Читать книгу From Paris, With Love - Samantha Tonge - Страница 15

Chapter 6

‘Girl, you gonna take a piss or get off the pot?’

Meet Texan Cindy, second-in-charge to the head chef – brash, with the brains of JR Ewing and his Texan drawl to match. This was her way of telling me to hurry up. Tears streaming down my cheeks, I frantically chopped the onion.

This was Friday, my fifth day in the kitchen. And, um, ahem, yes, I’d not been chased and murdered by the intruder in our flat, last Sunday. It turned out he was the landlord. Due to an electricity fault, Edward had called him, assuming that the old man would have sorted things out during the day. But no – instead he left it until the last minute and ended up getting stained with blue spray.

How long ago that seemed, now. Five days working as dogsbody in a restaurant had been a MASSIVE learning curve. I winced and smiled sheepishly as, for the third time that week, I sliced my finger. Without taking her spoon out of a saucepan of glossy brown sauce, Cindy delved into the pocket of her white buttoned chef’s coat and took out a plaster. I wrapped it around the wound and with a quick glance at Jean-Claude, waited for some sarcastic words.

‘Don’t worry, he’s all hat but no horse, honey,’ Cindy said.

My brow furrowed, as I looked again at the kitchen boss, in his black and white chequered trousers (yes, chefs really did dress like that!)

‘What I mean is…’ She shrugged. ‘There’s a soft guy inside that fierce, Gallic exterior.’

‘Onions ready, Pudding?’ he boomed, in a mega thick French accent.

That was his name for me and I’d had a good mind to complain, as I thought he was referring to my generous curves. But Cindy insisted I had a “darn purtee” figure and that Pudding was simply a common derogatory term, originating from snooty French chefs who consider English desserts stodgy and tasteless.

Which made sense as JC – as everyone called him – was not remotely PC. Only yesterday he’d released a torrent of abuse when a vegetarian customer complained. He declared that anyone who didn’t eat meat had the palate of an amoeba and no right to moan. Wiping his hands on his white apron, forehead perspiring, the head chef came over and stared at me.

‘Sacre bleu! Tie ze hair up tighter tomorrow. Strands are all over your face.’ His nose wrinkled. ‘Eet ees unhygienic…’ He studied my chopping board. ‘Ze slices are too big. Not all ze same size…. You need more speed.’ JC sniffed. ‘But today they will do for ze soup.’ He lifted the board and handed it to another minion who scraped the onion into a frying pan.

Wow – that was an improvement! Up until this point not much I’d done had been up to standard. Apparently I chopped garlic too coarsely and didn’t scrub potatoes hard enough. He’d sworn for five seconds, in French, when I attempted to debone a chicken. Yet his vitriol didn’t bring tears to my eyes, unlike another temporary kitchen hand who left, weeping, after just one day. No, it made me even more determined.

Funny that – I’d always worked hard, over the years, at any job, but now that I’d discovered my passion, I dunno – learning about cookery felt more like a hobby. It made me whistle. Lightened my step. Meant that I didn’t mind overtime or long hours. In recent months I’d felt happier than ever – and not just because my gorgeous boyfriend kissed as if I was a Scarlett O’Hara to his Rhett Butler.

And as for cooking in Paris – this made me happier still. Even getting up at the crack of dawn and walking to work felt special. I loved passing by Place du Tertre, the square where the artists assembled. Of course, first thing it was often empty, apart from a few discarded easels, chairs and large golf umbrellas left behind by painters. Old-fashioned black lampposts would light up the cobbled square which felt tranquil without the bustling gazebos and snack tents set up during the day.

In contrast to my peaceful early morning walks to work, hustle-bustle was the name of the game in the kitchen.It was located at the back of the restaurant, near the bar, with its gleaming silver worktops and saucepans everywhere, plus clinical white tiles on the floors and walls. The head chef barked orders. At the frantic, busiest times, I became overwhelmed by the heat and yummy smells. As soon as I got home each day, the first thing I did was soak in a bubblebath.

‘Carrots next,’ said Cindy and I stared enviously at her sauce. She caught my eye and grinned. ‘Perhaps next week JC will give you more challenging tasks.’

‘He’s a bit…’ only one word would do to describe the chef, ‘… bonkers, if you ask me,’ I said, in a low voice. ‘I already know all this basic stuff, but he’s determined to show me his way of doing things. How come you get on so well with him?’

