Paris by Heart Page 2

  “I see. I, too, would much rather run a café. Well, you are going to love France. If I may give you one piece of advice while you’re here, it is this: enjoy every minute. Too much reasoning and you’ll miss out on a lot. In a country like ours you must learn to follow your heart.” She stood and grabbed Elise’s suitcase. “Mind you, that doesn’t only apply to holidays in France. Too much thinking and we let life pass us by.”

  Julie led her through the café. As Elise followed the older woman to the right and up a small wooden staircase, she felt that she was being watched. She turned and saw Paul at the bottom of the stairs, a tray in hand, studying her. Elise suddenly became acutely conscious of every inch of her body, as if she were standing there in her underwear in front of a total stranger.

  He lowered his gaze abruptly and rushed off and Elise took a deep breath. She hated to admit it, but the man made her go wobbly at the knees. She rubbed her stomach, waiting for the butterflies to disappear.

  Julie stopped and checked on her. “Is everything all right?”

  Elise nodded and hurried up the remaining stairs. Everything was absolutely fine. The way Paul had made her feel wasn’t worth worrying about, she told herself. It was mere animal attraction, nothing more. He could stare all he liked, she wasn’t interested in the slightest. He hadn’t touched her heart and with his attitude that was something he’d never do.

  Besides, the only men she wanted in her life right now were the heroes of the novels she devoured at night.

  There was nothing Mr Arrogant downstairs could do about that, no matter how delicious he looked.

  Chapter 2

  Paul’s knuckles turned red and he suddenly realised he’d been scrubbing the table compulsively. He did that when he was annoyed or worried. He would carry out a task with his mind on his problems until someone tapped him on the shoulder, or the dull ache of forced repetition, somewhere in his body, brought him back to the present.

  He knew why he was annoyed today. It was because of that woman, Elise. Not because she was Australian, or he’d thought her English. He thoroughly enjoyed meeting people of any nationality, people who came from afar with different thoughts and differing views. He felt they enriched his life. He loved discovering their customs and fashions, and especially new expressions which, when translated a little too literally, brought sunshine to the French language. That was always so much fun. It was his way of travelling, since he couldn’t afford too many airfares, hadn’t been able to since he’d married Nicole.

  He cleared the next table, piling up the dishes on his arms, all the while justifying his irritation to himself. No, it certainly wasn’t because they were foreigners per se that he sometimes felt annoyed. It was simply that he had tired of those who came to France with a superior attitude, fully expecting everyone to speak their language, as if English, or whatever their mother tongue was, were more important than his. And they had the gall to say that the French were arrogant.

  He hurried back through the café to place the dishes in the kitchen when the billowing curtain reminded him of the vision he’d had, if only for a fleeting instant, of an angel, as Elise had walked toward him that morning. There was such grace in her movements and a refreshing simplicity, something so very pure about her. She didn’t need to hide behind look-at-me fashion statements and fancy nails, and he liked that about a woman. It gave him the impression of honesty, something he valued above all else. That, and kindness. There was nothing like a good heart.

  Well, the good impression had been short-lived. Elise had turned out to be one of those tourists who didn’t want to make the tiniest effort to speak one or two words of French. He grunted and continued to the kitchen where he piled the dishes up in the sink. Michel was already frying up something in a pot. It smelled like shallots in butter.

  “Hey, did you check out that Australian?” The chef asked with a glint in his eye as he stirred his mixture. “If I wasn’t married I’d be chasing that one.”

  Paul shrugged. “Ah, she thinks we should all speak English. And she didn’t pick up on any of my jokes. A pretty woman without a sense of humour is like cake without sugar…like your baking really.”

  Michel pointed playfully at him. “Careful, Monsieur Fontaine.”

  Paul grinned. “Tell me, am I becoming old and grumpy or does it annoy you when people come here and make no effort whatsoever to say even one word of French? Is it that hard to say “bonjour”? I don’t know, maybe I am too set in my ways after all. Maybe we French are too formal.”

