The Patron Saint of Lost Souls

by Menna Van Praag

  Viola fingers the edge of her apron. ‘So … Are you … happy?’

  Mathieu bites his lip, sucking his teeth. ‘Sure. I just published a paper. I’ve got another one coming out next year. And I won a rather generous grant, so I’ll be taking a sabbatical next summer and Hugo and I will take a research trip to Sweden.’

  ‘Wow,’ Viola says. ‘That’s … great.’

  ‘And you,’ Mathieu says, raising his hands, palms open. ‘This place is … magnificent.’

  Viola smiles. ‘It’s not bad, is it? I think we stand a good chance of getting that second Michelin star next year.’

  ‘Oh, right, of course,’ Mathieu says. ‘You must feel very … proud.’

  ‘I suppose so. I work bloody hard enough for it.’

  ‘Well, you should feel proud,’ Mathieu says. ‘You’ve done great things.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Viola glances away, then meets his eye. ‘You too.’

  Mathieu shrugs.

  ‘So …’ Viola ventures. ‘Are you, are you …?’

  ‘What?’

  She exhales. ‘Are you … with anyone?’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be—’

  ‘No, no, it’s fine.’ Mathieu hesitates. ‘No one specific, but I’m seeing a few women here and … Well, mainly one, but it’s nothing serious, not yet. And what about you? Are you …?’

  An odd look, as if she’d just been caught pinching food off a customer’s plate, passes over Viola’s face then is gone. ‘No,’ she says. ‘Well, nothing serious too.’

  ‘Really?’ Mathieu grins. ‘That’s won—’

  It’s at that moment that Henri appears, having sauntered over from the other side of the kitchen where he’d been preoccupied with a faulty oven. Eyeing Mathieu, he bends down to kiss Viola’s cheek.

  ‘Chérie,’ he says, resting his hand around her waist, then reaching his other hand out across the counter towards Mathieu. ‘Henri Gaston. Un plaisir de vous rencontrer.’

  Throwing a glance at Viola, but unable to catch her eye, Mathieu shakes Henri’s hand. ‘Likewise,’ he says. ‘So you’re … the head chef.’

  ‘I am.’ Henri beams. ‘I’m glad to see Vi’s been singing my praises, or I might have thought I had a rival for her affections.’

  ‘No, no. We’re just friends,’ Viola says.

  ‘Exactly,’ Mathieu says, managing a gritted smile. ‘We knew each other … a lifetime ago.’

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ Henri says. He glances at Viola. ‘I was just back at the flat, your mother called. I said you’d call her back after service tonight.’

  Viola nods, without looking at him. ‘Sure.’

  Frowning, confused, Mathieu tries to catch her eye.

  ‘Well, very nice meeting you,’ Henri says, reaching out his hand again to vigorously shake Mathieu’s. ‘Enjoy your lunch, on the house.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Mathieu says. ‘That’s very kind.’

  ‘Mon plaisir,’ Henri says, turning to Viola. ‘Have you finished prepping the fish yet?’

  ‘No,’ Viola says. ‘Nearly. I’ll do it – give me five minutes.’

  ‘Excellent, good girl,’ Henri says, patting her bottom as he turns and walks away.

  Viola and Mathieu face each other, the silence only broken by Henri’s fading humming as he disappears out of view. It’s a few moments before they make eye contact.

  ‘Well, I … I suppose I better go,’ Viola says. ‘The … fish.’

  ‘Right, right,’ Mathieu says. ‘And Hugo …’ He nods back towards his son and brother, who hurriedly hide their faces behind their menus.

  ‘Right,’ Viola says. ‘Give him my … Say “hello” from me.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘It was really …’ Viola trails off. ‘It was good to see you.’

  ‘Yes.’ Mathieu nods. ‘You … you too.’

  He doesn’t turn away until she does and then he watches her, hurrying across the kitchen before reaching an enormous freezer, pulling the door open and stepping inside. With a stifled sigh, Mathieu turns too and walks slowly to the table where François and Hugo look up but say nothing. Mathieu grips the edge of his chair, then yanks it out and sits. He snatches up his menu and studies it as if it contained all the answers to life’s greatest mysteries.

  ‘Order whatever you want,’ he says, without looking up. ‘Price is no object. The more expensive the better.’

