The Loveliest Chocolate Shop in Paris Read online

  - - -

  In the end, using Claire’s credit card, I booked us both first-class train tickets, thinking at least the seat would be more comfortable for her, and it might predispose one of the Health and Safety guards to give us a hand going over the bridge at Crewe. For the price of them, they really ought to let us drive the damn thing. The lady was probably right about flying. Maybe Claire would let us fly back. I didn’t even know if she’d thought that far ahead. I wondered if she had medical insurance. Of course she wouldn’t. Life seemed to get more complicated all the time. Maybe Sami was right. Maybe I did need something a bit simpler.

  As if on cue, my phone rang. I picked it up.

  “Allo?”

  “Where were you? You have been on the phone for four hours!”

  “Why, what’s happened? Is something wrong?”

  “No,” said Laurent.

  My heart skipped a beat anyway.

  - - -

  Laurent inwardly cursed himself. He had barely noticed the new little shopgirl—well, obviously he’d noticed her when she’d come at him in the street, but not properly—before. She had just arrived, then it was irritating she seemed to be so close to his father so quickly, and then she’d been all around the place, but that was all she was, a mere disturbance on his itinerary of work and the hotel and nightclubs and generally having a good time.

  Then yesterday. He couldn’t help it: he was impressed. Genuinely, truly impressed. First, by her dedication to the shop. He knew that a life in gourmet food had to start very young, but she had tried so hard to help out, and help his dad.

  Then at dinner last night. Going back there had been a spur of the moment idea, but once they’d gotten ensconced, he’d looked at her properly in the candlelight and realized how pretty her face was, how soft and kind her features: her round blue eyes, with their strong eyebrows, and her very plump, pink lips that made her look younger than she was. And the generous bosom spilling over the top of her pretty floral dress. She was completely unlike the skinny, high-breasted French girls he usually went for, not, he realized, because she was any less attractive, but because she didn’t carry herself as if she innately was. She didn’t strut, and she didn’t look down her nose. She didn’t give off a vibe of being untouchably beautiful and effortlessly chic, as even the plainer girls of Paris did—and she certainly wasn’t chic; that much was clear. But she was luscious and sexy precisely because, he realized, she didn’t know just how sexy she was.

  Just at the moment as he’d been coming to those conclusions, she’d eyed him up very clearly and stated how much she didn’t fancy him, and he needn’t think he was getting his own way with her.

  If anything could make Laurent Girard very, very interested indeed, that was it.

  - - -

  I looked at the phone, surprised. I hadn’t thought I’d hear from him again.

  “Well, I’ve been busy,” I said. “What is it?”

  Laurent had to think on his feet. He really had no idea why he was ringing.

  “Have you seen my dad?” he asked quickly.

  “Uhm, yeah,” I said, before working out whether it was politic to answer this or not. Alice had already warned me off of the family once before. Mind you, was I really scared of Alice? I thought about it and remembered that yes, yes I was. But it was too late.

  “Did you?”

  “Yes.”

  “How was he?”

  “Sitting up. Talking. Smiling.”

  “Eating?”

  “Ha, not yet,” I said. “But I’m sure it will occur to him sooner or later.”

  “It better not,” said Laurent fiercely. “I’ll kill Alice if she lets this happen again.”

  There was a pause.

  “Aren’t you going to go and see him?”

  I was expecting Laurent to do his usual furious denial, but instead he went quiet for a little while.

  “I should, shouldn’t I?” he said.

  “Yes!” I said.

  “What if he gives me a load of grief?”

  “Well, you sit there and take it like a good boy, then you thank him once again for giving you the tools to go out and make your own life.”

  “Which he doesn’t respect.”

  “I know,” I said. “The difference between making artisan world-class handmade chocolates in a shop and making them in a hotel is unbelievably huge. I can’t imagine how either of you can bear it.”

  “Are all English girls as sarcastic as you?”

