Chapter 8
Iwas caught so off guard that, before Monsieur Roche could utter a word, I’d stood up again, grabbed Yasmine’s arm, and dragged her to a new table at the back of the room.
“What is your problem?” Yasmine hissed.
“That’s my new neighbor,” I whispered, jittery from his surprise appearance. “You remember, from the restaurant.”
Yasmine immediately stopped frowning at me and craned her neck forward, trying to get a view of Laurent. I was hunched as low as humanly possible in my seat, but I could still see him turning his head in confusion. I ducked lower, my head now nearly level with my knees.
“Oh, wow. I didn’t notice how hot he was when he was being an ass at dinner. Look at those arm muscles,” Yasmine whispered, blatantly ogling him.
“Keep your shirt on,” I muttered. “He’s a misanthrope who lies about cooking.”
“What’s his name again?” Yasmine whispered.
“Laurent Roche.”
Yasmine flipped through the papers she held, but just then, a woman went to the front of the room and rapped her hand on the table for attention.
Reluctantly, I sat up. She introduced herself as Fatima, head of culinary services for the gala, and dove into the logistics of the event. As she spoke, my attention kept flicking back to Laurent.
What was he doing here? Monsieur Roche, who claimed never to cook, who was the epitome of the finance bro cliché–what was he doing at a culinary meeting for a charity event?
“Let’s introduce everyone,” Fatima was saying, and I turned my attention back to her. She began to read off her list. For each person on the culinary team, she said their name, job they’d have at the gala, and a sentence or two about their background.
Since my only credentials were “longtime waitress at the esteemed Le Jules Verne” I felt awkward again when it was my turn, despite the people nearby giving me friendly smiles. No matter what Yasmine said, everyone else seemed to be a professional.
At least wondering about Monsieur Roche gave me a distraction from my anxiety. His name was last on the list, and by the time Fatima got to it, I was almost bouncing in my seat with curiosity.
“Finally, our head chef is Monsieur Laurent Roche. He recently moved here from Aix-en-Provence, where he was head chef at the Michelin-starred Les Champs D’Or.”
My mouth dropped open.
This was certainly new information.
I looked intently at the back of Laurent’s head, the only part of him I could see from this vantage point.
He used to be a chef? This made his cooking denials even weirder.
Possibilities rocketed through my mind. Had things ended badly in Aix and he was trying to put his past behind him?
Was he in some sort of witness protection program that required him to take on an entirely new career and never mention his old one?
But then why was he volunteering as head chef at a charity event? What the actual hell was going on with this man?
I don’t consider myself a particularly lucky person (No one who has accidentally dropped a fork on a diner’s head, then watched as said fork bounced off the diner’s head, hit the man’s (full) glass of red wine, which itself then shattered onto the hapless diner’s lap, could consider themselves lucky), but sometimes the universe cuts me some slack.
This was one of those times. (And yes, that man had his meal fully comped.)
As Fatima discussed how the chefs would be working together, two women sitting at a table in front of me bent their heads together.
“Laurent Roche. You remember him, right?” one woman whispered. My ears perked up.
“Of course. His mother was one of my closest friends growing up. I didn’t know he lived in Paris now,” the other whispered back.
Lacking any shame, I elbowed Yasmine to get her attention.
“He left Aix when his restaurant closed and his relationship ended,” the first woman said. “Did you know his girlfriend left him for a coworker? Very messy. He came to Paris for a new start.”
“What?”
The word hissed out of me involuntarily. As the women turned my way, I stared straight ahead and acted as though I was deeply enthralled by Fatima, who was now discussing bathroom locations for the gala. Ah, yes. Fascinating and important to know.
My outburst seemed to have distracted the two women though, and they didn’t pick the conversation back up.
As Fatima continued, now on the subject of dishwashing policies, my mind reeled. So Monsieur Roche was a former chef, and at a Michelin-starred restaurant no less. They didn’t give those stars out like candy.
And he had a tragic dating history to boot.
Well, we had that in common. Next time we met in the hallway we’d have to compare notes.
Then I could see if Laurent had also been tricked into a blind date with a person who’d tried to pressure him into a perfume-related pyramid scheme that also sounded vaguely like it might be human trafficking.
But you’re not going to talk to him again, I reminded myself. Because he’s a curmudgeon whose only hobbies are secretly cooking and lying about secretly cooking.
My lack of focus must have been obvious because Yasmine elbowed me in the ribs.
When I turned her way, she tilted her head toward Fatima, indicating I should be paying attention.
She was right, of course. I was here to fulfill an obligation to her, not go on a side quest digging up my neighbor’s mysterious background.
