The Ingredients of Love (10 page)

I saw how she touched her throat and played with a necklace of tiny, milky-white beads ending in a large antique cameo.

And then she looked up for a tiny moment and smiled.

It was that smile that enchanted me and filled me with joy even though it wasn't meant for me. I stood there looking in the window like a voyeur and hardly dared to breathe—so perfect did the moment seem.

Then the restaurant door opened, people came out onto the street laughing, the moment was over: The beautiful girl turned around and vanished, and I walked on.

I had never before eaten—nor did I later—in the snug little restaurant whose name I found so poetic that I couldn't help making my novel end there—in Le Temps des Cerises.

My girlfriend got her glitzy necklace. A short time later she left me.

But what remained was the smile of a stranger, which inspired me and gave my imagination wings. I called her Sophie and filled her with life. I put her through an adventurous story that I thought up.

And now she was suddenly standing in front of me, and I asked myself in all seriousness if it was possible for a character in a novel to become a human being of flesh and blood.

“Monsieur?” The voice assumed a note of concern, and I returned to the lobby of Éditions Opale, where I was still standing outside my closed office door.

“I'm sorry, mademoiselle,” I said, making an effort to control my confusion. “I was lost in thought. What did you say?”

“I'd like to speak to Monsieur Chabanais if it's possible,” she replied yet again.

“Well … you're speaking to him,” I responded, and her surprised expression told me that she had expected the man who had slammed his phone down on her call in such an unfriendly way a few hours before to look somewhat different.

“Oh,” she said, and her fine dark eyebrows shot up. “It's
you
!” Her smile vanished.

“Yes, it's me,” I responded somewhat fatuously.

“Then we spoke on the telephone this afternoon,” she said. “I'm Aurélie Bredin, do you remember? Who wrote a letter to your author … Monsieur Miller.” Her dark green eyes looked at me reproachfully.

“Yes, actually, I do remember.” She had damned lovely eyes.

“I'm sure you're surprised that I've just turned up like this?” she said.

What was I supposed to say to that? My level of surprise was about a thousand times more than she could possibly imagine. It was bordering on a miracle that Sophie, the heroine of my novel, should suddenly turn up here and ask me questions. That she was the woman from that afternoon who wanted the address of an author (who didn't exist!) because his book (that is, my book!) had apparently saved her life. But how could I have explained that? The whole thing was beyond my comprehension and I had the feeling that at any moment someone would jump out from round the corner on a wave of triumphant canned TV laughter and shout with overdone jollity: “Smile, you're on
Candid Camera,
hahaha!”

So I just went on staring at her and waited for my thoughts to sort themselves out.

“Well…” She cleared her throat. “After you were so…” She paused for effect. “… so impatient and frenetic on the phone this afternoon, I thought it might be better to come round in person and find out about my letter.”

That was my cue to speak. Great, she'd only been here five minutes and she'd already started to talk like Maman! I immediately snapped out of my catatonic state.

“Listen, mademoiselle, I was up to my neck in work. But I was
not
frenetic or impatient.”

She looked at me thoughtfully, and then she nodded. “You're right,” she said. “To be honest, what you actually were was
unfriendly.
I've already asked myself if all editors are so unfriendly, or if it's just your specialty, Monsieur Chabanais.”

I grinned. “By no means, we're just trying to do our job here, and unfortunately we sometimes get disturbed, Mademoiselle…” I'd forgotten her name again.

“Bredin. Aurélie Bredin.” She held her hand out to me, and was smiling again.

I took it, and immediately wondered if there was any way I could manage to keep hold of the hand (and if possible more than the hand) longer than was absolutely necessary. Then I let go.

“Now, Mademoiselle Bredin, I'm really glad to have made your acquaintance. We don't meet such enthusiastic readers every day.”

“Has my letter turned up?”

“Oh, yes! Of course,” I lied, and nodded. “It's lying quite happily in my in-tray.”

