There’s no reply so I continue to the bistro, where I’m meeting Geneviève. Once a week we have lunch together on a day the market is closed. I arrive first and am seated at an outdoor table with a stunning view of thela tour Eiffel. As expected, Geneviève is late, so I order a bottle ofviognierwhile I wait, knowing she’ll arrive whenever she damn well pleases. It’s just her way.
I look up at the sound of a commotion near the door and catch sight of Pascale, arguing with the maître d’. What is he doing here? Of all the places in Paris to dine, how have we managed to choose the same place? I take my menu and do my best to hide behind it while Pascale argues with the waitstaff. When he swings his head in my direction, I shrink lower in my seat. Why is he looking over at me? I let out a yelp when he walks to my table before it dawns on me. That crafty so-and-so. She’s done the old bait-and-switch routine.
‘You’re not Geneviève,’ Pascale says bluntly, standing over the top of me, drowning out the sunlight with his huge frame.
‘You have great powers of deduction.’
He grunts.
‘Are you going to stand over the top of me like that or are you going to sit down?’
‘But…’ He takes a seat opposite me.
‘I agree, this isn’t ideal. I was supposed to be meeting Geneviève too. More to the point, why were you meeting her?’ Is he under her spell? She does tend to go for younger men, the broodier and moodier the better, so this wouldn’t surprise me, but she’s not here and I am, so I know exactly what she’s up to. She’d make a great matchmaker herself.
‘She wanted to order a typewriter.’
I laugh. ‘You fell for that?’
‘I did.’
‘I suppose she wants us to sort out our… differences.’ She wants me to fall in love with the guy or have some hot, lusty fling, but I don’t dare educate him on that. The less he knows about her motivations the better.
‘Well, I don’t know about that but I am hungry.’
‘I wouldn’t expect anything less.’ Talk about rude! He can’t even admit he’s at fault.
‘Shall we order?’ He picks up a menu. He’s not big on small talk which isn’t a surprise. The waiter returns with an ice bucket and bottle of Louis Roederer and two champagne glasses.
‘Excusez moi?’ I say. ‘I orderedviognier, not champagne.’
‘It’s a gift,’ he says, taking a small pad from his shirt pocket and flipping it open to a page. ‘From Geneviève. She offered her apologies for not making it to meet you today and has settled lunch for you both.’
‘Oh, has she now?’ I’m quietly fuming. The meddler! Now I have to sit across from this surly dining companion for as long as it takes me to inhale a salad.
‘She chose the degustation menu. Eight courses with wine pairings.’
Eight courses! I paste on a smile. ‘That seems a little extravagant.’
‘Don’t worry,’ the waiter says, giving me a smile while somehow also looking supercilious in that particular French way. ‘They’re small serves.’
‘Oui,’ Pascale says. ‘I had a large breakfast…’
Contempt flashes across the waiter’s face. ‘It’s been done.’ His severe tone brooks no argument.
We lapse into silence as he unwraps the foil off the bottle of champagne.
‘Congratulations,’ the waiter says dully. I narrow my eyes.
‘Congratulations?’
‘Aren’t you celebrating?’
‘Non?’ Pascale says. ‘Can you hurry this up? I’ve got places to be.’
He can’t even share lunch with me without wanting to rush off.
‘You don’t have to stay, you know.’
