Page 84 of Never Too Late
Christophe folded his lanky frame into the chair in as elegant a manner as one would have expected and a waiter appeared from the side with another glass and another bottle of sparkling wine.
‘Now that is excellent news. As you,mon ami, are driving, this one is just for me and my new friend.’
‘Oh, Christophe, I’ve had more than enough!’ I could feel pink in my cheeks and laughter in my voice.
‘Just a small one. Humour me,’ he said, dropping the H when he spoke. I noted that neither Gabby nor Tomas had ever done that. Something in my brain scuttled in and opined that their parents probably wouldn’t have allowed it. The rest of me couldn’t, and couldn’t be arsed, to disagree.
‘So,’ he began, elbows on the table, ‘tell me everything.’
‘Christophe…’ Tomas warned, the glint of humour gone from his face now.
His friend waved him off. ‘Kitty doesn’t mind giving me the gossip on you, do you?’
And actually, I found that I didn’t.
Tomas shook his head, but the square shoulders were no longer being worn as earrings, which I took to be a good sign.
‘Just a few questions for now,’ I countered. ‘Tomas promised me you’d allow him to show me the kitchen garden before the light goes.’
‘Oh, did he now?’
Tomas picked up the thread seamlessly. ‘You’re always bragging about it. Kitty was interested in seeing it. I didn’t think you’d mind.’ He gave a terribly Gallic shrug to punctuate.
‘OK,’ Christophe agreed easily. ‘The rest of the gossip can wait until next time. But this won’t.’ And with that, he expertly poured both of us a glass of perfectly sparkling wine and proposed a toast. ‘To friends, old and new.’
I held up my glass, shooting Tomas a look as I did so.
‘This one is trouble,’ I said to him, joy in my voice.
We clinked glasses.
‘You are right. Again.’
Christophe let out a raucous laugh and looked thoroughly pleased with the announcement.
32
The bitter winds of winter had given way to a beautifully mild breeze of spring. Shoots of green from the bravest of the bulbs had poked their head through the earth in the Tuileries and tested the air, decided that they would persevere and as the next few weeks passed, colour filled and spilled over from the borders.
I’d adopted the habit of walking there every day, often early but sometimes, as now, again later in the afternoon as the light changed. The mornings could still be chilly but this afternoon, the vintage woollen coat Reine had spotted at one of the flea markets we’d taken to strolling through with Gabby was left open. As I sat on one of the metal chairs that resided in the gardens, everything felt perfectly at peace. I people-watched for a while, attaching imaginary lives to some, admiring the style of others, and smiling at the laughter of lovers as they walked, their footsteps crunching on the gravel, hands clasped or tucked through an arm.
I lowered my gaze and opened the book I had just treated myself to at Smith and Sons, the English bookshop on Rue des Rosiers, not too far from where I was now sitting.
Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence; and had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very little to distress or vex her.
The words sent a wash of comforting familiarity through me. It was so long since I had read them, despite them being such favourites, but for some reason, reading, at least for pleasure, had taken a back seat in life once I’d become a mother. At first, I had thought, perhaps naively, that I’d read when Sasha napped but there always seemed to be something else to catch up on. Occasionally, I’d allow that thing to be sleep. And then, gradually, I’d got out of the habit of reading altogether. Just as I had got out of the habit of walking for pleasure.
It had been Tomas who’d suggested the trip to Smiths when we’d met for coffee one morning.
‘My French is still pretty good,’ I’d replied, half-teasing, but recognising a tiny spark of defensiveness in my reply.
‘I know.’ He gave a Gallic shrug as if my reply had little to do with his suggestion.
‘I can read books in French.’
His eyes narrowed a little. ‘I am aware of that too. Did I suggest otherwise?’
‘Only by saying I should shop at an English bookshop.’
