by Nora James
“Oh, come on. You’re all I have, baby. I love you and I know you still love me, too. I can feel it.”
“How could you feel something that isn’t there?”
“Come on, baby. We can fix this.”
“Stop calling me that. Two years ago, when you shacked up with Karen, you didn’t want to know me. Every time you get dumped you tell me we can fix this. There is no “this” to fix and you know it. Grow up, Steve. It’s time.” She hung up before he could protest.
She looked up at the pretty summer sky to calm her nerves and then around at the passers-by. A young couple walked by hand-in-hand. It was obvious from their radiance and the way they noticed nothing but each other that they were in love. Elise wondered how long it would last. How long before vows were broken and disappointment set in? How long before they blamed each other for their shortcomings? And how many months, or years even, would it take to build up strength and truly free themselves from one another once the relationship had broken down?
It wasn’t worth it. So many things could and would go wrong. One in two marriages ended in divorce, but that wasn’t the end of the story. How many more split before even considering marriage? No, it wasn’t worth the effort, the heartbreak, the enduring sense of failure. But this glorious city with its opulence, its history, its unforgettable atmosphere, this was worth it all. Carpe diem, she told herself, and forget about men—especially Steve.
She jumped to her feet ready to explore. She would head up to the banks of the Seine. She’d heard that they were lined with stalls selling old books, paintings and drawings. Then she’d turn left to Notre-Dame and take a walk around the stunning cathedral. She’d seen pictures of the sky-high stained glass windows, the amazing stone arches and elaborate carvings. She couldn’t wait to go inside and experience the peace a friend had told her filled you in such ancient places of worship, whether you believed in the afterlife or not.
First she had to pick up an English grammar book, though, and a magazine or two. There was a bookstore directly across the road which from the outside seemed enormous, more the size of a department store back home. She should find what she needed there. And she’d make sure she got back at least an hour before the lesson to prepare for it. She wanted to start off on the right foot and make a good impression on Julie.
Teaching her was going to be so much fun—as long as moody Paul wasn’t around.
Chapter 6
Paul finished chopping up the chicken for tomorrow’s plat du jour, the lunch special: chicken chasseur. He would start it as soon as he arrived the next morning, around seven, sautéing the meat in virgin olive oil until golden brown with a few finely chopped shallots and garlic. He’d throw in rounded, white mushrooms that took him back to his childhood walks in the forest. A few fleshy, ripe tomatoes, their juice a reminder of the sun they’d enjoyed on the vine, would follow, as well as laurel from the courtyard. A splash of cognac, a good deal of simmering until the meat fell off the bone, a handful of parsley at the very end and voilà! He could already smell the mouth-watering dish. It didn’t matter that he’d made it every Wednesday for the past six years. He loved it, the aroma, the textures and more than anything the pleasure that it brought his customers.
He tidied the workbench, washed the chopping board and knife and looked around for something else to do. Pépette gently knocked his foot as she swept the floor around him. “I’ll finish that,” he offered. “You go home. It’s getting late.”
“Oh, no, Paul. It’s my job. Besides, don’t you have to get back to Christine? I’ll lock up, if you like.”
Paul shook his head. How he wished he could leave! There was nothing he wanted more than to go home to Christine, but tonight was the night he started taking lessons from that woman. Although he hated to admit it, his stomach felt tight and he’d been clenching his teeth a little. It wasn’t like him, he took most things in his stride, but he recognised the clear signs: he was stressed about having to learn English from Elise.
It wasn’t so much that he’d be terrible at it and make a complete fool of himself. Sure, there was an element of that. But what sent him into a panic was the thought that he might annoy Elise so much regardless of his good intentions and best efforts that Madame Brouard would give up on him altogether and decide to hire an external manager to run the business. And where would that leave him? He considered Madame Brouard more than a friend—practically family so much was she a part of his life—but that didn’t mean she wasn’t also his boss. And everyone knew a boss could always fire you no matter how much they liked you.
