That Night In Paris Read online

  I counted eight tables along one side of the narrow room. A glass-fronted display case ran nearly the length of the other wall. It was in sections and looked like the counter at a particularly nice deli—cheeses, cured meats, fresh beef, two types of fish, and bowls of chopped veggies and herbs.

  It was only when I saw the woman behind the counter take handfuls and scoops from various bowls and trays and combine them in a large silver bowl, that I realised the display case was her fridge. She tossed the silver bowl a few times, then threw the ingredients into a hot pan where they sizzled. It was mesmerising.

  Jean-Luc led the way to a small round table towards the back of the room, which took a little manoeuvring as we weaved between the tables. As we passed by, I snuck a peek at what other people were eating. Every dish looked amazing. When we got to our table, one of only two empty ones, I sat down with a breathless, “Wow.”

  He tilted his head as if to say, “I told you.”

  “Jean-Luc! Benvenuto, amico mio!” Jean-Luc stood and hugged the young man in the back-slappy way men have, then turned to me to make introductions.

  “Carlo, this is Catherine.”

  Carlo took my hand and looked into my eyes warmly. “Welcome, Caterina. Thank you for bringing Jean-Luc back to us,” he said, seamlessly switching to English. I loved how he called me “Caterina”. My name in other languages and accents was far better than the Aussie “Caaaath-rin”.

  “Oh, I cannot take any credit. He insisted we come to the best restaurant in Roma and I simply agreed.” I can be quite charming, too, sometimes.

  Carlo threw Jean-Luc a look which was difficult to read. I hoped it said, “You are a very lucky man.” “Well, Mamma will be very happy to see you—both.” He turned towards the woman in the kitchen, who seemed to be making several dishes all at once. “Mamma, indovina chi è qui,” he called. A few heads from other tables lifted—one of a very attractive woman in her forties, who didn’t bother hiding her appreciation of Jean-Luc, from me or her husband.

  Mamma let out a cry of joy from behind the counter and called Carlo back to the kitchen. He was left in charge while she came around the front of the glass case, both arms outstretched and exclaiming loudly in Italian. You would have thought Jean-Luc had been lost at sea for years. A quick glance at Carlo and it was clear he was just as much in his element in the kitchen as his mamma.

  The woman, who must have been in her late fifties or early sixties, was tiny—way tinier than me—Gabriella tiny, only she wore her salt-and-pepper hair very short. She was unlike the glamorous Roman women I’d been crushing on that afternoon, but with her face alight at seeing Jean-Luc, she was beautiful.

  She pulled him down to her for her two cheek kisses and as big a hug as a tiny woman could manage. As soon as the hug was over, she hit him with a barrage of words, which, if the finger pointing was anything to go by, was her giving him a good telling off.

  He took it well, nodding and saying, “Mi dispiace,” over and over again, which I knew was him apologising. Maybe he hadn’t been in the last time he was in Rome and she’d found out. She probably had connections. Maybe she was telling him he was too thin—he wasn’t, he was perfect—but didn’t Italian mothers always want to feed everyone up?

  When there was a break in her rant, he turned her around to face me. I stood; it seemed like the right thing to do. “Buonasera.” I pointed to myself, “Caterina,” I said, adopting the Italian way.

  “Mi chiamo Anna,” she said, pointing to herself and smiling. I smiled back, and she pulled me in for cheek kisses. I guessed she approved of me. She looked a couple of times between Jean-Luc and me, then nodded decisively and winked at Jean-Luc. Yes, I’d definitely passed the test.

  She waved her hands over her head in a universal “I have so much to do” gesture and returned to the kitchen, shooing Carlo out of the way, the whole time talking to herself. I was in love.

  We sat back down. “Well, no wonder you love coming here. You’re very popular.” He smiled one of his eye-crinkling smiles. “By the way, I love Anna. I think I may want her to adopt me,” I added.

  “Wait until you taste her food,” he replied.

  “Is there a menu?” I said, looking around. I couldn’t see one.

  “Not really. In a moment, Carlo will come and ask how hungry we are, and if we want fish or meat for secondi. Then she will cook for us.” He shrugged as if to say, “Simple.”

