Page 58 of The Muse
Putting his arm around me, he pulls me off in the direction of Bennie’s, and we walk slowly and quietly. The lack of conversation only gives me time to analyse why I haven’t told Scott about my hotel room problem. And I guess the biggest reason is that I’m scared. What if I tell him I have nowhere to go, and he doesn’t offer to let me stay with him? After everything that happened last night, I don’t want to risk pushing too fast, and if I’m being honest, I’m not sure how he will answer. After the last few days, I couldn’t take the knock-back.
God, I told him I loved him last night. And I know that I spoke the truth. It wasn’t just an in the moment thing. Not just because of the pain and passion. I meant it. Surely that should mean I tell him everything? Apparently not. But what would I know of real relationships? Not a lot. I know how I feel, though. This is real for me. Maybe more so than anything else in my life.
Scott weaves us through streets and avoids the morning mellay of commuters and people trying to get to the office. We end up stopping in front of a run-down shop with a flashing neon sign. It's quite clearly Bennie’s. And it’s as much of a shock as the first place we ate at, which is just what I said I wanted. However, this resembles a greasy spoon more than the quirky style coffee shop or converted café I had inmind.
“Don’t knock it until you try it. Come on.”
Pulling me inside, we’re greeted by an annoying tinkling bell, as the door is opened and then closed. It’s rammed inside and filled with an assortment of styled tables that all look like they could do with a proper clean.
“Grab a seat,” he instructs as he goes to the counter and snatches up a couple of laminated menus. “Here.”
Handing me the sheet, he takes his own seat and stares at me expectantly.
“Well, this place is-”
“Don’t say anything.” He points at me, and I can’t help but crack a smile.
“It’s just not what I’d have thought of.”
“You wanted somewhere like the first place we ate, and whilst it might not look like much, they do the best breakfast in London.”
“Okay. I’ll withhold judgement until I’ve eaten,” I say, brightly. “Next time, can we go for something more … Parisian?”
“You want to go to Paris for breakfast?”
“No. Not literally. But croissants, pastries, coffee. That type of thing.” I look down the list of options here that are decidedly not Parisian, but I can’t concentrate. There’s a buzzing that tells me his eyes are still on me, so I risk a glance. Sure enough, he’s still locked on to me. No words. No frown etched into his brow. Just that intense smouldering gaze he sometimes has, the one that makes my heart triple in rate. I'm so flushed by it that the thought of food dissipates until he smiles and looks at his own menu, breaking the spell.
“I’ve not found anywhere as good as Paris itself,” he murmurs. “Couldn’t bring myself to even look around for it when I came back.”
A teenager who looks like she's bored out of her mind approaches our table, cutting my ability to ask more about Paris. “Yes?” she mumbles.
“Two coffees. I’ll have the full English with extra bacon. Whole wheat toast.”
“And you?” she asks me.
I scan down the list again. “Cheese and pepper omelette with a stack of pancakes with maple syrup.” The waitress disappears without a word.
“Worked up an appetite, did you?” The look Scott gives me could melt me into a puddle right here, especially considering the two-minute broody thing he just had going on.
“Maybe. The pancakes will tell me if this place is any good or not. Sophie makes the best pancakes, but I’ve always been conscious of my diet, so I didn’t indulge often. Now I can.”
“Who’s Sophie?”
“Oh, she’s my… she was my maid.”
Scott’s face darkens, and I wish I’d never mentioned the stupid pancakes. “So, er, if we were in Paris, where would you take me for breakfast?”
Scott looks right through me for a second, before he catches up. He leans forward, resting his arms on the table. “Easy. Jardin de rose.”
“The rose garden?” I translate. “It sounds very English.”
“But they do the best coffee and the best pastries. They also have a rose garden. Which is nearly as lovely as you are.” My brows shoot up. All the time we've been together, all the things we've done, and I'm not sure he's ever vocalised that sort of compliment. But I can hear the sadness in his tone, the longing for a place he no longer has.
“You miss it, don't you?” I recognise the sound, the feeling, mainly because once upon a time, that’s how I would talk about the ballet.
“Yes. As you know, I didn’t come back for me.”
Our coffees are dumped on the table, and my earlier shock at his compliment turns to stupefaction at the waitress' table service.