  “Speak for yourself!” Michel cried. “I am perfect.”

  Paul laughed. Too formal, too set in his ways, what did it matter? A woman as beautiful as Elise would never be interested in a man like him. He had a past, baggage, obligations, all by the truckload. Besides, even if he were as free as a bird, he was nothing but an insignificant waiter to her.

  Michel plated up an omelette and Paul whipped it off, hurrying back into the restaurant. He served table seven, taking care to place the dish at its best angle in front of the elderly lady who’d ordered it.

  “Enjoy,” he said with a smile.

  She took a bite. When he saw the satisfaction on her face he reminded himself that he had nothing to be ashamed of. Waiting tables mightn’t be the most glamorous thing in the world, but he found pride in his work. And pleasure, too. Even though the café employed Michel to cook, Paul had prepared many of the meals and there was nothing he loved more than cooking. What’s more, his work put food on his own table at home and paid the bills. And that was what he was truly worried about, the very reason he’d been a little irritable lately—he was terrified of losing his job.

  Two days ago, he’d heard Madame Brouard on the phone, talking about retirement. Big changes lay ahead if it was her own retirement she’d been mentioning. And it was possible, to be expected, even. After all, it had been two years since poor Monsieur Brouard had died, eaten away by cancer, two years that Madame Brouard had struggled along with the business on her own.

  His boss trotted down the stairs, her heels tapping lightly against the polished wood. She had a spring in her step and it amazed Paul that at sixty two she was nimble and carried herself so well. She clapped her hands. “Elise likes the studio. She’ll be staying. That’s one less thing to worry about.”

  She glanced around at the few patrons in the café, and Pépette and Yvonne, the other two part-time employees that had arrived and were serving hot drinks. “It’s not too busy yet—a good time for a chat. May I have a word with you please, Paul?”

  A knot formed instantly in Paul’s stomach. He nodded, and followed Madame Brouard into the back room like a lamb going to the slaughter, moving slowly towards its destiny, sensing the danger but unable to avoid its fate.

  He sat at the old wooden table he knew so well. He’d eaten more meals there than he could remember, so many that he could just about draw every detail of the oak top, each grain, each variation in colour. He studied it for an instant, before plucking up the courage to look straight into Madame Brouard’s eyes. He knew he wouldn’t like what was in them, but he’d never been one to bury his head in the sand. If you turned away from problems it usually made them worse. They bit you in the backside while you weren’t watching.

  To his surprise his boss was relaxed, palms open on the table. There wasn’t even a hint of sadness on her face. She smiled at him peacefully, like a caring mother. It wasn’t what he’d expected, not after so many years of hard work and loyalty.

  It seemed that he wasn’t that good at reading women. He’d thought she would find it hard to deliver the news that she was moving on, that the lease had run its course and the owners were offering the place to someone who had all the staff required to run it. Or perhaps they were turning it into something completely different, a gift shop or antiques store—a business that wouldn’t employ Paul.

  Michel wiped his hands on a tea towel and turned the heat down under the pot he’d been stirring. “I’ll be in the front room whe
n you’ve finished.”

  Michel left and Paul sighed as he waited for his boss to deliver the blow. If only Nicole hadn’t squandered all their money behind his back, he wouldn’t be in this position. He’d have his own business by now, and he’d be the one in Michel’s job, doing all the cooking because that’s what he loved. He’d hire others to serve and help with the accounts. Instead, he was Jack of all trades in someone else’s café-restaurant, and the place was probably being sold or was closing down. Alcohol and gambling. What a deadly combination, and all in the one woman! He’d tried so hard to help his wife, ex-wife, but she’d always refused rehabilitation, counselling, support groups. Any form of help had been abhorrent to her. The idea that you could only help those who helped themselves seemed a platitude in everyday conversations, but when it applied to somebody close to you it was enough to destroy a family.

