Bye Bye Love (10 page)

Except that it wouldn’t have worked, Jonathan realised. He didn’t like to think what Madame Dupont, his landlady, would have said to his turning up with a girl in tow.

Two days on, he was beginning to realise that Madame was never very pleased about anything. But it hadn’t been a very good start. He looked round the stark little room that was to be his foothold in Paris. It had been Madame’s son’s room before he’d left home. Jonathan wasn’t surprised he had gone. It wasn’t very comfortable. There was a narrow hard bed, a large gloomy
armoire
, a chest of drawers, also gloomy but not matching, and, on the walls, faded rose paper and a large and rather terrifying picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus—Madame was very religious.

If only he wasn’t working with Leblanc. He didn’t mind being put on vegetables again. After all, this was Paris and he wasn’t going to be asked to boil them to death. He didn’t mind spending all his time prepping. He knew that all that cleaning and chopping was a necessary part of the process. But Leblanc was a bastard.

Jonathan paused again, wondering just what to tell Scarlett. He didn’t want to moan to her the moment he arrived, especially after insisting that he had to come.

When Leblanc wasn’t mocking Jonathan’s accent or pretending he didn’t understand what he said, he was complaining that the English were stupid, that Jonathan was doing everything wrong and that he had better things to do than explain every little thing to a dumb boy.

He paused again. It was the quiet time of the day, between lunch and evening service, and he had three hours to himself. He wanted to get this letter finished, find a post office and send it off to Scarlett. He knew she would be waiting for it. But what else to write? He’d never written to a girlfriend before. It was a bit different from writing a thank you letter to his grandparents for a birthday present. He wrote a bit more about the kitchen and the people in it, but then wondered if Scarlett would find that boring. He stared out of the window. There was nothing to see but another window staring blankly back at him. He knew nobody in Paris except the men in the restaurant kitchen, and they were all much older than him. For the first time since his arrival, he felt horribly alone. He gazed at the paper. Did Scarlett feel the same way?

He read the letter through, decided it sounded daft but would have to do, and set out to find a post office. 

It was raining again. It had been raining all week. There were drips coming through the ceiling in three places. Scarlett emptied the bowls that she had placed under them into the bucket. Soon she would have to go downstairs and empty the bucket. She shivered and went to get a cardigan to put over the jumper, blouse and vest she was already wearing. Luckily, the ceiling in her bedroom was sound so there was no danger of her bed or any of her precious possessions getting wet, but it was very cold in there, even colder than in the other room, so she picked up her small bundle of letters from Jonathan and took them back into the main room. The clothes-horse was in front of the feeble gas fire with a selection of underwear draped over it, steaming gently. Scarlett moved it slightly to one side so that some of the warmth reached her and settled down on the hearthrug to reread the letters.

The last one was a good deal more cheerful than the first two or three. Jonathan had met a boy a year or so older than himself who lived in the apartment below him, and through him had made friends with a little group. Together they roamed over Paris, played football, listened to records and went to the cinema. He was still not getting on with Leblanc, but he was being trusted to make salads and dress them properly.

Scarlett looked at the flickering blue flames of the fire, wondering just what to write back. The flat was far too dismal to write about, her battle with the washing and drying too depressing. She’d not even attempted to lug the sheets downstairs and trample them in the bath this week, as she knew she would never get them dry.

Writing to Jonathan was her biggest solace, even though it did make her miss him even more. She fetched her writing pad and sat cross-legged by the damp socks and pants.

The only trouble was, now she was worried sick about being invited to anyone’s house. How could she accept when she couldn’t possibly invite them back to this horrible flat? But what excuse could she give for not accepting? It was all so different from when she had a proper home. She had always been happy to invite friends to the room behind the Red Lion. It had been warm and cheerful and comfortable and her mother would always have a cake to offer to visitors. Not like here. She couldn’t bear to let anyone see how she lived.

Sometimes she felt guilty about doing this, but it was warm and clean and dry at school, whereas it was chilly and damp at home, and her dad always seemed to be gloomy. Or, worse still, drunk. It worried her that he went off to work drunk. How long would it be before his new boss got fed up with it?

The restaurant would be closed for the few days between Christmas and New Year and Jonathan was due to come home on a flying visit. It was the only thing about Christmas that she was excited about. Otherwise she was dreading the end of term. Holidays meant being at home all the time. Even if she didn’t like all the teachers or enjoy all the lessons, at least there was a pattern and a purpose to each day when she was at school. And there were the school dinners. They might not be that tasty, what with the gristly meat and the lumpy custard, but they were proper hot meals. It meant she only had to make beans on toast or a sandwich for tea. All in all she wasn’t looking forward to being at home and, as for Christmas Day itself, it threatened to be truly dreadful.

It was going to be horrible here in the flat. But, most of all, it was going to be horrible without her mother. It wouldn’t have mattered where they were if her mother had been here. Scarlett felt the familiar lump forming in her throat, the sense of loss overwhelming her. How were they going to get through the festive season without her? The only thing that made it bearable was the thought of seeing Jonathan again, even if it was only for a couple of days.

The flames on the gas fire began to flicker and fade.

‘Damn!’ Scarlett said out loud.

The money had run out again. It didn’t seem to last five minutes. Normally when this happened she just went to bed, but this evening she needed to get the washing dry, or she would have no clean knickers or socks for school tomorrow. She looked in the jam jar by the cooking ring. Only coppers. Why did her father do that? He took the shillings and left pennies. Pennies were no use for the meter. She went into her room and looked in the shoebox at the back of the wardrobe where she had hidden the money she earned working on Saturdays at the corner shop. She wasn’t supposed to be working, of course, as she wasn’t yet fifteen, but why should she take any notice of the rules when she needed the money and Mrs Sefton at the shop needed the help? And it meant another day out of the flat. Still feeling disgruntled at having to use her money for heat, she fed the meter and huddled up by the fire again to finish her letter to Jonathan.

Looking back, it seemed as if he had spent most of his brief break in trains or on the cross Channel ferry. But it had been worth it, worth all the travelling and the row with his parents when they learnt that he was rushing off as soon as he got home, worth it all to hold Scarlett in his arms again. The trouble was, it had all been over so quickly. Scarlett and Southend, and even the Trafalgar and his parents, were a different world. Paris and the Ortolan were his reality now.

He paused, wondering whether to explain the layers of meaning behind the name.
Petite Salade
was Ortolan slang for mistress. When the kitchen staff asked what customers they had in, the waiters would sometimes give that dismissive puffing of the lips that the French did so well and say, ‘Nothing but a bunch of uncles.’ ‘Uncles’were middle-aged men who came in with their young mistresses. The mistresses, especially if they were not so young, were all watching their weight. They ignored the wonderful menu, with all the exquisite delights it offered, and asked for a little salad.

He decided against it. It was difficult to convey to Scarlett just what the atmosphere was like in the kitchen. He had tried to explain at Christmas, when she’d asked what was so wonderful about preparing vegetables all day. You had to experience it—the pressure when service got really busy, the satisfaction of a difficult job well done at the end of a long evening, the cursing, the obscene jokes, the tension between the kitchen and front-of-house. The head chef, Monsieur Bonnard, was a perfectionist of the first water. Anything that did not meet with his approval was thrown in the bin. ‘Fit only for pigs!’ he would yell, clouting the unfortunate sous chef across the ear. His underlings might mutter about him behind his back, but they accepted the punishment. Bonnard was a master. He had three Michelin stars. He was entitled to hurl insults or even knives. They were proud to be working for him.