From Paris, With Love. Samantha Tonge

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