‘
Bonjour … excusez-moi
,’ said a voice with an execrable French accent. ‘
Parlez anglais?
’
Romily looked up. Standing by the restaurant bins was a chef in the traditional white jacket – though this one was stained with food, gravy and oil – and baggy kitchen trousers. ‘Yes,’ she said thickly. ‘I speak English.’
‘I don’t like to interrupt a woman when she’s getting something off her chest,’ he said, ‘but it looks to me like you need a cigarette.’
‘Oh, I do!’ Romily said emphatically. The chef held out his cigarette packet and she took one gratefully, leaning forward to light it from the flame he offered.
‘Feel like telling me what’s the matter?’ he asked sympathetically as she took a long drag.
‘Oh, my family!’ she said. ‘I hate them!’
‘Ah, yes, the eternal problem. No one’s parents understand them.’ He smiled at her. ‘And I mean that with total sincerity. Mine certainly didn’t. My theory is that no one who has any success in life is really understood by their parents. You need to feel well and truly fucked off to make something of yourself.’
‘You’re American,’ she said, interested.
He nodded. ‘Yup. The traditional American in Paris. Are you French? You sure don’t sound like it.’
‘I speak English with a British accent thanks to years in a girls’ boarding school. But actually I’m French.’
‘You’re not only French, you’re cold.’ The chef looked at the goose bumps standing out on her skin. ‘Do you want to come inside?’
She shook her head. ‘No. My whole family is in there, and I’ve just made a terrible scene and stormed out. I can’t go back.’
‘I doubt they’ll be in the kitchen,’ he said. ‘But, on second thoughts, I won’t take you in there. You’ll distract everyone from their work.’
‘Shouldn’t you be working?’
He shrugged. ‘I was covering for someone but he’s just come back and told me he’s fine to take over tonight. I think he was told Chef’s looking for someone to fire and doesn’t want it to be him, even if he has a temperature and ought to be in bed.’ He dropped his cigarette butt to the pavement and ground it out. ‘But I oughtn’t to tell you that, especially if you had the fish. Now, what are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know,’ Romily said helplessly. She took another drag on her cigarette and sighed. ‘I’ll walk home, I suppose. It can’t be that far, can it?’
‘Anywhere is far if you’re wearing that get up.’ He eyed her silk dress and towering heels. ‘Listen, at the very least, put on my jacket and warm up.’ He unbuttoned his chef’s white tunic and took it off, revealing a clean white T-shirt underneath, stretched over an impressive chest. He wrapped it round Romily. Its warmth was delicious and she snuggled into it.
‘But now
you’re
cold,’ she said.
‘I can take it.’ He smiled. ‘Listen, why don’t I walk you back to wherever you’re living? I don’t have anything else to
do
and I don’t like to think of you out here on your own in the cold and dark.’
‘Well, I don’t know …’ Years of being protected by bodyguards and treated like a precious possession in imminent danger of breaking had left her wary of strangers.
‘Hey, I promise, I’m not a crazy. But I am a gentleman and I can’t just leave a lady in your condition on her own.’ He smiled. He had kind eyes, she noticed, dark brown like her own.
I trust him
, she realised.
‘And, this way, I can be sure I’ll get my jacket back.’
‘OK,’ she said. ‘I’d like that. Thanks.’
They walked back across the island and crossed the bridge over the Seine towards the Latin Quarter.
‘Are we going the right way?’ her companion asked. ‘You haven’t said where you live.’
‘I don’t care. I don’t really want to go home,’ Romily said mournfully. ‘I’ll only feel as though I’m sitting there, waiting for my parents to come back and give me a telling off.’
‘OK,’ said the chef affably. ‘Then why don’t we go and get a drink somewhere?’
‘I don’t have any money.’
‘I guess I can stand you a glass of wine. Come on, I know a nice little place around here where they do a good
vin rouge
.’
They went down a few smaller streets, vibrant with Moroccan restaurants, bars and cafés. People swarmed around them: students, tourists, romantic couples, and the workers and local inhabitants of one of the most busy and popular areas of Paris.
‘Here we are,’ said Romily’s escort suddenly, and showed her down an iron staircase to a basement doorway that led into a dingy bar. He found a table for them, pulled out a
rickety
chair for her, summoned a waiter and ordered a carafe of
rouge
.
