by Nora James
She’d obviously surprised the lovebirds and had overheard Julie telling her much younger boyfriend that she’d always love him. Elise was completely stunned by it. She certainly hadn’t expected Julie, who seemed so classy and considerate, to turn out to be a cougar. She’d heard people say that in France anything goes, but still she hadn’t picked it. And she’d never have guessed the Frenchman a toy-boy.
She bit her lip, glancing up quickly at Paul. His chocolate eyes met hers and it sent a warmth to her belly. Could it be that she really enjoyed his attention and this chemistry they seemed to have despite the tension between them? Why else would she feel so disappointed that she’d found him in Julie’s arms? Well, she’d have to keep her attraction in check—especially now that she knew he belonged to Julie.
Paul clicked his tongue. “Are you going to sit there in silence for an hour?”
Elise held back a sigh. He was already giving her a hard time. “I’m sorry. I’m a little confused.”
He frowned, moving forward in his seat and she couldn’t help notice his velvety lips. “Pourquoi? I mean, uh, when?”
Elise held back a smile. She didn’t want him to think that she was making fun of him. She knew how difficult it was to learn another language. She’d tried to pick up French, and managed to speak some, but it was hard work and she knew most people didn’t feel confident speaking another language for a long time. “You mean why?”
Paul threw his hands in the air. “When, why, where, who, what, with, which. Wawawa…You have to have words that all start the same to confuse everybody! Probably on purpose just to make it harder for the French to join the English club, is that not true, huh?”
Elise shrugged. “I’m sure that’s not the reason why.” She watched Paul lean back in his chair. He smiled at her with such sudden warmth that she relaxed, at once more at ease. So he must have been teasing her again! Perhaps this wasn’t a total disaster. Paul seemed to be mellowing and he might behave himself with her now that she was the teacher and he was the pupil. She’d always been able to get on with anyone in the workplace, had never had to quit a job because of a strained relationship. She’d do her best with the situation, would work things out with Paul. After all, she was likeable and easy going, wasn’t she? As long as he made an effort, too, it would be fine—and it definitely looked like he was trying to be more cooperative.
“So why were you confused when you got here?”
The answer seemed obvious to her, but if he wanted her to spell it out she would. “Because I am teaching you.”
He nodded. “The shock is all mine. I did not want to, uh, parler anglais. Believe me, it was not my idea. I would much rather remain in my ignorance.”
This time her lips curled into a smile of their own accord. He had such a colourful way of putting things. He really was a character, strong minded, interesting and… Julie’s words echoed in Elise’s mind, “An acquired taste, like Roquefort”. Julie’s taste, she reminded herself.
Paul continued. “My boss wants me to speak better, uh, and quicker, more naturally, because we have many English clients and we want more to come. Madame Brouard insisted, you know.” He pointed to his forehead. “And when she has something up here, she does not have it elsewhere, Madame Brouard, uh, Julie. I can call her Julie now.”
“I see.” Yes, he could call her Julie now that the cat was out of the bag. They were lovers and Elise had found them together, holding each other and drinking champagne, so what was the point of trying to maintain the facade of a purely professional relationship? When she thought of how she’d found Paul and Julie, eyes closed, in each other’s arms, to Elise’s surprise her chest tightened again. She pushed away the feeling of disappointment, reminding herself that her relationship with Paul was purely professional. Why should she care that he was with Julie?
Elise pulled out the grammar book she’d bought that afternoon and the magazine she’d chosen—an article about the fashion industry she’d intended to explore with Julie. It would be too hard for Paul and of no interest to him, she was certain of that. Still, she needed something to use for the conversation part of the lesson.
Perhaps getting him to participate, to choose what they would work on, would be the best approach. “Would you like to flick through this magazine and see if there’s anything that takes your fancy? I thought we’d read an article together today, summarise it and then discuss the topics.”
“Topix?”
“The issues, or problems it raises, if you like. The points of interest.”
