by Jenny Colgan
“I ate this…as a child. When I came here, I would insist on eating this all the time,” he said. “When there was a good day at the shop. Or a bad day. Or an average day. My dad would just say, ‘Everyone to Salvatore’s,’ and we would take the table there”—he pointed to the largest table, which was by the fireplace and had mismatched rickety chairs—“or if it was hot, on the terrace…” He broke off. “Hey, Salvatore. Do you still have the terrace?”
“Would you like to move?”
“Of course, it’s terribly hot in here, isn’t it?”
Salvatore shrugged—he had obviously lived in this environment all his life—but he lifted the plates and Marina grabbed the glasses before we had a chance to help her, and they disappeared through a tiny door at the side I hadn’t noticed before. We followed. I could feel the pain in my toes as we ascended a tiny spiraling staircase three levels above the restaurant, past what was clearly their private apartment. Eventually we came to another door and popped out of the old building like corks.
It was bigger than my little sliver of balcony and completely different. Here, the buildings, so old, bulged over the side of the island and over the water, so it felt as though we were curving over. Marina had brought a candle, which she put in the middle of the solitary table, and fairy lights decorated the balcony edge, but there was no other light, just the swiftly flowing darkness of the river and the blaze of brightness from the Left Bank that felt completely disconnected from us, far away, a different world from the ancient rocks of our old walls. Ivy had been roughly trimmed from the side, which gave the building an added feeling of being a fairytale. And it would, I thought grimly, have been a fairytale, if I wasn’t feeling so absolutely rotten about everything.
Salvatore and Marina, with some giggling, left us the bottle of wine and vanished. It was oddly quiet up there, away from the everyday noises of Paris enjoying itself in the summertime. Laurent ignored me for at least five minutes as he plunged his face into his meal, eating at a startling rate, with a huge appetite and evident pleasure. I waited a moment, then, seeing as he was never going to notice me, started in.
I wouldn’t have admitted it under torture, but I’d never eaten risotto before. I’d had a Pot Rice, but clearly that wasn’t the same thing at all. I think if I’d mentioned it at home, my mum and dad would have stared at me, and Dad would have said, “Aye, maybe we should try that,” and Mum would have said, “Oh, no, it will be too difficult, I’d get it wrong, it’s a bit foreign for me, love,” and put on a fish finger sandwich quickly before I asked again. And I could cook a little bit—I could make a roast, and a pie, but this would never have occurred to me. And I knew, the second I had had my first bite, that I would never learn to make risotto; that it would be completely and utterly pointless because it would really require being born into a family who did little else; to spend years learning every fine detail between the different subtle balances of wine and aged parmesan and melting translucent onions and mushrooms precooked in a huge furnace with stone floors and walls so they came out perfectly sealed and slightly crisp and absolutely the most meltingly flavorsome mushrooms I’d ever had, and in fact, as I would learn later, they would be picked fresh and wild in the fields around Versailles by your own extended family every week near fine grass grazed by the finest of organic cows and an original medieval forest, so in fact you didn’t have the faintest chance of even getting your hands on them.
Tasting that exquisite, extraordinary risotto made me understand, understand properly for the first time what Frédéric and Laurent and Thierry felt about their chocolate. That there was a right way and a wrong way and that was that. As the first risotto I had ever tasted, it seemed very unlikely that I would ever taste another that could approach its perfection; that I could work half the rest of my life simply trying to approach it. As someone who had worked for eleven years at Braders Family Chocolates, my palate had gotten used to the substandard. But now, at last, I understood.
“Oh,” I said, after a few mouthfuls. Laurent’s plate was already clear. “How can you eat it like that?” I said crossly. “It’s all gone!”
“I know,” said Laurent, looking regretfully at his empty plate. “I just couldn’t help myself. God, I missed it.” He glanced at mine.
“Don’t think it,” I ordered. “I am going to eat every bite and savor every bite and then I am going to lick the plate. And then I am going to lick the plate again.”
He grinned suddenly, wolfishly, and topped up our glasses.
“You like it?”
“I think it’s the nicest thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.”
His eyebrows went up at that, but I didn’t care. I knew what I was to him, so I could ignore him. I could concentrate, from now on, on enjoying what coming back to life had also bought me. Recovering in Kidinsborough, I had eaten my food spicier and spicier, desperately trying to awaken my taste buds into caring about something—anything. There was no new flavor of chips so stupid that I wouldn’t give them a whirl. As a strategy, I now realized, it had been a real failure, adding only inches to my waistline and a sense of slight stupefaction.
I mopped up the juice with some of the wonderful bread set in a tiny basket in front of us. I could barely see what I was eating in the candlelight. A bateau mouche passed below us, and I saw the flashes from cameras going off, taking pictures of the cathedral that would come out, I suspected, a bit blurry and disappointing.
I looked up to see him staring at me.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he said.
“You’re not having any.”
“It’s not that…it’s just… It’s nice to see a girl eat. I don’t know any girls who eat.”