Cindy flashed her white teeth. ‘He sure is temperamental, but when JC’s fired up, that’s when his cooking really rocks. Last week I somehow ordered sweet potatoes instead of the ordinary ones. His cheeks turned purple for a second, before he brain-stormed and began to peel and experiment with spice… The result was a fab-u-lous new addition to the dessert menu: sweet potato pie with ginger and cinnamon.’ Cindy continued to stir the sauce. ‘But he won’t offend me, because he’s dumber than dirt when it comes to computers – so I take care of that side for him. He doesn’t even have a company email address. I order the food online and take care of staff memos… It keeps him sweet.’

Ah, well it definitely wasn’t JC sending out any emails about a MiddleWin Mort.

‘He don’t scare you, though, honey, I’ve noticed,’ said Cindy. ‘Thank gawwd! I’m mighty sick of the high turnover of staff.’

‘It’s probably because I’m addicted to cookery reality shows. Believe me, a whole series of Gordon Ramsay desensitises you to verbal abuse!’

We chuckled and I went over to the stacked plastic vegetable racks to collect carrots, just as Pierre Dubois came in. Lunch would start in two hours. Yesterday Edward and I had worked the evening dinner shift – after that, today had been an early start.

Pierre fired out some French at JC who shrugged and muttered “oui”.

‘Gemma, come with me, please,’ said Pierre, as ever courteous, in English much better than the headchef’s. ‘I have a few words to say to you and Edward.’

Cindy caught my eye and winked as I put the carrots on my worktop. Outside of the kitchen, Edward sat at one of the mahogany tables, in front of a large café-au-lait. Two other coffees were on the primrose mats. With a smile I joined him and underneath the table intertwined my fingers with his. Over the last week we hadn’t seen much of each other during the day. My stomach tingled as I thought about how we’d made up for that, once holed up in our Parisian love nest at night.

Pierre sat down opposite us and his eyes crinkled at the corners. What a gent – always softly spoken, cool and calm, totally polite. Lady C would have definitely given him her stamp of approval.

‘Alors… Just to say you are both progressing well.’ Pierre ran a hand through his jet black hair. ‘Edward, your French comes along well. Such a winning way, you have with the customers. Your occasional struggles with our beautiful language don’t bother them at all.’

I squeezed Edward’s hand and longed to slip my fingers through the small gap in his starched, white shirt, to feel his firm chest and run my hand down his abs whilst he… I shook myself. At this rate I’d need an iced tea, not a steaming coffee! Why did Edward have to look so damn hot in that waiter outfit? No wonder the customers fell for his charismatic manner. During the week, I’d observed him chatting intently with the female customers, oblivious to their giggles and preening in the face of his gorgeousness and heartbreaker smile. Mind you, after being shown to their table by abrupt head waiter, Hugo, anyone would seem like Prince Charming.

‘Edward, all you need to remember,’ continued Pierre, ‘is to … now what is the word in English: up-sell.’

‘You mean to suggest the more expensive wines or tempt them with a dessert?’ said Edward and rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand.

Pierre put down his cup. ‘Exactement. Already I feel the surge of new tourists, over here for the First World War commemorative events this month. Your English will prove most useful.’

Pierre glanced at me. ‘And Gemma. Well done. Jean-Claude has not tried to sack you yet.’

I grinned.

‘Chère Cindy informs me you are hardworking and a quick learner.’

Aw, Cindy was great, and had already promised to take me and Edward to Disneyland Paris. I couldn’t wait!

The restaurant owner opened a folder next to his seat, took out a sheet and passed it to me. ‘Here are the Chez Dubois email addresses of staff who have access to the company laptop – plus an email address for you and Edward. You have a laptop at your flat, non?’

Edward nodded.

‘Excellent. Alors, any problems, contact people this way. I have given you a password – you can change it if you desire. I find email très efficient. All the time we are so busy, verbal messages often get muddled up or forgotten. So contact Cindy or Hugo if you get home and remember something you forgot to do on your shift – or email me if you are going to be late or for some TRÈS important reason you can’t come to work.’ He smiled.

I nodded and scanned the list. This was just what I needed, to start my investigations. Okay, so MI6 had already hacked the laptop and checked out the staff’s emails, but I fancied a look myself. Plus the Secret Intelligence Service had closed the file now, so wouldn’t be checking on recent messages. Joe had a list of the passwords, so I’d get onto it as soon as.

