The Confectioner's Tale (26 page)

He told the older chef go ahead and take his break first. If Maurice was suspicious, he didn’t say anything as he left, already patting his pockets in search of cigarettes.

As soon as he was out of sight, Gui pulled the
macaron
mixture towards him, and took a deep breath. He whipped it back and forth, beads of sweat springing on his forehead as his arm muscles released and contracted. When it was almost ready, he reached up for the shelf where the spices and colours were kept. Carefully, he brought down the bottle of
crème de violette
, the jar of delicate, dried violets, their petals sparkling with sugar.

In tiny drops, he measured the purple liqueur into the mixture. He was acting on impulse, yet at the same time he felt certain, as though his first teacher, Monsieur Carême, was with him, guiding his steps. The scent reached up as he stirred, heady and sweet as a meadow, deep as lingering perfume in a midnight room. Hands shaking, he piped the mixture onto a tray in tiny rounds, enough to make six, one for each day that he and Jeanne would have to make it through before they could be together for the rest of their lives.

Maurice was delayed talking to Josef, and by the time he returned, Gui was putting the finishing touches to his creations, filling them with a vanilla cream from the cold room, balancing one, tiny, sugar-frosted violet flower upon each.

‘What on earth are those?’ the chef demanded, leaning in to inspect Gui’s work. ‘They look marvellous.’

‘Special order,’ mumbled Gui non-committally, though he couldn’t help smiling with pride as he placed the delicate confections onto a tray and hurried for the pâtisserie door. Maurice called his name as he went, but Gui pretended not to hear him.

His heart was thumping as he stepped into the opulent café, a wave of chatter rushing up to meet him. The tray of
macarons
rested on his hand. How could he get them to Jeanne? He looked around for a waiter, but they were all crowded around one particular table. A party of guests there had ordered a bottle of the best champagne. Glasses were being brought out, attention lavished.

He scanned the party. Jeanne’s aunt was there, draped in furs. There was a red-haired woman, baring her teeth in laughter, a young blond man and there, dressed in her pale violet, was Jeanne. She was smiling, accepting a glass of champagne from someone. It was Leonard Burnett. He wore a fine-fitting coat, a pristine starched shirt, his black hair oiled. He had the look of his father. Taking Jeanne’s fingers in his own, he kissed them lightly, before leaning in to speak to an older woman.

Gui’s stomach started to roil. He felt grubby, peering through a window at a foreign world. The burns on his hands, the stains on his apron from a morning’s work made him want to curl in on himself, even as jealousy howled. He did not see the man approaching until it was too late to turn away.

‘Afternoon,’ Burnett said easily, refolding the handkerchief in his jacket pocket. ‘What are those things?’

Gui bit the inside of his mouth hard. He had no choice but to answer.

‘
Macarons
, sir.’

‘Fine, fine, I’ll take them. Although I suppose she’s eaten them a dozen times already.’

Mistaking Gui’s hostile silence for polite interest, he glanced up, smiled. ‘Mademoiselle Clermont,’ he said. ‘She only asked me to fetch her a
chocolat chaud
, but those little things will match her dress perfectly.’

Across the room, Jeanne was staring. Even from a distance he could see how white her face had become. There was bile in his throat.

‘They’re not for sale—’

A waiter returned and hurried towards them, horrified.

‘What are you doing?’ he hissed to Gui. ‘Get back to the kitchen! I apologize, monsieur,’ he gushed to Burnett, wrenching the tray of
macarons
out of Gui’s grip. ‘What can I get for you?’

‘I just told this lad.’

‘He is only a kitchen hand, sir,’ the waiter continued, ‘he is not permitted to serve the counter. I would be delighted to help.’

‘Well, why didn’t you say?’ Burnett directed at Gui, fishing in his pocket. ‘I didn’t mean to interrupt your work. Here.’ He flicked a coin towards him. ‘Now, I’ll take those six violet fancies …’

Burning with rage and frustration, Gui returned to the kitchen, Burnett’s coin stinging his palm. He took over the oven duty without being asked and worked so furiously that even Ebersole told him to take a break before too long. He couldn’t bear the cloakroom, with its endless jibes, so he left the apprentices to their food and escaped into the alleyway.

It was here, he thought as he sat on the step. This is where we first spoke. How distant she had been then, with her pencil and ledger – cold and sharp like one of the best kitchen knives.

Burnett’s coin was still in his pocket. He flung it angrily to the stones, where it ricocheted away into the main street.