  “Are all French men as silly as you?”

  Suddenly, his voice changed and deepened.

  “Do you think I’m silly?”

  In the distance, a fire alarm sounded. It chimed so closely with what was going on in my heart, I almost laughed. The sky was changing now, shades of pink and purple stranding in through the blue, and the streets were filling up with excited young people, mopeds, bikes, everyone out for the evening, meeting their friends, chatting and laughing, up for adventure. It was like a river of brightly colored life below me and here I was, up in my eyrie, watching other people’s lives pass by below me like a bird.

  “No,” I said quietly.

  His voice was now totally and completely straight.

  “I could come and show you how serious I am.”

  There was no flirting, no messing around. I had never heard a man be so direct in my life.

  I glanced around at the tiny flat—just waiting for Sami to burst in, dressed as whatever bird of prey he was going out as that night, full of light and music. He was living his life. Claire was living her life with this ridiculous train scheme. I was thirty-one years old, in the heart of Paris, and an incredibly attractive man had just made me an incredibly attractive offer.

  Could I hold out, coquette with him, buy time, flirt? I could. I expect he would lose interest pretty fast. But, really, was that so important? Did my little life code matter, when every second since I’d arrived had filled my life with more new experiences and expectations than I had ever imagined? I bit my lip. Then I thought, sod it.

  “When?” I said, and there was no trace of a joke in my tone either.

  Laurent had to finish his shift, which gave me several hours to pace about, panicking and changing my mind every two seconds. Perhaps I should just go out. This was crazy. Maybe just pop out and turn off my phone and go for a walk or something and hide for a few hours.

  But then he’d just think me an idiot, a child. And anyway, what did I want to happen?

  I phoned Cath, even though Cath would probably have recommended I sleep with a tramp on the Bois de Boulogne if she thought it would get me laid. She screamed with excitement.

  “He makes chocolate! Oh God. So you’re going to spend the rest of your life eating chocolate and having sex. In Paris. I hate my life. An old woman came in today and asked for a purple perm, Ans. A purple perm.”

  “Well, it’s not quite that simple,” I said.

  “You’re telling me! The purple reacts with the perming lotion! Half of it fell out and she wasn’t exactly Beyoncé to start off with.”

  “So…” I tried to trace back the situation. I was marching up and down the tiny apartment, feeling incredibly anxious.

  “Are you saying yes, I should?”

  Her voice took on a more considerate tone.

  “Is he an arsehole?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “He’s a bit…troubled.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Because, you know, arseholes can be totally amazing in bed, whereas troubled might mean he’ll start crying all over you.”

  “I’m sure he won’t do that,” I said.

  “Is he hot?” she said.

  “Yes,” I said, without hesitation. “Very French looking. But bigger.”

  “Hmm,” she said. “Does he have, like, a really big nose?”
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br />   “Yes!”

  “Excellent. I like those.”

  Her voice turned serious.

  “The thing is, Ans, you have to get back on the horse some time, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” I said grudgingly.

  “I mean, you’re not going to go without forever, are you?”

  “I suppose not,” I said.

  “Give him a go then. Plus, Darr was sniffing around, asking when you were back.”

  “You are kidding,” I said. “What, sick of ‘all the single ladies’ already?”

  “Looks like it.”

  Suddenly, compared to Darr, Laurent became even more attractive.

  “Okay,” I said, “I’m doing it.”

  “Atta girl,” said Cath. “Save some French totty for me, by the way. I’ve had every decent-looking man here, and they’re all rubbish.”

  - - -

  Sami was even more to the point when he returned with a trunk stacked high with night work. He really was working hard for a change.

  “Well,” he said, sighing. “That’s not going to work.”

  “What?” I said. I had changed into a black top and a black skirt, which wasn’t very sexy really but was just about the best I could do from my small suitcase. I was too nervous to go shopping; I would probably buy the first thing I saw, even if it was a rubber miniskirt and thigh-high boots.