What could possibly happen? Either the letter was actually in my in-tray already, or it would be the next day or the day after. And even if the letter never turned up, the result would be the same: This wonderful reader's letter would never reach its addressee, but at best end up in my cabinet.

I gave a satisfied smile.

“Then you can forward it to Robert Miller,” she said.

“But of course, Mademoiselle Bredin, don't worry. Your letter is already as good as in our author's hands. Still…”

“Still?” she repeated with concern.

“Still, if I were you I wouldn't expect too much. Robert Miller is an extremely reticent, not to say
difficult
man. Since his wife left him he lives like a recluse in his little cottage. His heart belongs totally to his little dog … Rocky,” I said.

“Oh,” she said. “How sad.”

I nodded gravely.

“Yes, really very sad. Robert was always a bit peculiar, but now…” I sighed deeply and convincingly. “At this very moment we are trying to get him to come to Paris for an interview with
Le Figaro,
but I don't hold out much hope.”

“Strange, I would never have thought that. His novel is so … so optimistic and humorous,” she said. “Have you ever personally met Monsieur Miller?” She was looking at me with interest for the first time.

“Well…” I coughed self-importantly. “I think that I can say that I am one of the few people who really know Robert Miller. I certainly did a lot of work with him on his book, and he seems to have taken to me.”

She looked impressed. “It really is a super book.” And then she said: “Oh, I'd so love to meet this Miller. Don't you think there might be just a small chance that he might answer me?”

I shrugged. “What can I say, Mademoiselle Bredin? I think it's more likely that he won't, but I'm not God, after all.”

She played with the fringes of her scarf. “You know … it's not a reader's letter in the
normal
sense. It would be going too far to explain everything to you, Monsieur Chabanais, and it's actually nothing to do with you, but Monsieur Miller helped me a lot when I was in a very difficult situation and I'd like to show my gratitude, you understand.”

I nodded and could hardly wait to rush off to read what Mademoiselle Aurélie Bredin had to say to Monsieur Robert Miller.

“Hmm, let's wait and see,” I said. “What's that nice English phrase? Let's wait and see, and have a cup of tea.”

Mademoiselle Bredin made a moue of comic despair. “But I do so hate waiting,” she explained.

“Who doesn't?” I countered magnanimously and had the pleasant feeling of holding all the strings in my hand. I would never have dreamt that only a few weeks later it would be me who would be waiting, anxious and desperate, for an all-decisive answer from an extremely wrathful woman with dark green eyes—an answer that would determine the final sentence of a novel. And at the same time determine my own life!

“Can I leave you my card?” said Mademoiselle Bredin, and pulled a small white visiting card with two red cherries on it out of her leather purse. “Just in case Robert Miller really does come to Paris. Perhaps you'd then be so kind as to let me know.” She gave me a glance that was probably meant to be conspiratorial.

“Yes, let's keep in touch.” I admit that at that moment there was nothing in the world I wanted more. Even if for readily comprehensible reasons I'd have liked to leave Robert Miller out of it. Honestly, I was beginning to hate the guy. I took the card and could hardly conceal my surprise. “Le Temps des Cerises,” I read softly. “Oh … you
work
in that restaurant?”

“I
own
that restaurant,” she replied. “Do you know it?”

“Eh … no … yes … not really,” I stammered. I'd need to be careful what I said. “Isn't that … isn't that the restaurant in Miller's novel? Well, haha, what a coincidence!”

“
Is
it a coincidence?” She looked at me thoughtfully and I wondered in a moment of panic if she might know something. No, that was impossible! Totally impossible! No one but Adam and I knew that Robert Miller and André Chabanais were in reality one and the same person.

“
Au revoir,
Monsieur Chabanais.” She smiled at me again as she turned to go. “Perhaps with your help I'll soon find out.”

“
Au revoir,
Mademoiselle Bredin.” I smiled too, and hoped that she'd never find out. And certainly not with my help.

