From Paris With Love This Christmas

by Jules Wake

‘Would finish me off,’ declared Marcus shaking his head. ‘Sounds awful. Don’t you walk around with books on your head and that sort of stuff?’

  Siena let out a gurgle of laughter. ‘You’re caught in some 1960s time warp, sweetie. These days it’s all about playing the perfect supporting role. Training to be wife of a multi-millionaire businessman.’ It had been fun at the time, being away from home with girls of her own age but when she said it aloud, it sounded as if it were still the 1960s. She’d never questioned it before. All her friends had gone.

  ‘What,’ Al’s eyes widened and he dropped his voice, ‘they give you training in that?’ His eyes dipped to her crotch.

  Will burst out laughing. Marcus rolled his eyes.

  Siena sniggered and then couldn’t hold it in. ‘I d-didn’t sign up for that class.’

  Will held up hand. ‘We’re getting off track here. I can’t even remember what we were saying.’ He ran his eyes down his notebook. ‘Food.’

  ‘That’s what I was trying to say.’ With a stern look at Marcus, she said, ‘We were taught how to look after different guests.’ She glared at Al. ‘Stop right now. Enough of the double entendres.’ She pointed a finger at him. ‘Make them feel comfortable.’ Marcus kept his mouth shut but his eyes danced. ‘By observing their cultural manners.’

  ‘That’s how you attract a millionaire husband?’ asked Al disappointment echoing in his voice.

  ‘Go on,’ said Will, the only one who seemed to be taking this seriously.

  ‘I’d suggest putting in Japanese flower arrangements, which would be a nice welcoming touch. In a lot of Japanese restaurants you are given a warm towel to clean your hands before you start. We could decorate the tables with folded origami cranes, which represent good fortune and longevity.’

  ‘That sounds nice. I like it. Any ideas on food?’

  ‘Traditional roast beef and Yorkshire pudding but with a twist. If you go to another country you want to try their traditional food but it would be a nice touch if it had a nod towards Japanese food. Perhaps beef carpaccio styled like sushi. Use horseradish in the same way you add wasabi to things.’

  Al leant forward. ‘That’s a genius idea. I could make a lovely teriyaki style gravy. Loving it.’

  Will also looked very happy as he wrapped up the meeting and Siena got on with laying up tables for lunch, keeping an eye out for Hayley. Hopefully the other waitress wouldn’t mind swapping a shift later in the week. Katie had come good on her promise to talk to her aunt. This time in three days she’d be at the London College of Fashion. Please God, let them like her portfolio. Butterflies jumped in her stomach at the thought of actually showing it to someone. All those drawings she’d poured her heart and soul into.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  Siena looked up at a smartly dressed gentleman.

  ‘Sorry, good morning. Would you like a table?’

  ‘Yes, please. For four.’

  She showed him and his wife and the couple with them to a table.

  ‘Here you go. Can I take your coats?’ With professional ease, she had them seated with menus in no time at all. Funny how, it all seemed second nature now. ‘Now we have some lovely specials on the board today, which I can talk you through.’

  ‘Can’t we order drinks first?’ The woman had a sulky look on her face as if the restaurant was the last place on earth she wanted to be. Her three companions all looked a little wary.

  Siena, aware of the tension, favoured the woman with her best smile. ‘Of course you can. What would you like? I could get you a nice aperitif. A sherry. A gin and tonic. We have a fabulous selection of gin if you’re interested.’

  The woman’s face lifted slightly. ‘Do you know what? I could murder a G&T.’

  ‘Me too,’ piped up the other woman looking relieved.

  Siena offered the drinks menu to each of the women.

  Sulky lady frowned. ‘I’ve never heard of half of these.’

  Siena leaned forward and in a conspiratorial whisper said, ‘Neither had I until I worked here.’ She pointed to the list. ‘That one’s very nice.’

  ‘Is it?’ The woman’s expression lightened, ‘What about this one?’

  ‘Ah, that’s good too,’ enthused Siena. ‘To be honest, I don’t know much about it,’ she confided, ‘but it tastes good. Goes particularly well with the Fever Tree tonic.’