  Carlo’s ears must have been burning. He arrived holding a tray and on the table he placed a basket of bread, a small carrier which held olive oil and vinegar, a carafe of wine—white—and two glasses. “Acqua frizzante o naturale?” he asked Jean-Luc. Even I knew what that meant, so I answered, “Naturale,” with the best Italian accent I could muster. I was rewarded with a wink. Then, as Jean-Luc had predicted, he asked how hungry we were—very—and what we wanted for our second course. We both opted for the beef and Carlo disappeared to give Anna our order.

  Without tasting a bite, it was already my favourite meal in months.

  Carlo returned shortly with our water. I picked up a piece of bread, pulled off a chunk, and dunked it in the olive oil. I popped the bite into my mouth and groaned.

  “I told you, even the bread is good here. She makes it fresh every morning. But it’s a trap, because everything else is even better and you will not want to fill up on the bread.”

  I nodded as I stuffed another bite into my mouth. I swallowed. “Noted. Please put that,” I said, pointing to the scrumptious bread, “as far from me as possible.”

  “No self-control?” he teased. I wiped around my mouth with my fingertips. Was that a loaded question?

  “When it comes to bread, no. Other things, I am better at controlling myself.” He poured the wine.

  “What ‘other things’ do you mean?” He threw me a look, held up his wine in a half-toast, then took a sip. Oh, yes, he was definitely flirting. Game on, Monsieur Caron.

  “Well, when it comes to resisting the charms of ridiculously handsome men who speak several languages and travel the world for work, which is incredibly interesting and important, men who are close with their families and have adorable nieces, I can control myself.”

  He nodded and stroked his chin, mock seriousness playing across his face. “I see. But bread?”

  “Oh no. Bread is my kryptonite. I can’t even have it in the house.” It was a lie, but he didn’t know that.

  “Mmm, I understand. And it is quite specific, this type of man you are so practised in resisting.”

  “Well, they’re everywhere. It’s simply a matter of survival.”

  “Ah, yes, I have heard of this epidemic of such men.”

  “I have many, many friends who have fallen prey to this type of man.”

  “Oh, that’s terrible.”

  “It is. They’ve started a support group.” I wasn’t sure if it translated, but I was on a roll.

  “Mmm, and what are the symptoms of this affliction?”

  I had no intention of holding back.

  “Typically, sparkling conversation, lots of flirting, smiling, laughing, some handholding, which unavoidably leads to kissing, and then the inevitable …” I let the thought trail off as I took a sip—all right, it was a slug—of wine.

  “And the inevitable? That would be?” His tongue flicked out and licked his bottom lip—the same bottom lip with its name etched on a coin at the bottom of the Trevi Fountain. It almost distracted me, but I’d had enough wine by then to forge ahead.

  “Oh,” I said, looking him square in the eye. “Making love, of course.”

  I thought I saw him gulp. His eyes widened—just for a second, but I’d definitely scored with the “making love” part. I’d also managed to surreptitiously drop in there that handholding, something we’d already done a lot of, led to kissing. And I really wanted to kiss him—badly. And other things, naked things, but I’d be happy to start with the kissing.

  Food arrived, and Jean-Luc seemed to appreciate the reprieve f
rom my flirtatious onslaught.

  “Pasta primavera,” announced Carlo as he placed two plates on the table. It smelled incredible and looked like a garden was having a party on the plate. “Mamma, she cheats a little—not spring vegetables, but a different way.” He seemed to struggle for the word, and realising we were well into autumn, I gave him the word. “Sì, yes, autumn. Is like in Italian. Pasta autunno. Enjoy!”

  Having restrained myself with the bread, I had moved from hungry to bloody starving. Still, I knew there was at least one other course to come, and there was more food on the plate in front of me than I usually had for dinner, so I needed to pace myself. I swirled some pasta onto my fork and took a bite. Jean-Luc did the same. “Oh, my God,” I said, my hand covering my mouth. “That’s amazing.”

  Carlo swung by the table with a fresh carafe of white wine. Had we already finished the first one? I watched as he moved with grace among the tables. It was a practised ease as he chatted with customers, brought food to the tables, took plates away, and made everyone feel at home. I never wanted to leave.

