‘Or perhaps you have a husband at home. He is very rich, but very old and dull. And I am your lover,’ said Henri, warming to the idea.
‘No. Henri. You’re not listening. I’m the project manager at that hotel. I’m actually working on an important assignment?—’
‘Oui, I know,’ he said, winking elaborately.
‘But—’ She felt exhausted. What was she meant to do? Make him read her birth certificate? Chop a limb off and have him count the number of rings? Or perhaps that was just a tree thing.
‘Ah, here it is. Not GrandCoeur, but maybe next time, huh?’ he said, grinning.
Her stomach growled as if to sayLook, you tried. You’re off the hook. Now eat!
He pushed open the door of a glass-fronted seafood restaurant she’d noticed a couple of times on her walk to work. It was set in a white, rather smartly renovated building with a bright blue and white awning and decorative brickwork. ‘Welcome toLa Cabane,’ he said. ‘The best fish restaurant in France.’
Inside, the room was lit with low, yellow light. Small circular tables with white linen napkins were scattered throughout, half of them filled, the other half set with plates and cutlery, ready for further guests.
They were shown to a table by a waiter who seemed to know Henri on sight, and after a moment or two she felt herself relax. She’d been intending to work through lunch, get as much done as possible so she could leave on time, or as close to ‘on time’ as possible. But although Henri didn’t know the full facts, he was right. It was important to have a break.
They ordered seafood – aplateau de fruits de mer– the platter edged with shrimp and mussels surrounding an enormous red lobster split open on the plate, shelled crab and smoked salmon. Nestled between the delicacies were slices of lemon and fresh lettuce leaves. Henri ordered a sparkling white wine, despite her protestations about work, and as they picked at their feast, first carefully and then with more abandon, she started to enjoy herself. She was in Paris! Eating at a gorgeous restaurant with her handsome boyfriend. Surely the type of thing that people dream of.
‘This is delicious,’ she said, tipping a mussel into her mouth and closing her eyes for a moment.
‘Youare delicious.’
She looked up into blue eyes filled with mischief and passion and felt a rush of affection for this man who had given her a sense of being on stable ground once again. She wondered whether to say something reciprocal, or thank him for whisking her away from her desk. Or maybe something about how he was dressed – in a snug white shirt and grey trousers that fit him so well it was hard to look away. Instead, she found herself saying ‘Pah!’ and metaphorically flicking away his compliment with a flap of her hand.
Did she always have to be so fricking British? What was it with this desire to undermine all compliments at any cost? She felt annoyed at herself for batting his words away. This new, improved version of herself should know how to take a compliment. She’d seen someone comment on Claudine’s new lipstick the other day and she’d enthused about it too, rather than saying ‘Oh, this old thing’as Bella probably would have done.
But after at least a year with a husband who’d stopped complimenting her, stopped seeing her, the idea of her being delicious or attractive felt false and a little ridiculous. She didn’t feel delicious. Most of the time she felt as sexy as a lump of gone-off Brie.
She reached for another prawn, and jumped a little as Henri’s phone started to ring. He looked at the screen and his face fell. ‘I’m sorry,’ he mouthed, then answered. ‘Bonjour, Papa,’ he said in a completely different voice, rolling his eyes at her over the table. He grabbed a shrimp then stood, making his way across the restaurant to the door, opening it and standing outside in view of the window, having what looked like a heated conversation.
It was odd seeing him like this. Her happy-go-lucky lover suddenly looking hunched and angry. A completely different version of himself.
Ten minutes later, he re-entered, his face flushed. ‘I am so sorry.’ He sat down across from her. ‘It was my father. I didn’t mean to be away for so long.’
‘It’s OK,’ she replied. ‘Although the food went cold.’
He looked confused. ‘But it is seafood…’ Then he realised and laughed. ‘It is true,’ he said. ‘I am sure it is quite ruined.’ He sipped from his wine. There was still an aura of tension around him; a prickle in the air.
‘Everything all right?’
He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it in disarray. ‘Oui. Just my father, he always knows how to ruin the moment.’
‘Yeah?’ she enquired, not wanting to probe, but actually very much wanting ALL the details.
‘Oui. Ah, it is just a business thing. He is tired of me being a student. He thinks I’m avoiding real life. Tired of my studies, if I’m honest. Does not even want me to complete my course.’
‘Oh, that seems harsh.’ She made a sad face. ‘What did you tell him?’
‘That if real life is putting on a suit and sitting in a meeting room with lots of people, I am very keen to avoid it for as long as possible.’
She laughed. ‘That sounds perfectly reasonable to me! Plus, it’syourlife, right?’
‘Yes. But he is old-fashioned. He wants his only son to take the reins of the business for him. It is his dream.’
She nodded. ‘What’syourdream though?’ she asked softly.
He leant forward on his elbows, ‘Is it OK if I am not yet sure? I know I want to do something with words, with literature. But I am not sure whether teaching is for me, or whether I want to write. Or maybe direct.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘Maybe my father is right; maybe I am just avoiding real life.’
