Читать книгу The Essential Ingredient - Love - Tracy Madden - Страница 12

Chapter 9

It was Monday morning. For the first time in a long while, Chilli had something to look forward to, instead of simply putting one wobbly foot in front of the other. She’d stayed up late the night before making up a detailed itinerary for Paris, and couldn’t wait for the travel agency to open.

The day before a fantastic review on Montgomery’s had gone to press. Could the weekend get any better? Yes perhaps, but that was never going to happen. People just didn’t come back from the dead; she had to stop wishing for miracles.

Already the phone had been ringing with best wishes from customers and friends who had read Sunday’s paper.

The tough-nosed food critic had given Sam huge accolades saying; ‘The Brisbane lad who cut his teeth at Ciel’s is wowing customers every time. Chef and co-owner, Sam Montgomery’s food is among the most exciting to be found on a Brisbane plate. If restaurants are reflections of an owner’s style, this one says a lot.’

Chilli was pleasantly surprised when she received a call from Jeff Bryson.

“Chilli, it’s Jeff. Jeff Bryson. I was in yesterday...”

Chilli cut him short. “Of course Jeff. How are you?”

“Wonderful. I wanted to tell you yesterday’s review was fantastic. Wanted to congratulate you guys, you’re doing a great job. The kids and I have voted and it’s unanimous. It’s now our favourite restaurant.”

Chilli found herself laughing with delight. “Thank you Jeff. We’ll look forward to your family coming in again soon.”

Even though she was still achingly aware of every muscle in her body, she almost skipped into the Italian coffee shop that afternoon. She saw the look on the old gent’s faces as they recognised that a more than subtle change had taken place. They pulled a chair up, waiting patiently for an explanation. With the flick of a wrist John Johnson summoned a waiter, and ordered a coffee and baci. She only interrupted by saying, today she wished for a delize. The gents exchanged glances.

Leaning forward she explained, “I did it.” Her brown eyes sparkled with excitement. “I ran the whole Bridge to Brisbane race.” She held her hands in the air like a champion. “Sam cheered me on every step of the way and in the end, ran with me. I wouldn’t have been able to do it without him. I know it’s a little silly, but I feel a real sense of achievement.”

“Well done, well done. We are pleased for you dear. We knew you would do it.” Bill clapped his hands, as if he was at the finish line congratulating her. He spoke for all of them, as he so often did. The other two nodded and murmured in agreement. They had all had become fond of her, and they had nursed her through her bereavement, all of them having experienced some loss in their own way.

After finishing describing every detail of the race and how she felt, she went on to tell them about the trip she would take with her mother to Paris.

“Ah my dear,” said John Johnson quietly, raising his eyes as he reminisced, “I first went to Paris at 21. It hit me with a sucker punch. It smelled different. It was exotic and tantalising. I was in love with everything from the women to the food, but the Paris I knew then is slowly disappearing, and the last time I went, it had almost vanished.”

He shook his head and for a moment spoke as if he was alone. “The art has all been moved and the cobbles have gone and the pissoires too. They were intrinsically French.” And then with a sparkle in his eye he continued on. “I had my first oyster in Paris at Capucines. It was a serious establishment. The oysters were presented on a bed of ice and I can only describe their taste as a mixture of creaminess with the scent of the sea.” Briefly he closed his eyes as if tasting them then and there. “They were heaven in my mouth. The aroma of garlic in the restaurants was pervasive, and to my untraveled nose, infinitely foreign, but terribly delicious. Paris’s great trick is quality. It does the same as everyone else – just does it better. It does it by silk and by hand. Luckily there is enough Paris in my head that I will continue to see it in my mind.” At this he slowly shook his head. “Ah the memories. The joie de vivre!”

Chilli tried to imagine him at 21. Although golf had kept him lean, his tanned face was heavily lined by the sun. However, she had no doubt he would have been a good looking man in his youth. His face had lit up as he had spoken and she sensed some far off memories had been awoken for him simply by reminiscing now. Touching his arm she asked gently, “Was she beautiful?”

Looking down at his joined hands resting on the table, he replied softly, “Exquisite!” And then he looked at her. “My first love. I will never forget her. She was slightly older than me. I was an inexperienced, immature foreigner. I wanted to marry her but her father wouldn’t hear of it. He said he didn’t want her living in a country with kangaroos and red dusty tracks. He thought I was too immature. He was right.” There was a sadness in his eyes, that time could not diminish.

