The Oddest Little Chocolate Shop in London (4 page)

  
He
led her down the narrow, unlit shop and through a door she had never noticed
before, hidden behind a service counter. There was a steep staircase behind it,
and she followed him upstairs, through another door and into a brightly-lit
area with an island kitchen, and several doors leading off to, she presumed, a
bathroom and a bedroom.

  
The
place was spotless and tastefully furnished, a designer’s dream. A white
leather corner sofa with glass coffee table decorated with a vase of dewy-looking
white roses. Pale cream walls decorated with occasional prints of modern art,
their blocks of bright colour adding drama to the room. A faux log-effect
fireplace in white stone with a gorgeous nude statue standing to one side.

  
It
was the style opposite of her own messy living room, which was dominated by an
ancient sofa covered in a comfy chenille throw, books piled everywhere. But
then she shared the flat with Florrie, and her older librarian sister loved
books too and was not known for her tidiness anymore than she was.

  
‘So
you have a flat up here,’ she exclaimed, gazing around curiously. ‘It’s
lovely.’ The windows overlooked the street below, and she peered down, admiring
the pretty French shop sign just under the sill. ‘So convenient for work too. I
have to commute in every day. It’s no joke.’

  
She
wandered about, careful not to touch anything. Her clumsiness was legendary and
she was bound to break something. ‘Oh, how gorgeous.’ She had found a large
circular fish bowl on the table by the sofa, with one podgy goldfish swimming
about inside. She bent down to admire it. ‘What’s his name?’

  
‘Miranda.’

  
‘Oh,
he’s a she. Well, she’s lovely.’

  
Miranda
gets too much fish food, she thought, looking at the goldfish’s swollen belly
as it swam through a tangle of weeds into a fake shipwreck. Well, that was
something that could easily be sorted.

  
Stop mentally running this man’s life for
him
, she told herself sternly, and straightened. Though not before hiding the
fish food container behind his vase of long-stemmed white roses.

  
Dominic
had laid out some ledgers and documents on the broad, marble-topped kitchen
table. ‘Here,’ he said, indicating one of the high chrome stools arranged about
the table. ‘Shall we make a start? I hope you like pasta.’

  
He
rolled up his white shirt sleeves with quick, confident dexterity as though
about to cook. She saw him glance across at the large silver-bottomed pans
hanging from a pan rack near the state-of-the-art cooker. ‘I was planning a
simple spaghetti fruits de mer for supper, with chocolate truffles au Cointreau
to follow,’ he said. ‘My own special recipe.’

  
Simple?

  
‘Oh,’
she mouthed, utterly seduced by the way he had described the food. ‘That sounds
… ’

  
Don’t gush, woman
, she warned herself,
trying to repress her instinctive smile at the thought of him cooking her
supper while she watched, grinding black pepper and stirring onions with those
tanned muscular forearms. Men never like you better for it.

  
She
finished politely, ‘I love pasta, thank you.’

  
‘I’m
glad to hear that. Pasta is one of my favourite foods.’

  
‘I
would have thought chocolate must be your favourite food,’ she said impulsively.

  
‘Not
really. For me to eat chocolate is … ’ He wrinkled his brow. ‘How do you say
it? A bus driver’s holiday?’

  
‘Busman’s
holiday.’ She nodded. ‘I understand. You work with chocolate all day, you want
something different to eat.’

  
He
poured a glass of luscious red wine and handed it to her, studying her from
under those long dark lashes.

  
She
thanked him and sipped it, revelling in the warm, rich fragrance of the wine.
‘This is delicious,’ she said, meeting his eyes and hoping he did not think her
too bold.

  
Men
were constantly complaining she was too bold, she thought defiantly. Or
aggressive. Always taking the initiative where she ought to wait to be asked.

  
But
oh, it was such fun to take the initiative!

  
‘Excellent.
I should really serve white with the spaghetti dish, but I had an instinct you
would be a red wine person. Was I correct?’

  
Her
eyes widened. ‘Yes.’

  
‘Do
you know who first invented the chocolate truffle, Clementine?’ he replied,
holding her gaze.

  
She
was beginning to feel all hot and sticky again. Clementine. The way he said her
name was like honey dripping …

  
Wordlessly
she shook her head.

  
‘A
very talented confectioner named Petruccelli.’

  
‘Was
he Italian?’

  
‘Of
Italian descent, perhaps. I’m not sure, though I could look it up for you.’ He
smiled, pulling out a chrome stool and guiding her onto it, a firm hand in the
small of her back. ‘It is said Petruccelli invented the truffle at Chambery in
1895. Do you know Chambery? It is a very beautiful French town in the Savoy
region, high in the Rhone-Alps, not far from both the Swiss and Italian
borders. I too come from the south of France, though only from a small village
a little nearer the coast.’

