The Oddest Little Chocolate Shop in London (2 page)

  
‘Well,’
she repeated, then glanced back at the door, which she had left open. The wind
was whistling down into the shop. ‘It’s so cold outside today, Monsieur Ravel.
Really quite bitter. And this poor cat may be lost. She looked so forlorn on
the doorstep. She’s clearly someone’s treasured pet, is there any chance you
would look after her for a few minutes while I check your neighbours, in case
she belongs to one of them?’

  
He
blinked. ‘Look after the cat?’

  
‘Just
for five minutes, I promise.’

  
‘Je
suis désolé, mademoiselle.’ He spoke very precisely, his French accent clipped.
‘No, I could not possibly.’

  
Her
mouth set stubbornly. ‘Three minutes, then?’

  
‘Forgive
me. I would prefer not to take responsibility for it.’

  
‘It’s
just a cat,’ she pointed out tartly. ‘Not a child.’

  
He
spread his hands in a gesture of apology. ‘As you can see, mademoiselle, I’m
all alone in the shop today, and there are many things I must – ’

  
At
that second, there was a loud, resonating sneeze from beyond the bead curtain.
So loud that Clementine was surprised not to see the beads swaying in its
aftermath.

  
All alone?

  
She
raised her eyebrows, looking at him.

  
Monsieur
Ravel drew breath as though to explain. But before he could speak there was another
loud sneeze, also out of sight. Then a third and a fourth in quick succession.

  
He
expelled his breath, shaking his head, and put his hands on his hips. On any
other man the gesture might have looked a trifle effeminate. On him it looked
oddly, touchingly, masculine and frustrated.

  
Clementine
fixed her gaze on the bead curtain. ‘Bless you!’

  
‘Thank
you!’ a woman’s voice called back at once. ‘Though you’re not meant to say
“Thank you,” when someone says “Bless you,” are you? Because it’s unlucky.’ The
bead curtain swayed for real, and a long pale arm poked through them, waving in
her general direction. ‘Hello, I’m not here.’

  
‘Evidently,’
Clementine agreed.

  
‘Well,
obviously I am here. What I mean is, I’m not supposed to be here. In fact, I
was just leaving. Only I got … ’

  
The
woman cleared her throat, sounding embarrassed.

  
‘Stuck,’
the chocolatier supplied.

  
Clementine
raised her eyebrows again. She had a feeling it might be better just to leave
them raised, to save herself the effort of constantly lifting them up and down.

  
‘Stuck?’

  
‘Yes,’
the voice agreed reluctantly, ‘I got stuck.’

  
‘In?’

  
‘A
crack.’ The pale arm waved at her again through the bead curtain, then withdrew.
‘My other arm is stuck in a crack. Well, it’s a gap really. Between two units. So
silly of me, I’m really very embarrassed. Dominic was just helping me get
unstuck when you … When we heard you come in.’

  
Dominic.

  
So
that was his first name.

  
At
that moment he looked at her sideways through his long lashes, and she realised
with a shock that it was possible for a heart to skip a beat. Good grief.

  
Then
she reminded herself that this was probably Madame Ravel. The woman with her
arm stuck in a crack. His wife. His very English-sounding wife.

  
Damn.

  
She
handed him the cat and he took it automatically. ‘Can I help?’ Without waiting
for his permission – he would never have given it anyway – she
pushed through the bead curtain.

  
‘Oh!’
A young woman in an olive green T-shirt and pink dungarees, maybe nineteen or
twenty years old, was standing immediately on the other side of the curtain,
slightly bent over, one arm thrust past the elbow between two units and the
other waving free.

  
She
twisted to look up at Clementine, her smile lopsided, her face very flushed. Her
long glossy dark hair was gathered up in what had probably been a neat chignon
first thing that morning, but was now looking very sorry for itself, strands
hanging loose and dangling in her mouth and eyes. ‘Sorry, I can’t see you
properly. But hello again, I’m Rachel.’

  
‘Hello,
Rachel,’ Clementine said and crouched down to examine the problem. ‘Let’s see
what’s going on here. Can’t you just … I don’t know, pull your arm out?’

  
‘No,
I’ve tried. I was trying to reach something behind these pipes at the back, you
see.’ Her smile was a little bit sad. ‘My engagement ring, in fact. I wriggled
my hand through the gap and managed to pick up the ring. But now I can’t
wriggle it out.’

  
Her engagement ring.

  
Hmm.
Monsieur Ravel liked them young, she thought tartly, but said nothing. It was
none of her business.

  
Clementine
could see what the girl meant. There was a painfully narrow gap between two
units – health and safety should have had something to say about that,
she thought testily – with some ancient pipes down at the back. Rachel
had her hand stuck between the pipes, and it did look like a very uncomfortable
position, poor thing.

  
Monsieur
Ravel – she was trying hard not to think of him as Dominic – had
pushed through the bead curtain after her. He did not seem impressed by her
continuing presence in his shop, watching her through narrowed eyes. ‘As you
can see, we are genuinely busy today, Miss … I’m sorry, I don’t know your
name.’

  
And
she had thought he would never ask!

  
‘Clementine!’

  
She
stuck out a hand, somewhat hampered by the girl bending between them.
Undeterred, he reached through and shook it under Rachel’s chest.

  
The
chocolatier had a firm handshake, she noted with satisfaction, despite his
distracted air. Strong masculine fingers curled about her own, squeezed hard as
though finalizing a big business deal, then released her more slowly than she
had expected.

  
‘Dominic,’
he said grudgingly, his voice pitched at a timbre low enough to make the hairs
rise on the back of her neck. Or they would have done, if she had not been
wrapped so tightly in her thick pashmina. ‘Dominic Ravel.’

