding stare and much disinterest.

  ‘But how did—’

  ‘Monsieur Delarue was on the phone all morning.’

  So he really hadn’t moved, I thought, glancing at his car; despite the ounce of smugness I felt over the awnings, I would take this opportunity to get out while the going was good.

  ‘Well, I’ll see you later,’ I said, smiling at Gaston, readying myself to go into the hotel.

  ‘Ah, pardon, Claire, Louis has asked for all staff to meet in the restaurant at three o’clock.’

  I skidded to a halt on the tiled floor, closing my eyes in dread as I prayed I had just misheard him. I turned.

  ‘What for?’ I asked, checking my wristwatch, my heart starting to pound. ‘That’s in five minutes.’

  ‘Oui, so you have made it in excellent time,’ said Gaston, always with the silver lining.

  ‘That’s debatable,’ I mumbled, turning to drag my feet reluctantly into the restaurant, where, sure enough, the staff were seated around a table, looking just as unenthused and edgy as whenever they were summoned by Lord Louis. I, of course, was dreading it for a whole other reason.

  I reluctantly took my seat next to Cathy, who shrugged her shoulders as if to say, ‘Don’t ask me’.

  Unlike the staff who were intimidated by Louis, my attitude was more a deep-seated mortification. Every time I closed my eyes, I remembered how he had kissed me, as if he needed my air, so urgent was his searing kiss, the slow yet intent delving of his fingers gliding over my skin, and the way he had whispered dirty promises into my ear as he slid my panties aside.

  ‘Earth to Claire.’ A hand waved in front of my face and I blinked out of my heated memories to see Cecile sitting across from me, smiling.

  ‘Sorry, I was a million miles away.’ Or in this case, on the sixth floor.

  ‘Where’s Gaspard?’ asked Cathy. The chef was the only one unaccounted for.

  Oh no, he hasn’t quit, has he? I thought. It wouldn’t be in the least bit surprising if he had.

  ‘He’s been in the kitchen all afternoon with Louis,’ said Francois. We all turned to look at the kitchen door, our eyes narrowed. We sat silently, waiting for bloodcurdling screams from within.

  ‘All afternoon?’ I asked in disbelief.

  ‘Oui,’ added Francois.

  ‘Has anyone checked to see they are still alive?’ said Cathy, her eyes wide with alarm.

  Gaston, catching the end of the conversation, pulled out a chair and sat down next to Cecile. ‘If they are not out by ten past, we will go and investigate.’

  I was growing impatient. I was certainly not fussed about whether Louis and Gaspard were in there chasing each other around with wooden spoons. I really just wanted to slip away; would Louis even notice if I were here or not? I would probably be doing him a favour: we’d avoid any awkward exchanges, especially in front of the rest of the staff.

  ‘Do we know what this is even all about?’ I asked, crossing my arms, my foot jigging impatiently.

  Before anyone could answer, the kitchen door swung open and out Louis strode, dressed in his crisp white double-breasted chef’s jacket. He came to stand at the head of the table, tall, proud, ever so confident, even when his eyes turned to me; there was absolutely no chink in his armour, unlike my flushed cheeks and nervous shifting.

  ‘Welcome to Gaston’s restaurant,’ he said, clapping and rubbing his hands together with excitement. ‘Today we will be revealing a new-and-improved menu, with a new signature dish whose purpose will be to drive people through the doors just for a taste.’

  By now everyone had gone from slumped and dismayed to sitting s
traight in their seats, interested. I found myself leaning on my elbows, listening intently, as the aromatic smells from the kitchen drifted into the restaurant with the swinging of the door.

  Louis moved over to the sideboard near the kitchen door and picked up a stack of what looked like one-page menus printed on quality cardboard.

  ‘These are in draft-form only,’ he said, moving around the table, handing each person a menu until he came to me.

  ‘I don’t know about you,’ he said, with a boyish grin, ‘but I really love tasting new things.’

  I glanced around the room to see if anyone had noticed his taunt, but everyone was too busy reading over the new menu. I was too busy following Louis as he paced, thoughtfully waiting for everyone to look over the selections. There was a long, drawn-out silence, but once all eyes had raised expectantly, Louis finally stopped pacing.