“What happened?” she asked, resting her hand on his arm.

His face lit up again. “I came home and married May, the love of my life, God rest her soul.”

This rare insight into one of their personal lives was interrupted by Bill, who with a surprised look of pleasure on his face, caught the attention of an obvious friend. “Matt! Over here.” He waved to the much younger man, pulling a chair out for him.

Dressed in a pin striped suit, crisp white open neck shirt with starched collar and extra long cuffs showing at his wrists, Matt appeared to be someone who wore his success well. He was introduced to them all, and then Bill went on to explain that he had mentored Matt when he was first starting out in business.

Matt laughed. “Yes and we’ve enjoyed many a lively debate since.” He slapped the older man on the back, smiling all round.

“Join us for coffee?” Bill asked, indicating the seat.

“Don’t mind if I do.” As he slid his tall slim frame into the seat, he noticeably winced and rubbed the back of his thigh.

“What have you done?” Bill inquired.

“I ran the Bridge to Brisbane yesterday and I think I’ve pulled my hamstring.” Once again Matt massaged his thigh.

Chilli’s face lit up. “I ran that too. Wasn’t it fantastic?”

Matt laughed and grimaced at the same time. “Can I let you into two newly acquired secrets of the universe, being as I have just finished my first Bridge to Brisbane?”

“And what may they be?”

“Firstly, the phrase fun-run, is and will always be an oxymoron. And secondly, if you insist on pushing your body to extremes, eventually it will turn on you. I speak from experience.”

She laughed. It was true. However, she continued to discuss every second of the race and Matt was astute enough to realise what an accomplishment it had been for her.

Finishing his coffee, Matt pushed his chair back and gingerly stood up, unable to stop the fleeting look of pain on his face as he did. He leant on the back of Bill’s chair. Once more he shook hands all around. “I have to get back to the office. I’ve got a late meeting. It was great to meet you all.” He nodded at Chilli. “Might see you running around some of the tracks sometime soon. Bill, we’ll speak soon, no doubt.”

“Don’t be a stranger, you know where we are.”

“Thanks. At least I’ll know where to come to get a good argument.” Matt laughed, giving the older gent a slap on the back, then gripping his hand warmly.

Watching him go, Merve voiced what they were all thinking, “He seems a nice young fellow.”

Bill nodded. “Yes he is. He’s in corporate real estate over at Paddington, but has come across to straighten out this branch for the next month or two. Doing quite nicely for himself I believe.”

Draining the last mouthful of coffee from her cup and extracting every ounce of inestimable pleasure from the wafer thin crescent shaped almond biscuit, Chilli wished her friends au revoir and headed to the pharmacy.

Mentally she began listing things she’d need for the trip, and was a little surprised when a young man from the Lancôme cosmetic house interrupted her to demonstrate a new anti-wrinkle cream.

“May I?” he asked, taking her left hand and dispensing exactly three pumps into her palm. Using his thumb, he slowly and rhythmically massaged. The nerve endings jumped at his touch, and she felt a slight moan almost escape her lips. Snatching her hand back, she nervously coughed.

“Now Madam, compare your hands,” he instructed, probably for the hundredth time that day. Slowly as if in a trance she glanced down her smooth left palm and then across at her, not so smooth, right palm. There did appear to be a difference. But she wasn’t thinking about the skin on her hand; she was thrown by her unexpected reaction to his touch.

For the rest of the day, Chilli couldn’t shake her discomfort. Feelings had awakened that she would have been happy to have left buried.

Yes, she admitted to herself, she desperately missed love making with Rob, but mostly, she missed the warm physical contact of someone that she loved so much. The way they’d lie together afterwards, with him lazily stoking her back, and her running her hands through his hair and gently massaging his ear lobes; him kissing the top of her head, and her planting tiny kisses on his chest. These tiny things, that become the habit or ritual for two people who have been married a long time, were the things she missed the most.

The constant realisation that she had to live for the rest of her life without him, jolted her with a fear deep in the pit of her stomach. She must focus on Paris and anything else that might keep her busy; too busy for the pain of remembering.