Free From Paris With Love by Samantha Tonge

way.
    Pierre jumped up to fetch her usual coffee and she sat down in his seat.
    ‘
Comment vas tu
?’ she said to Edward and pulled off her beanie hat. She spoke slowly for him but Edward managed a reply to each of her sentences – although after a minute he paused. ‘Sorry Gemma – we were just discussing…’
    ‘Don’t worry, I understood,’ I said, airily. ‘Monique has been ill but an…
angelic
friend helped her get better.’
    Monique laughed out loud.
    ‘Not bad guesswork,’ said Edward and squeezed my knee, under the table.
    ‘What an enchanting translation,’ said Monique. ‘But
tant pis
– too bad – it is wrong. We were discussing the play I’m currently starring in.’
    ‘It’s called
Le Malade Imaginaire
,’ said Edward.
    Well I knew the word “
Malade
” was something to do with being ill.
    ‘A comedy-ballet by the very famous Molière,’ said Monique. ‘I play
Angelique
…’
    ‘The daughter of hypochondriac Argan…’ added Edward.
    Great. Now I felt stupid. And she was a ballerina, as well.
    Then they were off again, except this time talking in English. However, it may as well have been another foreign language. I loved novels but knew little about seventeenth century plays and ended up staring towards the ceiling admiring the wrought iron candle chandelier. When Pierre came back – with a plate of yummy mini pear brioche buns – the conversation moved onto music. With not a lot to contribute, I sat there, stuffing my face.
    Like Edward, the other two adored opera. The only opera singer I knew was the one from that annoying “Go Compare” advert. To be fair, over recent months, Edward had dutifully listened to my Rhianna and Beyoncé CDs. Then I’d sat through a performance of Madame Butterfly. However, unlike Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, being introduced to such high art didn’t move me to tears. It moved me to yawn, baboon-like, whilst struggling not to nod off. Seeing Edward’s eyes shine as he and Monique chatted passionately about arias and librettos (no, I don’t know what they are either), it made me wonder if… if he was missing out on a life he loved by dating me. I could never dissect the technicalities of an opera or spend hours listening to Placido Domingo CDs.
    This uncomfortable question loomed even larger when the conversation switched to art. Just like Edward, Monique liked the contemporary stuff. I loved Edward. Edward loved me. But what if that wasn’t enough, once the passion faded? What if, long-term, our relationship really wasn’t meant to be?
    With relief, I noticed Pierre glance at his watch. He exclaimed in French at the time and jumped up.
    I put the list of email addresses in my pocket, stood up and made my excuses to head back to the kitchen. Monique didn’t acknowledge my departure. Before getting to his feet, Edward caught my eye and winked.
    ‘Monique’s typical of some French women,’ said Cindy, several hours later, as we wiped down the work surfaces, the last lunchtime customer having left. ‘The sparkle only comes out, honey, when she’s amongst the menfolk. It’s nothing personal, she just ain’t got much time for gals. And she ain’t ever short of male attention. Even Jean-Claude makes her a special dessert when she comes in. She likes mini versions – says she has to watch her figure, being an actress and all. Probably why she smokes.’
    Mini versions
? Like on Masterchef, the puds were already
tiny
at Chez Dubois – although the main courses were a decent size and more like home-cooking than fancy Cordon Bleu stuff.
    Cindy tucked a strand of peroxide hair behind her ear that was pierced with a small Mickey Mouse earring. ‘You can’t blame her for warming to Edward – he’s as cute as a possum. And, well, I’ve kinda gotta know her over the last year. She’s never short of boyfriends but it’s only the ones she’s real serious about that she introduces to her friends – a group of writers, actors and singers