  ‘So, what do we all think? Based on that menu, do you think you would want to come back for more?’ he asked, before turning to me expectantly. ‘What do you think, Claire, would you be happy to come back for seconds?’

  His none-too-subtle innuendo was not lost on me. ‘Well, that all depends on how hungry I am.’

  ‘Say you’re starving.’

  ‘Starving?’

  ‘Oui.’

  ‘Well, I am also a mood eater, so it would have to depend on if I was in the mood for what was on offer.’

  Louis’s eyes twinkled with devilish intent, and I wondered if what we had said had made any sense to the others. They seemed a bit unnerved by my honesty.

  ‘I guess we will just have to make a menu that is too good to refuse then,’ he mused, his eyes resting squarely on me, and it felt like we were the only ones in the room.

  I smiled as I leant my elbows on the table and looked at him pointedly. ‘Oui, chef!’

  Louis ignored my sarcastic reply and turned his attention back to the group.

  ‘Let us begin.’

  I tried to keep my face neutral as I quickly read over the simple yet mouthwatering selections that were inscribed on the expensive light blue card: grilled oysters, onion soup with shallots and cheese crisps; roast red-wine chicken; Provençal vegetable bake, and dark chocolate pudding. It all looked good enough to eat, and that was exactly the plan as the door to the kitchen swung open and a very smug-looking Gaspard carried a large silver tray to the table.

  ‘Grilled oysters with a parsley crumb,’ he announced, placing them onto the table.

  ‘Fresh oysters,’ Louis countered.

  We all leaned in to look at the beautiful dish, before glancing up at a beaming Gaspard. He raised his arms as if conducting an orchestra.

  ‘Bon appetit.’

  The feast rolled on from buttermilk lamb with toasted buckwheat and herb salad to tomato and lentil millefuiles served with a delicious locally produced cider. The atmosphere had changed from one of extreme tension to one of merriment and, dare I say, joy. Each tempting morsel delivered to our table was met with appreciation and much fanfare. Gaspard refused our help, wanting to keep an element of surprise, not so secretly revelling in our delighted oohs and aahs when he placed the next sample on the table.

  When the tasting was finished, we had a group discussion on what we liked and what we thought would build a well-rounded seasonal menu. For the first time, it felt like we were actually a team making group decisions. It occurred to me that Louis had chosen to stand, never to sit with us, an ever-watchful eye on our reactions and our conversation about his food selections. I could tell he was just as excited by our enthusiasm, I could see it in his eyes, although he had a better way of masking his emotions.

  Louis finally gestured for Gaspard to join us at the table, while he leant against the breakfast buffet cabinet with his arms crossed, looking every bit the serious businessman.

  ‘This will put us on the map,’ said Cecile, beaming.

  ‘I never thought I would be so excited about a carrot tarte tatin.’ Cathy laughed.

  Gaston slapped Gaspard on the shoulder. ‘What do you think, Gaspard, can you pull it off when Louis goes home?’

  ‘Of course, I have Francois; we will dominate the world.’

  ‘Well, the kitchen anyway,’ added Francois coyly.

  ‘Nonsense, people will know our names.’ Gaspard saluted Francois with his glass; I had never seen him so inspired. And I saw it for exactly what it was: Louis had torn down Gaspard to build him back up again, to inspire him to do better, and it had worked. I had believed Louis was bullying people for his own ego, but now I saw that it wasn’t like that. He had run the kitchen at Noire like a well-oiled machine, he had garnered people’s respect, and by doing so had built an empire. I had seen him in a completely new light, which kind of scared me; I really didn’t need Louis to appear more attractive to me than he already was. That in itself was a very dangerous thing.

  Sipping on my cider, I stole a glance at Louis, but somewhere between Gaspard joining the table and the banter, Louis had left us, the swinging kitchen door the only sign of his exit. I took a minute to think of an appropriate excuse to follow, considering myself a bit of genius as I casually started collecting the empty dishes.

  ‘Let me help,’ Cathy said.

  ‘No, no, sit back, I’ve got this,’ I insisted, glad that it didn’t take too much to convince her to settle in her seat as I stacked the chocolate-smeared plates.

  I pushed my back against the door and spun into the kitchen.

  ‘Whoa!’

