Free The Loveliest Chocolate Shop in Paris by Jenny Colgan Page A

betrayed its twisty, hugger-mugger medieval origins: little alleyways springing hither and thither, roads narrowing to nearly nothing or ending abruptly at the wall of one of the great churches. It was hot; Claire had taken out a summer dress that she’d brought from home the weekend before, when she was to accompany the children as the family went to a wedding. Mme. LeGuarde had immediately shaken her head, pointed out to Claire that it didn’t actually fit very well, and disappeared. When she returned, it was with a soft brown and green silk dress, very loose and almost weightless.
    â€œThis was mine,” she said. “After the children, pfft. I cannot wear.”
    Claire pointed out that she was very slim still, which Mme. LeGuarde knew but waved away.
    â€œIt does not matter, my shape,” she said. “It is my age, my outlook that cannot wear it.”
    For a moment, she looked sad.
    â€œOh, these days come and go,” she said. Claire had barely met her husband, Bernard; he traveled almost constantly for work and seemed tired and distracted when he did appear. But the LeGuardes were, to her, so grown-up; far more so than her own warm family. They were sophisticated, worldly socialites who dressed for dinner and drank cocktails. Claire simply assumed that anything they did was correct.
    The dress was totally out of style—fashionable women in Paris were wearing soft flared denims on their long skinny legs, big hair, huge sunglasses, and large, soft felt hats tied around with Hermès scarves. But the soft leaf pattern and pulled-in waist suited Claire’s shape and made a virtue out of her slenderness; by making her look petite and delicate, the dress turned her short stature into a positive attribute. In her jeans, she was often overshadowed.
    â€œThere,” said Madame. “Much better.”
    Claire walked out with a basket to pick up some bits and bobs and with soft sandals on her feet. Several men were actively appreciative as she walked past, often with an approving smile or a murmured, “ Très jolie, mam’zelle, ” which made a difference to the shouts and wolf whistles girls were subjected to at home and added a bounce to her steps, and her nerves added a pinkness to her face and a sparkle to her eyes.
    Of course, she told herself, he was hardly likely to remember someone he’d met for two seconds at a party. And he would doubtless be far too busy; the shop would be a huge success, and he wouldn’t have two seconds to spend on her. Still, what would she even say to him if he did? Maybe he wouldn’t even be there, too busy off being creative somewhere else?
    She decided to pretend to herself that anyway, she was only going to find some lovely chocolate, nothing more, and try to stay concentrating on how excited Arnaud and Claudette would be when she brought some home. Yes. That was all.
    There was a bustle of people outside the shop as she arrived; already the buzz around town was growing. Claire couldn’t help smiling; she was so pleased. It seemed such a bold thing to do, to announce to the world that you had made something wonderful, and everyone was welcome to come and pay you money to have it. She couldn’t imagine anything she could do possibly being worth that amount of attention. There was as yet no name painted above the door.
    She advanced a little closer, drawn by the window. A crowd stood, just looking at it, and Claire realized why as she came closer—it was an entire, beautiful scene in the window, a fairytale castle with a carriage arriving at the door and a princess emerging. In the sky above was a hot air balloon, Montgolfier in French. Every single bit was sculpted from chocolate. There was white piping on the princess’s lacy gown, and the castle windows were of dark chocolate, cut into shapes. A tree had chocolate leaves and the balloon white chocolate designs inlaid on it. In the middle of the courtyard of the