Truly, Madly, Deeply

by Romantic Novelist's Association

He ignores me –the right thing to do –and I pick up the dustpan and begin to sweep the glass up behind him.

  Which just happens to give me a view of what is actually an unexpectedly taut backside underneath the comedy trousers.

  We make a good team. After an hour, we’ve cleared all the glass and mopped up the worst of the beer. Anton looks as sweaty and unkempt as me now, though he still keeps his silly hat on.

  I put the kettle on and we take a break to get enough energy to pull pieces of metal out of the pockmarked walls. Anton asks for tea with milk –I tell him he can’t possibly be a true Frenchman, and he shrugs Gallically and says he’s gone native.

  ‘And you, Rachel. What brings you here? I cannot believe your lifelong passion is bubble wrap.’

  I laugh. ‘Not exactly. It’s a long story.’

  ‘I like long stories.’ The sneery arrogance seems to have gone –I think he really wants to know.

  So I tell him the lot: about Dad’s bequest, and the world trip. Even the moment in the forest when I imagined running my own food and travel empire. ‘I only came back last month but already it seems like a lifetime ago.’

  Anton shakes his head. ‘You need to remember how you felt in the forest. That drive. The freedom. There’s no reason why you can’t do the gourmet tour thing.’

  ‘Except money. And the recession. And the fact I don’t really know anything about food except that I like the taste of it.’

  He tuts. ‘But you’ve got a great palate. That’s the important part. How do you think I got started with my own company? By taking a leap of faith.’

  ‘Yes, but you’re a natural born pastry chef. And French.’

  ‘A natural, huh? How come you hated my clafoutis?’

  ‘Ha! I knew you’d taken offence, chef.’

  He shrugs. ‘At first, yes. My pies are my passion so I can be a bit precious. But I want them to be the very best pies in the world and honesty is very hard to come by when you are giving away food. That’s why I came round here. To invite you to another tasting. Savoury this time.’

  ‘Oh. Right, I suppose it’s the least I can do after you’ve saved me from drowning in beer.’

  ‘Tomorrow? After work?’

  ‘The alternative is another night watching Emmerdale with my mother and wondering where it all went wrong.’

  Anton smiles. ‘I’ll take that as a yes. In the meantime, do you know what I’d love right now?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘A nice cold bière?’ he says, deadpan, and there’s a tiniest pause before we both burst out laughing.

  The smell coming from the factory on Tuesday afternoon is richly savoury.

  Umami. I learned that word from a Japanese chef I met in Sydney. It means cheesy, marmite-y, salty mushroomy flavours that make the mouth water.

  Mr Home Brew is on the phone, ranting about the fact that I recycled his demi-johns instead of saving the fragments. I let him shout, and let my mind wander. What pie will Anton make later? I saw a different side to him yesterday. And he got me thinking about my own future. If he could follow his dream and make a life from pies, why can’t I follow my own dreams?

  That must be why I’m looking forward to tonight: he’s an inspiration.

  When I finally lock up the depot, the estate is deserted and the factory has fallen silent. I buzz the door and wait for Lorraine to let me in.

  Instead it’s Anton who opens the door. ‘Bienvenue!’ he says and then bounds off up the stairs. When he shows me into the tasting room, it’s…well, different. Number one, it’s much darker, with the blinds lowered and a couple of candles flickering on the worktop.

  ‘A new approach I am trying,’ he says. ‘To try to recreate a more homely environment to replicate ze atmosphere in which you would normally be eating ze pies.’

  Number two, the radio’s on, tuned to Classic FM.

  And number three, I appear to be the only guinea pig.

  ‘Where are the others, chef?’

  ‘Ozzers?’ he says. Does his accent get stronger when he’s nervous? I’m sure he wasn’t sounding quite so French yesterday. ‘Unfortunately there was no one else available.’

  ‘Hmm.’ I try not to think about the fact that I am in a deserted building on a deserted industrial estate with a man who is surgically attached to his chef’s hat and gets very jumpy when anyone criticises his short crust…

  And then I smell it. The richest, umami-ist smell that my nostrils have ever encountered.

  Anton puts a plate down in front of me. The pie has delicate pastry sides, with lattice work over the top. The filling underneath is bubbling with cheese and there are bright splashes of green too.