The spring afternoon calmed him. There was a breeze in the shade; it helped him remember Jeanne, her face close to his, tired and happy in the cold dawn as they pledged themselves to each other. He had closed his eyes when someone shouted a greeting. The sun was bright beyond the walls, turning the figure into a silhouette.

‘It
is
you!’ exclaimed Jim, striding forward, hand outstretched. Gui smiled in surprise and clambered to his feet to greet him. ‘Nice whites.’ The writer winked, jamming a cigarette into his mouth. ‘You’re looking a good deal cheerier, du Frère. And how is your delightful Jeanne?’ Stevenson blew out a plume of smoke. ‘Did you two lovebirds make up and get everything squared?’

Gui laughed, accepted a cigarette from the box and tucked it behind his ear.

‘Yes, although she was the one who made it right, in the end. I’m doing my best to deserve her. I need to thank you, though, Jim, for listening.’ Gui paused. If all went to plan, it might be a long time before he saw the writer again. ‘I hope I can repay the favour one day.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. And no need to wait for “one day”. I’m about to visit your place of employ. You can make good on your account by slipping me an extra plump cream cake. Put a little note in it – “du Frère was here” – so I can admire your handiwork.’

‘You’re going in there?’ Gui felt his stomach plummet.

‘Certainly am,’ Jim said cheerfully. ‘Meeting a friend, an English chap I know from the embassy. He has a notorious sweet tooth, so I thought I’d look your establishment up. It’s
quite
the place to be seen of an afternoon, from what I gather.’

Jim was laughing, but Gui felt sick. Jeanne was inside, at the best table in the house, seated next to Burnett. His brain was whirring, trying to think of something, anything, to dissuade Jim.

‘You can’t—’

‘Can’t what, pay? Christ no, I’m leaving that to Lionel. He’s taken me under his wing, rather.’

A squeal of brakes interrupted, as a taxi cab pulled up and drifted past the alleyway.

‘Speaking of which …’ Jim took a deep drag on his cigarette and threw it to one side. ‘Good to see you, Gui. Come over to the Left Bank again soon, you and Jeanne. We’ll get horribly drunk on cheap brandy and dance till we drop.’

He was already striding away.

‘Jim, wait.’ Gui scrambled after him. ‘Jeanne is in there.’

‘Is she? How extraordinary. I shall have to say hello.’

‘No, please—’

‘Don’t worry, du Frère, I won’t embarrass you.’

‘You don’t understand.’ Gui pulled roughly on his arm. ‘She’s Jeanne Clermont,
Mademoiselle
Clermont.’

Jim halted, an inch from the street.

‘Her father owns the business,’ Gui continued shakily, cold sweat breaking out on his neck. ‘I told you, he promised her to another man, but she won’t go through with it. I’m the one who’s going to marry her. As soon as she can get some money—’

‘Some money?’

‘Yes, she said she has a little of her own, some jewellery, too. It’s enough to live on, for a while.’

Jim was turning pale. ‘You told me you loved her …’ he accused.

Before Gui could protest, voices sounded on the street, horribly familiar. In two strides, Jim was gone. Gui clutched at empty air, too late. He could not see around the corner to witness the scene. There was a silence, too long by a beat.

‘Jim,’ Jeanne stammered, ‘I mean, Monsieur Stevenson, what a pleasure. This is Leonard Burnett, my … fiancé.’

‘A pleasure to meet you, sir.’

‘Likewise, Mr Stevenson.’

Gui edged along the wall as far as he dared. He caught a glimpse of the two men shaking hands. Jim looked over his shoulder, back down the alleyway. Gui met his hard gaze, then let his head fall back against the wall, eyes clenched to the sky.

‘Mademoiselle,’ he heard the writer murmur, ‘I believe I see my friend. If you will excuse me?’

Chapter Thirty-Seven

May 1988

‘You are mad,’ Alex complains, fishing a helmet out from under the cracked seat. ‘
I’m
mad for even considering this.’ He surveys the old motorbike with a mixture of pain and affection. ‘I don’t even know if she’ll make it. I haven’t ridden her since the start of term.’

‘Her?’ I laugh. ‘Your moped is a girl?’

‘It’s not a moped.’ He picks a spider from the handlebar, depositing it on a nearby bush. ‘It’s a motorbike, a CB 400 Hawk.’

‘Fine. Will it get us to Dover?’

