Chapter 15 Charlotte #2
‘Monsieur,’ James greeted him as though they were old friends. ‘My people called ahead. I trust you will delight my guest and myself with your finest cuisine?’
‘It would be an honour for us,’ the waiter said. ‘Would you first like to sample the wine? Or could I suggest the champagne? Our specialty is the ten-year-vintage from our very own Champagne region—’
‘A bottle,’ James said, even as Charlotte put her hand up to ask for a mineral water. ‘Two crystal glasses. Chilled.’
‘As you wish, sir. A fine choice.’
‘Could I get a glass of water too?’ Charlotte asked, as the waiter turned away. Turning back, he said, ‘Of course, mademoiselle,’ then gave her a dramatic bow.
‘So, have you been here before?’ Charlotte asked, wondering if James would respond with a genuine answer, or some kind of elaborate, fanciful tale.
‘This restaurant was built on the site of an ancient Roman vineyard,’ James said, eyes twinkling.
Charlotte suppressed a sigh. ‘It is said it was the first in all of France, and grew the finest grapes, so fine that the Roman Emperor himself made a trip just to taste them for himself, fresh from the vine … before drinking himself into oblivion on a number of vintages. Yes, the grapes here were the finest. A shame that with the empire’s fall, they were lost for all eternity. ’
His fingers spun, and he held out a grape. Charlotte gasped. With another flick of his hand it split seamlessly in two. He lowered it to her plate.
‘Not the same, but still, the finest in Paris.’
Charlotte popped half into her mouth, and had to admit, it tasted pretty good.
As she watched James congratulate himself with an inward smile, she couldn’t help but feel like everything was part of some elaborate routine.
He was handsome, charming, and obviously supremely talented.
But was there anything behind the facade?
‘So … what do your parents do for a living?’ she asked, picking a question from an imaginary hint sheet that Kelly would probably slip into her pocket before a date.
She watched James, waiting for his reaction, but he just continued to stare at his fingers as though the answer would appear there on a slip of paper.
At last, he looked up. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘They’re both dead.’
‘Oh, that’s too bad.’
‘They were circus performers,’ he said. ‘My mother was a trapeze artist, and my father was the human cannonball. One day, as my father was fired off into the air, he reached out and took my mother’s hands as she swung from the rafters, and together they burst through the roof of the big top and were never seen again. ’
‘Did they dredge the local rivers?’ Charlotte said with all seriousness, refusing to be drawn into another of his fantasies. ‘I mean, they can’t have gone that far, can they?’
‘They went as far as their love would take them,’ James said, tapping the tabletop and making a silver heart on a chain appear out of his sleeve. He held it out to her as she gave a little gasp of excitement. ‘I like to believe they flew as high as the moon.’
‘But not back?’ Charlotte couldn’t help but smile as he leaned forward and clipped the chain around her neck. She didn’t know jewellery as well as she knew shoes, but it looked like solid silver, expensive.
‘I believe when the power of their love extinguishes, they might return, but when that can be … who can tell?’
‘That’s lovely,’ Charlotte said, although, even for someone like herself, who believed in pretty much anything, it seemed a fanciful tale. ‘So you grew up alone?’
‘An orphan,’ James said. ‘Raised by a wicked stepmother. It’s the same story you can read in any Grimm fairytale. I used magic as a means of escaping the horrors of my life, creating an illusion of the world in which I wanted to live. That dream is what made me what I am today.’
‘That’s nice,’ Charlotte said, as the waiter returned, putting down a bottle of champagne so vintage it looked like it had been dug up in a field, with sods of earth around the base of the bottle and a tray to catch it.
Charlotte was sure she saw a worm, but in the dim glow cast by the ornate standing lamps on the corners of the courtyard, she couldn’t be sure.
She hoped it was just a flicker of shadow.
‘And your own story?’ James said, as the waiter poured two glasses of champagne. Charlotte looked for her mineral water, but there was none to be seen.
‘Oh, well, I grew up without my parents too—’
‘How incredible that we came from such similar backgrounds,’ James said.
‘It’s like we were born to be together.’ He reached into his jacket, pulled out two pieces of rope about the length of his hand, gave them a quick twist and the two ropes reappeared as one.
The waiter, still pouring the champagne, gave a startled gasp.
‘Two lost souls, united,’ James said. ‘Two threads, come together at last.’
‘Right,’ Charlotte said. ‘So, um, how is it travelling the world, doing what you do?’
James proceeded to tell her about life on the road.
She had to admit that it was fascinating, hearing about tours of South America, filming television specials, putting on shows all over the world.
Once, he had made the pyramids disappear.
Another time, he had made a cargo ship fly over the top of the Sydney Opera House.
By the time dessert arrived, a desperately small piece of tiramisu in the centre of the largest of plates, he had begun to talk about his shows in Brentwell, which would culminate in an outdoor performance at the Sycamore Park Christmas festival—which Charlotte really hoped would be nice and snowy this year, after a couple of years of rain—what he called a homecoming of sorts.
‘I was brought up in Brentwell, even if I wasn’t born there,’ James said, eating his dessert in tiny scoops which made Charlotte feel guilty about finishing hers off in two bites.
‘By that wicked stepmother I mentioned? This is kind of a way to exercise my demons, if you will. To show the world how much I’ve grown from that shy little orphan boy. ’
‘Oh, right, I suppose it would be,’ Charlotte said.
James lifted a hand and clicked his fingers. A little flame appeared. ‘Garcon,’ he called, in a way that fused patronising with flamboyance. ‘Aperitifs, if you will.’
‘And at Christmas,’ Charlotte continued. ‘What a nice time of year for a magic show.’
‘Christmas,’ James mused, rubbing his chin. ‘The greatest illusion of all. One that has fooled so many for so long.’
‘Oh, but there’s Father Christmas,’ Charlotte said. Then, remembering what he had said at their first meeting, she chuckled and said, ‘You’re going to make him appear in Brentwell, aren’t you?’
James’s smile dropped. ‘Yes, yes. Yes, that’s the plan. And perhaps for the grand finale at this year’s show, I might make the old fraud disappear right after.’