Top suspect, of course, was Hugo– who was something of an enigma, with his standoffish ways. His anti-royal ranting was in stark contrast to his clinical demeanour with even the most awkward customer. Yet Edward said he was mega patient when showing him the procedures for taking food orders and delivering it to the tables.

The restaurant door opened and Pierre stood up. He opened his arms wide as a vision walked in – meet restaurant regular, actress Monique, a willowy woman in her late twenties with glossy chestnut hair, an adorable beanie hat, and a floaty skirt. I forced a smile on my face as she kissed Pierre on each cheek and then Edward – who’d let go of my hand and scrambled to his feet.

Forget me saving Applebridge Hall from ruin, plus becoming a more than competent chef… For some reason this woman seemed to be draining the air out of my balloon of self-esteem. Which was unusual, cos I wasn’t the jealous sort. If anything, when Edward… I dunno, helped attractive women with their luggage or chatted to flirtatious customers, it made me even more chuffed that we were a couple.

But Monique… Height-wise, she and Edward made a good match – I always had to stand on tip-toe to reach his face. She didn’t kiss me – thank God, as she reeked of smoke, but that didn’t seem to bother my man, who was no doubt used to tobacco, cos of his dad’s pipe habit.

In fact Edward had mentioned having lots of little chats with Monique and seemed quite taken with her arty farty ways. The first time I’d seen her was on Monday, day one of our new job. From the kitchen, I’d heard her loud tinkling laugh. I’d peeked through the glass pane in the kitchen door to see her and Edward shaking hands.

He told me all about her later – how considerate she’d been, speaking slowly and encouraging him to speak in her language. Then on Tuesday she came in just before the lunchtime rush, whilst JC showed me his precise way to blanch broccoli. Pierre had insisted hardworking Edward take a break – so he spent it with her, discussing French politics.

Ooh, this reminded me of that Craig David song Auntie Jan loved, called “7 Days”. On Monday, he met the girl, Tuesday bought her a drink and the next day…’ My stomach lurched. No. This was nothing like that catchy tune. Edward and Monique would NEVER make love.

Tuesday evening, Edward told me how well-read she was, currently penning her own novel, a historical romance. Apparently an English actor friend of hers, over from Manchester, had just finished a crash course in learning French and she brought in his linguistic CDs for Edward, to help improve his accent.

How thoughtful. No really. I don’t do jealousy. Not at all.

On Wednesday, Edward and I had worked the evening shift. By now I’d established a routine and would discreetly grab a coffee from the restaurant on my break. That was the first time I came face to face with Monique. She sat at the bar, texting into her phone. I’d held out my hand and gave her a beaming smile.

However, my extended fingers were left hanging in the air for several seconds. Eventually, she shook them, her grip as loose as if I was carrying a flesh-eating bug. What’s more, I caught a flicker of disdain as she eyed me up and down.

‘You must be Gemma,’ she’d said and then fired several questions at me in French. Eventually she stopped. ‘Oh, apologies, don’t you understand? Edward’s French is truly superbe… Perhaps you should borrow the CDs I gave him.’ Then she’d smiled but only with her mouth, not those annoyingly attractive green eyes. Taking in the flawless skin with just a sprinkling of freckles, I smiled back. Classy. Refined. Stylish. I bet she didn’t even need to wear foundation. I just comforted myself with the fact that as a smoker, she’d look old before her time.

And then yesterday I’d walked out of the kitchen to grab an espresso for JC before the lunch hour started, only to see Monique standing next to Edward, her dainty hand on his arm, his face flushed…

Aarghh!

‘Bonjour,’ I said, back to Friday, the current day, me trying not to notice how Edward’s face had lit up. *Sigh*. Monique had it all – minimal make-up required and a figure suggesting she lived on nothing but air. She almost fitted the bill as Lady C’s idea of how a woman should look, except that her loose hair and clothes had a cool unconventional edge, plus her eyes teased in an openly flirtatious way.

Pierre jumped up to fetch her usual coffee and she sat down in his seat.

‘Comment vas tu?’ she said to Edward and pulled off her beanie hat. She spoke slowly for him but Edward managed a reply to each of her sentences – although after a minute he paused. ‘Sorry Gemma – we were just discussing…’

‘Don’t worry, I understood,’ I said, airily. ‘Monique has been ill but an… angelic friend helped her get better.’

Monique laughed out loud.

‘Not bad guesswork,’ said Edward and squeezed my knee, under the table.