‘Now, this is better than walking the cold streets, isn’t it?’ He smiled at her.
He’s very handsome
, she realised suddenly. She hadn’t seen it until now, but the soft low light in the bar illuminated his features so that his good looks were unmissable. He had a firm, square chin and a strong nose, and under straight dark brows, those brown eyes were strikingly well-shaped and alluring.
‘Yes, it is,’ she said, embarrassed as she realised that she was staring at him. She looked away.
‘Hey … wait a minute.’
She looked back at him. His smile had vanished and he was frowning, leaning towards her. ‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘I know you, don’t I?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Yes – yes, I do. I know your face! But …’ He scrunched up his own, thinking hard. ‘Where would it be from? You’re really familiar, but it’s like I’ve seen you in a dream or something.’
Romily laughed. It sounded like a silly line to her. Seen her in a dream? ‘Perhaps it was a past life?’ she suggested. ‘Maybe I was Cleopatra and you were Mark Antony.’
‘No, no … I know I sound dumb but it wasn’t quite like that …’ He bit his lip and frowned even more fiercely. ‘Damn! This is going to drive me crazy.’
The waiter arrived, put down the carafe of wine and two bistro glasses, then left without a word. This was novel to Romily, who was used to plenty of attention in bars and restaurants.
The chef leant forward and poured out the wine. He passed a glass to her and took a healthy gulp of his own. ‘Jeez, I just can’t shift the thought that I know you …’
‘I don’t see how,’ she said reasonably. ‘Besides, I’ve only been back in Paris a week.’
‘Back from where?’
‘From New York.’
The man’s expression changed, and he seemed to go several shades paler. ‘Oh my God,’ he whispered. ‘I’ve got it. I know where it was. It was you!’
‘What was me? I mean, who was me? I mean …’ Romily stopped, confused.
What am I asking him?
Maybe going for a drink with this man had not been such a good idea. He seemed a bit mad.
He leant closer again, his expression earnest. ‘One night in New York I had a really bad experience. I got on the wrong side of this guy and he ordered a couple of his heavies to take me out and teach me a lesson. They drove me to God knows where, threw me out of their car, dragged me into an alley and proceeded to beat the living crap out of me. It was not pretty. But the girl who found me was. And I think she was you.’
Romily gasped. She saw the whole thing in her mind instantly. But that poor man had been badly beaten – his face swollen, his eyes puffy slits, and all covered in blood. He’d been nothing like this extremely handsome man. ‘That was
you
?’ she said incredulously.
His face cleared and he smiled broadly. ‘Sure was. Theodore Mitchell at your service. But you can call me Mitch.’
Chapter 30
Foughton Castle
Scotland
‘WELL, ALLEGRA – WHAT
do you suggest you do with yourself now?’ Her father leant back behind his desk and pressed his fingertips together while he glared at her.
Her heart had sunk when he’d summoned her into his study after dinner. It was like some kind of Victorian interview between the pater familias and the youngest son sent down from the ’Varsity in disgrace. And, by the looks of his bloodshot eyes, he’d already been at the brandy.
‘I thought I’d move to London and find a job,’ she said, trying not to show that she was nervous of him.
‘Really?’ His lip curled. ‘As what?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll find something.’
‘I suppose you could be like Miranda and get yourself a shitty little job on a pointless society magazine, but I’d hoped for more from you.’ He sighed. ‘You’ve turned out as useless as the others.’
I won’t cry
, she told herself, clenching her teeth.
I won’t let him upset me
.
‘I suppose you’ll want more money. What you were living on in Oxford won’t be enough in London. You can stay at Onslow Square until you’ve sorted yourself out and I’ll see about raising your allowance.’
‘I don’t need that,’ she replied in a loud voice, almost to her own surprise.
‘Don’t you?’ Her father raised his eyebrows. ‘You think you’ll get by without anything more, do you?’
‘I can look after myself,’ she said proudly. ‘I don’t need your money – any of it.’
