‘Say hello to yourgrandmerefor me,’ he called after her.
She paused on her doorstep, the light from her hallway spilling out light up the edges of her fair hair. ‘I will. See you.’
He repeated the farewell back to her, trying to mimic how casual she sounded about it and not examine the disappointment that she was gone already.
Once Ashleigh’s front door closed over behind her, Olivier took the few short steps up to his maman’s house and rang the bell. No answer.
This wasn’t a shock – she’d mentioned she’d most likely still be at the shop when he arrived. Luckily, he had a spare key still, which he’d packed in his holdall.
The cool quiet of the hallway, despite the echoes from the high ceiling, was soothing. All he wanted now was a good strong coffee and to sit at his maman’s kitchen table before he unpacked. To enjoy the peace.
It felt like Olivier hadn’t spent time in silence on his own in years. Between the incessant bustle of the restaurant and the incessant larger-than-life personality of his father… Yes, some quiet would be a welcome thing.
Once his maman came home, it wouldn’t last long. She had as strong a personality as his father, though she wielded it far more gently. Towards him at least. He was counting on her sensitivity to help him avoid going into detail about what had happened to trigger his divorce from Nancy eighteen months ago.
It wasn’t that the subject was painful to him exactly. He wasn’t bitter or broken-hearted. He and Nancy had never really been right for each other – that was obvious now. But explaining everything that had happened to his maman, was going to be awkward and he still didn’t think he was ready to deal with her reaction yet.
He took his coat off and hung it on the stand by the door, then headed upstairs to the bathroom. After he’d taken a comfort break and splashed cold water over his face to wake up a little, he pushed open the door to the bedroom he’d always stayed in when he came to visit Maman throughout the year.
It barely resembled his old room at all, but he could hardly be upset about that. Now there was a double bed, a wardrobe, and a desk in matching dark wood. A new deep carpet and dark blue sheets crisp on the duvet. It would be strange to sleep in there, styled so adult and neutral, but then perhaps that was what suited him best. He still felt the same as the boy who’d come to visit, but at least he managed to look and act like the grown-up this room deserved now he was nearly thirty. The thing was, it was beginning to feel more and more like exactly that – an act.
Back downstairs he discovered that the kitchen was spotless and had also been redecorated. Fresh paint and new tiles on the floor. But the table was the same. It had been his great-grandmere’s. Large, strong; the perfect place to sit around with friends and family to enjoy informal meals or to work at.
He made himself a double espresso and settled into one of the sturdy chairs his maman had tied bright floral cushions to. The light outside had faded altogether now. Next door he could hear a dog barking.
Was that the same dog they’d had before? If it was, he would be perhaps eleven or twelve now?Simon. That was it. They’d called the dog Simon, of all things, after a character from one of Ashleigh’s favourite shows at the time. He hoped it was the same dog. A sweet-natured, old man of a dog, even when it was tiny. Olivier remembered how excited Ashleigh had been, showing him off, cradling the puppy in her arms like a baby and nuzzling his floppy ears.
Olivier had spent many nights as a hormone-ridden teenager wishing he could get that close to Ashleigh…and she was still just as beautiful. Every year he’d come to stay he’d told himself he would grab a kiss with her before he left, but she only ever wanted to be friends. Any signs he’d had to the contrary from her, he must have imagined – and that last time, when they’d danced at the club…perhaps she’d just had too much to drink.
Once his coffee was finished and he’d cleaned up the cup, he was about to go fetch his suitcase and take it upstairs when the front door opened. Clicking heels, the rattle of the letter box as the door closed again and then a gasp.
‘Olivier? Oli, are you here?’ his maman called out and he found her in the hall, hurriedly shrugging out of her wide black frock coat.
‘Oui, Maman.’
She paused at the sight of him and threw her arms wide, her coat flying off the rest of the way and landing in a heap behind her. ‘Oh, my darling.’
He bent down to hug her, and her arms came around him tightly before she alternated kissing his cheeks over and over and over. And then hugged him again.
Sylvia was only French on her maman’s side and had grown up in England but studied as a chocolatier in Paris as soon as she was an adult. That was when she’d met Olivier’s papa, Auguste. So many of her mannerisms were a blended mix of the two cultures and he supposed, he was a little bit the same now too, as he bounced back and forth, switching between languages and lifestyles.
‘Oh, it’s been far too long since I saw you. You look thin.’ She held his face between her hands, and he could smell the bitter cocoa she must have been working with throughout the day, her eyes nearly as dark as the beans. ‘Is your papa working you too hard?’
Almost the same question Auguste had asked him earlier on the phone, but delivered in a very different manner. Olivier smiled. ‘No harder than I can handle.’
‘That’s good.’ She stepped back and slipped off her high heels with a sigh, then scooped her coat up from the floor, dusting it off. She watched him closely as she made long sweeps with her hand and then hung the coat back up. He felt the awkward press of her holding back on something she wanted to ask him.
It was probably about the promotion. Though Auguste and Sylvia had been divorced for fifteen years, they still talked and he’d been so grateful that they remained amicable. So many of his friends’ parents who had split up fought constantly over their children and he dreaded it happening when they told him they would be splitting up. But it was all done with a minimum of drama and he could almost guarantee if there was a subject that he wanted to avoid, they would both have talked about it and would be ready to present a united front with ‘his best interests’ in mind. Olivier was sure that Auguste would have given Sylvia a full run-down of what he’d offered their son, and how Olivier had responded.
Sylvia linked her arm through his, leading him into the kitchen again. ‘As long as you’re not exhausted then. Come, sit down, I have some leftovers I can heat up for us for dinner.’
‘Leftovers?’ He pretended to sound indignant.
‘Oh, I see, have you become precious, Oli darling? So used to your Michelin-starred meals?’ she teased. ‘No wonder you are looking thin if you only survive on the tiny portions your papa charges his customers so much for.’
He laughed and sat back down at the table, while she heated some onion soup in a pan on the hob and toasted slices of rustic loaf with melted camembert and herbs. Simple but perfect. His father was an amazing chef, but there was something about the way his maman cooked that left him feeling so much more satisfied.
And of course, she hadn’t meant leftovers likehewas used to eating – a couple of slices of cold pizza from the night before,ifhe remembered. Being surrounded by food didn’t necessarily mean eating well. Quite the opposite usually for chefs.
