Free Chocolat by Joanne Harris Page B

shoulders squared, the veins popping out on the bare shiny forearms. Then he smiled, a thin smile without warmth.
           “Monsieur Muscat, isn’t it?” I wondered what he wanted. He looked out of place, glancing, head lowered, at the displays…His gaze fell short of my face, flicking casually to my breasts; once, twice.
           “What did she want?” His voice was soft but heavily accented. He shook his head once, as if in disbelief. “What the hell did she want in a place like this?”
           He indicated a tray of sugared almonds at fifty francs a packet. “This sort of thing, he?” He appealed to me, hands spread. “Weddings and christenings. What’s she want with wedding and christening stuff?” He smiled again. Wheedling now, trying for charm and failing. “What did she buy?”
           “I take it you mean Joeephine.”
           “My wife.” He gave the words an odd intonation, a kind of flat finality. “That’s women for you. Work yourself senseless to earn money to live on and what do they do, hi? Waste it all on—” Another gesture at the ranks of chocolate gems, marzipan fruit garlands, silver paper, silk flowers. “What was it, a present?”
           There was suspicion in his voice. “Who’s she buying presents for? Herself?”
           He gave a short laugh, as if the thought was ludicrous.
           I didn’t see what business it was of his. But there was a kind of aggression in his manner, a nervousness around the eyes and the gesticulating hands, that made me careful. Not for myself — I learned enough ways to take care of myself in the long years with Mother — but for her. Before I could prevent it an image leaped out from him towards me; a bloodied knuckle etched in smoke. I closed my fists under the counter. There was nothing in this man I wanted to see.
           “I think you may have misunderstood,” I told him. “I asked Josephine in for a cup of chocolate. As a friend.”
           “Oh.” He seemed taken aback for a moment. Then he gave that barking laugh again. It was almost genuine now, real amusement touched with contempt. “You want to be friends with Josephine?” Again the look of appraisal. I felt him comparing us, his hot eyes flicking to my breasts over the counter. When he spoke again it was with a caress in the voice, a crooning note of what he imagined to be seduction. “You’re new here, aren’t you?”
           I nodded.
           “Perhaps we could get together some time. You know. Get to know each other.”
           “Perhaps.” I was at my most casual. “Maybe you could ask your wife to come too,” I added smoothly.
           A beat of time. He looked at me again, this time a measuring glance of sly suspicion. “She’s not been saying anything, has she?”
           Blankly: “What kind of thing?”
           A quick shake of the head. “Nothing. Nothing. She talks, that’s all. She’s all talk. Doesn’t do anything but, he? Day in, day out.” Again, the short, mirthless laugh. “You’ll find that out soon enough,” he added with sour satisfaction.
           I murmured something non-committal. Then, on impulse, I brought out a small packet of chocolate almonds from beneath the counter and handed them to him.
           “Perhaps you could give these to Josephine for me,” I said lightly. “I was going to give them to her, but I forgot.”
           He looked at me, but did not move. “Give them to her?” he repeated.
           “Free. On the house.” I gave my most winning smile. “A present.”
           His smile broadened. He took the chocolates in their pretty silver sachet. “I’ll see she gets them,” he said, cramming the packet into his jeans’ pocket.
           “They’re her favourites,” I told him.
           “You won’t go far in this job if you keep giving out freebies,” he said, indulgently.