of chiffon boy-shorts there and she had exhausted her budget.
On to Galeries Lafayette, where she was distracted for a while by the outdoor stands showing glorious costume jewelry going for a song. A clunky ring with pearls and shiny stones, and a necklace that looked to be made of expensive Limoges crystal leaves but was of course fake, put her budget back on course. Not that she really had one. Heartbreak never has a price.
But it did make a woman hungry. Shouldering her way along the street, Mal stuck out her arm to signal a taxi. Miracle of miracles, in Paris, one slid to a stop immediately. Mal tossed in her shopping bags and climbed in after them.
The driver gave her a raised-eyebrow glance. “Madame?”
Oh. Right. She was supposed to go somewhere. “Véfour,” she said, out of the blue.
Le Grand Véfour was only one of the oldest, most expensive, and most revered of Paris’s restaurants. It was lunchtime, she had no reservation, and anyhow she really couldn’t afford it. It was a place to be taken to by a rich and attentive lover, something she did not have. Too late, the traffic thinned and they were already there.
A valet opened her door and Mal stepped out. She paid off the taxi, overtipping wildly in her new panic because what she should have done was gotten right back in and told the driver to drop her off on boulevard Saint-Germain, where there were dozens of decent inexpensive eateries, but she had acted like the grand dame and now she must carry it through.
She was escorted into one of Paris’s oldest and most revered restaurants, grand with gilt and cherubs on the ceiling, yet intimate with its burgundy booths, some of which bore small brass plaques with the names of famous customers from the past: Colette, Alexander Dumas, even Napoleon!
Mal’s shopping bags were gently removed, her warm jacket whisked away, a small table along the wall found for her. “Madame is lucky, a cancelation,” the headwaiter murmured as he handed her the menu, then asked if she would care for something to drink.
“Oh, Perrier, please.”
Mal smoothed her hair then, worried that her lipstick had worn off in the long spree of shopping, quickly fished her Burt’s Bees Peony lip balm from her purse and smudged it over her mouth. She took a sneaky peek at herself in the mirrored wall. She was still wearing the blue scarf! A quick glance round told her that was okay, half the men in this place were still wearing their scarves. Obviously it was the accessory du jour.
Perking up, she took in her surroundings, which she was free to do without being accused of staring since every booth and table was occupied with happy-looking diners, sipping wine, and chattering away in various tongues, some of which she did not recognize. One thing was sure, though, the women looked good, and the men were not bad either. Lucky women, Mal thought with a frown. With their men.
Summoning the waiter, she ordered a glass of the house champagne. The waiter arrived minutes later with a chilled glass and the bottle of Taittinger. Of course the champagne house owned the place. He filled her glass gently, allowing the tiny bubbles to fizzle and the aroma of the wine to come through. Mal thanked him, took a sip, and sat back and relaxed. Harry Jordan did not know what he was missing. She pictured him in Ruby’s, eating yet another cheeseburger and downing another Bud. Maybe she would get him to progress to Stella Artois, add a little of the Euro spirit to his Boston cop life.
The waiter brought small dishes of what he called “ amuse-gueule, ” little nibbles to “tempt her appetite.” Slivers of artichoke in a lemon and oil dressing and tiny chicken wings.
In between sips, she studied the menu and decided to splurge on oysters and then a fish called “ rouge, ” which turned out to be red mullet. She would choose dessert or cheese later.
This is great, she told herself, sitting up straight at her single-woman table, discreetly eying
On to Galeries Lafayette, where she was distracted for a while by the outdoor stands showing glorious costume jewelry going for a song. A clunky ring with pearls and shiny stones, and a necklace that looked to be made of expensive Limoges crystal leaves but was of course fake, put her budget back on course. Not that she really had one. Heartbreak never has a price.
But it did make a woman hungry. Shouldering her way along the street, Mal stuck out her arm to signal a taxi. Miracle of miracles, in Paris, one slid to a stop immediately. Mal tossed in her shopping bags and climbed in after them.
The driver gave her a raised-eyebrow glance. “Madame?”
Oh. Right. She was supposed to go somewhere. “Véfour,” she said, out of the blue.
Le Grand Véfour was only one of the oldest, most expensive, and most revered of Paris’s restaurants. It was lunchtime, she had no reservation, and anyhow she really couldn’t afford it. It was a place to be taken to by a rich and attentive lover, something she did not have. Too late, the traffic thinned and they were already there.
A valet opened her door and Mal stepped out. She paid off the taxi, overtipping wildly in her new panic because what she should have done was gotten right back in and told the driver to drop her off on boulevard Saint-Germain, where there were dozens of decent inexpensive eateries, but she had acted like the grand dame and now she must carry it through.
She was escorted into one of Paris’s oldest and most revered restaurants, grand with gilt and cherubs on the ceiling, yet intimate with its burgundy booths, some of which bore small brass plaques with the names of famous customers from the past: Colette, Alexander Dumas, even Napoleon!
Mal’s shopping bags were gently removed, her warm jacket whisked away, a small table along the wall found for her. “Madame is lucky, a cancelation,” the headwaiter murmured as he handed her the menu, then asked if she would care for something to drink.
“Oh, Perrier, please.”
Mal smoothed her hair then, worried that her lipstick had worn off in the long spree of shopping, quickly fished her Burt’s Bees Peony lip balm from her purse and smudged it over her mouth. She took a sneaky peek at herself in the mirrored wall. She was still wearing the blue scarf! A quick glance round told her that was okay, half the men in this place were still wearing their scarves. Obviously it was the accessory du jour.
Perking up, she took in her surroundings, which she was free to do without being accused of staring since every booth and table was occupied with happy-looking diners, sipping wine, and chattering away in various tongues, some of which she did not recognize. One thing was sure, though, the women looked good, and the men were not bad either. Lucky women, Mal thought with a frown. With their men.
Summoning the waiter, she ordered a glass of the house champagne. The waiter arrived minutes later with a chilled glass and the bottle of Taittinger. Of course the champagne house owned the place. He filled her glass gently, allowing the tiny bubbles to fizzle and the aroma of the wine to come through. Mal thanked him, took a sip, and sat back and relaxed. Harry Jordan did not know what he was missing. She pictured him in Ruby’s, eating yet another cheeseburger and downing another Bud. Maybe she would get him to progress to Stella Artois, add a little of the Euro spirit to his Boston cop life.
The waiter brought small dishes of what he called “ amuse-gueule, ” little nibbles to “tempt her appetite.” Slivers of artichoke in a lemon and oil dressing and tiny chicken wings.
In between sips, she studied the menu and decided to splurge on oysters and then a fish called “ rouge, ” which turned out to be red mullet. She would choose dessert or cheese later.
This is great, she told herself, sitting up straight at her single-woman table, discreetly eying
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