Christmas at Tiffany's (35 page)

Today, they’d done a fig and almond tart sprinkled with pistachios, and Claude had revealed to her his secret of bringing the butter mixture for the pastry to the boil in the oven. She sighed contentedly at the fresh memory, driving Anouk even deeper into her black mood.

Cassie watched her as she took a deep, jittery drag on her cigarette. Her friend seemed nervy and on edge. She had been working late in the studio recently and going straight to bed when she came in, and Cassie noticed for the first time that she had black circles under her eyes – a previously unthinkable sign of self-neglect for someone who took longer to wash her face than change a wheel. And now she was interpreting Claude’s customary indifference, which he seemed to direct at any living being, as a snub to her desirability. She wasn’t usually fragile.

‘Have you and Pierre had a fight?’ she asked quietly.

‘
Non
,’ she replied defensively. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘You seem unhappy.’

‘Not unhappy. Just busy.’ She shook her head and her hair came to a caressing sweep under her cheekbones. She rubbed her temple lightly with her free hand. ‘I am having a problem with my diamond supplier, and Katrina . . . She’s not used to waiting for anything.’

‘I can imagine,’ Cassie replied sympathetically.

‘She wants nine pieces shipped out by the end of next week.’

‘I’m sure.’

‘It’s
completely
unreasonable.’

‘It is.’

She took a final suck on the cigarette before grinding it out in the saucer. ‘He thinks I can drop everything at the drop of a hat, just like that. Like I don’t have other things in my life.’

Cassie paused for a moment. ‘He?’

‘What?’

‘You said, “
He
thinks I can drop everything” . . .’

Anouk looked at her. ‘Did I?’ She stared back down at the ash in the saucer. ‘I meant “she”. I meant Katrina.’

Cassie sighed and put a hand over her friend’s. ‘Wanna talk about it?’

‘I told you, there’s nothing to talk about.’ She pulled her hand away.

Cassie sat back and watched her. ‘Okay. If you say so.’ They fell into silence and Cassie ruminated on how different it was living with Anouk. In New York, Kelly had practically merged them into one person – same job, same clothes, same bedroom, same lives. But Anouk was different – very independent, and she compartmentalized her life. She had found Cassie a job, but with someone else, as she preferred to work alone. And although things were clearly intense between her and Pierre, she only ever met up with him on a rigidly observed timetable. She never saw him after eight in the evening, and aside from that one dinner party, he never came to the flat, much less stayed over.

In lots of ways, as their days criss-crossed over each other, Cassie felt she was closer to Anouk than anyone – her favourite thing was cooking for the two of them in the evenings while Anouk sat on the worktop pouring the wine and the city lights twinkled in through the windows – but there was a definite boundary that seemed impossible to cross. Conversation rarely moved beyond gossip or work, and activity was confined to shared beauty rituals – the hammam, manicures, endermologie or hair appointments. She had been in Paris for six weeks now, and she could scarcely quite believe it, for she had long held up Anouk as the epitome of glamour, but life was beginning to feel quite . . . narrow.

‘Well, why don’t you get him over tonight, then?’ Cassie suggested. Maybe it was time for them to break out of their boxes a bit. ‘I’d like to get to know him better and I could cook for you both. I’d rather like to test out what I’ve learnt at Claude’s, anyway. You could be my guinea pigs.’

Anouk looked away. ‘He’s away this week. Not back until tomorrow.’

‘What about tomorrow night then?’

‘He’ll be tired from the journey.’

‘Right.’ Cassie nodded, getting the message loud and clear. Anouk didn’t want the status quo to change. She might be miserable and tense, but everything had to stay just the way it was.

Bas could be seen from a mile off, like a giraffe in a herd of hippos, like a miner in the snow. Cassie rushed forwards and flung her arms around him as he dropped his bags to the floor and hugged her back equally hard. She’d missed him more than she’d realized, especially when he immediately began turning her around and appraising ‘the hair situation’. On Cassie’s instructions, Kelly had debriefed him before he’d left (putting the blame squarely on Anouk’s shoulders), hoping to soften the blow.

