Christmas at Tiffany's (41 page)

‘I know you’re in there, Claude. You’re
always
in there. Please let me in. I just want to talk to you.’ She paused. ‘I’m worried about you.’

Nothing. Silence was very loud when you didn’t want to hear it.

She turned around in a restless circle, debating what to do next. Pitch a camp? Starve him out? Smoke him out maybe?

‘Cassie.’

She looked up. Claude was standing at the top of the alley, a huge brown paper bag filled to overflowing in his arms.

‘Claude! Oh, you’re there!’ she said, relief flooding her as she ran towards him. ‘I’ve been trying to . . . well, I thought you were . . .’ He flipped off the hood of his parka and looked down at her, and she stopped short at the sight of him. He had shaved off his beard and had a haircut. He was wearing clean navy chinos instead of his grubby old jeans, with a white shirt and grey jumper. He even had a scarf twisted around his neck, in that way that only French men can pull off. He looked really . . .
good
. The revelation was startling.

‘God, look at you,’ she said, astonished. ‘You ought to punch people more often.’

He laughed his rare crinkly laugh and walked past her, and she noticed even his walk had changed – his usual shuffle had been replaced by a casual, loping stride. He got out his keys and opened the door.

‘Coffee?’ he asked.

Cassie could only nod.

They walked into the apartment and she gazed around in yet more amazement. During all her visits, the kitchen had never been anything less than spotlessly clean and sparkling, ever-ready for culinary action. But the rest of the apartment . . . mmm, not so much. The blinds were always down, with never a window open or a fire set, a bed made or a cushion plumped. Dirty clothes infused the apartment with a dank, musty smell that made you feel like you were living in a shoe, but today . . .

‘And to think I was worried about you,’ she muttered, going from room to spotless room without even bothering to ask permission whilst he unpacked the bag. The Muse fracas clearly hadn’t just signalled the end of an era for her relationship with Luke.

She saw that the grey duvet on his bed was clean, ironed and pulled up. She even spotted a bunch of freesias in a vase on the bedside table. Did he have a woman?

The thought jolted her as she felt the jealousy switch on in her like a light, her territorialism springing from the only child’s delight of having enjoyed his undivided attention until now. Was ‘enjoyed’ the word? Sometimes it had felt like standing in front of a firing squad, but she would have willingly put up with worse just so long as she could carry on sharing this huge passion with him. Rightly, wrongly, selfishly, she liked having him all to herself.

Maybe it’s because I’m giving all of myself to him? she wondered as she wandered back into the kitchen and watched him in uncharacteristic silence. She had no job that she cared about, no man to divert her from this big new love. She’d found her path, here in Paris, and the idea of it becoming diluted or lessened through
sharing
filled her with horror. Suzy had said come to London if Claude cut her out, but by the same token, if he invited her to stay, would she? Could he succeed where Luke had failed? Could she really turn her back on this and move over to London – to another makeover, overhaul, revamp?

He set a coffee on the table, smiling at her benignly.

‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on?’ she asked, walking over to pick it up. She perched on a tall stool and watched him begin to chop onions and garlic with speedy grace. ‘You’ve not returned any of my calls. And I couldn’t get hold of you last week for our lessons.’

He looked up. ‘I know,’ he smiled.

She watched him. No apology. No explanation. The man was infuriating.

‘That’s all?’ she asked, irritated. ‘Hmmph. I think I liked you better before.’

Claude gave a low chuckle and shook his head. He didn’t believe that for a second.

‘I have been very busy,’ he said, smashing the side of the knife down with the heel of his hand on a clove of garlic.

‘I can see that,’ she said crossly. ‘Just getting a brush through your hair must have taken a week.’

He chuckled again.

‘Shaving that beard off must have required a small army.’

He laughed out loud, and she rolled her eyes in defeat, losing inspiration and the desire for insults in the face of his laughter.

He put his knife down and stared at her, fixing her with his black eyes. ‘I have a job.’