An expression of irritation crossed his face. ‘Well, you haven’t done very well so far. And you’ve only got your A-levels now you’ve thrown away your chance of a degree, so God alone knows what kind of job you’re going to get.’ His eyes drifted down to her thighs, bare below her cut-off denim shorts. ‘Or perhaps you think you’re going to find a man to pay for you.’
Icy rage filled her breast. ‘I don’t need a man to look after me. And I don’t need
you
either! You’ve never given a damn about me so I don’t know how you dare be disappointed in me now!’ She jumped to her feet. ‘And you can keep your stupid allowance! I don’t bloody well need it, any of it!’
Her father slammed his hand on the desk and roared, ‘Piss off then, you ungrateful little bitch! And don’t come back until you’ve learned a little humility.’
‘Fine by me!’ yelled Allegra, and marched out of the study, slamming the door behind her. Then she ran upstairs to her bedroom and sobbed into her pillow, half afraid that he would come after her, ready to deal out more of the blows he had distributed so readily in the past.
Just as London’s high society was heading out of town for the last dusty days of the sweltering summer, Allegra was making her way there. It was the only place she could think of to go. She was furious with her father: as usual, he hadn’t even tried to understand her. He had no sympathy for her over what had happened and she was full of resentment that he’d never so much as patted her on the shoulder for
managing
to get into Oxford in the first place. After all, Miranda hadn’t even passed her A-levels without spending almost four years at a very expensive crammer. And while she nominally worked at a glossy magazine, it was actually only in the subscriptions department. Miranda’s title guaranteed her a flashy social life and entrée to the best parties, but no one could pretend she was a go-getter. She was just waiting for the right husband to come along and provide her with the London flat, the country house and the cluster of children. Fine, if it made her happy.
That’s all Dad thinks I’m good for, too. But I need more than that, I need to do something with my life. I hardly register on his radar – the youngest daughter in his enormous family. He probably doesn’t even remember I exist half the time. Well, I’m damn’ well going to make him notice me
.
The problem was, what could she do? She hadn’t been entirely sure what an English degree would equip her for in the first place, and now she didn’t even have that.
Whatever I do, I need to be free
, she decided.
And I have to have a go at doing something amazing
.
She couldn’t think of anywhere else so went to the Kensington house, which felt empty and unloved. Even the housekeeper was on her annual leave, so the fridge was unstocked and there was a thin coating of dust everywhere.
I can’t stay here forever
, she told herself.
I might as well live at home if I do that. And I’m going to prove I can make it on my own
.
The problem was, all her friends were still up at their universities. In two years’ time, there’d be a rush of people flooding to London, looking for flatmates and places to live. Right now, she was on her own, living on the last of her allowance. At the end of the month, there’d be nothing. Her father had been true to his word and arranged to have it stopped.
I’ll talk to Miranda
, she decided,
see what she’s got to say
.
*
She met her big sister for dinner in one of her favourite Chelsea hangouts.
Miranda really is the most roaring Sloane
, thought Allegra as they ate the house burger with goose-fat chips.
It wasn’t just that her sister naturally fitted the brief, it was that she actively tried to fulfil all the criteria. Apart from her long blonde hair, which she constantly flicked away from her face, her sunglasses and her Sloane wardrobe of jeans, frilly, flowery tops and boots, she also talked in an almost unintelligible drawl, chain smoked Silk Cut, and was preoccupied only by her social life: a round of lunches at fashionable restaurants near her office, and evenings at pubs in Fulham and Kensington, dinner parties in Belgravia flats, or dancing in Chelsea nightclubs. She managed to fit skiing and country-house weekends into this packed schedule, but all that left her with barely enough energy for the requisite amount of shopping and gossiping.
‘It’s just, like, soooo exhausting at the moment! I’ve got a fortnight with the Cable-Johnsons in Rock, then straight off for a weekend at home. I’m taking Mitty, Annabel and Pogo, then back here ’cos I couldn’t get any more bloody holiday out of work – can you believe it? Absolutely everybody else is going to St Trop for another week as the Greens are having their party and it’s going to be
crazy
. In September, I’ve got four weddings and only one in London …’
Allegra sat there and listened and wondered how Miranda was ever going to be able to help her. Eventually she managed to break in long enough to ask if there was any work going at the magazine, but her sister looked doubtful.