The Last Dress from Paris(31)
Given that we are doing exactly that ourselves, Leon does make me briefly think of my own lack of boyfriend. But the arrival of our hot chocolate is all it takes for that flicker of sadness to evaporate.
Our waiter is back with a small white china jug that is full of steaming chocolate the thickness of soup. No frills. No marshmallows, definitely none of that synthetic squirty cream I normally drown mine in at home. Leon pours us a cup each and then nods for me to take the first taste. And of course, it’s heaven. Silky smooth, filling my mouth and coating my tongue; the sweetness and the heat swim luxuriously down my throat, and all I can think is how much more I want. And not just of this but of Paris too.
Of just a little more adventure.
I notice the look of recognition on Leon’s face, like he’s remembering the first time he ordered hot chocolate at Brasserie Lipp, and as he raises his own cup to his full pink lips, my eyes linger there longer than is probably decent.
“Thank you,” I say when he lowers the cup and licks his top lip unselfconsciously.
“For what?”
“For your time, for closing the shop and coming with me. You were only supposed to be dropping me off, not coming on the full tour,” I remind him.
“No thanks necessary, I did it for my grandfather, really. He’ll be hanging on my every word when I relay all this to him later. And I suppose you’ve done me a favor. They always say you never see the beautiful places in your own city, and today, thanks to you, I managed to tick one off. My arrangement with the Pompidou is quite casual, I’ll text them and let them know I’ll make up the hours another day.”
“And I’m not keeping you from anyone else?” I’m fiddling with the spoon, trying to make the inquiry sound super casual. It just seems that someone as obviously handsome as Leon would have a partner, and I don’t want to get excited about stealing some more of his time if it’s out of the question.
“Ha! No, no furious girlfriend about to burst in here and demand to know who you are, don’t worry.”
“Okay, good to know.” I am willing myself not to blush at this point.
“What about you? Anyone waiting for you back in England?”
I don’t know why I falter over my response. It should be a straight, easy no, I don’t have a boyfriend, but somehow it comes out as “Well, no, not exactly. There is someone who is lingering, and shouldn’t be, but that’s my fault as much as his” before I drain the last of my hot chocolate, more to give my mouth something to do beyond blathering on, I think.
“You are funny!” chuckles Leon for some reason. “Let me just send that text before I forget.”
While he taps away, I notice a woman sitting on her own on the opposite side of the restaurant. She’s a little older than me but not much, wearing a smart black skirt and jacket. She’s eating a crème br?lée, one that’s not far off the size of your average dinner plate. She’s enjoying every spoonful she raises to her mouth. She’s not flicking through her phone, reading a newspaper, or fiddling with her handbag. She’s focusing on nothing more than eating her dessert, just sitting with herself. There is nothing selfconscious about her at all. She seems very at ease with her own company. She reminds me of why I always longed to travel. To gain that window, however small, into a foreign life that isn’t yours but that you understand and maybe aspire to. Perhaps to realize people aren’t so different.
She also makes me cast my mind back to the Christmases after Dad left, when Mum and I would go away for the holidays, just the two of us. It was nothing like this. It was never the authentic experience I now realize I craved. The house was always the best in whatever town or village she chose. But every year my heart would sink when on day one the chef she’d hired would arrive and I knew this was yet another place we’d never get to explore where the locals ate. A driver meant we never got lost in the backstreets, never discovered a hidden beach or a tourist-free patch of sun that might be just ours for the afternoon. I wanted adventure and realness. Mum wanted ease and convenience, a different view from the window while she worked, as she always did, missing everything that was new and interesting—missing another chance to get to know me because deadlines couldn’t be missed and targets had to be hit.
At first it made me angry. What was the point of going away together if we weren’t going to be together? Then, as I got older, I realized how sad her situation was. Earning all that money, but never having the freedom to enjoy it. What pleasure could there be seeing it accumulate in a bank account, knowing whatever she spent it on came with a second price tag that could never be fully repaid to bosses who would never be satisfied? I think she saw spending the money as a way to alleviate her guilt. If I couldn’t have her, then I could at least go on a better holiday than anyone else in my class because of her.
There’s something about this woman’s confidence in particular that makes me want to stay right here in Paris, now that I realize, unlike back then with Mum, that I can. I can do it my way until I’ve followed the path of all of the dresses and maybe worked out how A&A’s story ends, just as Granny asked me to do. I cast my eyes back toward Leon. Could it be our story now? Mine and Leon’s? Might he want to share the journey with me and really throw some light on why Veronique’s mother got so upset about a dress—why his grandfather was right never to sell it? He certainly seems interested enough so far.