  
He
shrugged, perching on the high stool beside her. ‘It can get very hot at the
height of summer, up in the mountains. I always wonder how Petruccelli managed
to keep his chocolate confections cool in that heat. But perhaps he only made
them in the winter months. For the local aristocracy, I expect.’

  
Dreamily,
she imagined him: a dark-eyed youth growing up under endless blue skies,
playing in the dusty soil of a hillside vineyard, maybe spending his long hot
summers on the beach.

  
She
wondered if he ever went back to his native France. For a holiday, perhaps. The
thought of Monsieur Ravel in nothing but a pair of tight-fitting black trunks,
walking out of a warm foaming sea, made her swallow. Hard.

  
Dominic
cocked his head to one side, regarding her quizzically. ‘What is it?’

  
She
willed the blush in her cheeks to fade.

  
‘Sorry,
but living in the south of France sounds idyllic. Whatever made you come to
London? It’s so grey and dull here, there’s no colour. Where you grew up sounds
infinitely more romantic than the streets of London.’

  
‘Yet
here I am.’ Unexpectedly, the chocolatier grinned. 'It does seem contrary, I agree.
But that's me. Contrary.'

  
'Well,
who wants consistency anyway?'

  
'Consistency
is only for desserts.'

  
'Exactly.'

  
He
laughed. 'I must admit, it feels good to be cooking for someone else for a
change, not just myself. On my own, I rarely cook. I throw together a sandwich
or some soup, c'est tout.' He opened one of the ledgers, flicking through the
pages. 'Before dinner though, le travail. These are our accounts for the past
six months. Our expenses are mostly contained in these folders, and this is
where I have listed our sales and overheads. Let's see what you can make of
these figures.'

  
Mathematics. Oh joy.


  
Clementine smiled, rather too
brightly, and tried to look intelligent but was worried she merely looked
demented.

  
'Bring
it on, monsieur. Maths is my middle name.'

  
He
looked at her, surprised. ‘Vraiment?’

  
‘Um,
no, not really. That was a joke.’ She floundered horribly under his level stare.
‘Veronica is my middle name, actually. I blame my mother.’

  
His
dark eyes continued to survey her coolly. ‘I see.’

  
 ‘Okay,
time to calculate!’ Flustered, she jerked one of his folders across the table
and managed to clip her wine glass stem so that it over-balanced.

  
With
amazingly quick reflexes, Dominic caught the wine glass and righted it so that
not a single drop was spilt.

  
‘Wow,’
she whispered, then looked at him. ‘Sorry.’

  
‘Calculate,’
he reminded her softly.

  
‘Oh,
yes.’ She flipped open the folder and stared at the thick sheaf of papers
inside, every sheet covered in dizzying figures. ‘No … problem.’

CHAPTER THREE

In Which Coffee Is Also Lavishly Applied

'Well?' Florrie demanded as soon as
Clementine walked through the front door to their flat at three minutes to
eleven that night. 'How was it?'

  
Clementine
attempted to look innocent. 'What do you mean?'

  
'You've
been gone hours, Clem. Come on, spill. How was it? Did he kiss you?'

  
'I
have no idea what you are talking about,' she insisted.

  
'Liar,'
her sister said drily.

  
Clementine
unwound her green pashmina, wriggled out of her coat, and sashayed across the
untidy flat. Unfortunately, her dignity was spoiled somewhat by tripping over
an abandoned shoe. But she paid no attention to her sister's laughter and threw
herself down onto the shabby sofa with a devil-may-care expression.

  
'Monsieur
Ravel cooks like a dream,' she confided, and linked her hands behind her
head. 

  
'A
wet dream?'

  
'Ha
ha.'

  
'Seriously,
Clem. You had a date with a hot Frenchman tonight. You can't leave me in
suspense like this. Did Monsieur Ravel kiss you? I demand to know.'

  
Clementine
closed her eyes, remembering how they had eaten an intimate and delicious meal
together at the kitchen table after looking at his accounts. His truffles had
been to die for. Then he had helped her on with her coat and shown her back
down to the shop, past the white Persian cat asleep on the stairs.

  
At
the bottom of the stairs, before pushing open the door that led into the shop, he
had smiled at her. 'Thank you for helping me with the accounts tonight,'
he had said, then leant forward in an wholly unexpected gesture to kiss her on
the cheek.

  
Kissing
her on the cheek in a neighbourly way had been his original intention, she was
sure of it. But at the last second she had turned slightly, meaning to speak.
Typically clumsy Clementine, as her sister loved to say!

