‘What are you doing here?’ he rapped out. ‘I thought you’d left London. You might have told me you were in the city. That was very hurtful of you, Lettie, you know I would like to see you.’
Her first instinct was to apologise; he always made her feel like she was in the wrong. And she might have done, unable to stop herself, had it not been for one thing: he had called her ‘Lettie’, which she had always hated and he knew she hated – she had told him many times. But he had always insisted, saying thathepreferred it, it was softer, and anyway, didn’t shewantto please him, and to have a secret, special pet name? Hearingit again provoked a cold rage in her, and she drew herself up, shaking off her fear and guilt.
‘I’m here for work, not to make social calls. And now Monsieur Brodeur and I have a lunch appointment to discuss another project.’
‘And that’sfor workas well, I suppose,’ sneered Toby, looking pointedly at Léo’s hand on Juliet’s shoulder. Léo did not remove it.
‘It’s time we left,’ Léo said. ‘Lunchtime is busy there, and it would be a shame to have to wait long.’
‘And where is this “working lunch”?’ said Toby. ‘You should know that Lettie does get uncomfortable anywhere too smart. Remember that time you spilt your champagne everywhere in Le Gavroche because you were so terrified of the waiter?’
Juliet remembered it well, but it had not been the waiter who had unnerved her; he had been kind and, she knew, slightly pitying. No, it had been Toby’s cruel and humiliating attitude that had caused her to fumble with her drink. He had told the waiter in ringing tones that she only got confused looking at menus in French, and he would order for her, so they weren’t waiting until midnight while she figured out what she wanted. Toby had then demanded that she thank him for his thoughtfulness, and sulked for the rest of the meal because she hadn’t been grateful enough. But Juliet couldn’t say any of that now. Instead, she bit her lip, and wished the whole encounter could be over.
‘We’re going to Cornucopia. It is quite new, in Soho.’
Toby barked out a derisive laugh.
‘Oh yes, I know of it. And you don’t want to wait long? You do know the waiting list is about six months, not fifteen minutes, don’t you?’
Juliet wanted to die on the spot, but Léo spoke up calmly.
‘Indeed, about six months for most people. But as luck would have it, the proprietor is a friend of mine and will make a table available,pas de probleme.’
Toby’s face was instantly suffused with a deep, blotchy red. Recognising this a harbinger of anger and spite and realising that she didn’t have to be on the receiving end of it anymore, Juliet decided it was time to go. She muttered a goodbye and turned to leave before anything more could be said. She and Léo put a couple of hundred yards between them and the apoplectic Toby before she burst out in slightly hysterical laughter.
‘I have to say, that was brilliant.’
Léo shrugged, grinning.
‘It was simply the truth.’
‘Ah, but that makes it even better. I suppose I ought to feel sorry for him, but I don’t.’
‘No, don’t waste your pity on a man like that,’ said Léo, hailing a taxi. ‘Although he is surely unhappy and deserves pity. Instead, let me tell you about this wonderful – and very difficult to get into – restaurant.’
When they arrived, Juliet did a double take as she got out of the taxi. Léo had explained that the place was opulent, but nothing could have prepared her for the glorious façade. The restaurant was quite small, but the front was spilling over with fruit, vegetables, corn sheafs and leaves. She would have loved to have photographed every inch but settled for a few snaps on her phone. The door was barely visible through this tumbling waterfall of plenty, but Léo led her in confidently. He was immediately greeted with great delight by a tall man, also French, who had a thick thatch of russet hair, greenish-brown eyes and a booming voice. He and Léo conversed briefly inFrench, of which Juliet couldn’t understand a word, then they turned to her.
‘This is Emile, the owner of this fabulous place,’ said Léo. ‘And this is Juliet.’
She went to shake hands but was immediately enveloped in an embrace.
‘Juliet, it is my pleasure to welcome you here to Cornucopia. I have the best table ready for you and I hope you will enjoy whatever you please from the menu. Come!’
They were led to a corner table, from which they could see the whole room and take in not only the décor, which continued the theme of arcadian splendour from outside, but also the glamorous diners who she would certainly take pleasure from observing. Her desire to be at the heart of things had diminished and she was happy to just be with Léo at their table, watching the glitterati do their thing. There was also a small voice at the back of her head telling her that having a good view of the room could be useful if Toby suddenly turned up; she wouldn’t have put it past him to come barging in and demand a table.
Emile came over to hand them menus. They were in French, but had an English translation underneath, Juliet saw with relief. She remembered what Toby had brought up earlier and felt a rush of panic, her eyes darting across the different options, trying to decide quickly, then she felt a hand on her arm and looked up at Léo, who was smiling at her gently.
‘Take your time. There is no rush in choosing. This is lunch, the best meal of the day, and should be enjoyed at leisure.’
He returned to studying his own menu, and Juliet, with a new sense of calm, went back to hers, reading it carefully in order to decide between all the mouth-watering dishes on offer. Emile seemed to intuit when they had decided and came over to take their order and suggest some wine.
‘And as we are celebrating Juliet’s good news, I think we should start with some champagne as well,’ added Léo.
The champagne arrived, followed by their first course – both had chosen the same marvellously garlicky prawn dish, flecked with green parsley and bright red chilli – along with a brimming bread basket. As Léo offered it, Juliet hesitated. She dearly wanted a hunk of the seeded sourdough, but this had always been a test with Toby and the only way to pass it was to wave the bread away in bored disgust. As if one woulddreamof eating carbs! But now, she took some. She tried to tell herself she didn’t care if Léo minded, but the truth was that she couldn’t help but feel drawn to him, and she wanted him to find her attractive. Even as she broke off some of the bread to eat, conflicting thoughts coursed through her mind: he would never fancy her anyway – he was probably into sexy, dishevelled French women, like the one she had caught a glance of in the photos, not hard-edged Brits like herself, who preferred squashing their emotions to be as tiny as possible, rather than expressing them flamboyantly. Toby had been right about one thing: no one but him would be patient enough to put up with her, and generous enough to try to help her be a better person.
It had only taken seconds for all of this to flash through her mind, but when she drew her eyes up to look at Léo, terrified of finding a look of horror on his face, she saw that he had finished his first piece of bread, soaking up some garlicky juices with the last of it, and was reaching for another, seemingly unaware of her turbulence, shame and carb habit.
‘Do you like the food?’ he asked her, temporarily abandoning his bread in order to seize a prawn and start peeling off its shell.
