Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Life on Rue de Paris began to settle into a rhythm and the days no longer felt so exhausting.
Every mistake I made in the early days made me feel as though I was on a crash course for dummies, but my second week felt a little less bruising to the ego.
To my surprise, the weekend rolled around again quite quickly and Madame Moreau informed me that my wages had been paid into my bank account.
‘Oh, good, Mr Grumpy at the Prefecture must have received my birth certificate from the embassy,’ I cheered. I half expected to be told that baguettes and board were payment enough, but she stunned me further by handing me my share of the tips.
‘Pas mal,’ was all she said. ‘Not bad.’
It annoyed me to realise just how much her approval meant to me. Still, she wasn’t to know that, so I just agreed. ‘Je sais,’ I said, and thought I saw the trace of a smile, but it was probably a trick of the light, for she had already switched off the main lights, leaving us in relative darkness.
‘à lundi,’ she said, bidding me farewell until Monday.
I was looking forward to having Sunday all to myself and not having to get up with the birds. Although this made me recall the noises that had woken me up every night since my arrival. Feeling bold, I decided to ask her about them.
‘Madame Moreau, do you know what all the banging is at night? I keep hearing noises in the building.’
That familiar veil of irritation came over her face as she grunted, ‘Ce batiment est très vieux, Mademoiselle – all old buildings make noise – zey ’ave to breath, non?’
‘That’s what I thought, all the old timbers and everything. Unless you’re getting up each night and dancing Riverdance on the stairs!’ I said this extremely quickly in a thick Dublin accent, still she pretended to understand and gave a withering nod before mounting the stairs to her apartment.
‘Charming as ever, Madame Moreau, pleasure working with you,’ I scoffed in her absence. This kind of encounter would have really upset me back home, where being polite was like an extreme sport. But here, I was getting used to people speaking directly and I was finally saying what I really meant.
Back in my own little room, which I was really growing quite fond of, I indulged in my preparations for the night ahead.
I turned on the old-fashioned radio high on the shelf above the stove and found a station playing all American jazz.
It was like the old days at home with my mother; Ella Fitzgerald, Louis Armstrong and Ol’ Blue Eyes – Frank Sinatra – serenaded me as I showered and pulled on my trusty little black dress.
I longed for Nicole’s curves, but realised I would soon have my own if I kept wolfing down the bakery’s products.
Like a true fran?aise, I enjoyed a fresh baguette with my evening meal and even took to eating a croissant every morning for breakfast.
Trotting through the cobbled streets in a pair of kitten heel shoes, I almost lost my balance once or twice as a sparkling night frost set in.
Following the directions Nicole had given me, I made my way to the club through the winding streets of the old quartier.
From the outside, it looked very unassuming with blue velvet drapes covering the windows and those plastic coloured beads that scream student flat forming a curtain at the front door.
The name overhead, written in blue neon lighting, read ‘Nostalgie’, which sounded close enough to the name Nicole had given me.
Although I tried to act like meeting friends in a bar in France on a Saturday night was just routine, secretly my stomach tingled with nerves.
As soon as I walked through the door however, I saw Nicole’s face keeping an eye out for me, and her genuine smile on seeing me made me relax.
‘Hey, Edie!’ she called over the music and embraced me with a kiss on each cheek. ‘You look ravissante!’ she declared, beaming.
She looked ravishing herself, in a red strapless dress with black pearls.
‘This place is…’ I trailed off.
‘Petit?’ She finished my sentence. ‘I know, it’s not much to look at, but it’s the only jazz bar in town and Johnny’s band has their residency here.’
Looking around, I could see why the regulars stayed loyal to the place.
It was unpretentious and unique, with its abstract paintings and burgundy-coloured walls.
The tables were huddled closely together for a cosy feel and lit by little candles in wine bottles.
The waiter was covered in tattoos and sported a gravity-defying quiff.
Nostalgie seemed to be the kind of place where standing out meant fitting in.
I’d always felt slightly out of step with my peers, probably because I spent so much time at home with my mother watching old films and listening to music from another age.
I knew it wasn’t healthy to keep retreating into the world my mother and I had created.
But in this place, with these people, I finally felt like I belonged somewhere.
Nicole ordered the drinks – Mai Tais all round. The deliciously dark rum warmed my throat after my chilly walk and loosened the tight grip of wariness I wore like armour.