  I took another bite and glanced at the clock above the kitchen. We still had two hours before I had to meet the coach. Even so, the Rome campsite was even further from the city than the Paris one was, and I didn’t want to have to pay for a cab. It would cost a mint.

  It took almost as much willpower to leave some pasta on the plate as it did to stop my hand from reaching across the table and pulling the breadbasket towards me. When Carlo cleared my plate, he was concerned I hadn’t liked it. I hoped I did a good enough job of conveying A) It was delicious and B) I’m a tiny person, and even when I’m hungry, I can’t eat as much as, say, someone Jean-Luc’s size. “I will hide this from Mamma,” he said, throwing another wink my way.

  I was grateful. I wanted Anna to adore me. I like being adored. Especially by tall, handsome Frenchmen. Hmm—I’d probably had enough wine.

  Secondi came to the table. “Braciole,” said Carlo with a verbal flourish.

  Jean-Luc groaned, and I looked across at him, amused. “It’s my favourite,” he replied without me having to ask.

  “Si, si,” said Carlo, laughing. “You are Mamma’s favourite—right after me.” He made himself laugh again and left us to our braciole, thin slices of beef stuffed and rolled and baked into a red sauce. I already knew I was going to love it. It smelled like a corner of heaven.

  I barely needed a knife, the meat was so tender. Jean-Luc seemed absorbed in his eating, so I left him to it. I had loved the pasta, but this dish was beyond. It may have been the best thing I’d ever eaten—it was certainly the best thing I could remember eating. We cleaned our plates with only a few utterances between us.

  I sat back and took in the empty plate in front of me. It was a good thing there wasn’t going to be any “wanna come back to my place?” that night. I was stuffed. If sex had been on the table, I would have eaten two strands of tagliatelle and called it good. I would even have risked upsetting Mamma Anna, my new favourite person.

  There’s nothing worse than having sex when you have a food baby—except maybe having food-baby sex with your flatmate who’s been secretly in love with you forever. That’s probably worse.

  “Please tell me she’s not going to insist we have dessert.”

  His look said, “What do you think?” I thought I was going to burst open like that man in The Meaning of Life. I pictured Anna trying to shovel a cannoli into my mouth while telling me, “It’s only wafer thin,” in Italian.

  “Could I get away with just an Amaretto instead?” I asked.

  “Let’s try.” This time, it was Jean-Luc who winked at me.

  Anna pardoned us from dessert, and I could have kissed her. I probably wouldn’t need to eat again until dinner the next night. Carlo brought two glasses of Amaretto to the table and before leaving, leant down to say in my ear, “Mamma still likes you.” He left before I could react.

  I smiled to myself. It really had been an incredible meal—an incredible night, actually—if I forgot about nearly bursting into tears at the wine bar.

  “Dis-moi, tu es heureuse?” I didn’t quite catch what he was asking me. “Happy?” he added, helpfully.

  I watched those intense green eyes watching me. “Yes. Very. It’s been a lovely date.” He smiled, licked that bottom lip again, and my lady parts lit up like a frigging pinball machine.

  An important question leapt to mind: How was I going to ever see him naked if I didn’t know when I would see him again?

  “So …” we both started at the same time.

  “You, please,” he said, deferring.

  “I … how do I say this?” The wine, the Amaretto—my mind wasn’t clear. I couldn’t just come out and say, “Hey, I really want to shag you senseless—you coming to mine, or should I pop ’round to yours?” Especially because “mine” and “yours” were in two different countries.

  I chickened out. “Can you go first, instead?”

  “But, of course. I was going to say, it has been wonderful seeing you, hearing about your life, meeting Catherine the woman.”

  I smiled and nodded. “Yes. Likewise, meeting Jean-Luc the man.” A little smile played on his lips. He obviously had more to say, so I shut up.

  “Our last time together, in Paris, I said something about the Eurostar. London is not so far, you know.” I did know and felt my head nod without me telling it to. “I just think I would like to spend more time with you … to see …”

  To see? To see what? My naked body? Because if that’s what he meant, I was definitely on board. I mentally booked into some Pilates classes and I didn’t even do Pilates.