“Ah! Yes, that is good. I suppose I should.” He seemed to hesitate before gesturing vaguely to the chair next to Elise. “You only have one copy, non?” he asked, pronouncing the last word the distinctly nasal way only the French do and for some reason Elise found it sexy.
She looked at the seat next to hers and gulped. She’d imagined sitting that close to Julie, not Paul, otherwise she would have copied the article, or even bought two magazines. She shook herself. What was she thinking? She was a grown woman, a responsible woman, and quite capable of sitting next to any man without embarrassment or feelings of any kind for that matter. “Of course, it will be easier if you sit here.”
He moved to the chair next to hers and leaned over to look at the magazine. She could feel his warmth, and was suddenly much more conscious of every inch of her own body as well as the small, very small, space between her and Paul. She had to focus—this was work, after all—and keep herself occupied and her mind off Paul’s gorgeous body.
He gently pulled the magazine closer to him and flicked through, his mouth twisting as he considered the various articles. He stopped at a story on pets, and that in itself warmed Elise’s heart.
“Would you like to read?” Elise asked, although it was a rhetorical question.
Paul shook his head. “Not really.”
She made a gesture of encouragement again trying her best not to chuckle. He bowed his head and his eyes followed the writing on the page. After a few moments Elise realised he was reading to himself. She frowned. “Out loud, please.”
He scoffed. “You are trying to torture me, aren’t you?”
Elise crossed her arms. “Progress and torture go hand in hand. That is how we reach our goals.”
Paul’s eyebrows shot up. “I had not taken you for someone so cruel.” His lips curled into one of his charming smiles. “But I like it.”
Elise looked down as she laughed. She could no longer hide that there was something about him she liked, too. While she’d sworn to stay away from men, and especially Paul, she found herself drawn to him against her will. But he was with Julie and Elise would never take someone else’s man, wouldn’t allow herself to break another woman’s heart. She wasn’t like the women Steve had dated while they were married—and never would be. In fact, she despised them, despised anyone who treated lovers like conquests to be accumulated, nothing but a game of numbers, without sparing a single thought for the consequences for those who already shared their lives.
No, Elise would not think of Paul in that way. For the next forty five minutes she would keep her mind on the article in front of her about the benefits of owning a pet, and on Paul’s grammar rather than his rustic charm. It was dead simple.
That’s all she had to do.
How hard could it possibly be?
******
Elise let out her breath as she left the Café des Amoureux after the English lesson. Keeping her mind on the work and off Paul had proved more difficult than she’d expected and she wasn’t sure why. It shouldn’t have been that way. After all, she knew what she didn’t want and that was a man of any description. She didn’t want Paul. So why had she felt flustered so many times sitting next to him? Why had it been so hard to ignore his scent that reminded her of a walk in the forest, his eyes that burned right through her? She was certainly glad it was over and she once again had some time to herself.
It was Friday night, a warm, balmy evening far too beautiful to spend
indoors. Elise had read about the flower markets on the nearby Ile de la Cité—the island that was at the very centre of Paris, cut off from the rest of the capital by the two arms of the river Seine which surrounded it. Could a city be any more romantic? Even the river held its streets in a tender embrace.
Elise couldn’t wait to go there and see the flowers, to smell what she imagined would be a scent from Heaven and take in the riot of colours. Luckily, they were open from dawn ‘til dusk, which meant a very late closing time of around ten at night with the long summer days, so she had plenty of time.
She checked the map in her pocket before setting off. It wasn’t far, just a few blocks away, and glorious blocks, too. She admired what seemed to her to be mostly nineteenth century architecture, the magnificent stone bridges, the joyous hustle and bustle of Friday night in Paris as she strolled through the streets.
Soon she reached her destination and gasped with delight. She hadn’t expected the grouping of small wooden and wrought iron shops to look so quaint. They somehow reminded her of Mary Poppins, buildings from another era that were utterly enchanting. She quickly realised that the markets were bigger than she’d anticipated. Some of the stalls were never-ending, displaying row upon row of flowers grouped according to colour, from pale to bright. There were rare plants and garden ornaments, too.
