The Oddest Little Chocolate Shop in London

First published as a digital edition 2014

Copyright
©
Beth
Good 2014

All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

No part of this book can be reproduced in part or in
whole or transferred by any means without the express written permission of the
author.

This is a work of fiction. Any names of places or
characters are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to
actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

CHAPTER ONE

In Which Butter Is Most Lavishly Applied

Dashing up the steps from the tube station,
Clementine paused to double-wrap her soft green pashmina about her throat
– the wind was biting that morning, quite vampiric – and glanced at
the chocolate shop opposite with her usual grimace: a stab of pure primeval yearning
mixed with the age-old fear of widening of the hips.

  
Ravel’s Chocolaterie de Londres
.

  
It
was a tall, narrow Victorian building with a very tempting chocolate-shaped
sign in metal scrollwork hanging above the display window. Inside, the shop premises
stretched far back, lit discreetly at intervals by soft uplighters on the
red-papered walls, a rich and intimate corridor of tiered chocolates and gift
displays on either side. She had been inside on many memorable occasions and could
still recall the luxurious smell of those handmade chocolates, and the equally
gorgeous dark eyes of its French owner, Monsieur Ravel.

  
Like inhaling love.
It was well-known
that chocolate could enhance sexual drive and performance, she thought
defensively, and even make a woman more attractive to men, via some
hormonal-chemical-reaction-thingy which she did not understand, but which had
sounded entirely plausible when she read about it in a health magazine in the
dentist’s waiting room.

  
Besides,
Clementine
adored
the taste of chocolate.
Ordinarily she would be in this shop every few days, browsing and buying chocs
to her greedy heart’s content. But though she had burnt off such excess
luxuries in her teens, she was twenty-three now and every chocolate she
consumed seemed to find its way unerringly to her hips, thighs and squashy
bottom. So she had sworn not to touch chocolate for an entire year, one of
those absurd promises you make when you step on the scales after a long period
of backsliding and wonder if cutting your hair would make a difference. She still
had three months to run on her resolution.

  
Most
days she passed the chocolate shop without a second glance, knowing it to be
sternly out of bounds until her year of ‘no chocolates’ was up.

  
Today
though her gaze snagged on the window display longingly, her soul hungry for
something pure, something wonderful, something uplifting. Like chocolate. And her
gaze stopped there, bemused.

  
The
shop window was empty. There were no chocolates in sight.

  
‘How
very odd,’ Clementine said to nobody in particular, and began to feel aggrieved
as well as puzzled. ‘Where have all the delicious chocolates gone?’

  
Her
reflection stared back at her mutely: a too-tall blonde with flyaway hair that
simply would not behave on this windy day, slanted hazel eyes and a generous
mouth. Generous, her mother used to say, because it was forever opening and
spouting words. And usually at the worst possible moments.

  
She
wondered if the little chocolate shop had gone bust and was shutting down. Poor
Monsieur Ravel. So many small businesses in the area seemed to be failing in
this horrible recession, it would hardly be surprising if another had gone
under.
But chocolates …

  
Surely
that was a luxury many people reached for when under stress?

  
Monsieur
Ravel’s chocolates were expensive though, it was true. Maybe his usual
customers had started to cut back on their orders, and now he could no longer
afford to keep his business open.

  
That
would be a terrible shame, Clementine thought, remembering Monsieur Ravel with
sudden fascination. She paused a few minutes longer, staring into the darkened
interior to no avail. Then she started hunting for a notice in the window,
anything that might indicate imminent closure. But she could see nothing but
empty display shelves, and had to move aside after several harried-looking commuters
elbowed her in the side.

  
One
middle-aged man in a pinstriped suit and black overcoat glared at her
accusingly, muttered ‘Excuse me,’ in a haughty manner, then worked around the
admittedly large obstacle of her body in the flow of rush-hour commuters.

  
A
bitter gust of wind swirled about the street in his wake. Clementine shivered,
tightening the pashmina still further.

  
I
bet that man could do with some expensive chocolates, she considered, watching
his disappearing back. Or his wife could. A little treat to make her life
sweeter.

  
Talking
of which, she could do with a small chocolate or two herself. It was nearly a
year since she gave them up, after all, and she was not planning to go without
treats forever. That would be ridiculous, she told herself. Everyone needs a
treat now and then.

  
As
she turned to enter the shop, she nearly fell over a large white Persian cat
squeezed into the shelter of the doorway like a goalkeeper. The cat tilted its
head, staring up at her with slitty-eyed determination as if to say, ‘You look
like a football and you shall not pass.’

  
‘Oh,
you’re gorgeous!’ Clementine reached down on impulse to stroke the cat’s silky
fur. ‘Do you live here, pussy? Are you a chocolate shop cat?’

  
The
cat continued to stare, its green eyes slowly widening.

  
‘You
look rather sad,’ she thought aloud, tickling the cat behind its ears. ‘But then
you’re probably freezing, poor thing.’

  
The
cat began to purr weakly.

  
It
was so viciously cold out in the wind, she scooped up the green-eyed cat without
considering whether that would be a good idea, given that her green pashmina
loved cat hair so much it often refused to let go of it over several careful handwashes,
and swept majestically into the shop with the cat.

  
‘Hello?’

  
There
was no one in sight, so she pushed on down the narrow shop, taking note of all
the empty display cases, and into the dark space at the back where one of those
bead curtains separated the chocolate preparation area from the shop itself.

  
‘Hello,
is anybody there?’ she called out, feeling a little foolish.