  ‘You’ve sold me. I’ll have that one.’ With a reserved smile that made Siena feel like she’d overcome a huge hurdle, she handed back her menu.

  ‘It’s all too confusing for me,’ the other lady chipped good-naturedly. ‘What do you recommend?’

  Siena ran her finger down the list. ‘That gin and the Fentimans tonic are my particular favourites,’ said Siena.

  ‘I’ll have that, thank you.’

  The first lady smiled. ‘I think after the morning I’ve had, I need it. Sorry guys, for being grumpy.’

  As Siena left to get their order, she saw the older man place his hand over hers.

  ‘Nice work.’ Will nodded as she waited for him to pour the drinks. ‘You’ve turned into a real pro.’ He waited a beat. ‘Mind you, you’ve had training. Hostess training.’

  As she took the tray of drinks, she gave him her best we-are-not-amused look and walked off to his laughter.

  As it turned out, once they’d got their drinks, they were quite a jolly group.

  There was a tiny minority of people who you couldn’t please ever. Like the Colonel Plum type yesterday, who’d been determined to find fault with everything, despite his wife’s equal determination to be delighted with everything. It must be so exhausting to be married to someone like that, who you had to constantly apologise and make up for.

  Like a cloud passing over, she had an image of her and Yves in a restaurant. Two months ago. The wine had been corked. The steak overdone. The table too draughty.

  ‘You alright?’ asked Jason catching her pulling faces as he arrived to take her home. He’d taken to coming over to get her and they’d often have a quick drink with Will, Marcus and whoever else was working the shift, before they headed off.

  ‘Fine,’ she lied. ‘Just thinking.’

  ‘Ah, that explains it. You probably don’t want to do much of that. Scare away the customers.’

  ‘The customers love me,’ she said putting a hand on her hip and posing like a pouting starlet.

  ‘They do,’ quipped Marcus coming to join them. ‘My tips have never been so good.’

  ‘Ready to go home?’ asked Jason. ‘Can I whip Cinderella away, Will? She’s got my tea to cook.’

  Will groaned. ‘Please tell me you’re not cooking for this oaf?’

  ‘I open a mean tin of beans,’ answered Siena, ‘and Jason has to do the washing up.’

  ‘You should see the state of the kitchen when she’s finished, it’s like Gordon Ramsay on speed has whipped through the place.’

  ‘That’s so mean Jason, I’m much better now.’ She pouted.

  ‘You are,’ he winked at the others so hard it was a wonder he didn’t dislocate his eyeball. ‘Although it’s all relative.’

  She joined in the laughter and grabbed her coat. ‘If I’m Cinders, you certainly aren’t the handsome prince.’ Although he had rescued her. Several times over.

  ‘Before you go, Jason. We’ve had an enquiry on the website from that Chamber of Commerce programme. And that French company are really interested in a distribution deal.’

  ‘Cheers, I’ll have a look at it when I get home. Great news!’

  Cupping her elbow, Jason ushered Siena out of the pub and into the tatty Land Rover.

  ‘That’s a bit of a result, a French company wanting to stock our beer.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Siena, I don’t wish to be rude to your home-country—’

  ‘I’m English, I keep telling you.’

  ‘You should know that the French have a pretty dim view of our food and drink. This is quite a compliment. And,’ he punched the dashboard, �
�being able to send them an email response in fluent French, was a bit of a blinder. Thanks for that.’

  Siena did smile at that. She’d helped him compose the email last week. It did seem to be a point of pride that French people refused to believe that any foreigner could possibly do justice to their language.

  ‘One day I am going to clean this car out,’ she said as they drove along. For all her complaints, she’d become rather fond of this car; she liked being this high up on the journey home.

  She could see horses in the field, five of them thoroughbreds, who usually congregated by the gate at this time of the day and marked the halfway point home. No sign of the idiotic pheasants in the opposite field which lead up to a copse of trees.

  ‘Feel free.’ He grinned at her.

  ‘I think you’re deliberately making it worse at the moment, so I will.’

  ‘Who me?’

  ‘Don’t you give me that innocent look. There isn’t an innocent bone in your body, Mister.’

  ‘Hello? I’m lovely. Will’s the wicked one.’

  ‘At least he’s not Captain Grumpy Pants in the morning.’