 

Five

“Miller,” said Bernadette. “Miller … Miller … Miller.” She was leaning over her computer entering the name “Robert Miller.” “Let's see what Google has to tell us.”

It was Monday again and so much had been going on in the restaurant over the weekend that I'd had no time to devote to my new favorite activity—seeking and finding Robert Miller.

On Friday we'd had two large parties—a birthday where they'd sung and toasted each other a lot, and a group of even merrier businessmen who were obviously having their Christmas party in November and didn't seem to want to leave.

Jacquie had cursed and sweated because Paul, the sous-chef, was ill so that he had to take on all the grilling as well.

On top of that, none of the guests wanted the menu with the fish. They all ordered à la carte and Jacquie complained that I'd bought too much salmon, which he'd never get rid of now.

But my thoughts were far away, circling round a good-looking Englishman who was probably just as lonely as I was.

“Just imagine, his wife's left him and now all he's got is his little dog,” I had told Bernadette when I called her on Sunday evening. I was lying on my sofa with Miller's book in my hand.

“No,
chérie
! That sounds like the Lonely Hearts' Ball! He was left, you were left. He loves French cuisine, you love French cuisine. And he wrote about your restaurant and perhaps even about you. All I can say to that is:
Bon appetit!
” she joked. “Has he been in touch with you then, your tragic Englishman?”

“Oh, really, Bernadette,” I shot back, and stuffed a cushion behind my head. “Firstly, he's not
my
Englishman, secondly, I find all these
coincidences
really striking, and thirdly, he can hardly have received my letter yet.” I thought again about the rather strange conversation I'd had a couple of days earlier in Éditions Opale. “I can only hope that that funny bearded man really does send my letter off.”

“That funny bearded man” was, of course, Monsieur Chabanais, who with hindsight was beginning to seem ever more untrustworthy.

Bernadette laughed. “You worry too much, Aurélie! Give me one good reason why he should hold your letter back.”

I contemplated the oil painting of Lake Baikal hanging on the opposite wall, which my father had bought from a Russian artist many years before on his adventurous journey to Ulan Bator with the Trans-Siberian Express. It was a bright, peaceful picture that I loved looking at. An old boat was bobbing on the water near the bank, the lake stretching out behind it. It was totally calm and clear, set against an early summer landscape, and shone out at me with its unfathomable blue. “You wouldn't think it,” my father used to say. “It's one of the deepest lakes in Europe.”

“I don't know,” I replied, and gazed at the play of light and shade on the shimmering surface of the lake. “It's just a feeling I have. Perhaps he's jealous and wants to protect his precious author from contact with other people. Or perhaps just with me.”

“Oh, Aurélie—what are you saying! You're a silly old conspiracy theorist.”

I sat up. “No, I'm not. That man
was
very strange. First he behaves like a Cerberus on the telephone. And then, when I spoke to him later in the publishing house he stared at me as if he was deranged. At first he didn't even react to my questions, just went on staring as if he had a screw loose.”

Bernadette clicked her tongue impatiently. “Perhaps he was just surprised. Or he'd had a hard day. Good grief, Aurélie, what do you
expect
? He doesn't know you from Eve. You babble on at him on the telephone. Then you arrive at his office in the evening totally without warning, ambush the poor man, who's just leaving for home, and ask about a letter—which as far as he's concerned could be any old letter from any crazy autograph hunter throwing her weight around. So I find it astounding that he didn't just throw you straight out. Just imagine if every reader came storming into the office to make sure that their mail was being forwarded to various authors. For my part, I
hate
it when parents suddenly turn up unannounced after school and want to argue with me about why I've given their little prodigy extra work as a punishment.”

I had to laugh. “Fair enough, fair enough. But I'm still glad that I got to talk with that editor personally.”

“So you should be. Anyway, Monsieur Cerberus talked to you quite nicely in the end.”

“Only to make it clear to me that there's no way the author will get in touch with me because he's sitting unsociable and embittered in his cottage and has no time for such nonsense,” I threw in.