  ‘Hugo, go and sit on that bench for a moment,’ Mathieu says, as they walk outside onto the pavement, bellies full. ‘I need to have a word with your uncle.’

  ‘No,’ Hugo says. ‘I’d rather—’

  ‘Now,’ Mathieu says, his voice a knife edge.

  ‘Rubbish,’ Hugo huffs, folding his arms across his chest. ‘You always cut me out of the good stuff.’

  ‘Just go,’ Mathieu says, then turns back to François. ‘Did you know she worked there?’

  ‘No.’ François frowns. ‘Of course not, I was as surprised as you.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ Mathieu snaps. ‘You’re telling me you dragged us halfway across Paris to ogle waitresses who, excuse me, were nice enough but not exactly supermodels. You expect me to believe that? Oh, come on.’

  François holds up his hands. ‘I’m telling you, I had no idea.’

  ‘No idea? You’re a fucking liar,’ Mathieu shouts.

  ‘Tut-tut,’ François says. ‘Language.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ Mathieu snaps back. ‘You couldn’t fool me when we were kids, you can’t fool me now. You knew, didn’t you? Tell me, you knew!’

  ‘Clearly, brother your radar is off, because I didn’t know. I just thought, maybe you’d meet a nice waitress and go on a few dates, so you could stop living like a fucking monk and—’

  ‘Oh, you knew,’ Mathieu. ‘You bloody well knew.’

  ‘OK, OK.’ François shrugs. ‘So, I knew. I was hoping … I don’t know, that you’d pull your head out of your arse for long enough that—’

  ‘My head? My arse?’ Mathieu shrieks. ‘You’ve got no fucking idea what it’s like to love another human being more than yourself and to lose her and then, after you thought you’d never find another person you could ever love even half as much, then you find her and you lose her and then, and then there’s no fucking point to any of it any more.’

  ‘Oh, please, enough now, OK? Enough,’ François says. ‘I felt bad for you when Virginie died. That was a shit deal to be dealt and she was an incredible woman, far too good for you. But you didn’t “lose” Viola like you lost Virginie. That was your own stupid fault. And now you’re too stubborn, too damn proud to tell her how you feel, to beg her to leave that ponced-up chef and come back to you.’

  ‘I am not,’ Mathieu snaps. ‘I’m just realistic. What’s the point in humiliating myself when she clearly doesn’t want me any more? So, I blew it. OK, I admit it, I’m a stupid fucking idiot. Alright? Does that make you happy? I let her go and now she’s in love with that prick and—’

  ‘Of course it doesn’t make me happy to see you so bloody miserable all the time,’ François interrupts. ‘All I want is for you to be happy again and stop torturing the rest of us with your forlorn face. It’s like living with bloody Eeyore, living with you. In fact, I think I’ll give New Year in Cambridge a miss, this year. I’d have more fun here with—’

  ‘No, Uncle Fran,’ Hugo calls out. ‘Please, you’ve got to come!’

  ‘See that,’ François says, nodding at his nephew. ‘Even your own son is sick of you. You’ve got to sort yourself out, Matt. And, in case you really are that stupid, she isn’t in love with that chef. She’s still in love with you. Even a twelve-year-old can see that.’ He glances at Hugo. ‘Right, kid?’

  Hugo half-shrugs, half-nods. While Mathieu just stares at them both, open-mouthed.

  Chapter Sixty

  Jude is sitting behind the counter when she sees her sister again. Frances materialises beside the Victorian red leather chair in which Jude sometimes sneaks a
quick nap when the shop is particularly quiet. Jude blinks, wondering if she’s somehow conjured up her sister’s ghost, in a combination of hope and imagination.

  ‘Are you really here?’ Jude asks.

  Frances smiles. ‘I suppose that depends on your perspective.’

  ‘I thought you said you wouldn’t come back.’

  Frances shrugs. ‘Don’t believe everything you hear,’ she says with a wink. ‘And the dead are notoriously unreliable.’

  ‘Rather like the living,’ Jude says.

  Frances grins. ‘We have our reasons, they just don’t make much sense until you’re seeing it from my side of things …’

  ‘Care to elaborate?’

  ‘I would,’ Frances says. ‘But I’m afraid it wouldn’t make much sense to you.’

  ‘Shame,’ Jude says. ‘Still, I’m glad to see you. I’ve missed you and I’m only sorry I didn’t see more of you while you were still alive.’