  ‘Usually because he’s rolled out of bed with some hot totty. Whereas I have to put up with Petunia Sunshine. And don’t think I haven’t noticed your Pollyanna act these last few mornings.’

  ‘Don’t know what you mean.’ She looked out of the window with a smile. ‘So what’s the story with Will and Lisa?’

  Jason gave her a sharp look. ‘What do you know about that? Has Lisa said something?’

  ‘Nothing explicit,’ Siena lied. It wasn’t for her to repeat what Lisa has said about them sleeping together. ‘Their body language was very interesting when we went to the wine bar that time.’

  ‘You know as much as I do, then. She and Ben have been friends since school, along with Katie and Tom. Tom and Will are cousins. Did you know that?’

  ‘No, they don’t look anything like each other.’

  ‘They used to come out to the pub all the time. And then Lisa stopped coming. I thought it because money was tight but …’ he shrugged. ‘No one seems to know anything but overnight they seemed to hate each other’s guts.’

  ‘I got the impression she really doesn’t like him.’

  Jason raised his eyebrows. ‘I got the impression she’d happily rip his balls off and feed them to the crocodiles, followed by every last bit of him.’

  Siena smiled ruefully. There was certainly something between the two, but there was a thin line between love and hate.

  Chapter 16

  Emerging into the weak sunshine onto a busy Oxford Street, Siena felt like a mole coming out of a hole. The street was filled with shoppers loaded with carrier bags and from the teeming shops, fragments of carols and Christmas songs blared in quick bursts as she walked by.

  Although it was only two o’clock there was a party atmosphere, lights flashed, stalls with Santa hats abounded on every corner and it felt as if the festivities had started already despite it being early December.

  One day she might be doing this journey regularly. Train from Leighton Buzzard, a few stops to Euston. She tried to adjust her pace as she joined the stream of people but it was impossible to keep the skip out of her step. She loosened the pashmina wrapped around her neck. It already felt slightly warmer in London than out in the country.

  The directions were imprinted on her brain, saved on her iPhone and written on a bit of paper but her feet carried her along. Slow down, plenty of time. Getting there too early would only ramp up the nerves, which were already threatening to spiral out of control. She’d babble. Talk nonsense.

  The London College of Fashion. There it was. Bold black letters. Her future. With a clammy palm she hauled the black portfolio case higher under her shoulder, pulled back her shoulders and took a deep breath, conscious that her heart had tripped into overdrive. Just think, the likes of Jimmy Choo, Patrick Cox, Philip Treacy had all passed through these doors. God, she wished she’d got something new to wear. Would they notice the Stella McCartney was last autumn or the Max Mara coat several seasons old?

  ‘Take a seat, Ms Williamson will be out soon.’

  Siena sank into the hard green plastic chair which had seen better days and surreptitiously took a quick peek around. The grey lino floor surprised her and she still couldn’t believe that the walls were all painted in a uniform pale grey green that stretched away down the long corridor. It looked like a municipal school. Then she told herself off for being so stupid. This was the administration area. Of course it wasn’t going to be impressive. The studios and galleries, the workshops, the areas where students got down to real work were obviously on a different floor.

  She crossed her legs. Uncrossed them. Picked up her portfolio. Put it down again. A couple of students walked down the corridor. As soon as they’d passed, she took a good look at what they were wearing. Jeans. One of them wore a huge baggy cardigan, actually it wore her, dropping below her knees and then there were all those weird coloured feathers woven into the hem.

  They were fashion students? Not a designer item on either of them. Although to be fair, Siena guessed, like her, they were on a budget.

  The chair became increasingly uncomfortable and the passing students more and more disappointing. Her growing disquiet about their fashion sense was tempered by the reassuring thought that she did know her stuff.

  ‘Miss Browne-Martin? Come in.’ A tall brunette woman, wreathed in a russet rainbow of scarves and wide legged palazzo pants appeared at one of the doors lining the corridor and Siena knew those sharp brown eyes had taken in every last centimetre of her.

  With a loping stride, she took her seat behind the desk and sat down in one fluid movement.

  ‘Take a seat.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Nerves erupted with the woman’s brusque manner. She hadn’t even offered to take Siena’s hand.