  Madame Brouard cleared her throat. “One thing watching my darling Pierre fade away has taught me is that we have limited time here on Earth. We must make every day count. And we must enjoy what we do. We owe it to the millions who are less fortunate than us and only dream of the opportunities we have. We owe it to our families and friends, who deserve to see us happy and at our best. And more than anything, we owe it to ourselves, for life goes by in the blink of an eye.”

  Paul nodded. He knew all too well where this was heading. She wanted to make the most of life, so she was retiring and he was losing his position at the Café des Amoureux.

  Madame Brouard tilted her head and spoke with the conviction of those who have come to realise that the finiteness of life doesn’t only apply to other people. “I want to travel the world before it’s too late. I want to walk along the beach, to wander the museums while my legs still hold me up, and visit nieces and nephews while I can still see them. I might even go to the ball in Austria if I can round up a friend or two to come with me. I’ve always dreamed of doing that, the ball gowns, the violins, the romance…I wanted to do it with Pierre.”

  Sadness washed over her. Paul could see it from the corners of her mouth that had suddenly dropped and the heaviness that had transformed her face, ageing her in an instant. He shrugged. “I understand. No one can blame you for that. You have been a very good boss to me, to all of us here.” He put a hand on her forearm. “Actually, I can now tell you that you are a good friend, more than that really. I will always be grateful for my time with you, even if it will be hard to uh…” He held his breath. This was harder than he’d expected.

  Madame Brouard patted his hand. “You needn’t worry. I may be leaving, but you will be fine, I’m sure of it. I have seen you blossom over the past few years, even with all the hardship you’ve been through.”

  He forced a smile, not wanting to appear negative, so as not to burden this kind, brave woman with the sense of despair that was snowballing inside him. How would he pay the bills now? How would he look after Christine, his sunshine, with her beautiful smile? Would counting every Euro affect her sense of security? He could cut back but Christine was fragile, he knew that, and she deserved better.

  Madame Brouard raised her hands. “Oh, I did not mean to make you sad, Paul. I will visit from time to time. And as far as work goes, there is absolutely nothing to worry about. You know the place backwards. You can do this in your sleep. Yes, it’s different, taking care of all the employees, but I am certain you will make a fine manager. That is what I want to ask you. I would like you to manage the café while I’m off enjoying myself. Your salary will be increased of course to reflect the additional responsibilities. I’ve thought about it a lot. I thought about advertising the position but there is no one better for the job in the world. I trust you.”

  His jaw dropped so low he felt he ought to push it back up, like a cartoon character, to close the gaping hole that was his mouth. Manager? Him? Laughter poured out of him. “Oh, Madame, I thought we were closing down or being sold off. You have no idea how relieved I am!”

  “Paul, you should know me better than that. I wouldn’t put you all out of a job unless there was no other way and even then I wouldn’t do it without a helping hand. I have friends, you know, friends who would employ you if it ever came to that. But it hasn’t and it won’t. We could be doing better, I don’t deny that, and we ought to look into improving the business to bring it back to its former glory. These past few years things have gone downhill. Still, business is reasonable and from now on you will run the Café des Amoureux for me.”

  “I am delighted. Thank you so much.” One thing bothered him, though. He didn’t want to give up his weekends. It was precious time with his little Christine. “Would I still have my Saturdays off?”

  “We can do that. As long as you are contactable by phone.”

  He nodded. That wasn’t too much to ask.

  Madame Brouard raised her index finger. “There is one condition, however. You must improve your language skills. We have always had a fair few English speaking customers, but they are on the rise. It seems to me that you sometimes struggle with that. I feel that if your language skills were stronger you would gain confidence and you wouldn’t be so reluctant to speak English.”

  He grumbled a little under his breath, but how could he be ungrateful? She was making him the manager of the café, trusting him with the business she and her husband had built up over the decades. And he was keeping his job, a steady income, a roof over Christine’s head. If that meant spending one night a week perfecting his grammar, he’d find the time. He had to. “I understand. I will brush up on those skills.”