‘Edie, I want to introduce you to my sister, Cathy, and her girlfriend, Cécile,’ said Nicole, leaning back so we could all go through the kissing hello process again. ‘This is my Irish friend Edith.’
A chorus of ‘Bonsoir!’ followed and I felt my shoulders relax a little. Unlike the reception I got when I arrived at the bakery, this place and the people were full of warmth.
‘Now, tell me, how is life at la boulangerie?’
‘Oh, you know, Madame Moreau simply can’t do enough for me, like even today, she gave me a bonus in my salary for being the employee of the month.’
Nicole tilted her head to one side, looking confused.
‘I’m being sarcastic; she still ignores me for the most part and grunts at me when she has to. It’s working out fantastically well.’
Nicole laughed a deep throaty laugh. ‘You are a funny one!’
‘Well, I’m glad my French adventure is amusing someone,’ I smirked.
It had been so long since I’d connected with anyone or had a conversation with someone who didn’t know all the heartache of the past year and a half. For a wonderful moment, I allowed myself to sense the promise of belonging somewhere, as myself.
‘Manu is a sweet kid, even though he never has much to say for himself,’ I continued.
‘Manu is a smart one, you know, he will take over the bakery after Madame Moreau…’ Nicole trailed off delicately.
‘Are they related or something?’ I asked, unable to imagine why a bright young teenager would want to spend his days working with a cranky old dinosaur.
‘I’m not certain, but he has been at the bakery since he was a child. It’s so long now that I cannot remember. But I know he wishes to, how do you say, make an apprentice to become a master baker. Perhaps he will be the next Monsieur Moreau.’
Monsieur Moreau? This was news to me. ‘Madame Moreau’s married?’ I gasped.
‘No, no, it was her father or her uncle I think. He’s dead for some time now.’
‘Oh.’ I felt a pang of sympathy for her. ‘So, I wonder who the master baker is now, then? I’ve never met him and she’s hardly mentioned it – except to say that I am not to enter the basement on pain of death.’
‘I will ask my mother, if you like. She grew up in the neighbourhood, so I’m sure she will remember.’
Just then, a group of musicians took to the stage and began warming up their instruments.
‘Look, is my husband Johnny on stage.’ Nicole waved at a tall, muscular man with dark blond hair swept to one side, revealing a close shave on the other.
He wore long black baggy trousers with black braces and spun his bass around as though he were dancing with it.
The band leader introduced the musicians – Johnny on bass, Frankie on the snare drum, Laurent on violin and himself, Stéphane, on guitar.
They were a raggle-taggle group of musicians if ever I saw one, all sideburns and thin moustaches and with clothes that looked as though they came from a vintage shop.
Yet when they started to play, it all made sense.
Nicole stood and cheered loudly as they broke into an up-tempo number I didn’t recognise, which just oozed cool.
I sipped my cocktail happily as I watched my feet take on a life of their own to the rhythm.
‘You like?’ Nicole yelled over the crowd.
‘I love!’
I was living all of my Hollywood movie fantasies.
I glanced around the bar at my fellow patrons, chatting animatedly and carrying off the style of the forties and fifties with aplomb.
It was then that I noticed a solitary figure emerging from a tussle with the beaded curtains and taking the first available seat at the bar.
He was in a dark grey suit with a black tie loosened at his neck and had a look of someone far too serious to enjoy jazz.
Then again, I reasoned, that was probably how I looked when I was alone and uncomfortable.
From my vantage point, I could clearly see him, while I remained hidden behind a conveniently placed palm tree.
He seemed strangely familiar to me, but it was only when he spoke to the barman that I recognised him.
He was the guy from outside the hairdresser’s that day.
My heart began to skip some beats. His blond hair was neither long nor entirely short either and it had a slight wave that gave him a boyish look.
His eyebrows were knitted together in a stern look and his high cheekbones only exaggerated his slender physique.
However, when the barman brought him his drink and he smiled a thank you, his dazzling blue eyes almost pierced my heart from across the room.
As if that wasn’t enough, his lips transformed into the most endearing smile, as the corners turned down slightly, creating little dimples in his cheeks.
At this stage Nicole elbowed my arm and asked what I was looking at.