For the hundredth time that evening, Alex rubs at his forehead. He is not a spontaneous person.

‘Petra, what if you don’t find anything? What if there isn’t any record of Mademoiselle Clermont’s marriage? Then what happens if you get stuck in France? How will you be back in time for the review on Monday?’

I reach up and grab Alex’s face between my hands. He stops speaking instantly. I smile, strangely calm. All of my anxieties and fears have distilled into a fine beam of light, pointing inexorably through the next three days. All I have to do is follow.

Eventually Alex sighs, a long, resigned sound.

‘OK,’ he concedes, placing his hands on my shoulders, ‘but don’t blame me if we break down in the middle of Kent.’

Alex’s thumb brushes my cheek, as if smoothing away something there.

‘You know I wouldn’t do this for anyone else, don’t you, P?’ he murmurs.

A few minutes later, he kicks the bike into life. It snorts and splutters, smells strongly of oil, then settles into a disgruntled wheeze.

‘All right, jump on!’ he shouts over the noise.

Several residents of the street are peering through windows, looking for the source of the commotion.

‘Are you sure?’ I yell back, adjusting my rucksack.

‘This was your idea. Do that helmet up properly.’

Grimacing, I tighten the strap, trying not to think about where it’s been. It smells like damp foam and petrol. Satisfied, Alex nods and I climb on. He is wearing a leather bike jacket, sunglasses. The jacket is a little short at the wrists, but even so, it suits him. He looks like a messy James Dean, if James Dean had ever decided to change career and study for a Physics Ph.D. I close my arms around his waist, and feel him jump. A second later he revs the accelerator.

We shoot through the streets of Cambridge. Landmarks pass in a blur, made unfamiliar by speed. Instead of heading for the motorway, Alex turns instead towards the centre of town, slowing to a halt outside a familiar faculty.

Cass bounds down the steps, wearing an expression that is more than a little mischievous.

‘Thanks for stopping by, Al.’ She leans against the railings, grinning. ‘As for you, you were going to run off to France without even a word?’

I stammer an apology, mortified. In all the excitement, it hadn’t even occurred to me to call her.

‘I forgive you,’ Cass tells me solemnly. ‘Here’s something to help you on your way.’ From her pocket, she pulls a brown envelope that rustles. I rip open the paper. For a moment, I can’t speak.

‘Fifty pounds,’ Cass nudges. ‘Thank your fella here for calling me. He said it was an emergency. Luckily the banks were still open.’

Alex is flushing. ‘It’ll get you across the Channel, at least.’

‘I can’t take this,’ I tell the pair of them, swallowing emotion.

‘Think of it as a business loan, interest free,’ Cass says, taking the envelope and shoving it into my bag. ‘Also, your birthday and Christmas presents. Now, you two better get moving. You’re going to have a long night.’

The ancient stone walls and narrow bridges of the city give way to suburbs, wide roads where the traffic moves at a faster pace. We hurtle past the sign that marks the edge of town and I feel a thrill, as if we are sneaking out of school.

The sun sinks behind us, trailing orange and pink through the sky. I can’t help but glance in the wing mirror to see Alex’s face. It’s difficult to tell, but I think he smiles back. Resettling my hands around his waist, I lean against his back to wait out the journey.

With a jolt, I feel the bike slowing. My hands are almost frozen solid.

‘I fell asleep!’ I yelp as we pull into a dingy service station.

‘Try not to do that,’ he warns.

I clamber off with some difficulty and very little coordination. My legs have locked into position as well.

‘We need a break,’ Alex murmurs, eyes on the fuel pump as he fills the tank. ‘And directions from here.’

We perch on plastic stools in the window of the service station, nursing cups of weak coffee and perusing a foldout map. Alex adds yet another sugar to his.

‘We’ve still got a way to go,’ he says, ‘but I reckon we’ll be at the port by midnight. That’ll give you time to buy a ticket for the early sailing and wait for boarding.’

‘What will you do?’ I ask, taking another sip.

‘Got an uncle who lives outside Canterbury. I’ll drive up to him after you leave and get a few hours’ sleep.’

‘That’s not far from my mum’s house.’ I smile. ‘When this is all over you could come and stay, in the holidays.’

‘I would, um …’ Alex hurriedly drains his cup, nearly choking on the sludge of sugar at the bottom. ‘What will
you
do, once you’ve made it to France?’

I take a deep breath. The same question has been going through my mind.