  “You look like you are going to work on the Bourse,” he said. “Not like a seductress.”

  “I’m not a seductress,” I said. Sami arched a carefully plucked eyebrow.

  “Well, you’re something,” he said. “I haven’t seen Laurent down the Buddha Bar in weeks.”

  “Perhaps because his dad’s in the hospital?”

  “Perhaps,” said Sami. He looked me up and down then dived into his room.

  “I’m not wearing the Speedos!” I yelled.

  “Be quiet,” he said, muffled. After five minutes, he reappeared. As well as an armful of clothes, he was carrying hair curlers and straighteners.

  “Now,” he said, “let ton-ton Sami work.”

  “Oh no,” I said. “Do not make me look like a dog’s dinner. The fact that I’m letting him come pick me up is the worst. If I’m all painted up like a trollop…”

  “Oh, scared little English girl,” said Sami, “I am doing none of these things. I am simply ensuring that you feel and look your best. I just want you to enjoy yourself.”

  “Everyone does,” I said gloomily. “It makes it very difficult.”

  He pulled out a beautiful red gypsy blouse.

  “From the attic scene,” he said. “Do you have a red bra?”

  I did, but I hadn’t brought it. Or worn it in months, I realized. It was a good one too.

  “Well, pink will do,” he said. “Better, in fact. More sluttish. Now, have you got hair?”

  I had shaved my legs in the bathroom and wished Cath was there—she’d wax me on the cheap at home. Also once I’d shaved them, I’d realized how hideously pale they were. In Kidinsborough, I’d have gone and had a fake tan, but they didn’t seem to do that here; I hadn’t seen anywhere advertising it. All the French girls had this perfect olive skin anyway that didn’t need anything. Another wave of fear gripped me. Oh God. What if he recoiled in horror at my patchy white bits?

  “I think I need a drink,” I said to Sami.

  “Non,” he said, to my surprise. “Do not. You will not enjoy so much.”

  “Well, I won’t enjoy it at all if I can’t buck up the courage.”

  His huge black eyes softened.

  “Darling,” he said. “Darling. It is only pleasure. Happiness. Like with chocolate, yes? It is not there to make you feel guilty, or sad, or ashamed. It is there to enjoy. Think of me. The whole world tried to make me ashamed. It could not.”

  I looked at him. He was wearing a bright purple boa around his neck and his familiar bright blue eye shadow. It had never occurred to me before to think that Sami might be brave. I’d only ever thought he was off his head. But now I saw it.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Okay,” he said. I put on the red blouse. It was lovely. Matched with cropped jeans, so I didn’t look too overdone (and could get on the back of the scooter), it looked pretty and fresh and unworried.

  “I would add a scarf but…” His mouth made a moue.

  “Scarves make me feel like a politician,” I said.

  “It’s true,” he said. “English girls cannot wear a scarf. Except for your queen. She is magnifique.”

  He took out a large, slightly grubby-looking makeup box, sat me down, and went to work, putting on my makeup with one hand and jumping up every second to finish the cigarette he’d left smoldering on the balcony.

  “You’re going to make me smell all smoky,” I complained.

  “Little is more sexy to a French man,” he grinned at me.

  Finally I was ready, and he let me have a look in the mirror. I smiled, happily, in surprise. He’d swept my untidy hair to the side and fastened it with a large old-fashioned silver clip so that instead of being its usual cloudy mess, it looked like a chic ’20s style. He’d kept my face very simple, except for my lips, which he’d filled in the exact same red as the blouse.

  “Cor,” I said, “that’s a bit full-on.”

  “It’s gorge,” said Sami absentmindedly. “He’ll want to kiss it all off immediately.”

  I stood up.

  “Now,” said Sami. “Shoes. I don’t know why you wear those sandals all the time anyway.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “What have you got?”

  “Converse, heels.”

  “Hmm. Go on.”