  
The
cat wriggled in her arms, then hissed a furious warning.

  
Instinctively,
guessing that claws would be next, Clementine opened her arms and let the
ungrateful feline jump down. She looked up in dismay a second later as the bead
curtain rattled. ‘Oh, oops. Hello.’

  
‘Bonjour,
mademoiselle.’

  
It
was Monsieur Ravel himself, his dark eyes rather aloof as he studied first the
cat, now licking its fur disdainfully at his feet, then her flushed cheeks and
probably horribly dishevelled hair.

  
Goodness,
he really was very good-looking. Late twenties, she guessed, and not an ounce
of spare flesh on him.

  
I
bet he works out, she thought, trying not to imagine him in shorts on a
treadmill.

  
And
now she was staring. And he had noticed.

  
‘How
may I help you?’ he asked, his eyebrows still raised as he waited for her to
respond. ‘Forgive me, mademoiselle, but as you can see, we are not open to customers
at the moment.’

  
‘Well,
yes, that’s why I came in,’ she managed, feeling foolish. He had definitely
seen her staring at him, because now he was staring back. Perhaps he thought
she was just shortsighted. Which was even worse, she considered. Either she
looked consumed by lust or myopic. Possibly both at the same time. Ugh.

  
‘We
do not allow animals in the shop, I’m afraid, mademoiselle. Except guide dogs. Hygiene
regulations.’

  
‘Of
course not. But I thought … ’ Was the Frenchman laughing at her behind that
sardonic expression? She drew herself up to her full height. ‘He … She’s not
your cat, then?’

  
‘What
makes you think this is my cat?’

  
‘Well,
she was sitting outside your shop. On the mat.’

  
‘The
cat was sitting on the mat, mademoiselle?’

  
The
chocolatier was definitely mocking her. But gently, in that very French way, as
though to say Monsieur would not be so rude as to laugh in her face, but as
soon as she had gone …

  
‘Um,
yes,’ she said, very flustered now.

  
‘Alas,
mademoiselle, I do not own a cat.’

  
The
white cat had stopped licking its fur and was now exploring the furniture,
sniffing at the empty display cases.

  
‘Oh,
well, I’m sorry,’ she muttered. ‘I’ll take the cat out with me again. I just
assumed
it belonged to you.’

  
‘Then
your assumption was mistaken, mademoiselle.’

  
‘Clearly.’

  
Yet
she found herself curiously unwilling to leave the shop, looking at him more
closely instead. Usually the dark-haired chocolatier was wearing a sombre black
apron over a tight-fitting three piece suit in steel grey, an outfit that sent
her pulses fluttering whenever she came in for truffles and a bag of those
mouthwatering chocolates piped with delicate lemon or raspberry mousse. No, today
he was even more sexy, clad in faded blue denim jeans and a chest-hugging white
tee-shirt that showed off a body as fit and mouthwatering as those lemon
chocolates.

  
She
tried not to ogle him, but of course it was like trying not to breathe. His
crisp white shirt was unbuttoned and hanging open, sleeves rolled up to his
elbows, and oh goodness, he looked tasty.

  
Those muscular forearms!

  
Monsieur
Ravel was waiting for her to leave, she realised. But how on earth could she leave
when every biological urge in her body was screaming at her to stand there and
stare at him for hours like a village idiot?

  
‘Is
there something else I can help you with?’ he prompted her politely, but she
caught him sneaking a quick peek at his wristwatch.

  
‘You
… You’re not dressed for work.’

  
‘As
you see, mademoiselle.’

  
‘And
there aren’t any chocolates on display.’

  
‘I
fear not, mademoiselle.’

  
She
blurted out, ‘You’re not closing down, are you? I mean, I really love your
little chocolate shop, and it would be a travesty – a disaster, in fact –
if you were going out of business. And I would totally blame myself too,
because I used to come in here all the time. Do you remember? Probably not,
because I don’t think I ever saw you serving behind the counter – I would
have remembered
that
– but
perhaps you saw me. Well, I was always buying your gorgeous little truffle
bags, and the fruit-flavoured mousse selections, and oh god, those Chocolate
Orgasms! But then, the diet came along, you know, and …’

  
He
was staring now, his eyes hardening, and she did not know how to finish.

  
‘Oh,
please don’t look at me like that, Monsieur Ravel. Tell me you’re not closing
down. That you’re just renovating.’

  
He
looked at her in silence, then ran a hand across his face. It was a gesture of
despair, of total vulnerability.

  
Clementine
felt awful, and could have bitten her tongue out. So there was something wrong.
But what?

  
A
second later, his chin came up, his dark eyes pinpointed her coldly, and the
very beautiful mouth said, ‘Mademoiselle, I thank you for your interest but I
must ask you to leave. At the risk of repeating myself, we are not open to
customers.’

  
Ouch.
That was her told
. Maybe the
chocolatier was less vulnerable than she had thought. Maybe he just had
indigestion. Or maybe it was her rambling idiocy that had made him despair. It
always made her sister despair. Once Florrie had even shoved her in a cupboard
to shut her up. In vain.

  
‘Well,’
was all she managed to say, very hot in the face now.

  
The
cat was weaving between her legs, purring. She picked the animal up, cradling
it like a baby. A fluffy baby with a crossly whisking tail.

  
Was
it a girl cat or a boy cat? She could not keep on thinking of the poor creature
as an ‘it’. But there was no way she was lifting its tail to check its bits in
front of this man. Tempting though it was to have a quick rummage down there,
if only to see his horrified expression.