From Paris, With Love. Samantha Tonge

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?