  He cuts the pie into precise quarters, places one on a separate plate and hands it to me. ‘You can have ze entire pie. As much as you need to form an opinion.’

  ‘What about your tape recorder?’

  He shrugs. ‘I have a good memory.’

  I cut a small piece, and taste.

  It’s good. Very good. The filling is light and airy, cheddary, spring-oniony, mustardy…all of my favourite things.

  I take another bite. And another, and another.

  Anton is beginning to look impatient.

  ‘Well, Rachel?’

  ‘You said I could take as many slices as I needed to.’

  ‘Oui, mais –’

  ‘OK,’ I say, putting down my knife and fork on the plate, which I’ve left spotless. ‘It’s the best thing I’ve tasted from Life of Pies. And that’s saying something. But –’

  ‘Don’t tell me, zere is something missing,’ he mutters.

  ‘I was going to say, it’s…well, not French at all. All your other dishes are kind of…a fusion between the French and the British.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘But this tastes a lot like Welsh Rarebit.’

  Anton gives me a curious look. ‘Rabbit? Vraiment?’

  ‘Yes, really. Maybe that’s why it’s so good. You are turning British. If you embrace your adopted land, chef, maybe your pies will do even better.’

  He stands up straight: his chef’s hat brushes against the ceiling.

  ‘Merci for the feedback. But I feel…well, in view of your comments, zere is another team member you must meet.’

  ‘Oh. OK.’ I don’t know why, but I feel disappointed. I’d hoped we might have more of a chat. Maybe a glass of wine. Another pie. Some more advice on how to follow my dream.

  ‘Back `a bientot,’ he says, ducking under the doorframe so his hat doesn’t fall off.

  I drum my fingers on the bar table and look through the window, at Ron’s bright orange illuminated sign:

  MR STORAGE –SPACE TO LIVE YOUR LIFE!

  My own life since I took this job has got weirder and weirder. But, weirder still, I’m beginning to think of the trading estate as a kind of second home. Somewhere I could even stay, while I save and plan for a future doing what I really want.

  I hear footsteps in the corridor outside, and when I look up, there’s a new guy in the doorway. He’s not wearing Anton’s chequered trousers but a rugby shirt and jeans. He’s smiling nervously. A nice smile, though. Genuine. No chef’s hat, just a generous head of chestnut hair.

  Maybe he works in the warehouse? Nice of Anton to give everyone credit.

  ‘Hi, I’m Rachel,’ I say, holding out my hand and suddenly feeling out of my depth. ‘And what do you do?’ Isn’t that the kind of question the Queen asks?

  ‘I’m Tony,’ he says, and there’s something familiar about his voice. And his eyes. ‘I was one of the original team.’

  Then I realise.

  ‘You’re Tony Barnes, aren’t you? From Springhill Juniors?’

  His face lights up. He was the joker of the class, who made everyone laugh with silly impersonations of our teachers. All the girls liked him, though he made me feel so shy.

  ‘Anthony David Barnes, settle down this instant or I’ll send you to the head teacher.’ Even now, twenty years later, he’s got ou
r class teacher’s voice so spot-on that I feel I should be sitting cross-legged on the floor, waiting for story time.

  ‘God, poor Miss Prendergast. You gave her hell.’

  ‘And I gave you scones. Remember?’

  Scones. I remember the smell of them, and the feeling of having them snatched out of my reach. ‘No. You gave Sharon Smith scones.’

  He shakes his head. ‘They were meant for you, Rachel. Sharon Smith was just a greedy guts with faster reflexes.’

  ‘You made me scones. Wow. If only I’d realised.’ I smile at him and something changes as I look at his face: the Roman nose, the full lips. And then I wonder how I couldn’t have seen it before. ‘Bloody hell. You’re Chef Anton.’

  Tony Barnes blushes. I swear he never blushed once in juniors: he was way too cocky to care what anyone else thought. ‘Mais oui,’ he says. ‘Chef Anton and Tony Barnes. One and the same.’

  ‘But…why?’