  “I’m ever so pleased. And with Elise living upstairs, it will make it very easy.”

  He crossed his arms. She must have been kidding. He knew his English accent was terrible and his grammar even worse. There was no way he was going to make a fool of himself in front of the Australian. He’d feel self-conscious with her. No, he’d enrol in a course somewhere. They ran some at the Sorbonne in the evenings, he was sure. And if he had to pay the enrolment fees himself, he would, even if it would eat into his pay rise. But he had to find an acceptable reason. “Elise? Really? Is she a qualified teacher?”

  “No, but she is certainly fluent in English.”

  “There is a very good course at the Sorbonne, I hear, run by professionals. I’m prepared to take care of the fees.”

  Madame Brouard raised her eyebrows, and he felt she was studying his every move. “Why Paul, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you couldn’t trust yourself with Elise.”

  Paul huffed. “It’s nothing like that. She gets on my nerves a little, that’s all. There are people like that. You can’t find a friend in everyone.”

  Madame Brouard chuckled lightly and he saw the mischief in her smile. She rubbed her chin before speaking, as if pondering whether to let him off the hook. “I’m afraid it’s too late. You will have to put up with our tenant. I have already made arrangements with her, in exchange for lower rent. I consider it an investment in my business. She will teach you English and you will learn. And I expect you to stick with it. It really is an essential part of your position. Tuesdays and Thursdays?”

  “Those days aren’t suitable I’m afraid.” It wasn’t true, it made no difference to him which day of the week he’d have to endure the Australian and more to the point, the time away from Christine, but Elise might not be able to swap days.

  Madame Brouard shrugged. “Fine. I’ll ask Elise to change it to Wednesdays and Fridays. She’s only just arrived and has no other obligations, so that shouldn’t be a problem.”

  Paul bit his tongue. He really needed this job, and Madame Brouard had made her decision. Well, he’d go along with it since she was insisting, but he wasn’t going to be taking orders from a humourless foreigner who made no effort when she came to his country. He’d just sit there and pretend, like he used to when he was a kid, when he hated the teacher. He clicked his tongue, suddenly annoyed with himself. What was he thinking? Pretend? He was being stupid and he knew it. He wasn’t twelve any mo
re.

  If Madame Brouard wanted him to learn from Elise, then he would. He owed his employer that much, but he certainly wouldn’t be making friends with the Australian. And if she thought she could boss him around, she had another thing coming. She was on his turf and her pretty, fluttering eyelashes and pouty pink lips wouldn’t make any difference.

  In fact, he was sure he wouldn’t even notice them.

  Chapter 3

  Elise admired the high ceilings, the sparking chandelier, the view from the studio apartment onto the lively cobblestone street below. It was minute, but thirty square metres of perfection, with noble materials that spoke of the city’s past; gleaming oak, exposed stone, a carved marble fireplace. In the corner was a tiny kitchenette with a small, round table for two that shone with the patina of centuries of use. To the side of it was a door. Elise opened it and took a peek behind it at the shower and toilet. It was a lot smaller than it looked on the photos Julie had emailed her, more like a cupboard with running water. She’d probably barely be able to turn around in there but she was thankful for the privacy. She’d heard a lot of the older apartments still had shared facilities.

  She returned to the main room, pulling the door to the bathroom shut. The bed looked so inviting, with its plush black velvet quilt and cushions in tailored covers. Julie’s good taste clearly extended beyond her dress sense to her decorating. Elise kicked off her shoes and lay on the sumptuous mattress. She felt like she was lying on a cloud, especially after the long, cramped flight. Then again, after twenty one hours or so in economy class, any old bed would have been a treat.

  She rolled over, her hand feeling the empty space next to her and she couldn’t help thinking there ought to have been someone else there, a loving man who shared her joys, her memories, her future. A few years ago she’d thought it would be Steve, that all her marriage needed was an injection of romance, but things had taken a turn for the worst and here she was, alone.