‘What an enchanting translation,’ said Monique. ‘But tant pis – too bad – it is wrong. We were discussing the play I’m currently starring in.’

‘It’s called Le Malade Imaginaire,’ said Edward.

Well I knew the word “Malade” was something to do with being ill.

‘A comedy-ballet by the very famous Molière,’ said Monique. ‘I play Angelique…’

‘The daughter of hypochondriac Argan…’ added Edward.

Great. Now I felt stupid. And she was a ballerina, as well.

Then they were off again, except this time talking in English. However, it may as well have been another foreign language. I loved novels but knew little about seventeenth century plays and ended up staring towards the ceiling admiring the wrought iron candle chandelier. When Pierre came back – with a plate of yummy mini pear brioche buns – the conversation moved onto music. With not a lot to contribute, I sat there, stuffing my face.

Like Edward, the other two adored opera. The only opera singer I knew was the one from that annoying “Go Compare” advert. To be fair, over recent months, Edward had dutifully listened to my Rhianna and Beyoncé CDs. Then I’d sat through a performance of Madame Butterfly. However, unlike Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, being introduced to such high art didn’t move me to tears. It moved me to yawn, baboon-like, whilst struggling not to nod off. Seeing Edward’s eyes shine as he and Monique chatted passionately about arias and librettos (no, I don’t know what they are either), it made me wonder if… if he was missing out on a life he loved by dating me. I could never dissect the technicalities of an opera or spend hours listening to Placido Domingo CDs.

This uncomfortable question loomed even larger when the conversation switched to art. Just like Edward, Monique liked the contemporary stuff. I loved Edward. Edward loved me. But what if that wasn’t enough, once the passion faded? What if, long-term, our relationship really wasn’t meant to be?

With relief, I noticed Pierre glance at his watch. He exclaimed in French at the time and jumped up.

I put the list of email addresses in my pocket, stood up and made my excuses to head back to the kitchen. Monique didn’t acknowledge my departure. Before getting to his feet, Edward caught my eye and winked.

‘Monique’s typical of some French women,’ said Cindy, several hours later, as we wiped down the work surfaces, the last lunchtime customer having left. ‘The sparkle only comes out, honey, when she’s amongst the menfolk. It’s nothing personal, she just ain’t got much time for gals. And she ain’t ever short of male attention. Even Jean-Claude makes her a special dessert when she comes in. She likes mini versions – says she has to watch her figure, being an actress and all. Probably why she smokes.’

Mini versions? Like on Masterchef, the puds were already tiny at Chez Dubois – although the main courses were a decent size and more like home-cooking than fancy Cordon Bleu stuff.

Cindy tucked a strand of peroxide hair behind her ear that was pierced with a small Mickey Mouse earring. ‘You can’t blame her for warming to Edward – he’s as cute as a possum. And, well, I’ve kinda gotta know her over the last year. She’s never short of boyfriends but it’s only the ones she’s real serious about that she introduces to her friends – a group of writers, actors and singers she hangs out with, often in St Michel.’ Cindy shrugged. ‘I’m one of the honoured few to meet them, even though Monique and me ain’t that close. Talk about intellectual, honey. My idea of a protagonist in a story is Snow White or Mulan. Needless to say, the majority of them turned their noses up at Disneyland Paris.’

At that moment, Edward stuck his cute possum head around the kitchen door. I went over and kissed his lips.

‘Just think,’ I murmured, ‘tomorrow we’re off work and it’s our first day together, alone in the romantic French capital. I’m so excited! Tree-lined boulevards, blue skies, fancy pastries, the awesome skyline… We can spend the whole day together, just you and me.’

Pierre had given us the whole weekend as our first two days off – said it wouldn’t happen again, but that Saturday and Sunday were the busiest days of the week and we weren’t quite ready, after just a few days, to cope.

A pained look crossed Edward’s face. ‘Oh. Erm… Huge apologies, Gemma. I didn’t think you’d mind but Monique invited me – I mean, us, of course– out to a late lunch with her friends. They sound like a terribly interesting bunch, made up of singers, writers and who knows? Moni said to meet them tomorrow…’

Moni?

‘…at two o’clock,’ he continued, ‘in a jolly nice district of Paris called…’

Don’t tell me – St Michel.

My stomach twisted. I’d been not one week in Paris and already faced a beautiful, intelligent, artistic – and highly slappable! – love rival.