Page 17 of Lost in Translation
‘Do they have food, Daddy?’ asked Robson. ‘I’m starving.’
‘Oh, I’m sure they’ll have a biscuit or two,’ replied Dom. ‘Come on, troops. Let’s go and meet everyone.’
The inside belied the austerity of the exterior. Turkish rugs in shades of turquoise and emerald green lay on high-end oak flooring. Charcoal and light grey sofas were accented with jewel-bright cushions. Low tables displayed Design For Life’s latest catalogue and subdued lighting cast a warm glow over the reception area.
‘Our first Swiss store opens next week,’ said Dom proudly. ‘Everything you see here will be available, as well as our new range of kitchenware and bathroom accessories.’
DFL had a long way to go before it knocked a certain Swedish company off its flat-pack perch, but Dom argued that they had different approaches to the market. Instead of volume, they focused on a faster turnaround of goods. More a ‘buy while you can, then it’s gone’ philosophy. Generating a frenzied interest in quirky toilet brushes and spatulas shaped like guitars didn’t grab Charlotte, but she happily accepted the freebies Dom brought home from time to time. A recent batch of fleecy throws, like discarded teddy-bear skins, now adorned the sofa set Dom had ordered with his employee discount. The company didn’t do beds or dining tables as yet, so they’d sourced those from IKEA.
‘This is Juliette,’ said Dom, shaking hands with the attractive brunette behind the reception desk. ‘Juliette, this is my wife, Charlotte, and our boys, Alastair and Robson.’
Juliette stood up and came round the desk. She was at least six feet tall, despite wearing stylish flat brogues. Charlotte pulled herself up to her full five feet five (in heels) and extended her hand.
‘Lovely to meet you.’ Juliette smiled at the boys, who mumbled hellos and eyed a jar of lollipops on the desk with barely disguised longing.
‘And this is Antoine.’ A gangly youth — although anyone under the age of twenty-five was a youth in Charlotte’s eyes — bounded in. His shock of dyed red hair contrasted vividly with a milk-white complexion. Silver studs adorned each ear, and silver hoops protruded from his right nostril and bottom lip.
‘Did that hurt?’ asked Alastair, staring directly at Antoine’s face. ‘Doesn’t the ring get tangled up when you blow your nose?’
Antoine laughed and patted Alastair on the head. ‘Yes, eet was a little painful, but I am very careful eef I ’ave the rheume.’
‘He means the cold,’ explained Juliette, seeing Alastair’s puzzled expression. ‘Antoine speaks perfect English, but he likes to throw in the odd French word just to annoy people.’
Judging by her own accent, Juliette was also French (or Swiss), but with a hint of an American twang.
‘Antoine is one of our buyers,’ said Dom. ‘He’s got a brilliant eye for the unusual but practical. Things people don’t realise they need till one finds its way into their trolley.’
‘Ah, oui. The aprons with the built-in oven gloves were a triumph. As are our musical candles. They play a variety of songs, according to the occasion, and they burn for forty hours!’
If a festive candle played Jingle Bells for forty hours straight, Charlotte thought, she would either run screaming from the building, or chuck the bloody thing in the bin after ten minutes.
‘Enchanté,’ purred Antoine, reaching for Charlotte’s hand and planting a kiss on it. ‘You must be Charlotte. Your ’usband is a very lucky man.’
A frisson of pleasure ran down Charlotte’s spine, not only because of the compliment, but the way Antoine pronounced her name, with the emphasis on the second syllable. It sounded sophisticated,sexy,even, although she’d bet her last Swiss franc that Antoine batted for the other team. Still, Charlotte took what she could get on the compliment front. It had been a long time since Dom had uttered more than a perfunctory ‘you look nice’, or more often, ‘sorry, what was that?’, when asked if he approved of her appearance.
‘Boys, we have cookies.’ Juliette produced a tin of biscuits and cartons of fruit juice. Alastair and Robson pounced on them in a way that suggested they hadn’t eaten for a week.
‘And here’s the key for your car.’ Juliette dangled a key fob in front of Dom. A BMW, according to the logo. Dom took it and signalled it was time to leave.
As they headed for the door, it opened and a petite blonde woman barrelled through. She didn’t so much as glance at Charlotte and family, her focus on swerving past the desk and entering the room beyond. She reminded Charlotte of a fairy on top of a Christmas tree, if fairies wore silver-studded boots, fifties-style dresses and cropped leather jackets.
‘Thank you for the biscuits,’ chorused the boys, sucking noisily on their straws.
‘See you tomorrow,’ said Dom, steering Charlotte forward with his hand firmly placed in the middle of her back.
‘Who was that?’ she said, as Alastair and Robson squabbled in the doorway over the merits of chocolate versus caramel crisp.
‘No one,’ Dom replied.
And as if on cue, Antoine shouted, ‘Lunch hour at bit on the long side, Amelie.’
Chapter 16
All the way back,Charlotte following Dom in his spiffy new car, she concentrated as hard as she could on driving safely. The boys were with their dad, having insisted on swapping their car seats over so they could enjoy the plush leather interior and on-board computer. Leaving Charlotte free to let rip with every swear word she knew (and a few she normally abhorred), while struggling against the red mist of rage that threatened to steer her into a ditch.
‘Bastard! Bollocking bloody two-faced lying cheating slimeball!’
Charlotte stopped at the traffic lights; Dom had got through before they turned to red. Glancing out of the window, she realised it was half-open, as was that of the car next to her. The occupant, a stern-faced man, gave her a disgusted look. Tempted to stick two fingers up at him, Charlotte turned on the radio instead. Pink blared out one of Charlotte’s favourites, ‘Fuckin’ Perfect’. Grumpy man treated her to another look of disdain before speeding off.
