The Loveliest Chocolate Shop in Paris by Jenny Colgan

pained courtesy.
    You could still see in her the traces of the younger woman she had been; she’d been beautiful. She still was, in a certain light, when the years of pain weren’t so strongly etched on her brow.
    I had fantasized, perhaps, of a suave, gray-haired type, perhaps with jet black eyebrows, wearing chef’s whites or maybe a very well-cut suit. Smart and stylish, just like her—chic and a little bit distant. Perhaps we would smile wryly when Claire’s name came up, or, perhaps sadly, he would barely remember her at all, just a girl from very long ago who had had a wild crush on him, a summer of his youth, but nothing to do with his real life at all. Romantic and handsome, obviously, perhaps a little sad…
    None of these described Thierry Girard.
    I don’t know if Thierry spoke any English. I couldn’t imagine how he made his trips to Australia and America, where he was feted and famous, if he couldn’t. But I never heard him speak a single word. He was huge; he never spent any time in the shop without making it look as if there wasn’t any room for anybody else. His belly, normally enswathed in a huge white apron, seemed to be a separate entity from himself, as it entered rooms before he did.
    â€œWho is this?” he boomed as he entered the kitchen. “Frédéric, have you been bringing night girls home with you again?”
    At this stage, my French was a beat behind what was actually being said, so it was too late to realize I was being horribly insulted till a moment or so later. Which was a relief because if I’d have shot my mouth off, I’d have been out of a job about two milliseconds later.
    â€œThis is AnNA Tron,” said Frédéric. “The new kitchen assistant.”
    Thierry lowered his enormous face toward mine. He had a little beard, which was lucky as his face was so sunk in fat that without it, it would have been borderline featureless. His little black eyes were like raisins stuck in a huge muffin. His skin was doughy, and hair came out of his flat nostrils. He gazed at me.
    â€œWomen in among my chocolate,” he said. “I’m not sure.”
    I was taken aback. You would never hear this type of thing in the UK. Just as I was about to get annoyed about it, his enormous meaty shoulders shook with a huge belly laugh.
    â€œI am joking! I joke! I joke!”
    He looked at me, then suddenly snapped his fingers.
    â€œI know who you are!”
    I wasn’t at all sure he would.
    â€œYou are Claire’s friend.”
    I nodded.
    â€œHa! She spoke French like a dog eats salad.”
    I bristled. “She was a wonderful teacher.”
    His eyes blinked rapidly, twice. “Ah yes. I’m sure she was. I can imagine she was. Mind you, she was a terrible nanny…although, alors , perhaps that was my fault…”
    He drifted off then and I shifted uncomfortably. I wasn’t at all sure how much he knew about Claire’s illness, nor how serious it was.
    â€œAnd you were ill?”
    â€œI’m fine,” I said stoutly. I wasn’t really in the mood for volunteering exactly what was wrong with me unless somebody absolutely had to ask.
    â€œYou are fine for working hard, yes?”
    â€œWithout a doubt,” I said, smiling as hard as I could.
    â€œ Bon . Bon .”
    His face looked far away again.
    â€œAnd Claire…she is also ill.”
    I nodded, not quite trusting myself to speak. He looked as if he were about to ask more, then stopped himself.
    â€œ Alors . Welcome, welcome. Do you know your chocolate?”
    I looked into his big friendly giant’s face sincerely. This I could answer.
    â€œI do, sir. I’ve worked in chocolate for ten years.”
    He looked at me expectantly.
    â€œYours is the best,” I said simply, not sure I could trust my French to elaborate. He paused, then the huge laugh was back.
    â€œListen to her!” he yelled. “Alice! ALICE!