She passed a huge barrel filled with long-stemmed red roses and gently caressed a petal. It was sumptuous and she was tempted to buy herself a few of the flowers that represented love more than any other. It had been so long since anyone had offered her red roses. More than the roses themselves she loved their significance—someone loved you, passionately, and wanted you to know.
She shrugged. Only fools needed that kind of reassurance. Red roses really meant that a man was looking for the quickest way to get into bed with you. True love rarely entered into the equation. Steve had bought her red roses in the early days, and look at how that had turned out.
“Is there any woman who doesn’t like roses?”
Elise recognised Paul’s deep, melodic voice instantly and her heart thumped her chest. She turned to see him standing behind her, even more handsome without the apron he wore most of the time at the café. She weakened and found herself wishing one more time that he were free. She sighed, irritated by the uncontrollable attraction, and reminded herself that not only did she not want a man but Paul was with Julie.
He smiled at her as he cradled a large bouquet of daisies and baby’s breath interspersed with pink roses. Elise admired the flowers. Julie was away, so they must have been for his mother or his sister.
“Someone’s lucky,” she said, gesturing to Paul’s load.
“I do my best to make the women in my life happy.”
“Does Julie know about this?”
She chuckled, expecting him to laugh too. Instead, his expression suddenly hardened.
“Excuse me?” He shook his head. “I do not tell Julie about everything I do,” he added abruptly, seemingly taken aback.
Elise tried to hide her shock. If he didn’t want Julie to know about the flowers, they were probably not for a family member. Elise wanted to tell him that she begged to differ, that she’d thought him a decent man. How could she? It was none of her business. And yet, disappointment weighed on her like a woollen cloak soaked with rain. She let out a sigh. Julie was away and Paul was buying flowers for someone else, someone whose identity he didn’t want to reveal. Were men all the same? Were they all like Steve? Probably.
She shivered as it brought back memories of her failed marriage. Her husband had bought flowers for another woman. Elise had checked his credit card statements carefully after she’d found an earring in her marital bed, an earring that didn’t belong to her.
She pushed away the memory and then pushed away Paul, pointing at the bouquet. “You obviously have somewhere you need to be,” she said without trying to disguise her disapproval. She turned her attention to the stall in front of her and picked up a small bird feeder which she examined carefully although she had no intention of buying it.
She saw from the corner of her eye that Paul stared for an instant, eyebrows raised with apparent incredulity. Without a word he took a step back and turned on his heels. She watched him walk away awkwardly, his tall, muscular body not disappearing into the crowd fast enough, and she wished she hadn’t bumped into him there at the markets with that bouquet of flowers whose scent couldn’t hide the stench of deceit.
A couple strolling by stopped not far from her. The young man drew his companion close and kissed the woman with obvious tenderness. There was no doubt about it, Paris was romantic, perhaps the most romantic place on Earth. It made you want to hold a lover, it made you want to kiss and Elise, too, seemed to be falling under the city’s spell even though she’d come here intent on staying away from men.
Paul had just reminded her of the ugliness behind the scenes in the theatre of love.
He had reminded her that all the romance in the world meant nothing without a pure heart and a pure heart was practically impossible to find whether you were in Paris or not.
She should thank him, really. Perhaps she’d do that next time she saw him and tell him exactly what she thought of him.
Chapter 8
Paul slid the long knife up the mackerel’s belly, slicing it open in a single gesture. With a flick of the thumb he gutted it and broke off the head with more verve than usual. He’d been morose lately, a little angry even, and he couldn’t quite put his finger on the reason for it. Come to think of it, he did know why. It had all started at the end of last week, on Friday night to be precise, when he’d bumped into Elise at the flower markets.