Cassie gasped. ‘A
job?
’ She repeated it with the same awe as if he’d said he’d communed with Elvis.

She noticed his knuckles were still reddened and swollen from when he’d hit Luke.

‘I have a new backer. We are opening on the old site of Maxim’s in the premier.’ One eyebrow was arched ever so slightly, betraying a well-suppressed desire to impress her. ‘My backer has given me carte blanche – my team, my budget, my menus, my rules.’

Cassie gawped at him, both delighted and horrified at the same time. This would surely mean an end to their lessons? ‘When?’ she asked, managing to keep a ghost of a smile on her face.

‘We launch in May. Once the refit is completed.’

May? So she wouldn’t even be here to see it. It was the third week in March now and spring was definitely on the march to Paris, but she wasn’t scheduled to see summer.

‘I can’t believe it,’ she murmured, shell-shocked. ‘It’s such great news. The best.’

He looked up, smiling. ‘Yes, it is. And it is thanks to you.’

‘To me?’

‘Taking me to the exhibition. It woke me up. When I saw those pictures of you . . .’ She instantly blushed at the thought that he’d seen her naked . . . ‘it reminded me of what passion can do. The greatness we can achieve. I had forgotten that. I had been immersed in misery for so long that misery itself had become my pleasure. It was all I knew how to be.’

She stared at him, puzzled. He was essentially saying the photos were great. ‘But . . . but . . . you punched him.’

‘Yes, of course. Because he did not have your permission to show them, he violated your trust.’ He shrugged as if to say ‘I
had
to punch him’. ‘But the photos themselves? They are beautiful. You are beautiful. It is clear the passion he has for you. Anyone could see it. They were able to touch even a man steeped in misery like me. It made me want to bring that vigour back to my life, so I said “yes”. It is time to live again.’

Cassie watched in silence as he went back to the chopping board. She wanted to kick herself for ever having texted him that night. She should have just stood him up – or better still, not gone to the exhibition herself. She sighed heavily. It seemed her loss was Paris’s gain.

‘What are you making?’ she asked, baffled by the mix of ingredients, but her voice sounded strained.

‘I’m trying a new recipe – feuille and red wine-poached pear with a mint salad and pomegranate reduction. You will be my guinea pig?’

‘Sure,’ she said vaguely, wondering how long this proposal had been in the offing. Heading up a brand new restaurant didn’t happen overnight. He must have been in negotiations for months – and he’d never said a word.

She realized, dejectedly, that the store she placed by their relationship went one way. She was just a student, a wide-eyed, overawed pupil with a crush on her teacher’s talent. Claude Bouchard was the real deal, a big name in professional kitchens and someone with more to prove and more to do than simply give pastry tips to a spinning divorcee with nudity clauses. She’d been naïve to think that her offer of friendship had meant anything to him, or that shopping together at the market in some way enriched his life in the way it enriched hers.

Hadn’t she seen for herself for these past few months how morose and depressed he’d been living at that level? Whatever his reasons for stepping back from the Michelin stars three years ago, he was a different person back under their twilight. It was where he belonged. This was what he needed, not her friendship.

She took a deep breath, scared to ask the question, but knowing she couldn’t leave without an answer. ‘So when will we stop then? You and me?’ Her eyes widened as the next thought hit her. ‘Or have we already?’

Claude glanced up at her. ‘Well, we shall do this for a few more weeks,
oui
? Going through recipes. We can prepare the menu together.’

Cassie nodded, devastated. What he meant was – I’ll come up with the ideas and cook them – you watch and eat.

‘But then I think we need to concentrate on your puddings.’

She nodded. He had quickly honed in on her favourite discipline, making desserts and trifles, cakes, macaroons, biscuits and so on.

