Page 14 of The Bordeaux Book Club
‘What?’
‘It’s not what colour, it’s whatflavour!’ her daughter explained impatiently.
To be honest, it’s also a colour, Leah thought but didn’t say. ‘OK, what flavour?’ she asked, holding onto her patience by a thread.
‘Pink.’
Leah gave a tight smile and went to stand at the counter. To her left, in a kitchen area, she could see two people working – icing cakes, kneading pastry. The smell of sweetness and coffee hung in the air, making her stomach growl.
As the customer before her left, she stepped forward and made her order – a coffee, a mint tea, a pinkmacronand atarte au citron.
The woman nodded. ‘Un Macron?’ she said, with a small giggle.
‘Oui, un macron.’ Leah repeated. ‘Fraise,’ she added.
She glanced over at Scarlett and was surprised to see her daughter staring fixedly in the opposite direction, the top of her ears red.
‘Ah but we do not serve ’im,’ the woman said, breaking into English.
‘But I can see…’ she pointed at the array of colourful macarons arranged beautifully under the glass viewing pane.
‘Ah un mac-a-ron,madame,’ the server said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. ‘But you have asked me for, how you say, the president of France, with some strawberries.’
‘Oh.’
‘And I do not have ’im in stock right now. And I am not sure what ’is wife will say if I try to cover ’im with fruit,non?’
Leah laughed. ‘Sorry, mac-a-ron,’ she said, catching the woman’s humour. ‘Je préfère l’option végétarienne!’
She was still smiling when she made her way back to their table, two cups and saucers rattling and threatening to spill on their delicious treats. She set the tray down. ‘Well, that was embarrassing,’ she said, not really meaning it.
‘For God’s sake, Mum,’ Scarlett hissed. ‘Why do you have to do that all the time?’
‘Do what?’ Leah felt her humour seep away.
‘Well, your accent, and saying Macron instead of macaron. I thought I’d be safe!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, you know I like millefeuille, but you say it like mille filley – it’s so embarrassing,’ Scarlett said, taking a bite out of her mac-a-ron and scowling. ‘So I thought, I know, I’ll ask for something else. And you did that.’
‘Scarlett! It was nothing. And it was funny, if anything.’
Scarlett’s expression made it very clear that she did not share the joke. ‘But why do you have to talk like that?’
‘Like what?’ If anything, Leah felt rather proud of her French. Sure, it wasn’t perfect, but three years of lessons had meant she could negotiate most situations and be understood.
‘Like – I dunno – like you’re on holiday or something!’ Scarlett said. ‘It’s so embarrassing!’
‘My… my accent?’
‘Yes!’ said Scarlett, screwing up her face. Three years of complete immersion, added to the fact that she had still beenvery young when they’ve moved, meant her daughter spoke French flawlessly in an accent that sounded local. But, as she’d been in her forties by the time she’d started learning in earnest, Leah knew she’d always sound a little like an Englishwoman speaking a foreign tongue. And she was OK with that.
She felt herself get hot. But she’d taken her daughter out to bond with her, not fight. She could very well do that at home. She held her patience and tried to change the subject. ‘Love this café though,’ she said.
Scarlett nodded. ‘It’s alright.’
‘I just…’