  
That
sexy French accent. She could listen to this man for hours. He should be
reading the shipping forecast. Or perhaps not, she thought in a daze, imagining
all those women tuning in just to hear what the visibility was.

  
Her
hand was tingling. She collected her wits and tried not to stare at him like a
hormonally-challenged teenager.

  
‘Have
you tried butter?’

  
Rachel
turned awkwardly, staring at her through more loosening strands of hair. ‘I’m
sorry?’

  
‘Rubbing
butter on your hand to make it slip more easily between the pipes.’

  
He
looked thunderstruck by this simple solution. ‘Du beurre. Of course, why did I
not think of that myself?’

  
‘Do
you have any?’

  
She
saw Dominic’s brows rise steeply. ‘Je suis chocolatier, Mademoiselle
Clementine. Butter I have in abundance. Attendez, s’il-vous-plaît.’ He strode
to the large red fridge, flinging it open to reveal gleaming shelves full of …
nothing. ‘Ah, merde, I had forgotten. We emptied the fridges last night.’

  
‘Perhaps
the small fridge?’ Rachel suggested.

  
‘Ah,
oui.’

  
He
closed the red refrigerator, and turned to a smaller white fridge on the
opposite side of the kitchen. Bending to search it, he came back with a packet
of butter.

  
The
chocolatier stood a moment, packet of butter in hand, considering the
narrowness of the gap he would have to negotiate. Then his mouth twisted and he
handed the packet to Clementine. ‘On second thoughts, mademoiselle, perhaps it
might be better if you smoothed the way.’

  
Clementine
grinned at his expression, and unwrapped the fresh packet of butter. Scooping
out a healthy dollop, she eased her own arm through the gap, trying not to squash
poor Rachel, whose dignity was being sorely tested.

  
It
was a simple matter to rub butter into those parts of her hand she could
actually reach, and her wrist too, then ease back out of the gap.

  
‘Try
now,’ she suggested.

  
Rachel
took a deep breath, then pulled.

  
Her
hand came free and she stumbled backwards, holding aloft her butter-streaked
hand like a trophy, a glinting diamond ring between her fingers.

  
‘Hurrah!’
Clementine cried, tossing the packet of butter to Monsieur Ravel who caught it
one-handed.

  
‘Thank
you so much,’ Rachel said, trying to shake her hand without wiping it first,
and Clementine glanced about for a dishcloth, then pressed it gently into her
hands.

  
‘You
are very welcome,’ Clementine told her. ‘Just don’t make a habit of sticking
your hand where it shouldn’t go, okay?’

  
‘Point
taken.’ Rachel put down her ring, then wiped the grease from her hands,
studying her more carefully. A look of concern came into her frank blue eyes.
‘Are you from the bank?’

  
‘Rachel!’
the chocolatier exclaimed.

  
‘Sorry,
and I’m very grateful to you for … ’ Rachel waved her hand about vaguely, still
clutching the dishcloth. ‘But don’t you think Mr Ravel has got enough on his
plate without coming round here and pestering him about the books … ’ She
stopped abruptly, consternation on her face, then buried her nose in the now buttery
dishcloth. ‘AITCHOO!’

  
They
both stared at her.

  
Rachel
pulled the dish cloth away from her face, looking embarrassed. There was a
faint oily sheen to her nose. ‘Sorry, I don’t know what … ’

  
It
happened again.

  
‘AITCHOO!’

  
She
blew her nose violently, finishing, ‘… what’s got into me this morning.’

  
Her
head bent, she focused on a slim white hair lying on the spotless black tiled
kitchen floor. ‘Oh my god,’ she said blankly.

  
From
behind them, a plaintive miaow broke the silence.

  
Rachel
swivelled in horror as the white Persian sat down at her feet, her eyes
widening. ‘It’s a … ’ Her face quivered and she raised the dish cloth to her
nose again in a preemptive gesture. ‘A … cat!’

  
‘Beautiful,
isn’t she?’ Clementine said quickly, eager to fill the awkward gap as the other
two looked down accusingly at the cat. ‘I’m not from the bank, actually. I was
just passing, and saw the shop looking awfully empty, so I thought I’d pop in
and … But then she was on the step,’ she said blithely, ignoring the fact that
she did not know the cat’s gender. ‘It’ looked like a ‘she’, she had decided. ‘Monsieur
Ravel had just offered to look after her for a few minutes while I check who
she belongs to. Poor thing was shivering out there in the cold,’ she
embellished, noting that the look of horror on Rachel’s face had not abated.

  
‘I
don’t recall having offered any such thing,’ he said drily.

  
‘I’m
allergic to cats,’ Rachel stated, still glaring at the offending animal as she
reached for her engagement ring and slipped it back onto her finger. Then, as
if on cue, she sneezed violently again.

  
‘Gesundheit,’
Clementine offered. Something nagged at her and she rewound the conversation in
her head, then glanced at Monsieur Ravel, still standing silently beside them.
‘The bank?’

  
The
chocolatier’s face became shuttered. He scooped up the cat and handed the
miaowing white bundle back to Clementine, though gently enough. ‘Perhaps I
should show you to the door, mademoiselle? As you can see, we are busy here
today.’

  
Oh, so they were back to ‘mademoiselle’.

  
She
managed a bright smile. ‘I work for an accountancy firm,’ she told him.

  
She
was only embellishing slightly, for her uncle ran the business and he had
offered her a temporary position while she got back on her feet after redundancy.
So far she had made the tea, cleaned the offices, and occasionally answered the
phone, all with the resident office dragon breathing down her neck, telling her
not to be so cheerful, as if mirth were not required at an accountancy firm.
Though frankly, she could not think of a better place for it.