That’d teach him. He should have known better than to open up to her during the English lesson, should have known not to be candid and playful with a woman. You couldn’t trust them, couldn’t rely on them to be even-tempered. He and Elise seemed to have been getting along so well that afternoon. He had to admit he’d had lots of fun during the lesson and it had lifted his spirits. But then she’d gone and ruined everything by being so unapproachable at the markets. She’d looked at him as if he were a criminal for talking to her in public. What the hell was her problem?
For five days now he’d thought about what she’d said to him that evening. He went over it one more time as he placed the mackerel on the platter with the other fish and seafood he’d already chopped up. She’d been so rude, telling him abruptly that he must have somewhere to go and then ignoring him even before he’d left. Did she hate him so much that she didn’t want to talk at all outside of the English lessons? If so, why smile and start a conversation, only to suggest barely an instant later that he ought to be on his way? He wasn’t sure. He really didn’t understand her.
Michel walked by, wiping his hands on a tea towel. “Mackerel in a bouillabaisse? Have you lost your mind? I mean, conger, monkfish, yes. But mackerel?”
“What? It’s a lot cheaper and I’m supposed to be experimenting.” Paul fried up onions and garlic and threw in herbs—a bouquet garni, a bundle of herbs in a muslin bag—and some saffron, his favourite spice. The aroma filled the air, the heady mix of rosemary, thyme and other plants reminding him of the wilderness in the south of France.
Michel peered into the pot. “It won’t be a cheap dish with that amount of saffron. It’s the same price as gold, remember. Anyhow, I don’t know what the idea is with all this experimentation. Everything was working just fine before. Dishes have been cooked with the same ingredients for centuries because that’s the way they taste the best.”
Paul huffed. It annoyed him that people were so narrow-minded about food in France. It stifled a lot of chefs, crushed their creativity. Who knew how many brilliant dishes could have been created during centuries of stagnation and all because of a lack of courage?
“How do you know, Michel? Unless you’ve tasted every combination, how do you know that something new and fresh won’t be just as good or even better?”
&nbs
p; Michel raised his eyes to the ceiling and moved back to the largest stove where he was preparing baked trout with almonds. “I don’t have to try sardines in honey or giblets in chocolate sauce to know that it will be foul. It’s like these weekly themes we’re going to be doing. What’s the big idea? I mean, fish and poems of the sea? Really? I suppose poetry stinks and so does fish.”
Paul felt his blood boil. “The themes will be a huge success, I’m sure of it. Maybe not straight away. It can take time for people to get used to new ideas. But I don’t appreciate you doubting everything I do.”
Michel raised his hands. “Oh, la la! Am I not allowed to express my opinion? Anyway, you know me, I say it like it is but if you and Madame Brouard have decided to try something new, so be it.” He paused, rubbing his chin. “Why are you getting all worked up? Is something the matter?”
Paul shook his head. “Sorry. I need a holiday.”
Michel smiled forgivingly, like a good friend. “Don’t we all.”
Paul busied himself, but he felt awkward after his outburst. It wasn’t like him. Michel’s complaints were usually nothing more than a little spice added to what would otherwise be bland conversations in the kitchen. Teasing and nagging were part of the daily ritual. Paul always took whatever Michel said with a pinch of salt. So why hadn’t he today?
Perhaps it was because he was nervous about the food. The poetry readings, too. He clicked his tongue as he admitted to himself that there was something else bothering him, something deeper, more personal. Something he didn’t want to face. His next English lesson was coming up that evening.
Yes, the English lesson again. Maybe he should say he felt sick and go home straight after work? But then, what would be the point? He couldn’t do that every Wednesday and Friday. And he wasn’t one to run from problems—he’d much rather face them. That’s what he’d do with Elise if that’s what it was going to take to regain the balance he seemed to have lost since she’d arrived. If she was all sunshine and warmth one minute, and as cold as the northern seas the next, he’d ask her why. Yes, he’d confront her about her changing attitude, her moodiness, even her strange comments like telling his boss that he’d bought flowers for his babysitter.