  ‘Lorraine’s bloody stupid idea. When we launched, we needed a brand, a story behind the pies. Why people can’t just enjoy a nice pie, I don’t know, but she was pretty persuasive. And apparently it wasn’t going to be enough that I trained in Paris and came home to recreate what I’d seen there. So, poor Tony went off to the pâtisserie in the sky and grumpy Anton was born.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘It was fine at first. Bit tedious wearing the wig and the hat, and keeping the accent up outside the factory, but it worked, we got orders off the back of the brand. And then you showed up. Little Rachel Marshall, the babe of Year Five. All grown up and prettier than ever.’

  ‘Hardly. You said I was jolie laide. And you were even worse to me at school.’

  He blushed deeper. ‘I was trying to impress you. Didn’t you notice I only ever did impersonations when you were watching? I thought it was the only way to impress you. Then when Brenda introduced you, I thought you were bound to see through me.’

  ‘I can’t believe I didn’t.’

  ‘And as my French accent didn’t impress you, I thought I’d try to impress you with my rarebit.’ Tony waved at the empty plate.

  The taste of it lingers in my mouth. ‘First scones, now you invent a recipe for me. You managed to hit on all my favourite flavours, too.’

  ‘Not an accident. I asked Ron and Brenda to take notes on what you brought for lunch. See what you liked.’

  ‘That’s…’

  ‘Amazing?’ he asks.

  ‘Hmm.’ And slightly odd, I think.

  ‘Wait till you see the packaging.’ He reaches over the counter to pick up a box. ‘This is the prototype design.’ He sits next to me, to see my reaction.

  ‘Ravishing Rachel’s Rarebit,’ I read, then giggle. The photo on the box is of me, but as a child. ‘You kept that since school?’

  ‘It’s the pigtails that did it for me. But you’re even foxier now.’

  ‘Right. Thanks.’

  ‘What do you think? I mean, if you hate it, I can take your name off the pie, call it something else, but…it’d be a shame. Because you’ve been my muse, really.’

  Suddenly I understood why Brenda was so excited about the clafoutis –there’s somethinginsane, and insanely flattering about having an entire pie designed for you. Not exactly romantic, but then again, it is more permanent than a bunch of red roses. Maybe Ron had a point about compensations…

  ‘It’s…weird. And wonderful. But mainly wonderful.’

  He’s closer to me now. He smells of baking.

  ‘I wanted something that captured the essence of Rachel Marshall.’

  I’m very aware suddenly of how hot it is in the room. Like an oven. ‘Are you saying that I remind you of cheese and spring onion, Anthony David Barnes?’

  ‘No. But you are very, very tasty.’

  And as he leans in to kiss me with hot, buttery lips, I have to admit that he’s very tasty too.

  Head Over Heart

  Louise Allen

  Louise Allen

  LOUISE ALLEN is the author of over forty historical romances with Harlequin Mills & Boon and it was the research for one of them, Forbidden Jewel of India, that gave her the inspiration for this story. Louise collects Georgian prints and ephemera and is fascinated by the history of London: her walking guide, Walking Jane Austen’s London (Shire Publications) reflects these interests. A book on travelling by stagecoach is her next non-fiction publication.

  She lives on the North Norfolk coast and shares the house with her husband and the garden with a very bossy pheasant, who thinks he owns it, and a muntjac deer who eats all the vegetables. Louise loves to travel in search of ideas for her writing and is currently working on a novel set in Egypt in 1800.

  Find out more about Louise’s books at www.louiseallenregency.com and explore late Georgian London with her at http://janeaustenslondon.com

  Head Over Heart

  The Waterfront, Calcutta. 1809

  ‘Lady Joanna Holt?’

  At last. Restrain your impatience, turn from the ship’s rail and the green-brown waters of the Hooghly River and raise one eyebrow. Just so. ‘Sir?’

  ‘I am Sir Alexander Darvell and I have come to collect you and to convey Mrs Atherton’s apologies.’ Not some callow youth full of excuses but a man –and one it would be no hardship to find beside her at dinner.

  Impassive, impressive and not at all apologetic for leaving her on board ship when all the other passengers had been conveyed to shore at first light two hours ago. True, his broad-brimmed hat was respectfully in his hand but his half smile was more rueful than conciliatory.

  ‘The apologies come from Mr Atherton. Your cousin is otherwise engaged.’