Fatima clapped her hands together. “This is an excellent time for a break. Take a half hour, enjoy some food, then the culinary team will reconvene and begin putting together a menu.”
I was the first to stand. Pulling Yasmine behind me, I shot through the doors and into the bustling main room.
It was filled with the scent of freshly-brewed coffee and baked goods laced with honey.
Momentarily caught up in the crowd, I looked around for some place to go, my fingers still wrapped around Yasmine’s wrist.
“The bathroom is down that hallway,” she said, pointing. We made a beeline for it. As we did, I reached out my free hand and grabbed one of the honey pastries. For research purposes.
As soon as I pulled the door shut behind us, I turned to Yasmine.
“Did you hear that? That neighbor of mine who keeps swearing he doesn’t cook—even though I smell him making dinner every night—is an actual chef!”
“Was a chef,” Yasmine corrected. “You told me he’s some sort of businessman now.” Yasmine shook her head in mock disappointment. “Poor man. All those career struggles and not one person told him his path clearly lies in modeling.”
“Yasmine. Focus.”
“Oh I am. Did you see the way that suit fit him?”
I raised an eyebrow at my friend, but she kept on, undaunted.
“I’m telling you, Margot. This is a gift from the heavens. This is karma rewarding you for being nice to that woman who tried to bring her pet snake into the restaurant last month. Get yourself a hot hookup, girl. Just leave before he gets weird about making you breakfast.”
I snorted. “Ah yes, just what I always dreamed of. A fling with a compulsive liar who only cooks with the door locked and the drapes drawn.”
“You can’t be too picky, Margot.”
I rolled my eyes and took a bite of pastry.
The universe most definitely was on my side today because, not only was the pastry delicious, but just then the bathroom door swung open. In walked the two women who’d been gossiping about Laurent earlier. They stood in front of the mirrors, reapplying their lipstick.
For a brief moment, I considered taking the mature, aloof route and not asking them about Laurent.
But of course I wasn’t going to do that. I had to live next to this man, after all, and I should know who my neighbor was. It was definitely not just because I wanted to hear some good gossip.
“Pardon me,” I said, going up to them. They both turned and smiled. “I was sitting near you during the meeting, and I couldn’t help but overhear you talking about Laurent Roche. Do you know him? He just moved next door to me.”
The women said nothing for a moment. I had a sudden, panicked thought that I’d overstepped, but then the women turned to each other, then back to me, and the floodgates opened.
“Living next to you? How lucky!” the older of the two said, clasping her hands together.
“Has he cooked for you?” the other asked.
“Is he seeing anyone?” the first woman asked, looking hopeful.
I had to tell them that I knew practically nothing about my new neighbor, and he’d hardly spoken at all to me.
“I gave him a few macarons, but I’m not sure if he liked them,” I admitted.
As one, the women pressed their hands to their chests, aghast.
“Didn’t like your macarons! But I’m sure they were lovely.”
“You look like an excellent baker.”
“Did he thank you for them, at least?”
It took several minutes for them to come down from that affront and answer my questions about who, exactly, Laurent Roche was.
“He’s a Provencal,” the older woman said, a little sniffy in the way Parisians always are about people who come from places other than Paris. “From one of the little towns near Aix. That’s where his restaurant was, and it was very well-received, too. It was quite a shock when it closed.”
“Why did it close?” I asked.
“I’m not exactly sure,” the woman admitted. “I heard a rumor about money and also that his girlfriend wanted him to quit. I saw them dining at La Table de Pierre Reboul once,” she added, smiling at the memory. “Her dress was pale pink silk. Gorgeous.”
“Yes,” the first woman said, seemingly intent on being the one with more information to share. “But then she left him anyway.”
“And for one of her coworkers,” the other woman stage-whispered. I swung my attention back to her, feeling like I was attending the French Open.
“Tragic, isn’t it?” the first woman said, looking delighted.
“Do you know what he’s doing in Paris?” I asked, trying to digest all this information.
Both women shook their heads. “I haven’t heard a thing. But it’s promising that he’s volunteering at this event. At least we know the food will be excellent. What is he like now?”
I wracked my brain, trying to think of anything I knew about Laurent Roche besides his grouchy demeanor and inability to admit he cooked.
“His shoes are always so shiny,” I finally said.
The younger woman nodded. “He was like that as a child, too. At church, his sister came in looking like she’d just been dragged through the woods, but Laurent was always perfectly turned out. He’s always been very charming too, even when he was a boy. Make sure you don’t lose your head over him.”
I assured the woman she had absolutely nothing to worry about on that front.