Chapter 10
10
At lunch time the next day, I head to La Coquette, a bistro in the 7th arrondissement with a view of the Eiffel Tower and the verdant green of the Champ de Mars. As I get off the Metro, my phone beeps with a message. I swipe it open, happy to see it’s from émilienne.
Sorry for the radio silence! I’m in love and all is well! I’ll tell you all about Paris Cupid and my new man when I get back. Having a tech break but didn’t want you to worry. émx
By the tone of her message, it sounds like émilienne is taking one of her sabbaticals where she disconnects for a bit and usually goes to a retreat for a body, mind and soul break. I text her back:
Who is the lucky guy? Can’t wait to hear all about it!
Of course, I know exactly who the lucky guy is but I’m interested to see if she’ll share the Emmanuel Roux name with me or not. Normally, she would tell me every tiny detail about her current flame, so this silence around it is odd but understandable if she’s trying to keep her name out of the press.
There’s no reply so I continue to the bistro, where I’m meeting Geneviève. Once a week we have lunch together on a day the market is closed. I arrive first and am seated at an outdoor table with a stunning view of the la tour Eiffel. As expected, Geneviève is late, so I order a bottle of viognier while I wait, knowing she’ll arrive whenever she damn well pleases. It’s just her way.
I look up at the sound of a commotion near the door and catch sight of Pascale, arguing with the ma?tre d’. What is he doing here? Of all the places in Paris to dine, how have we managed to choose the same place? I take my menu and do my best to hide behind it while Pascale argues with the waitstaff. When he swings his head in my direction, I shrink lower in my seat. Why is he looking over at me? I let out a yelp when he walks to my table before it dawns on me. That crafty so-and-so. She’s done the old bait-and-switch routine.
‘You’re not Geneviève,’ Pascale says bluntly, standing over the top of me, drowning out the sunlight with his huge frame.
‘You have great powers of deduction.’
He grunts.
‘Are you going to stand over the top of me like that or are you going to sit down?’
‘But…’ He takes a seat opposite me.
‘I agree, this isn’t ideal. I was supposed to be meeting Geneviève too. More to the point, why were you meeting her?’ Is he under her spell? She does tend to go for younger men, the broodier and moodier the better, so this wouldn’t surprise me, but she’s not here and I am, so I know exactly what she’s up to. She’d make a great matchmaker herself.
‘She wanted to order a typewriter.’
I laugh. ‘You fell for that?’
‘I did.’
‘I suppose she wants us to sort out our… differences.’ She wants me to fall in love with the guy or have some hot, lusty fling, but I don’t dare educate him on that. The less he knows about her motivations the better.
‘Well, I don’t know about that but I am hungry.’
‘I wouldn’t expect anything less.’ Talk about rude! He can’t even admit he’s at fault.
‘Shall we order?’ He picks up a menu. He’s not big on small talk which isn’t a surprise. The waiter returns with an ice bucket and bottle of Louis Roederer and two champagne glasses.
‘Excusez moi?’ I say. ‘I ordered viognier, not champagne.’
‘It’s a gift,’ he says, taking a small pad from his shirt pocket and flipping it open to a page. ‘From Geneviève. She offered her apologies for not making it to meet you today and has settled lunch for you both.’
‘Oh, has she now?’ I’m quietly fuming. The meddler! Now I have to sit across from this surly dining companion for as long as it takes me to inhale a salad.
‘She chose the degustation menu. Eight courses with wine pairings.’
Eight courses! I paste on a smile. ‘That seems a little extravagant.’
‘Don’t worry,’ the waiter says, giving me a smile while somehow also looking supercilious in that particular French way. ‘They’re small serves.’
‘Oui,’ Pascale says. ‘I had a large breakfast…’
Contempt flashes across the waiter’s face. ‘It’s been done.’ His severe tone brooks no argument.
We lapse into silence as he unwraps the foil off the bottle of champagne.
‘Congratulations,’ the waiter says dully. I narrow my eyes.
‘Congratulations?’
‘Aren’t you celebrating?’
‘Non?’ Pascale says. ‘Can you hurry this up? I’ve got places to be.’
He can’t even share lunch with me without wanting to rush off.
‘You don’t have to stay, you know.’
‘I know.’
The waiter frowns. I’m sure this will make a great story for the kitchen staff later. Two eggheads get spoiled with a bottle of fancy French champagne and a degustation experience and can’t stand the sight of each other.
‘Then what’s stopping you from leaving? I can manage sixteen courses. It won’t go to waste.’ I’ll eat his and mine and drink every last drop of wine if that’s what it takes.
‘It would be rude when Geneviève had gone to all of this effort.’
The waiter sighs. ‘Your first course will be out shortly.’
‘Fine,’ we say in unison. Pascale glares at me and I glare right back. If he wants frosty, I’ll give him frosty.
The degustation is finally over and I’m a little tipsy from the wine. I leave a huge tip for the waiter precisely because he couldn’t hide his haughtiness and disdain as lunch bore on. I wrap my summery scarf around my neck and fumble for my phone. As I trek to the Metro, I call Geneviève.
‘How did it go?’ she asks, excitement in her voice.
‘You sneak, you…’
‘Did sparks fly? Birds sing? Angels trumpet?’
‘They did no such thing! The man is impossible. What were you thinking?’
‘D’amour!’
‘Of love! Pascale left as soon as he ate his last forkful, grumbling about his day being taken up and lamenting the fact he didn’t sell an antique typewriter for all his troubles. Doesn’t sound like love to me.’
She giggles, she actually giggles. ‘What’s amusing about this? You just spent a fortune on lunch for two people who can’t stand each other. Even the waiter told us to stop glaring because we were frightening other customers.’
‘What fun!’
‘What?’
‘Enemies to lovers, ma Cherie. You might not recognise these intense feelings because you’ve only ever dated those safe types who are always so accommodating and, let’s be frank, boring. This is fireworks. Explosions! The clanging of bells.’
‘Clanging of…?’ My mind is muddled from the wine, the words. I’m having trouble understanding how she can possibly consider that man is the one for me. ‘He’s a belligerent fool.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Seriously?’
‘You can thank me later.’
‘Sure. You should have saved your money! Eight courses! You did that on purpose.’
‘It’s a good, solid investment into your future. Three courses wouldn’t have been long enough.’
I sigh. I’m not going to convince her. ‘I’m nearly at the Metro.’
‘Alone, I take it?’
‘Alone with only my frustration for company.’
‘See? Already the love bug is working its way around your blood stream.’
‘Then I should see a doctor about that. The only thing working its way around my blood stream is too many wine varietals.’
‘No such thing!’
‘Au revoir, Geneviève. Thank you for the meal.’ After all, the food was spectacular.
I wobble off down the stairs to the Metro, my thoughts fuzzy from wine, from Pascale. Is she right about me having only dated safe boring types? Or is it that I go for men with more under the hood? That’s probably it. My head might get turned occasionally by men like Pascale with that fiery-eyed overt hotness but I stop myself from feeling anything else because that sort of sex appeal might be good in theory, but it doesn’t last and there’s nothing else to build on. No, I need a man who can have intelligent conversation. A man who is considerate and thoughtful. A romantic at heart. And my lunch companion is none of those things.