Paul grabbed the broom from his colleague. “You go, Pépette. I have to stay back for an hour or so.” The older woman stared at him, puzzled, so he felt obliged to explain. “An English lesson. Madame Brouard wants me to improve my language skills now that I’m managing the business. The Australian will be teaching.”
Pépette nodded, her full cheeks flapping like wings with the movement of her head. “That lovely young lady? That will be fun, I’m sure. You have a great evening.”
He bit his tongue. Elise would be the only one having fun, and at his expense. It was an unpleasant thought but he would find a way to cope. She could laugh all she wanted, really. He’d show her he was tougher than that.
Pépette wiped her hands on her rounded belly before waddling out. He heard her shuffle off to the glass entrance door and bang it shut as she left. There was silence for a short while and Paul sat on a stool, glad to have a little time to himself. Concentrating, he managed to relax his shoulders as he enjoyed a few minutes of peace. He ran his hand through his hair. Perhaps he should have a glass of wine before the lesson? While he didn’t usually drink alcohol, except socially, and even then just a little, tonight it might help.
It was too late. He was about to reach for the bottle when he heard footsteps coming towards the kitchen, lively steps, not Pépette coming back for something she’d forgotten. He checked his watch. He had another fifteen minutes before the lesson he dreaded. Surely Elise wouldn’t be this early? He’d imagined her to be punctual with annoying precision, never a minute early, never a minute late. Yes, she’d be just the type. The kind of woman who was never wrong, either. He’d bet on that.
The kitchen door swung open and to his relief it was his boss. Paul grinned. “Madame Brouard! It’s so nice to see you. I didn’t expect you to come back tonight.” He wanted to say that it was nice to see her alone, without the Australian in tow, but knew he’d better not. Madame Brouard seemed to like the brown-haired woman. He wasn’t sure why. Granted she was pretty—more than that, to be truthful she was stunning with her luminous skin, and delightfully exotic as well with her cute accent—but those things were superficial and Madame Brouard was not. More importantly, nor was he. He wasn’t eighteen anymore and if he ever risked his daughter’s and his own happiness again it wouldn’t be for a nice smile and a good pair of legs. No, it would be for a woman of substance, someone he truly respected, and someone who would stay.
“I thought I’d catch you before the lesson, Paul, have a chat and perhaps even start you off with Elise. That is, if you’d like me to stay for a few minutes.”
He let out his breath. “I’d appreciate that.” He was grateful that Madame Brouard had turned up. It would make things less awkward, at least for the first lesson. He gestured to a chair and his boss sat. “Coffee? Tea? Or can I get you something a little stronger?”
The distinguished lady’s face lit up and he chuckled to himself as he thought that she’d never lose her mischievous streak. She rubbed her hands. “Perhaps I’ll be a little naughty since I’m leaving. Besides, we ought to toast my departure and more importantly your promotion.”
Paul set out two glasses on the old oak table. He didn’t need to ask Madame Brouard what she preferred: she drank red wine to accompany robust flavours such as game, beef and cheeses, but with anything lighter it was always white. He poured some Blanquette de Limoux, an easy-to-drink sparkling white that he thought
perfect for the occasion. He searched the refrigerated glass cabinet for something sweet to accompany the drinks and found a few slices of tarte tatin—an upside down tart that always titillated his tastebuds. It was usually made with apples but in summer he often replaced them with peaches, a cheaper, more readily available and luscious fruit at that time of the year. It was a firm favourite with customers, too. “We’re lucky there’s some left today.”
Madame Brouard closed her eyes as she breathed in the aroma of the tart. She took a dainty bite, the way only classy women did, and nodded her approval. He liked that about her, liked that she appreciated his food and showed it.
“How did you go today, Paul? Did you manage?”
He shrugged. Madame Brouard had been out most of the day, busy preparing for her imminent departure, but he’d been fine without her. Still, the question took him a little by surprise. She’d used the word manage. Was she worried about something? Had he done something wrong, not lived up to her expectations?