‘Because you are very good at those, but if you are going to be my pastry chef then you need to be absolutely—’

‘
What?
’

He wiped his hands on a cloth and faced her, hands on hips and a smile all over his face. ‘I said if you’re going to be my pastry chef, then we need to bring you up to speed on filo and—’

Cassie was off the stool, across the kitchen and into his arms in a shot. ‘Oh! Do you mean it?’

He nodded awkwardly, looking comically constrained by her physical gesture.

She looked up at him again in sudden alarm, dropping her arms. ‘Oh, but – I surely can’t be ready, can I? I mean, it’s one thing to work with you here. But in a kitchen with other professional chefs . . .’ Panic swept over her features.

‘Ordinarily, I would say no. It is early days for you. But . . .’ He smiled down at her. ‘I see you work, I see your passion for this. You have much natural talent, Cassie. We just need to build your confidence. This is what you should be doing. It is very clear to me.
Nobody
I have ever taught has had tears in their eyes like you when I show them how to let the knife sink into the apples for Tarte Tatin.’

‘But it was an emotional experience. I don’t understand how other people can’t feel that.’

‘That is what I mean. You are a natural. You have the passion. And I have the expertise, the time and the . . . inclination to train you. I will be there to lead you every step of the way.’

Cassie threw her arms around him again, pushing her cheek up against his chest so that she looked like a cabbage patch doll. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you – oh, thank you,’ she whispered. ‘I won’t let you down. I promise I won’t. I want this more than anything.’

‘You’ll have to call me Chef,’ he said, trying to be stern but failing with the ridiculously crinkly smile on his face.

‘Of course.’

‘And no hugging in the kitchen.’

‘Fair enough,’ she chuckled, dropping her arms. ‘When shall I hand in my notice to Dior?’

‘Not yet. I have lots to do still, and you have to get the party out of the way first.’

‘I guess so.’

Ever since she’d come up trumps with the location, Florence had given her more and more responsibility for the night. Her burgeoning passion for cooking – which had come to Florence’s attention at Anouk’s birthday dinner – meant she was now overseeing the menu for the canapés as well as the goody bags. For someone who was working simply to pay the rent, she’d netted herself an increasingly fancy job.

‘So we’ll work on the menus together and train you up in the recipes. Then from the end of April you can come and work with me, full time.’

Cassie clapped her hands together gleefully, scarcely able to believe that she was going to work properly in a kitchen with Claude Bouchard. It was the most perfect ending! She’d found her way at last! Life was going to be in Paris. Here was her Happy Ever After, and it didn’t include a man. At least, not in
that
way.

There was only one small blot on her perfect happiness – having to tell Suzy (and Henry) that she wasn’t going to get to London after all.

Cassie sat with the French windows open, her feet propped up against the railing of the Juliet balcony and a fresh coffee steaming in her hands. She had to enjoy the river views whilst she could – she had, just this morning, paid a whopping deposit she could scarcely afford on a grotty bedsit in the treizième, and was going to be moving in in just over a fortnight. She felt like a proper grown-up, with a job and a home of her own, and a divorce on the way.

She wanted to tell someone, but it was Easter weekend and Anouk was away with Pierre, staying at a small chateau (hopefully sorting things out between them), and Claude was on the Normandy coast, trying to tie a noted fish supplier in Le Havre to an exclusive contract.

The bateaux-mouches were filling up daily now, after months of sailing past with just a few intrepid tourists braving the river chill. But after such a bitter winter, spring had hit the city like a flood. The trees were stubbled with leaves, and tulips and narcissi swayed from every flower bed. The sun had impressive focus now too, leaving behind its cold pale wintery colourwash and tinting everything with a thick yellowish hue instead.

It beamed down on Cassie like a spotlight; she could feel the fresh air regenerate and revive her. She knew that soon enough she was going to see only the four walls of the restaurant kitchen and hear nothing other than the frantic shouts of the line cooks, and she would look back on this leisurely period – working in the glossy LVMH offices with little more to stress her than sorting out a party, and sleeping late at weekends – as a purple patch in her life, the last dreamscape before reality hit.