‘Good cut; condition’s better,’ he said solemnly as travellers rushed past them, desperate to get to the taxi rank. ‘And it’s got high shine. You just cannot get that kind of lustre on blonde. And it does make you look very classy.’ He took a step back and regarded her from a distance. ‘But it’s not you.’

‘Are you saying I’m not classy?’ Cassie teased in mock outrage as he picked up his bag and they started walking, arm in arm, towards the airport exit.

‘Classiest girl I ever knew,’ he said, slapping her hand playfully. ‘But it’s just not my sweet, ditzy, how-do-I-get-dressed-again? girl.’

Cassie giggled.

He stared down at her fondly. ‘You look all European and mature. Like you know how to seduce a man just by the way you untie your scarf.’

They walked outside and straight into the cab Cassie had kept running on meter. The taxi sped through the back streets, pulling up at the Crillon, where Bas was staying for the week – the fashion circus had finally rolled into town on the last stage of its New York/London/Milan/Paris tour – and they checked him in. Not into a suite or anything fabulous like that, but still, a deluxe room with a view of the Eiffel Tower.

He had been booked by Valentino, Chanel, Sonia Rykiel, Isabel Marant, Balenciaga, Chloé and Vanessa Bruno, which meant he could afford to splash out a little, but it also meant he didn’t have a single free day. Cassie wondered exactly how much time she’d actually get to spend with him. After all, it wasn’t as if he’d be around every evening for dinner. If he wasn’t actually at a show – which would invariably be running an hour and forty-five minutes behind schedule – he’d be at the ateliers until the small hours, working through briefs with the designers until they agreed on the looks. She’d be lucky to get him for coffee.

Cassie had just about managed to pin him down to dinner for Anouk’s birthday on Friday, five days from now, and he’d promised faithfully to try to keep that evening free for her – not just so that they could spend some time together, but also to stop Anouk inviting Guillaume as Cassie’s ‘date’.

They went up to the room, and Bas ordered a pot of boiling water from room service.

‘Don’t tell me you’re fasting,’ Cassie scolded, going into the bathroom and coming out a minute later in one of the fluffy bathrobes. ‘You need to put weight on, not take it off.’

‘Not quite.’ He winked at her as he hauled his bag on to the luggage rack and began rummaging inside, triumphantly pulling out a small but perfectly formed box of PG Tips.

‘From our favourite little shop in the Village,’ he said, as she jumped up and down with excitement.

She brewed up a perfect pot, and they drank it happily, stretched out on the bed and watching the lights flicker on the Eiffel Tower.

‘So, you happy, Teabag?’ Bas asked her.

‘I am now,’ she sighed, before slurping her tea noisily.

‘Really, though.’ Bas was looking at her with concerned eyes.

Cassie took a little breath. ‘Well, getting happier . . . I’m more solitary here than in New York. Back there, you and Kelly just completely adopted me and I scarcely had a moment to register my sadness, I was so busy. And then when I got together with Luke, that was . . . a big milestone for me in so many ways. But coming over here meant leaving all you guys. I don’t know, I think in some ways I arrived in Paris even sadder than when I arrived in New York. I wanted to
stay
with you, whereas I came to New York because I wanted to get
away
from Gil.’

‘And now?’

‘Well, I think I’ve grown up some more. I can get dressed on my own and walk better in heels – though they still hurt like hell.’ She waggled her feet as if they were hands. ‘I do a lot of cycling around the city on bikes and sitting alone in cafés reading my newspaper. It’s the hair, you see – it lets me blend in more.’

‘You got a European version of me here?’

‘Don’t be silly, I could only ever have the original,’ she grinned, resting her head on his arm.

‘Glad to hear it,’ he replied, looking visibly relieved. ‘For my part, I’ve not met any other girls asking for yellowish hair and wearing numbered clothes either.’

Cassie burst out laughing. ‘My God, I was a disaster, wasn’t I?’

‘You were, but I loved you for it. You’re an original, Cassie Fraser.’

‘I’ll tell you what else
I’ve
got that’s original,’ she said, looking at him slyly.