“I made the usual dishes. We had a reasonably steady flow of people. Pépette and Yvonne did their hours and they seemed quite happy to take orders from me. Everything went smoothly, as if you’d been here, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
“That’s the thing, Paul. I do mind. The business doesn’t have to be run as if I were here. The time has come to shake things up a little. I have my ways and I’m too old to change, but the Café des Amoureux is ready for something fresh. I know it. Don’t get me wrong, the business isn’t in dire straits, but it’s not as buoyant as it used to be either, far from it. There’s definitely room for growth and waiting until it falls apart to try something new makes no sense to me. Do you agree?”
He felt a surge of excitement. He’d wanted to do things differently for a while now, longed to experiment with menus and special offers, maybe more. If it had been his business he already would have. But he never thought Madame Brouard would accept that for the Café des Amoureux. She was traditional and proud of what she’d achieved—and rightly so. She’d achieved an awful lot. He’d thought she’d always want things to be carried out just the way she’d done them, just the way her husband had, in memory of him.
“I’m thrilled,” said Paul, beaming. “I’m fed up of chefs saying recipes are meant to be adhered to and respected, not deviated from. Why should you have to use the same ingredients in the same proportions all the time?”
“It does mean that when you announce you’re serving a coq au vin the patrons know exactly how it will taste.”
“I’ll give you that.” He understood the reasoning, but he’d dreamed of innovation for so long. Still, there was change and there was major change. He wasn’t sure that Madame Brouard was prepared for the latter. “Do you mean we ought to change the menu a little? Add a few unexpected dishes?” He didn’t dare hope for much more.
She waved her hand above her head. “That and anything else you feel could be done. Do you have any ideas? Run them by me.”
He wanted to hug her. He had ideas, lots of them, the only question was where to start. “I’d love to experiment with food, the way some newer countries expect you to, with brand new, exciting recipes.”
“Done. As long as Michel is happy with it, otherwise it will have to be limited to the dishes that you prepare.”
His eyes widened. He hadn’t expected it to be that easy to get her agreement and hadn’t even thought of extending his idea to Michel’s cooking. It encouraged him to ask for more. “We could have days with a theme, Italian, Spanish or North African, maybe one day a week.”
She pursed her lips as she considered it. “Why not?”
“And what about book readings one afternoon a month? Or presenters of some sort?”
Madame Brouard clapped, eyes shining with eagerness. “Book readings. Delightful! See, you’re much better at this than I am. I have no doubt the business will thrive in your hands. Do what you will with it. You’re the closest thing I have to a son. I trust you.”
He felt pride like he hadn’t experienced since he was a schoolboy coming home with top marks. He reached for her hand and pressed it briefly. He wanted to do more, wanted to hold her in his arms and give her a great big bear hug. She was a mother to him, and a far better one than his natural mother, but he held back. He was a man. He didn’t want her to get the wrong idea and think he was weak and emotional.
Madame Brouard cleared her throat, at once more serious. “When I say you are like a son, I mean it.”
Suddenly Paul felt her arms around him. They were warm and comforting and he let himself go, drifting into the embrace with abandon. “Madame Brouard,” he started.
“Oh, Madame Brouard, really? After all these years you must be able to call me Julie, especially now that I’m handing you the reins and am standing here hugging you.”
He smiled and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. “Julie, I appreciate everything you’ve ever done for me, but this, it’s a dream come true.”
“I saw what you went through with Nicole. And still, you are a perfect father and a perfect employee. You deserve this. You deserve to be happy. And I will always love you.”
They heard a gasp and turned to see Elise staring at them with rounded eyes. “I’m sorry. I’ll come back later.”
She slowly retraced her steps to the door, quietly, without fuss, as if trying to escape a snake she’d disturbed, the danger all too clear.
Julie smiled candidly at Elise. “It’s all right, my dear. We’re done. Why don’t you take a seat?” Julie’s face brightened as she chuckled. “I got carried away. I nearly forgot the English lesson.”