  ‘Thank you for coming today.’ She glanced at the paper on the desk. ‘You have a baccalaureate. No further qualifications. You would have to do our foundation course. As an overseas student you’d be liable for the full fees.’

  ‘Oh, but I’m English and a resident here.’

  The woman pursed her mouth. ‘That’s not down to me, to be honest. That would be admissions. However, I can see from your representation that you are passionate. What was the last exhibition you went to see?’

  ‘Exhibition?’ She’d attended every Paris, Milan and London Fashion week in the last three years, been to private viewings at Givenchy, Dior and Yves Saint Laurent and this woman wanted to know about exhibitions? ‘What sort of exhibition?’

  ‘Any sort.’ The woman heaved a sigh. ‘Art. Dance. Fashion. Food.’

  Phew, not a trick question then. ‘I saw the Paris and New York collection shows …’ She reeled off several more, everything she’d seen this year.

  Ms Williamson nodded and continued to study the sheet of paper. ‘Got a portfolio to show me?’

  Siena lifted the black case and unzipped it with shaky fingers. No one had ever seen these sketches before. If she had children, which clearly she didn’t, but if she did she was pretty sure this would feel like they were being offered up for sacrifice.

  With a toss of her scarves, Ms Williamson, cleared a space on her desk and took the portfolio. A clock in the corner of the room ticked. It was all Siena could hear, apart from the unsticking of the plastic pages as they were peeled apart.

  The time it took to turn each page felt as if it were branded on her soul. Siena worried at her lip, her stomach hollow as the woman flicked past the dresses she’d imagined, cowl necks, raglan sleeves, smart trouser suits with clean, asymmetric lines and jackets with detailed piping in jewel colours. How often had she fantasised about her own show? The vision was absolutely clear. Models with pacey, fierce strides, eating up the catwalk, the designs silhouetted with clever lighting, faces highlighted with striking make-up. The pulsing beat of the music. Every step, turn and pose choreographed in her head.

&n
bsp; ‘Hmm, very interesting.’ Ms Williamson closed the portfolio. ‘You could do with a few lessons in basic drawing. Form. Proportion. But on the whole. Nice outfits.’ Siena felt she was missing something. The woman nodded. ‘Very nice. But I have to tell you. Competition to get in here is very fierce. You have to be very hungry.’

  What the hell did that mean? Hungry? Was that the same as passionate? Determined?

  ‘I suggest you have a few drawing lessons.’

  ‘Right. And if I did that?’ It wasn’t what she’d wanted to hear. ‘Would I get in?’

  The woman looked at the portfolio and shrugged. ‘Possibly, but as I said competition to get in here is extremely tough. We only take the very best. You need to immerse yourself in fashion.’ She looked at Siena’s top. ‘Real fashion. Up and coming. Urban. Edgy. But there’s absolutely nothing to stop you applying. I’m not on the admissions panel. They look at your results first. So I’m afraid you do need the qualifications.’

  Siena nodded. Urban. Edgy. Real fashion. What the hell did any of that mean? But she could apply. That was positive.

  ‘But thank you for coming to see me. It was very nice to meet you. I wish you luck in finding the right course for you.’ She rose and held out her hand, leaving Siena no choice but to shake it back and scoop up her portfolio. Feeling wrong-footed and rushed, she stumbled out of the room back into the corridor, disorientated for a second as she tried to remember the way back to the stairs.

  She had absolutely no idea how that had gone. The woman had hardly been encouraging but then she hadn’t been totally discouraging. She’d said Siena’s ideas were nice. She hadn’t said they were awful or laughed. That had to be good, didn’t it? Siena wrinkled her nose. They seemed to be more interested in qualifications rather than her ideas. A small part of her had hoped Ms Williamson would take one look at her drawings and love them the way Siena loved them.

  As she reached the bottom step of the flight of stairs, her hand went to her neck. Damn, she’d left her pashmina in Ms Williamson’s office. Turning back, she quickly mounted the stairs and headed back along the gloomy corridor. The door was ajar and she was about to knock when she heard Ms Williamson’s low tones. Pausing, not wanting to interrupt she waited a moment.