I chose not to answer that with “because I bet you go out with really scrawny French girls who are all bendy and in the circus and stuff,” but instead wiped my face with a napkin. I’d obviously missed a bit; he took the napkin from my hand and rubbed away on the other side of my mouth, looking at me intently.
“I like girls who are hungry,” he said.
I looked out over the water. In any other circumstances, I thought, this would be so sexy. And in fact, there was a bit of me thought he probably would. He looked tired, and I knew he was sad over his father; he probably would have let me take him home.
But if Paris was bringing my soul back to life, it was also bringing my instincts back to life too. I wasn’t some popsy who worked for his father. Well, I was. But I was more than that too.
“That,” I said, “is the corniest line I have ever heard in my entire life. I bet it works all the time too.” I shook my head.
Laurent raised his hands. “It wasn’t a line!” he protested.
“Oh, I’m sure it would work on those other girls,” I said airily. “But now I have to go.”
It felt good, doing this. Not risking my ego for a little bit of comfort, not lending myself to someone whose embarrassed face I could already imagine in the morning, as he headed back to his world of dainty skinny models who didn’t unbalance the back of his scooter.
Suddenly he looked at me as if seeing me for the first time, and I knew I’d been right. He really had been after some quick sex. I remembered how I’d never seen him around with the same girl twice.
“It’s early,” I said, glancing at my watch. “Do you want me to text you where Sami is?”
He shook his head. “No,” he said. “No, I’m really tired.”
“Me too,” I said, standing up.
- - -
As we left, Laurent was doused in kisses for the last time as they waived the bill “as long as you bring your father back next time and come together.” I stopped to talk to Marina on the way out.
“That was…that was beautiful,” I said. “It was one of the loveliest meals I’ve ever had. Thank you so much.”
Her face smiled politely; of course she must hear this on a
nightly basis. “Will you look after Laurent?” she asked me, in halting English.
“Oh, he’s not mine to look after,” I said, trying not to betray the wobble in my voice. She looked at me, shaking her head.
“You know,” she said, “he’s never brought a girl here before. Not ever.”
The email arrived the next morning, as I stumbled from bed. I’d slept ten hours, thankfully, but it either still wasn’t enough or it was far too much, as I felt wobbly and bleary. Sami was capering about the kitchen.
“Ooh,” he said. “The phone rang for you.”
“Sami, what are you wearing?”
He glanced down. “Oh, this?”
“Yes, this! I don’t want to see it this early!”
Sami was wearing a pair of tiny, tight, bright turquoise Speedos. They were unutterably hideous.
“That,” he said severely, posing his lean body in his trunks, “is because you’re not getting enough. I’m off to the lido.”
He had an enormous tattoo of an eagle spreading its wings taking off from his groin. I assumed when he was naked, it would look like a nest and a worm.
“I’ve had my offers,” I said, only slightly lying because I hadn’t really had any offers, at least not in the style I really liked before I felt confident enough to go forward, i.e., very clearly stated, ideally in writing, and undertaken at a time of some intoxication.
“I’ll do you if you like,” said Sami perkily. “I’m not very fussy.”
“Someone not very fussy is exactly the top of my wish list, thank you, Sami. Consider me utterly entranced.”
He shrugged. “But you are French now, cherie. Don’t you want to live in Paris as the French do?”
“By having sex with an omnisexual giant wearing tiny pants?”
“By enjoying yourself. By enjoying sex and not worrying about whether your body is less than perfect.”
“Uh, thanks,” I said, wondering if it were ever possible for an eight-toed person to have sex without worrying about being less than perfect. I still wasn’t entirely sure someone wouldn’t just throw up all over me.
“You have to get over your British hang-ups, you know? I slept with a British girl last month. Or was it a boy?”
I rolled my eyes. “Sami, put on some clothes. You have enough of them.”
“Cost me a fortune in fizz just to get him—yes, it was a him, definitely—in the mood. Then he’d had too much and passed out in the cab.”
“See, where I come from, you call that a jolly good night,” I murmured, briefly checking the clock. I needed to get a shimmy on. I quickly glanced at my old wind-up laptop on the corner from which occasionally, if you were lucky, you could occasionally steal Wi-Fi from someone in the building who called themselves “Francoisguitare.” And there it was, sitting there, from Claire. I didn’t even know she could write email. Personal letter seemed more her style.
Dear Anna,
I hope this finds you well.
I liked the fact that she was keeping to the general style of a formal letter.
I have made a decision; I would like very much to visit Paris one more time. I hope very much as I write that Thierry is recovering. I have no wish to see him, but I would like, while I am able, to visit my beloved Île de la Cité. I am sure it is much changed, but then so am I, so is everything. Alors, perhaps I shall even eat some chocolate. If you could help me organize this, I would be most grateful. Please don’t trouble Thierry with this news; I’m sure he wouldn’t be terribly interested.
Sending my warmest wishes to you. Your parents came to visit me by the way. It was very kind of them. Your mother told me not to tell you, but she worries about you a lot and how you might be coping. I told her in my experience, you coped with things very well.