Paul looked over at the younger woman who seemed to deliberately avoid his gaze. Her cheeks were flushed and he wondered if she’d hurried so as not to be late. Or was it because she felt embarrassed about barging in on them like that? She should have knocked, for sure. Were Australians generally lacking in good manners? Did people enter without knocking over there? He couldn’t imagine it, but he knew so very little about Australian culture. In any case he had nothing to hide. He was close to Julie, had worked for her for the best part of a decade.
Elise rubbed her nose before speaking. “I’m sorry, Julie. I hadn’t realised.”
That would be right. The woman had come to teach Paul English, but she apologised to Julie, and Julie alone, for being rude and failing to announce her arrival. Paul scoffed. He just couldn’t help it, even if it made Julie’s eyebrows shoot up as she glanced at him.
Elise seemed to be staring at the two glasses of sparkling wine now and Paul wondered if she needed a drink to steady her nerves. Perhaps he wasn’t the only one who was nervous about the lesson. Perhaps Elise hadn’t taught before and could do with a little help. What’s more, she’d only been in Paris for a couple of days and everything was new to her.
He sighed. Maybe he was too quick to judge at times and too hard on the Australian woman in particular. “We were drinking, to, uh…” he wasn’t sure how much to say to Elise. Julie might want to tell her herself that she’d made Paul the manager. “We were drinking to us. Would you like a glass?”
Elise shook her head, lips stretched into a thin line. He could see that she was judging him. It annoyed him no end. It was just a glass of wine, one glass. He wasn’t a drunk. Of all people, he’d certainly not succumb to drink, not after watching Nicole destroy herself and their family through alcohol abuse. And yet, Miss Judgmental here made him feel he’d done something terribly wrong.
He shrugged, pulling a face he hoped told her it was no skin off his nose. “Fine, more for Madame Brouard and me.”
Julie stood. “Maybe I should leave you two to it. I was going to stay for part of the lesson, but on second thought I really should call in on a friend before I leave and I’m scared of running out of time tomorrow. In any event I believe in being thrown in at the deep end without a lifebuoy. You two will be just fine. I’ll be flying down to Nîmes and then driving to Uzès in the morning, Paul. You can get me on my mobil
e if there’s something urgent.”
Elise stared at Julie, then Paul and back again, a puzzled frown on her face. “What do you mean? What about the English lesson?”
Julie tilted her head. “Paul’s ready for you.”
“Paul’s what?” Elise’s cheeks turned red again, a brighter shade this time. “I’ll have that glass of champagne, please.”
“Non, not champagne,” said Paul as he poured it. “Blanquette de Limoux. This wine was created in the sixteenth century, isn’t that so, Julie? In any case a long time before champagne. And it’s from a completely different region.”
Elise stared at him expressionless and he wasn’t sure she’d heard a word he’d said.
“Would you like to eat dinner?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I’m not hungry, thanks.”
Julie extended her hand. “It’s been an absolute pleasure, Elise. I’m off for a while as you will have gathered. I’ll let Paul explain. Anything you would normally see me about, please liaise with Paul.” Julie briefly shook the younger woman’s hand before trotting out.
“Have fun, you two,” she said without turning around as she disappeared through the swinging door, and Paul imagined the mischief in her eyes. It would have been bad enough being Elise’s student had she wanted the job, but now he could tell that not only did she not know she would be there with him, she was shocked by the very idea of it.
Elise must have expected Julie to sit in on the lessons. Paul guessed his boss hadn’t told the poor woman she was to be there alone with him. What was Julie thinking? They’d have fun? It was his idea of hell and from the look on Elise’s face she shared his view.
He just hoped they wouldn’t end up killing each other.
Chapter 7
Elise guzzled the glass of sparkling wine as fast as she could. She needed effect, not taste, after finding Julie in Paul’s arms. She wasn’t quite sure why it had unnerved her so much, but she wished she’d knocked louder.