  ‘Me too,’ Frances says. ‘How are you?’

  Jude considers. ‘Fine. Gertie is great, I think. She seems happy.’

  Frances nods. ‘She is. I only wish …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I only wish you were a little happier yourself.’

  Jude frowns. ‘I’m fine. I think I’m as happy as I’ll ever be.’ She falls into silence, watching the shimmering form of her sister as she hovers beside the chair.

  ‘I worry about you,’ Frances says.

  ‘Oh, no,’ Jude says. ‘You don’t need to – please, don’t. I’m OK with not having … I’ve made my peace with not getting everything I wanted from life. And you’ve given me Gertie. She makes everything golden.’

  Frances smiles. ‘I’m glad. But still …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know …’

  ‘Oh,’ Jude says. ‘Just tell me. You’re here for a reason, aren’t you? I’m a big girl. I can take it. And, anyway, she’s your daughter. I want to raise her the best I possibly can and I’m sure you know how to do that much better than I.’

  ‘Well …’

  Jude waits, sitting forward at the counter, to show her sister that she really means it, that she’s ready and willing to hear anything and everything she might have to say.

  ‘OK, then,’ Frances says. ‘If you really want to raise Gertie to be as happy as she can be—’

  ‘—of course I do!’ Jude exclaims, unable to believe how her sister could imagine that she’d want anything less.

  Frances laughs. ‘Of course you do, I’m not suggesting otherwise, it’s just that you might be a little resistant to my suggestion, that’s all.’

  ‘I am not.’

  ‘You’ve not heard it yet.’

  ‘Well, unless it involves running the streets of Cambridge naked under the full moon, then I’m up for it,’ Jude says. ‘And, even then, if you could prove that’d help Gertie too, I’d probably consider it.’

  Frances laughs again, a delighted trill that fills the little shop with light. ‘Alright, then,’ she says. ‘This should be easy.’

  ‘Well then, what is it? Half-naked?’

  ‘Only if that makes you happy.’

  ‘Hardly,’ Jude says. ‘But that’s not the point. I said I’ll do anything to make Gertie happy, I don’t mind suffering if I need to, it’s—’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Frances interrupts. ‘In fact, it’s entirely the point.’

  Jude frowns. ‘What is?’

  ‘The greatest gift you can give Gertie is your own happiness,’ Frances says.

  Jude considers this. ‘You’ve told me that before.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Frances says. ‘And you didn’t heed me then. So that’s why—’

  ‘I did,’ Jude protests. ‘And I forgave Dad, didn’t I? And—’

  ‘Yes,’ Frances says. ‘And I commend you. Now, how about you go on a date? At least give yourself the chance of finding love. You can’t win the lottery unless you buy a ticket.’

  Jude grimaces. ‘Clichéd but apt. Especially since the odds of both those things are about the same.’

  ‘Pish,’ Frances says. ‘Just give it a go. That’s all I’m asking, OK?’

  Jude sighs.

  ‘Please.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Promise?’

  Jude nods. ‘I promise.’

  Frances begins to shimmer, as if caught in a heatwave.

  ‘Wait,’ Jude says. ‘Don’t go, not yet. I thought you’d come to tell me about Gertie’s father. Can’t you just give me a clue?’

  Frances shakes her head.

  ‘Please! Why not? Why wouldn’t you …’

  But Frances has already gone.

  Jude lets out a long sigh. And, in the next moment, she wakes with a jolt, opening her eyes and looking out onto the little shop from her place on the red leather chair.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  For days, Viola waits. She waits and she hopes. Hopes that Mathieu will come back, that he will confess that he’s missed her, that he can’t live without her and then, in a great act of undying love he will—

  ‘Vi – the beans!’

  Viola looks up to see Henri gesticulating wildly in the direction of the frying pan she’s holding. She glances down to see that the green beans she was supposed to be lightly sautéing are beginning to darken rather too dramatically.

  ‘Shit!’ Viola yanks the frying pan off the heat. ‘Sorry!’

  ‘Bin them,’ Henri calls. ‘Start again.’