  “I’ve got ballet slippers.”

  “Let’s see.”

  I brought them out for inspection.

  They were some of the prettiest things I’d ever bought. I’d found them just before the accident. They were navy blue and flat with a little bow in a paler blue ribbon and a striped inner lining and weren’t at all the kind of thing you ever saw in Kidinsborough, where everyone wore heels out at all hours, or trainers. I didn’t even know what I would wear them for; they’d be useless for clubbing or the pub—they’d get ruined and everyone else would be talking four inches above me. And they weren’t a lot of use for walking in, and one splash of rain and they’d be totally done for. And I couldn’t wear them to work or to a music festival.

  But they were so pretty and so precious, and the woman who sold them to me had put them in a cloth bag before she put them in a box, and wrapped them up in striped tissue paper and stuck it down with a lovely vintage sticker, and I’d taken them home and put them in my old MFI cupboard and thought about the imaginary garden party I’d be invited to one day.

  Then I’d had my accident and that was that; I’d never worn them—they didn’t give my foot enough protection and could even slip off.

  Sami glanced over them.

  “Yes. Them,” he said. “They’re cute. We’ll roll up the bottom of your jeans a bit, make you look like a 1950s starlet on the Croisette.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “I’ll just go put them on,” I said.

  “Can’t you put them on here?” said Sami.

  It occurred to me that getting in some practice at showing a man my foot—as I had with Thierry—might not be the worst thing ever. So I sighed, then sat down and took off my slipper.

  Sami didn’t notice at first. Then his eyes went wide.

  “Wow,” he said.

  “I know,” I said. Would I ever get used to it, the precise diagonal line cutting across where two of my toes used to be, the livid red stubs. “I know, it’s hideous.”

  “Darling,” said Sami, patting me on the shoulder. “My girl.”

  “He’s going to throw up,” I said.r />
  “Nonsense, he’ll barely notice,” said Sami, casting another worried glance at my foot. “As long as he’s not one of those fetishists. Well, as long as he’s not a foot fetishist. If he’s an amputee fetishist, you’re in luck…oh, darling, don’t cry.”

  I couldn’t help it. I was feeling so wound up and emotional, and this was all I needed to set me off.

  “Stop it! All your invisible makeup will run and suddenly you’ll be a lot more visible!” said Sami as the tears dropped down my cheeks.

  I’m not what you would call a pretty crier.

  “Okay,” said Sami. “Okay. I shall make you a martini. A very small one.”

  His idea of a very small martini was my idea of a swimming pool, but I was grateful. We sat out on the balcony looking at the darkening sky—me with acute trepidation—and he listened very sweetly to the whole story, shaking his head at the right moments.

  “Well, you see,” he said eventually, “it was a good thing, because it got you to Paris.”

  I shook my head. “You’re telling me it was worth losing two toes to get here?”

  Sami looked thoughtful.

  “I lost my entire family,” he said.

  “They’d be so proud of you,” I said, meaning it.

  He laughed. “They’d be so proud of a successful accountant in Tangiers with wives and many, many children and a courtyard of his own, eh? Not this.”

  “Well, I’m proud of you,” I said, clinking my glass to his.

  “You don’t even have the balls to have sex,” he said, but he was joking, and he clinked back, just as the heavy old doorbell rang.

  “Oh God!” I shouted, leaping up and spilling the rest of my drink so some of it went on me. Great, I would smell like I’d been in the bar all afternoon.

  “Put your shoes on!” shouted Sami.

  “Yes, yes,” I said, grabbing my bag. I couldn’t figure out if it was practical or slutty to pack a fresh pair of underpants and a toothbrush, so I’d zipped them away in the bottom compartment.

  “J’arrive,” I called into the intercom, then went to the door. I turned back just as I was leaving. Sami was standing, silhouetted on the balcony, finishing up his drink, surveying his Parisian domain as if deciding which arrondissement he would terrorize that evening.