  ‘I would not wish to inconvenience Mrs Atherton.’ What she did wish, fervently, was to get off this smelly, cramped ship that had lost any charm or novelty it might have had many long weeks ago, and to draw breath again before beginning the whole tiresome, uncomfortable process of convincing her hostess that she wanted to go back to England at the earliest possible moment. At least it was quiet now that the consignment of husband-hunting girls had disembarked.

  The breeze –spice and river-scented –ruffled his carelessly cut brown hair and his hazel eyes crinkled into something very like amusement. ‘Mrs Atherton is currently being inconvenienced by the arrival of her first infant.’

  A lady does not allow her jaw to drop. ‘I was not aware that my cousin was with child.’ By the time letters had gone back and forth halfway across the globe it was all too possible that Cousin Maria had not known when she issued the invitation. Or that Mama, snatching at the chance to remove her stubborn daughter from the midst of a scandal, had not noticed any delicate hints.

  ‘Is she well? Do things go as they should?’

  Sir Alexander’s expression was shaded as he clapped his hat back on his head. ‘As far as I can tell. I have ordered your luggage unloaded. Where is your maid?’

  Joanna gestured to the girl waiting in the shade of a furled sail. ‘Madge, my cousin is in childbed. This gentleman will take us to her.’

  ‘No, ma’am. Mr Atherton suggests I should take you to a lady of our acquaintance until this evening. The house is in some turmoil.’ He was already pacing towards the gangway

  ‘You are in haste, Sir Alexander.’

  ‘I am Mr Atherton’s business partner. His distraction means I must look to an important matter on his behalf today.’

  Trade. But it did not do to be snobbish about it. After all, betrothal to the bluest of blue blood had not saved her from humiliating scandal.

  Joanna glanced up to a sky already milky-blue in the glare of the sun. ‘I prefer to come with you, Sir Alexander, rather than to be deposited with a stranger. I have been at sea for a long time and would welcome the opportunity to see something of this city.’

  That stopped him in his tracks. It was always gratifying to surprise a man. Joanna waited for her smile and his good manners to make the decision for him. His expression was impossible to read: a card-player’s face,
strong-jawed, heavy-lidded.

  ‘There is no room in my gig for your maid. I will have her conveyed to the Athertons’ house. Do you have a veil?’ So, a man of decision. She liked that, even though she strongly suspected the feeling was not reciprocated.

  It meant no chaperon, she realised, as Madge scurried away to fetch her things. But then, what good had strict observance of all the rules done her? ‘Thank you, Sir Alexander.’

  There was a moment of apprehension as the bo’s’n’s chair swung out, dangled her over muddy water then lowered her into the boat, but that was merely a rational dislike of heights, not doubt about the wisdom of sauntering around an exotic eastern city with a strange man. This was a new world, one where she was unknown. A space to be free, if only for a day.

  For a merchant Sir Alexander was certainly athletic. Joanna shaded her eyes as she watched him climb down the ladder to the boat. Giles, the toad, had long legs and trim buttocks as well –she had received a perfect view of those when she found him in the conservatory with Amelia Wilkins. But her current escort had the hardness of a man in his prime.

  ‘You are not discomposed by being in a small boat, I see, Lady Joanna.’ He settled next to her as her lips curved into a naughtily appreciative smile.

  ‘I am relishing the freedom after confinement on the ship, sir.’ It would not do to let him think her flirtatious. Several of the young ladies on board had found themselves betrothed before they had even set eyes on the coast of India and its rich pool of East India Company nabobs and officers starved of eligible brides. She wanted no husband, either from the ship or ashore here. ‘And the peace and quiet.’

  ‘You consider this peaceful?’ His gesture encompassed the harbour, with small boats swarming like water beetles on a pond, the shouts from the shore, the multicoloured crowd on the landing stage steps.

  ‘After weeks of female voices, I do.’ The river edges were lined with people washing themselves, their clothing, their children. Nets were being cast. The vivid colours spilled across the shore like the contents of an upturned jewel box.

  ‘Ah, the Fishing Fleet in full cry, if that is not a mixed metaphor.’ Their eyes met and he smiled. ‘I apologise, a most pejorative nickname.’