  Viola nods and does so, watching the beans tumbling into the stainless steel bin as if in slow motion, as she wonders where he is right now – with François and Hugo? Or alone, walking alongside the Seine, lamenting the loss of her – and seriously hopes it’s the latter scenario. Viola has thought, perhaps a thousand times since seeing Mathieu, of going to him, of telling him the truth, of proposing to him all over again. But she can’t. She daren’t. The rejection, the humiliation, it’d be too much. She couldn’t stand it. She wouldn’t recover. No, best keep her head down, continue as she is. Life isn’t so very bad, after all. She loves her job, she likes Henri well enough, and she lives in Paris, for goodness’ sake – how bad can it be? She should be bloody grateful.

  Viola throws a fresh batch of beans into the pan, along with three generous knobs of butter. No matter how miserable she is, she’ll never fail to appreciate French cooking. The cream, the fat, the butter! She recalls a quote – was it Julia Child? – ‘Everything is better with butter.’ This seems to be the French motto and Viola can only agree. It is butter, after all, added in copious amounts to virtually anything, that staves off her longing, that coats her tongue and stops her from crying out his name.

  ‘Vi?’

  She looks up again to see Henri standing over her. He reaches for the pan and slides it off the heat.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You’re distracted. You were about to burn another batch of beans. What’s going on?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Viola says. ‘I’m just … premenstrual. That’s all.’

  ‘Oh.’ Henri looks vaguely embarrassed. ‘Do you want to go home? Have a rest?’

  ‘No,’ Viola says quickly. ‘No, I’m fine.’ Since that’s the last thing she wants. To be alone. In silence. With her thoughts. No, Viola’s only salvation is work. It’s her only distraction, her only joy. Without it she really is fucked.

  So, Viola reaches for another handful of green beans and begins again.

  ‘Stop sulking,’ François says. ‘It doesn’t become you.’

  ‘Piss off,’ Mathieu snaps.

  ‘What did mother used to say? Your face will freeze like that.’

  They sit beside each other on the Eurostar hurtling along the Channel Tunnel towards England. Hugo sits opposite, elbows on the table, head down, utterly absorbed in an iPad.

  ‘It’s your fault,’ Mathieu says. ‘If you hadn’t pulled that stupid trick, playing Cupid, I’d never have seen her and I wouldn’t have met that fucking idiot
bastard chef—’

  ‘Matt,’ François warns, nodding at Hugo. ‘I thought you didn’t—’

  ‘It’s alright,’ Mathieu says. ‘You could make love to that woman’ – he nods to a pair of slender legs sticking provocatively out from a seat a few feet away – ‘on this table and Hugo wouldn’t even look up.’

  François grins. ‘Maybe I should test that theory.’

  ‘You’re incorrigible,’ Mathieu says. ‘How are we even related?’

  ‘Oh, please,’ François says. ‘We’re not so very different, you and me.’

  ‘You and I,’ Mathieu says. ‘And yes, we are. You’re a heartless sex fiend. And I’m a hopeless romantic. I don’t know—’

  ‘Hopeless is right. You’re a bloody lost cause,’ François says. ‘And yeah, so I love sex, but you’re wrong that I’ve got no feelings. I want to fall in love, I want what you had, who wouldn’t? I’ve just never—’

  ‘You want marriage and babies?’ Mathieu says. ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘I do,’ François says. ‘And, if you were a bit less self-obsessed, you’d know that.’

  ‘Self-ob—’ Mathieu begins but, even as he’s saying it he realises that his brother is right. He’s been so caught up in his own sorrows these past few years that he’s never made a concerted effort to find out what’s really been going on in his brother’s life. ‘Alright,’ he says, chastened. ‘So, if that’s what you want, then why do you spend your time fucking every single woman you see.’

  François rolls his eyes. ‘That’s a slight exaggeration,’ he says. ‘It’s not every single woman I see.’

  ‘OK,’ Mathieu says. ‘But most of them.’

  François grins. ‘There’s been a few married women too.’

  ‘See what I mean,’ Mathieu says. ‘You’re frightful.’

  ‘OK, OK, I’m kidding. Haven’t you ever considered my sleeping with so many women is simply an extremely concerted effort to find the love of my life.’

  ‘No,’ Mathieu says. ‘I have not.’

  ‘Well, then.’ François shrugs. ‘That just goes to show how narrow-minded you are. Not all of us are lucky enough to meet the perfect woman in college, one who wants to marry you before she’s even slept with you. I mean, come on.’