With very warmest wishes,
Claire xxxxxxx
I stared at the screen.
“Good news?” said Sami. “Boyfriend coming over to shag you sideways?”
I cut him a look.
Good news or bad news, I had a funny feeling this was going to mean an enormous amount of work for me. And why had she told me not to tell Thierry? Surely she would only tell me not to tell Thierry if it actually meant something. I should probably tell Thierry. I wanted to visit him anyway.
And all this time I’d thought she was just my boring old married French teacher.
- - -
Nelson Eddy the dog had a cocky look to him as he marched down the rue Chanoinesse that morning. It was another stunning, heart-melting day, the sky a shady pink and blue in the cracks between the houses high overhead. I’d thrown on the lightest sundress I had and noticed right away that it was fitting more easily. Apart from the risotto, it occurred to me, I’d hardly eaten a meal in weeks. Maybe I should invent a diet that involved tasting tiny bits of chocolate all day long and nothing else at all. It would probably do quite well, now I thought about it. Cath had done that one with the pepper and the maple syrup, up until happy hour cocktailarama at Wenderspoons, where she’d fainted and knocked herself out on the bar rail. I had a sudden guilty attack at the amount of fruit and vegetables I wasn’t eating and resolved to go down to the market—it was Wednesday—and buy some of the melons they had, the ripe honeydews. They would put down fresh, ice-cold strips for tasting, and they were heaven. I wondered if there was some kind of a way of getting them into the chocolate. Laurent would know, I thought. Then I grimaced again, thinking of our awkward supper the night before. Well, I wasn’t some kind of handy comfort object to him during his dad being sick. That wasn’t it.
Although I thought of what Sami had said too; that here, pleasure was for the taking. Would it have been so bad, I found myself wondering, finishing the rough red wine, letting him lick the last juices of the risotto from my fingers, clutching him to me on the bike as we came home and…
My reverie was broken, as ever, by the idea of him suddenly shouting, “Oh God, what the hell is that?” when confronted with my distorted foot.
“Bonjour, bonjour.” The boys were both very friendly this morning. “Do you think you can do it?” said Frédéric.
“I want to stick to the orange,” I said, then recited what Laurent had told me to do the night before. He nodded gravely. “You know, they will get sick of the orange,” he added. He didn’t have to tell me; I would be quite happy if I never went near the stuff again.
But I set it up to churn more gently and added the ingredients more sparingly and topped down the butter and sure enough, while to a purist it would never be mistaken for the real thing, it was once again notably better enough than the day before for me not to have to face up to everyone’s rancor.
There was, though, no Alice. I wondered what this meant; news, I supposed. Good or bad, I couldn’t tell.
At lunchtime, I announced I was heading up to the hospital. Frédéric looked at me. “Are you taking some of your chocolate?”
I shrugged. I had, in fact, thought I would do that.
Frédéric put his hand on my hand.
“I’m not saying you haven’t come a long way,” he said. “But we don’t want to shock him back into returning too soon.”
“You actually think he would leap out of his bed in horror and charge back to the shop as soon as he smelled it?” I said, injured.
“Let’s just keep on the safe side,” said Frédéric. “Let me know if he’s woken up. I can’t…after I lost my father, I have had some trouble sitting in hospitals.”
“I will,” I said.
- - -
In an ideal world, I would have avoided running into either Laurent or Alice. And for once, this morning, I was in luck. The great white hospital building behind the Place Jean-Paul-II was gleaming and silent as I quietly gave the name to the registrar, who directed me to a small room about a million miles away along endless passageways and differently colored lifts, until I final
ly found myself outside a door with “Girard” scribbled on a white board in marker pen. Glancing around, I couldn’t see anyone else there, so I knocked. Hearing no answer, I pushed open the door slowly.
This wasn’t intensive care anymore; it was obviously still a high dependency unit, but nothing like as scary. The heart monitor still bleeped, but the form on the bed was no longer connected to the oxygen mask. He seemed to be sleeping, and there was no one else in the room. The blinds were open and I realized, from the eighth floor, that the view to the south was beautiful in the sunlight, almost dazzling even though the room was air-conditioned and cool. I turned around with the sun behind me, half-blinded. The shape on the bed moved.
“Claire?”
I jumped out of my skin.
“Hey,” I said quietly in English, feeling embarrassed about my pounding heart. Blinking to get the sun out of my eyes, I moved forward.
“Thierry?”
He was looking at me, confused. “Claire? You have come.”
“I’m not Claire, Thierry. It’s Anna, remember? I’m Anna.”
I moved closer. His face still looked confused—and slacker. Even in the five days he’d been in the hospital, he seemed to have lost an awful lot of weight.
I patted his hand.
“Anna.”
He indicated the water on the table next to him. I poured him a glass and sat down, helping him drink it.
“You’ve woken up,” I said, after he’d finished. He blinked heavily and seemed to come back to himself.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes.”
“How do you feel? Do you want me to get anyone?”
He looked at me. “I thought you were Claire.”