Page 41 of Thirty Days in Paris

‘I learned from my grandmère. We spent each summer on the farm, and each night one of us would be her sous-chef. She made sure we all knew how to cook boeuf bourguignon, coq au vin, cassoulet …’ He kissed his thumb and forefinger, then grinned. ‘She told us it was the best way to get a wife.’

I imagined him as a little boy, standing on a chair watching his grandmother add carrots and onions to a giant pot on a big old range cooker and letting him stir it with a spoon.

‘She did a great job,’ I said.

He shrugged. ‘You must eat three times a day. So you might as well eat well.’

I marvelled that he was so slim. But I’d also noticed that the French didn’t stuff themselves with seconds and thirds like we did in England. They had everything so right. How to cook, how to dress. How to love.

I tried not to think about it. The wine was helping. I noticed the bottle of Viognier was nearly empty and realised Jean Louis had been filling my glass and I’d been glugging away. And I felt surprisingly happy. It had anaesthetised me.

The chicken devoured, Jean Louis produced two little bowls of chocolate mousse, which we ate with tiny spoons, and with it he poured me a glass of Sauternes, sticky and luscious.

‘It’s the best meal I’ve ever had,’ I sighed, as I put my spoon back in the empty bowl.

‘The mousse, that is the best trick I learned. For seduction.’ He winked, then realised what he had said. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t mean … It was a joke. A bad joke. I hope you don’t think …’

He was mortified, thinking I might think he was trying to seduce me. I just laughed.

‘Don’t be silly,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t think that in a million years.’

He looked at me, and I laughed again, and took another sip of Sauternes. Its syrup was making its way into my veins and my head felt a little swimmy. I went to clear the table, but Jean Louis stopped me.

‘Non. It can wait. We can sit for a while in the salon. Finish our drink.’ He raised his glass. ‘And I want to say thank you. For being part of our family. I know it is not always easy, but you have made our lives so much better.’

‘Thank you. The children are very easy to love.’

‘They are. And Corinne – I know she appreciates you too. She does not mean to be …’

He shrugged. He was finding it impossible, to put his feelings about his wife into words. It must have been hard for him, when she flipped like that. He was so kind and patient with her.

I flopped onto one of the sofas in the living room, sinking into the cushion and curling my bare feet under me, while Jean Louis pointed a remote control across the room and Sting started crooning ‘Moon Over Bourbon Street’. The slight huskiness of his voice made me shiver.

Jean Louis held out his hand. ‘Tu veux danser?’

I froze for a moment. First, because he had called me ‘tu’ not ‘vous’ for the first time, a sign of familiarity. And second, because I wanted to jump up and join him but it seemed wrong.

‘Samedi soir, it’s for dancing, no?’ he reassured me.

He was moving to the beat, clicking his fingers. The music was infectious, and if he thought it was OK, then maybe I was overthinking it. So I got up and began to dance too.

I was the sort of drunk where you thought you were the music, that it was part of you, my limbs doing exactly what I told them. I was smiling to myself, singing along – it was an album we’d played over and over at school, swooning over Sting’s good looks, and it brought back good memories.

Then Jean Louis was in front of me and we were dancing together. Sting had moved on to ‘If You Love Somebody Set Them Free’, and the tempo was a good bit faster and we were singing along, laughing, doing silly finger pointing and pouting. Then suddenly he took my hands and twirled me around and somehow I ended up in his arms.

I should have stepped away, smiling, without making a fuss, and gone to sit back down, but I liked the feeling of being in his embrace. We were only dancing, after all. His hands were only light upon me. There was no groping. It was all quite above board. Just the two of us, enjoying moving to the music. Messing about on a Saturday night. So I relaxed.

The hi-fi flipped to a track I didn’t know. There was a swirling organ – it reminded me of my dad’s favourite song, ‘A Whiter Shade of Pale’ – but then a man and a woman began to sing, declaring their love for each other in breathless French.

‘This is her,’ said Jean Louis. ‘Jane Birkin. The little English girl who stole Serge Gainsbourg’s heart.’

We stood, barely moving, as their voices became more intense. Their lust was palpable, and I blushed to hear what sounded like them making love, on record. I’d never heard anything like it before. It was thrilling. I felt as if I was right inside the song. Inside their passion.

Jean Louis was singing along. I shouldn’t have, but I moved closer to him, suddenly wanting his attention. He looked at me in surprise and I could see those copper flecks in his eyes. He deserved to be loved, not treated badly, I thought. I deserved to be loved too, not abandoned.

One kiss, I thought, would make us feel better. I leaned in and brushed my lips on his, fleetingly. Then stopped.

I could taste Sauternes. I could sense danger. I put a hand to my mouth.

---