  
So
his kiss had fallen on her lips by mistake.

  
An
exciting and shocking mistake, and one that had left her breathless at the
time. Now though, looking back, she felt again the explosion that had taken
place inside when their lips collided, and was stunned by it all over again.

  
Wow, that had been some kiss.

  
Their
lips had ricocheted off each other in a mere second, and yet, her whole
body had tingled and shook inside, her nerves practically leaping to attention,
and she had been seized by an insane desire to wrap her arms about him.

  
‘Yes
and no,’ she said slowly, and explained to her sister how it had happened. ‘But
the important thing is,’ she lied, trying to distract her sister, who was
looking far too amused by her goofiness, ‘I looked at his accounts tonight, and
you know something? I understood them!’

  
Her
sister’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Now that, I don’t believe.’

  
‘Well,
maybe understood is a stretch,’ Clementine agreed. Numbers were not something
she had ever grasped naturally, it had to be admitted. ‘But they weren’t a
complete mystery to me, which was what I expected when he first showed them to
me. In fact, I was able to give him some advice.’

  
‘Oh
god, I need to sleep,’ Florrie muttered, and jumped up to go to bed. ‘Sorry, Clem,
but the day you give someone accountancy advice is the day they go broke. Why
doesn’t he consult a real accountant like Uncle Geoffrey?’

  
‘Because
he’s stubborn,’ Clementine admitted. ‘He’s also in a spot of financial bother,
so he can’t afford the fees.’

  
‘Oh
great. Wasn’t that painter guy you dated bankrupt?’

  
‘You
mean Tom?’ Clementine flushed. ‘Dominic isn’t anything like Tom. Besides, that
was years ago and declaring himself bankrupt wasn’t Tom’s fault. His ex-wife had
just cleaned him out.’

  
Florrie’s
eyes had narrowed on her face. ‘Dominic?’

  
‘Monsieur
Ravel’s first name.’

  
‘Dominic
Ravel. That’s a great name. Very French film-star. Perhaps I ought to meet this
paragon of the kitchen.’

  
Clementine
stretched, yawning delicately. She was tired too, but in a pleasant way. All
that good food …

  
‘He
does make divine truffles.’

  
‘Hmm,
and I bet you enjoyed popping them in your mouth.’ Florrie’s tone was dry as
she scooped up her book and cardigan, stuck her feet back into her slippers,
and shuffled in the direction of the bathroom. ‘I’m going to brush my teeth and
head off to bed, Clem. See you tomorrow.’

  
‘Yeah,
see you.’

  
Florrie
grinned back at her, clearly noting her sister’s preoccupied tone. ‘Sweet
dreams!’

  
Alone
on the comfortable sofa, Clementine stretched out, closed her eyes in the
silence, and relived that burst of unexpected physical and emotional excitement
when she had turned her head and their lips had met for a fraction of a second.

  
POW!

  
It
was laughable really, she told herself sternly. One delicious dinner, the company
of a charming Frenchman, that tantalisingly brief kiss on the lips … and she
was falling in love.

  
There
had to be a catch.

There were still no chocolates in display
in the shop window after the weekend. Clementine paused, perusing the empty
front and shelves, and wondering if her advice on Dominic’s accounts had been
less useful than she had hoped. She glanced at her phone for the time; she did
not want to be late for work again. But then, peering in, she caught movement
towards the rear of the shop, and tapped on the glass on impulse.

  
Dominic
came to unlock the door a moment later. He was in faded jeans again, and his
hair was dishevelled as though he had been running a frustrated hand through
it.

  
‘Bad
time?’ she asked, not wanting to appear pushy.

  
He
looked at her searchingly, then shook his head. ‘Clementine,’ he said deeply,
his French accent catching at her soul, and waved her inside. ‘S’il-te-plaît.’

  
The
lost cat was there again, asleep on the empty glass counter, curled in a perfect
white circle. She raised a drowsy head as Clementine stopped to pet her.

  
‘I
couldn’t stop thinking about this gorgeous creature all weekend. I wonder what
her name is.’ She stroked behind the cat’s ears, and the Persian purred
violently, stretching out a lazy white paw. ‘And who she belongs to. What a
pity there’s no collar ID.’

  
‘I
forgot she was there. I’m not allowed to keep an animal in the shop,’ he
murmured, looking at the cat with regret in his face. ‘We’re a food retailer.’

  
‘When
you’re actually open.’

  
His
mouth twisted at her reminder. ‘Ah, oui. I suppose it’s not a serious issue
when the shop is not in business. But I should still put her outside, I’m
afraid. I could be fined if she’s found in the shop itself.’

