Page 25 of Kept 2
“Well then,” I shudder, fully believing every word as I imagine trainloads of women going in to become the Lord’s dinner, “lucky I didn’t hop aboard then.”
“Lucky, of course,” he laughs, “because otherwise you wouldn’t have saved Basil Brush or met your handsome chauffeur,” he bows theatrically.
“Absolutely,” I laugh, shaking off my maudlin thoughts, “and yes, Daniel, if the offer is still open, I’d be very, very happy to stay in your apartment for a few weeks.”
“Stay as long as you like,” he adds, “and tonight, I’ll take you out to the best restaurant in town – no strings attached,” he adds when he sees me about to decline the invitation again.
“OK,” I smile and shake my head, “how can I refuse?”
8
“I’ll take that table,” Cherie says sweetly.
“I’m happy to take it,” Donelle adds quickly.
Mr Lam the maître de frowns and looks at all our faces before settling on me.
“Ms Bailey, are you familiar with Jacque Lumier?”
I blush. I’ve been working in this Parisian restaurant for three months, but every time I’m singled out for questioning, I know I’m going to put my foot in it. I had a lot to learn about fine dining and even more about French culture. My inadequacies were embarrassingly painful to me. Although I try my best to glean every bit of information I can from the chef, and practice every meal he recommends, especially my pastries, my grasp of the French language and knowledge of their culture is otherwise woefully lacking.
Luckily, so far, Mr Lam has been patient with me, and thankfully he is either too well-bred or too well trained to be anything but polite.
“I’m sorry, I’m American and,” I shrug, “I need to brush up on who is who in Paris. So no, I don’t know him.”
“Perfect,” he smiles, “you will take the red and gold room this evening.”
I hear an almost imperceptible groan from the waiters beside me, male and female. That room is reserved for only the most special of guest, royalty and the like, and it’s a quiet and beautiful retreat only usually serviced by the most experienced of wait staff.
“But shouldn’t one of us who knows his likes serve him?” Cherie tries again.
“Ms Peno, it is precisely this reason that I chose Ms Bailey to serve Mr Lumier. She is unaware of who he is and consequently will serve him in the manner this restaurant bases its reputation upon – aloof friendliness, rather than gushing obsequious,” he scowls at her as he says the last words and she, at least, has the grace to blush.
As he dismisses us, I turn to pick up my cheat sheet of niceties, and the menu, and clip them both to my plain, black folder.
“Just wait until you see him,” Donelle whispers as she walks past, “just being in the same room as him makes you want to lick him all over, mon Dieu.”
“Oui,” the sommelier agrees, “if the complexity of perception and flavour indeed stems from aroma, I sigh at the thought of what he would taste like.”
“One part, I would suggest, is definitely salty,” Cherie chimes in, causing the others to groan.
I giggle and move to the doorway to await our guests and greet them as they arrive. I won’t have to go to the red and gold room until my guest arrives, the mysterious Mr Lumier who I’m now dying to meet. I wonder if he is a rock star or a movie star…
As I wait, I run over my patter one more time, just to practice what I should and shouldn’t say, and think back on my whirlwind first few months in Paris.
I’m living in Daniel’s apartment, but I’m still not at home there, and I’ve started thinking, lately about finding a little place of my own. His family’s apartment is a luxurious multi-winged and tastefully decorated studio that takes up an entire floor of a six-storey, white deco building in the heart of the historical part of the city. It is the fanciest place I have ever stayed in. Everything from the wallpaper to the furniture and carpets is cream and gold.
Even now I haven’t dared unpack my make-up from its travel case, or clothes from their suitcase, or use any part of the apartment except the kitchen, my ensuite and bedroom for fear I might break or stain something or make a mess of any kind.
My host had, of course, been very gracious and advised me to ‘use the place as my home away from home’ but he had obviously never seen the type of home I lived in. Squalor was the word that came to mind when I compared his lifestyle with the one I had led in Boston, even though the apartment Margarita and I shared was actually in a reasonably good part of town.
Still, the rich lived a different, avastlydifferent, life to ordinary people, that was for sure, and my work as a waitress in Fulon, one of the best restaurants in Paris, was testament to that.
I’m snapped back to reality as Mr Lam approaches and gives me the quick once over, ensuring I am as neat as a pin, back straight, hair pulled back, face friendly.
“Your guest will be dining late,” he said, smiling kindly at me, “he prefers to eat when the restaurant is less crowded. I suggest you take a break while you can, it is likely going to be a very long night – take some time now.”
“Thank you,” I smile back and make my way to the rear of the building where there is a small break room for staff, and sigh in relief as I sit down to rest my, already aching, feet.