  The menu was not the only thing that had been overhauled. The kitchen had also taken on a new look: gone were the battered old pots and cluttered utensil holders filling up the bench space. Despite the cooking that had just taken place, the kitchen had never looked cleaner. I didn’t fool myself into thinking that Louis was back in the kitchen doing dishes – I am pretty sure that award-winning chefs didn’t do their own dishes – but the woman elbow deep in soap suds took me somewhat by surprise.

  ‘Oh, hello.’

  The woman had short-cropped black hair and pretty heart-shaped face. She smiled, nodding her head. ‘Bonjour.’

  I walked over, feeling almost bad that I was adding to her pile as I placed down the plates next to her. ‘I, um, is Louis here?’

  The woman pointed to the back door; I wasn’t sure if she even spoke English, but the finger point was pretty universal.

  ‘Merci.’ I smiled, feeling kind of foolish; it wasn’t as though he could be many places back here – the cool room and the tiny back courtyard were pretty much it.

  As I neared the back door I stopped, hearing voices from beyond – Louis was not alone. Now was not the time to talk to him, not that I exactly knew what had brought me back here, or what I had to say. ‘Thanks for the screaming orgasm in the hallway’ didn’t seem appropriate.

  Oh God. I cringed at the thought of what I had done. Was it possible to be mortified and yet still not regret something?

  I backed away from the door, turning to see the watchful woman smiling at me.

  ‘I’ll catch up with him later,’ I said casually. The woman laughed and shrugged, as if to say, ‘I have no idea what you are talking about’.

  Well, that makes two of us.

  I was nearly home free when I heard the slamming of the screen door.

  Shit.

  ‘I was just bringing in some dirty dishes,’ I said a bit too quickly, turning to see Louis and Jean-Pierre standing near the back door.

  Jean-Pierre grinned. ‘Bonjour, Claire.’

  ‘Jean-Pierre, what are you doing here?’ I asked, genuinely happy to see him.

  He waved around at the tiny kitchen. ‘You don’t think Louis could manage all this on his own, do you?’

  ‘I’m sure he’s nothing without you,’ I joked.

  Louis cocked his brow. ‘I am standing right here,’ he said incredulously; it was a rare moment of the light-hearted joking I had seen between him and Jean-Pierre at Noire. I kind of hoped that Jean-Pierre could stay forever.

  �
��Did you approve of the menu changes?’ asked Jean-Pierre.

  ‘It’s amazing, but I don’t think I could eat another thing.’

  ‘Well, that’s a shame; you won’t be able to fit in Louis’s world-class macarons.’

  My eyes widened. ‘You make macarons?’

  ‘Only the best,’ he humbly confessed, then shrugged in that arrogant way of his.

  It was like they had discovered my secret weakness and were testing me: there was always room for macarons. I adored the bite-sized meringues filled with ganache or buttercream. Damn the man if he didn’t just make himself even more appealing to me.

  ‘Are you going to make them now?’ I asked, looking around for evidence of a baking session, hoping to see anything – egg whites, icing sugar, ground almonds, food colouring – anything.

  ‘Not today. I have a few things to attend to,’ he said, making my heart sink, when in all honesty I should have been relieved.

  ‘Oh, okay, well, don’t forget me when you do,’ I said, looking at Louis for a few seconds, as if committing those eyes to memory, mostly because I loved the way they were looking at me: hard, and filled with hidden intent. It was the same way he had looked at me when he’d danced with me on the sixth-floor landing. I had thought that maybe I had imagined the change since he had taken me to Noire, but surely I hadn’t; surely I wasn’t imagining the tension between us now. I hoped I wasn’t.

  Louis came and stood next to me and peered through the restaurant window, a small smile on his face. Any other man would have asked if I had enjoyed the food, or if I thought the others had, but Louis seemed so self-assured in all that he did that he’d never need to ask for anyone’s reassurance. He knew that it was good. Still, standing next to him, silence settling in the kitchen, I felt compelled to say something.

  ‘The food really is lovely, Louis.’

  His head turned, eyes boring into me as if he had mistaken what I had said. It did feel rather intimate and foreign to call him Louis, it was something I didn’t think I had done before – at least, without being influenced by my anger. I knew I certainly hadn’t ever given him a real compliment.