From Paris With Love (8 page)

‘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.

Chapter 7

Slow, quick, slow quick, our bodies mirrored each other’s moves… Edward ran a finger down my back. My heart raced as his hips rhythmically thrust forwards and our mouths almost met…

Then the music stopped and the judge gave us ten out of ten. Despite what naughty
you
may have thought, I was simply daydreaming about Edward and me performing the salsa on one of my favourite TV dance shows.

Why? Because as we emerged from the St Michel Métro station, Edward told me that this part of Paris was also known as the Latin Quarter – cha cha cha! We’d got up early and thankfully the night’s heavy rain had stopped, leaving me with an irrational urge to walk through all the puddles. I’d suggested to Edward that we visited Notre Dame. Desperate as I was to go shopping, I put his interests first. It had nothing, at all, to do with wanting to prove myself interested in the intellectual stuff favoured by a certain new French female acquaintance.

Notre Dame wasn’t far from St Michel. We had until two o’clock and wow… Actually it was awesome. Prettily built, despite the creepy, kind of reptilian gargoyles staring from every angle…

‘This Catholic cathedral was built between the twelfth and fourteenth centuries, on this Île de la Cité, an island in the middle of the Seine river which runs through Paris,’ Edward had said, as if reading from an information leaflet. ‘The magnificent organ inside has over seven thousand pipes. There are ten bells and the wonderful statue of the Virgin and child. Plus…’

Oh dear. I tried, really I did, but kind of switched off and thought about that animated Disney film,
The Hunchback of Notre Dame
. History wasn’t my thing and beautiful as the Notre Dame was, I hadn’t wanted to spend ages inside admiring the stained glass windows and altar. Yet Edward was amazin’ and if we ever got chucked out of Chez Dubois he could easily earn us a living as a tour guide.

My stomach twisted. Since crossing the Channel, and for the first time since we’d got close, I was having serious doubts about the romantic combo of him, an aristocrat, and me, a former pizza waitress.

Having finally dragged Edward away from his beloved cathedral, we walked to St Michel. As the fresh air hit us, I pulled my coat tighter and hugged my leopard-print bag tight under my arm – apparently St Michel was a notorious spot for pickpockets. Alongside a group of tourists, I stared at the famous fountain. Edward took a photo on his phone and then jotted some notes into his ever-handy notebook.

Then he proceeded to tell me everything he’d researched about this area –which was close to the universities and considered pretty cool with younger crowds. Aw. His eyes shone with enthusiasm as he explained how the fountain represented Saint Michel wrestling with the devil. Nose pinching with cold, I admired the four marble pillars and winged dragons either side. Yeah, it was wicked, although I zoned out when Edward started listing its architects.

Perhaps next week it would be my turn to educate him with a trip to Boulevard Haussman, home to the MEGA department stores Printemps and Galeries Lafayette where Pierre’s girlfriend, Agnes, worked. Full of top fashion brands, gourmet food and awesome giftware… Then there was the well-known flea market at Porte de Clignancourt… See, I’d done my research too.

Not that Edward was a big shopper, but didn’t opposites attract? I mean, we weren’t from the same social class and that hadn’t held our love affair back. So why should the fact that I hated opera and he didn’t dig dance music, matter? I tried to ignore the little voice in my head saying that it was always a dangerous time for relationships, when the initial excitement started to become more routine; that now was the time we could be revealed as a real mismatch.

I suppressed a sigh as Edward approached the fountain and ran his hand over the stone, admiring an aspect of it that clearly went over my head.

‘Moni says this is one of her favourite spots in Paris,’ he muttered, eyes sparkling just that bit brighter.

Oh God. He was totally crushing on the French actress. Although crushes were okay, right? Many a night I’d dreamt of lush Robert Pattinson teaching me how to become a vegetarian vampire… But Monique was real. What if her appeal began to outweigh mine?

He took my hand.

‘Sorry, Gemma.’ He grinned. ‘I know this stuff can sound boring. I’m what you might call, a bit of an architecture geek.’

‘No it isn’t boring!’ I said brightly. ‘Now, tell me all about the marble again…’

‘I’d much rather stop talking for a while, if that’s all right with you,’ he murmured and leant forward for a kiss. Mmm. That was more like it. Hooray that months on from us meeting, Edward was finally happy to kiss in public.

Finally we drew apart and still holding hands, crossed Boulevard St Michel, in the direction of Rue de la Huchette which was apparently home to a variety of exotic foreign restaurants. My chest tightened, as the time to meet Monique and her friends approached. Chastising myself, I thought back to this morning and how Edward had fetched me breakfast in bed. My cheeks flushed as I recalled the reason my toast had gone cold. Edward’s kisses were always punctuated by soft mutterings of my gorgeousness. Not even well-read, talented Monique could turn his head, right?

Urgh! Enough with the insecurities! I shook myself. Gemma Goodwin was an amazin’ woman, who mixed easily with posh toffs, was helping an MI6 agent and could whip up a great meal, given a chopping knife and whisk.

Inwardly chanting this, I nodded as Edward pointed out the Caveau de la Huchette on the right – a renowned jazz club he’d heard of. I squeezed his hand. Perhaps we’d visit it alone one night. Jazz music always sounded kinda sexy and probably one of the few types of music that we both liked. See, we had things in common. Perhaps this trip would start to confirm that, instead of magnifying our differences. Tomorrow would be a big test as Cindy was taking us to Disneyland Paris.

‘Generous of Cindy to give us those Disney day passes she won, wasn’t it?’ I said. ‘She’s been there nine times since moving here twelve months ago. Plus, after leaving school, years ago, she got a job in the Florida theme park, selling hotdogs. How bonkers is that?’

‘Did I hear the horreeble word Disney?’ said a smooth French voice, followed by a loud tinkling laugh and the smell of smoke.

We turned around.

‘Moni!’ said Edward and, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, leant forward to kiss her on either cheek. She stood with four friends.

Reluctantly, as if an invisible ghost was pushing her forwards, Monique bent down to kiss me on the cheeks – or rather, air-kiss, as if my pores seeped arsenic. And then the four others proceeded to greet us. Cindy had tried to explain the rules to me about French kissing (no, not that sort – the type you did in polite company). Yikes, it sounded complicated – some people always started with a particular side and others automatically kissed a friend of a friend.

Kiss, kiss. ‘’Allo. I’m Anton – a playwright,’ said a man with big eyebrows and a heavy French accent. He put a cigarette back in his mouth.

‘Nice to meet you. I’m Gemma – um… a…’

‘Reealeety show star,
non
, so says Moni?’ said Anton.

The group wrinkled their noses in unison.

‘Satan’s invention, destroying my acting profession,’ muttered Thierry.

‘They take too much money which should be spent on quality drama productions…’ agreed Chantale. She smiled at me. ‘
Bonjour
, Gemma – I am a mime artist.’

‘Bla di bla di bla (French I didn’t understand),’ said Danielle, who bowed and mentioned a word that sounded like “musician”.