‘What?’

‘A really grumpy Frenchman who looks like a bear.’

Bas grimaced. ‘He’s your French
Luke?
Honey, you could do a lot worse than go back to that man. God knows,
I
wouldn’t have left him.’

‘No, no, nothing like that.’ She looked over at him, disconcerted by the unexpected mention of Luke’s name. ‘Have you seen him at all, since I . . . you know?’

‘What?
Didn’t
stay?’ He shook his head at the memory of the disastrous Stay Party. ‘No. No. He’s been keeping clear of all of us. Kelly and Brett haven’t seen him once. I expect he’s been travelling a lot, though – there’s been the couture, campaigns . . . you know.’

‘Yes, I know,’ she murmured. ‘Is he seeing anyone?

‘Not that I know of, but like I say – I haven’t seen him.’

Cassie twitched her mouth anxiously. She hadn’t mentioned his name once since he’d changed his number. It had been an abrupt and very clear message that he was moving on, but she couldn’t help wondering – when she was in the bath, on the bike, scouting locations for the party or standing in the bread queue at Poilâne – whether he actually had. She’d resolved not to mope, but that didn’t mean he’d quit his lodgings in her head.

‘So tell me about the bear man,’ Bas said quickly, taking in her sad expression and obviously regretting bringing Luke’s name into the conversation. Cassie smiled again. ‘Well, his name’s Claude and he’s appalling in every way. Rude, obnoxious, abrupt, always got to be right, arrogant, imperious . . .’

‘Wow, dream guy,’ Bas drawled sarcastically. ‘I can see why you like him.’

Cassie turned her head on the pillow and looked at him dreamily. ‘He’s utterly, utterly brilliant. He’s the one making me happy out here.’

Bas sat bolt upright at her limpid expression. ‘Don’t tell me you’re serious!’ he exclaimed. ‘He sounds like a walking disaster – the last thing you need.’

‘He’s a
chef.’

‘I don’t care if he’s the freaking President,’ Bas cried. ‘He is no good for you.’

‘No, no – I mean, he’s a Michelin-starred chef. He’s teaching me to cook.’

Bas stared at her, trying to fathom how that could make her so happy.

‘So you’re not sleeping with him?’

‘God, no!’ Cassie chuckled. ‘I think he’s probably got hair growing behind his knees.’

Bas laughed, a little more relaxed now. ‘Well, that’s okay then. Because I know what you’re like. You’ve got no shit-o-meter. You’ll just go headlong into more heartbreak.’

Cassie put a hand on his and smiled. ‘You’re so protective. But there’s nothing to worry about. It is strictly pleasure.’

He sank back into the pillows. ‘Huh. Cooking. Who knew.’

‘Yup, we did a tart last time I saw him and we had to boil the butter mixture in the oven, can you believe it?’ she trilled.

Bas shook his head, completely baffled. ‘Not really.’

‘I see him on Saturdays. We go to the market on Boulevard Raspail together and
shop.
Buy everything really fresh, and just the very best, you know? He’s shown me all the best stalls – who to go to for truffles, who for olive oil . . . It’s like being part of a club. It would feel like treason now if I walked into a supermarket.’ She looked at him, utterly earnest. ‘Do you know, I don’t think I’ll
ever
walk into one again, for the rest of my life?’

‘The zeal of the converted,’ Bas muttered, pouring them each more tea. ‘So what you’re telling me is you like this hick town?’

‘Bas, how can you
not
like a city that has cooled sparkling water in the drinking fountains?’

He raised his eyebrows, impressed – as she’d known he would be – by that little nugget.

Cassie nodded.

‘Hmmm, well I guess that’s
something
in its favour.’ He looked at her. ‘But you’re going to come back, right? I’m not losing you to this place for good?’

Cassie stared out of the window, focusing harder on the night-lit Eiffel Tower which was beginning to blur from the condensation on the windows. ‘Do you know what I think,’ she mused. ‘I think that this city isn’t so much telling me about
where
I want to live, but
how
I want to live. Does that make sense?’