  He continued. “Because, twenty years, it is a long time. Well, less, really, because of the letters, but still …” Still? I really wasn’t following his train of thought. I willed my alcohol-fuzzed brain to focus. “I mean, yes, we are adults now, but I believe there are some things, our true selves, which stay the same our whole lives. Oui?”

  Sure, I guess.

  As if he knew he needed to spell it out for me, he finally got to his point. “And, I admit I’m a little embarrassed for my teenaged self. It must have been so obvious, even if he never had the courage to say so, that he was in love with you.”

  Oh, I see.

  Wait, what???

  Chapter 12

  His words hung in the air and I told myself to close my mouth.

  Jean-Luc looked at his lap, closed his eyes and shook his head, seeming to chastise himself. I didn’t want him to feel bad about what he’d said, but I’d been caught off-guard.

  I reached for one of his hands across the table right as he said, “I am sorry.” And there he was, the boy I knew so many years ago. He was there in the hang of Jean-Luc’s head and the whisper of his voice. My heart broke a little. I had missed him so much. I had to make this right.

  “No, I’m sorry. I … I had no idea. I was only a kid—and so stupid. Please, look at me.” He did, reluctantly. “There’s so much …” My own thoughts were a jumble and the alcohol wasn’t helping. I shook my head hoping to clear the fuzziness from my thoughts, then looked him in the eye.

  “First, I need to make you understand, I deeply regret ending our friendship.” He started to speak and I cut him off. “No, I know you said in Paris that it was all right, but it wasn’t. It isn’t. I was immature and stupid and you didn’t deserve that. If I could go back and tell my ex to bugger right off I would. He had no right to insist I stop writing to you and I shouldn’t have. I was a coward, and I’m sorry.”

  He nodded, and I hoped he truly understood my regret—that he would accept my apology for what it was—heartfelt and honest.

  “And, I didn’t know how you felt back then.” I couldn’t say the words, “that you were in love with me.” They were too real, and if I accepted those words, I would have far more to mourn than the loss of a friend. At some point I would have to unpack the “sliding doors” possibilities of what could have been, but not right then.

>   “How could you not?” He didn’t seem cross or defensive, just perplexed.

  I smiled, laughing at myself. “Did you hear the part about me being stupid?” He smiled, sort of, pulling his mouth into a taut line—a sad, fraught smile. I kept holding his hand and I tightened my grip. “I’m sorry, all right? Please tell me you forgive me—for everything, for all of it?”

  His face softened and he nodded, squeezing my hand in return. “Of course, I forgive you.”

  A sheen of tears slicked my eyes. “Thank you,” I said quietly. “And I do think we should make plans to see each other again. I’ve loved tonight, and I loved spending time with you in Paris.”

  This time his smile had joy in it. “We will rediscover our friendship, non?”

  “Yes. You know the thing you said about us being inherently the same people our whole lives—I think that’s true. I think it’s why it’s been so easy between us tonight.”

  “And because I am super hot, as you say.” He had a knack for breaking the tension when it all got too intense and I rolled my eyes, playfully.

  “I know I told you that false modesty is unattractive, but so is conceit,” I teased.

  “I will keep this in mind,” he replied with a twitch of his mouth. God, I wanted to kiss that mouth. But with what he’d revealed and everything we’d just said, I knew it would muddy things. Bollocks to hell and back again.

  Jean-Luc glanced at his watch. I knew we needed to leave the restaurant soon and the thought of saying goodbye made me feel a little sick. I still didn’t know when we would see each other again. All we’d agreed was that we lived close enough for it to happen.

  “We should—” he said.

  “Yes, we should.” I lifted my head and caught Carlo’s eye, then signalled for the bill with the universal “drawing on my hand” gesture. He nodded and held up a finger.

  “I am buying dinner,” said Jean-Luc.

  “I’m going to have to say no to that. You bought the drinks—you insisted on buying the drinks—and besides, this has been one of the best meals I’ve ever had. You already did your part—you brought me here.” I aborted another attempted protest with, “Please.” He acquiesced with a slight tilt of his head.