  
‘She’s
such a beauty though, and very well cared-for. Someone out there must be going
frantic, hunting for her.’

  
‘I
agree,’ he said quietly, stroking the cat under her soft chin. ‘Which is why I
took her to the nearest vet this morning. She has no microchip fitted, and
she’s not on their books. No one appears to have reported her missing either.
It’s a mystery.’

  
Clementine
stared, impressed by his thoughtfulness. ‘What a good idea, I would never have
thought of doing that. But they couldn’t help find her owner?’

  
‘I
could have handed her in at the cat shelter, but they’re obviously
over-stretched. I rang, and the place was full. The nearest alternative is
several miles away. So I offered to keep her here until they have a free place.
They’ve given me some numbers to call in the meantime. Other local vets, pet
sanctuaries, the local radio station.'

  
'But
frankly,’ Dominic spread his hands, looking about the shop with a distracted
air, ‘I haven’t had time yet. I’m still trying to decide whether to give up the
shop and go back to France, or see if I can persuade the bank to extend my
loan.’

  
‘Give
the phone numbers to me,’ she told him promptly. ‘I’ll call them during my
lunch break. I don’t mind helping out.’

  
‘But
– ’

  
‘It’s
my fault, Dominic.’ She held out her hand for the numbers when he hesitated.
‘She would never have came into the shop in the first place if I hadn’t
interfered. I owe it to you to find her real owner.’

  
‘Bien,
follow me, I’ll find them for you.’ He headed towards the back of the shop and
she followed him through the rustling clatter of the bead curtain.

  
His
shirt was tucked into his blue denims today, and it was hard not to stare at
his taut buttocks, outlined by the tight material. Oh my, she thought, her
cheeks reddening.

  
‘Where’s
Rachel?’

  
‘She
kept sneezing,’ he said casually, ‘and there was no work for her, so I told her
to take the week off. On full pay. Until I make a proper decision. That is, I
had decided to close and not renew my rental agreement on the shop when it finishes
at the end of this month. But now … ’ He nodded her to sit down at the small
breakfast bar area in the shop kitchen, then checked the coffee machine.
‘Coffee?’

  
‘Thank
you, that would be lovely. With milk for me, no sugar.’

  
‘I
remember.’

  
She
perched on a stool and hurriedly texted work:
Running late. Be there asap. Sorry!

  
It
was only a little white lie, she told herself guiltily. There had been a tube
delay on the way in that morning. Signal failure somewhere on the District and
Circle line, according to the app on her phone. She had avoided a long wait on
the platform by accepting a lift with a neighbour who was driving this way.

  
Anyway,
Uncle Geoffrey seemed to hate having her in the office; he had been frowning at
her all week, and she did have a cursed touch with his machines, it could not
be denied.

  
So
perhaps he would not mind so very much if she was half an hour late again …

  
Turning
off her phone, she watched as Dominic briskly sorted out two delicate-looking
bone china mugs for their coffee. Of course. This was the second time they had
sat down to enjoy a coffee together. A brief memory came back of him making
their coffee after supper the other night, then his peck on the cheek that had
turned into something else. Something unexpected but wonderful. Something promising.

  
‘What
changed your mind?’ she asked daringly.

  
He
handed her a steaming mug of richly fragrant coffee. His gaze steadied on her
face. ‘You.’

  
‘Me?’

  
‘Your
advice,’ he corrected himself, and she saw a faint tinge of colour in his cheeks.

  
‘You
mean, after I looked at your books?’

  
Dominic
nodded slowly, sitting opposite her. For a moment he seemed lost in thought.
Then he added a small lump of demerara sugar from the bowl, and stirred his black
coffee. ‘You showed me that things were not as desperate as I had thought. And
your ideas about how to reduce my running costs and streamline the business …
Well, they were extremely astute. After you’d gone, I rang my father and talked
it over with him.’

  
Oh
gosh, she thought, suddenly worried. She hoped her advice had not been wildly
inaccurate.

  
‘I’ve
never particularly got on with my father.’ His lashes flickered and he looked
away. ‘It was a difficult conversation, and one I had been avoiding for several
years. Since I left France, in fact. But it did at least allow me to see my
problems in perspective. You were right. I was too ready to assume I’d failed
just because sales had fallen.’

  
‘So
you’re going to reopen the shop? That’s fantastic news!’

  
‘Assuming
the bank can be persuaded to give me an extension on my loan, I’m willing to
give it another try,’ he agreed, but still did not smile. ‘My father confirmed
what you said after I’d gone through the figures with him. I need to lose a
member of staff. Three of us are simply draining the business. Instead of just
being back here, making the chocolates, I need to serve in the shop more.’