Estelle is much more talented than I. As well as being an extremely accomplished musician, she is a bit of an actress—a mimic. I’m not any sort of performer.’
‘What does she think of your ambition to become the second-best chef in Paris?’
‘Estelle—oh, Estelle, I have lately realised, has a much more conventional outlook on life than I, but she’ll come round.’ She took another sip of wine, frowning slightly. ‘Do you have any sisters or brothers, Mr Harrington? No? Well, the thing about sisters is that they think they know you better than you know yourself, and in a way they do, but they can also—they assume things, you see. I am younger than Estelle by twenty minutes, which makes me officially the baby of the family, since we lost our poor little brother. They think, Estelle and Eloise, that I need protecting, that my cooking is just a hobby. They have not said so outright, indeed Eloise never would for she was determined her gift came without strings, but I know they both believe my coming here is a mistake.’
‘But you hope to prove them wrong? By the sounds of it, you are already doing so.’
‘Do you think so? I tell myself I’m doing well. In fact I know I am doing so extraordinarily well, I’ve astonished myself. I wish my sisters shared your confidence in me, but in time, they will come to see that I’ve made the right decision to flee the comfort of the nest.’
‘All the same, for one who hasn’t been abroad much in the world, to come to Paris on your own must have been a daunting prospect.’
‘A baptism of fire—the kitchen was, at any rate. But as for Paris—oh, I fell in love with Paris almost from the first moment. The way of life suits me, it is so very, very different from England. I love my sisters and Aunt Kate, but they are such strong women. I have always lived in the shadow of their low expectations, you know?’
‘I do,’ Owen agreed wholeheartedly. ‘Though I don’t have any close family, I have a reputation which I’m rather tired of living down to.’
‘My own feelings exactly! I hope that Paris suits you as well as it does me, Mr Harrington. It is the most beautiful city one could ever imagine. I spend every Sunday exploring, following my nose, drinking coffee in cafés, sitting in the parks just watching people stroll by. I play a game with myself,’ she said sheepishly. ‘I like to guess what their favourite foods are.’
‘And what would you guess mine would be?’
‘Rosbif is what any Frenchman would immediately say, but you are very far from being a typical Englishman.’ She studied him, her hazel eyes gleaming like gold, her chin resting on her hand. ‘I’d say you prefer breakfast to dinner. Eggs, coddled or perhaps scrambled with cream, delicate but delicious. A ham, boiled in spices and served cold. Fresh rolls and salty butter. Coffee. Am I right?’
‘Even if you were wrong, you make it sound so delicious that I would change my preference for a dinner of venison stew immediately’
‘Now it’s your turn. What do I like to eat?’
He took the opportunity to study her as she had him, struck afresh by her lush beauty, which so perfectly complemented her charm. ‘Supper,’ he said, smiling, ‘definitely supper, at the end of a long day when you have finished serving dinner to your clientele. Asparagus with a hollandaise sauce and perhaps a lightly poached egg, and a glass of champagne. Essentially English, but with a soupçon of French flair—though I know you’re Irish. How am I doing?’
She laughed. ‘I shall return the compliment, Mr Harrington. Even if you are quite wrong, you make me long to have it. You see, it’s a good game, isn’t it? I can while away hours playing it and don’t mind at all sitting by myself to do so. I love the fact that no one knows who I am, far less cares. In Paris, for the first time in my life, I can be completely myself without having to consider anyone else—on my Sundays off, at any rate.’
‘You wander Paris alone?’
‘Yes, and I love it. Pascal spends his Sundays either experimenting with dishes or catching up on his sleep. Even if I wanted company, I have no acquaintances outside the kitchen, there’s been no time to make friends. But I don’t need them. It is—it is liberating, being alone after always being Estelle’s other, younger half. That sounds terrible, I love my sister—both my sisters—with all my heart and I know they are only being protective but they smother me a little and patronise me just a little too.’
‘So you want to cast off the shackles?’
‘Yes! Exactly! You do understand.’
‘I do indeed. I was thinking something similar just before I stumbled upon this café. And I’m very glad I did stumble upon it. Very glad too—if you will forgive my saying—that Monsieur Solignac is so tardy.’ Monsieur Solignac, who by the sound of it was more than just a friend to the beguiling Miss Brannagh, Owen thought, his animosity towards this maverick genius increasing.
‘I take it he does not have the wherewithal to set himself up in business?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Miss Brannagh answered sunnily, entirely unaware of his scepticism. ‘Pascal has the reputation, I have the financial means. That is what I call serendipity.’
Almost too good to be true from the Frenchman’s perspective, Owen thought as she took out her watch again, frowning at the time.
‘He has clearly become absorbed while practising a new dish. It is only after service has finished that he can try out his ideas. Though the dishes he serves are exquisite, they are in essence traditional receipts tweaked with his own flourishes. Classic cuisine with a twist, so to speak, but when we have our own establishment, we will serve food such as the world has never imagined, never mind tasted.’
‘And while he creates, you must wait here patiently?’
‘Genius must be indulged,’ she said, bristling slightly. ‘And nurtured too.’
To be nurtured by Miss Phoebe Brannagh was an appealing prospect, Owen thought, regretfully. He had not felt so drawn to a woman in a long time. If only they had met under different circumstances, he’d have made a concerted effort to get to know her better. Captivating, that was the word he’d been looking for, not only in her looks, but in her outlook. She had a true joie de vivre, as if she was reaching out and embracing life—a feeling he had lost. He felt jaded, and had travelled abroad to rediscover a sense of purpose, a zest for life, a freshness. She was brave and she was bold. He admired her audacious attitude.
‘I wish you every success,’ Owen said, raising his glass. The words were a hackneyed toast, but he found that he meant them.
‘Thank you.’ Miss Brannagh touched her glass to his. He noticed her hands for the first time, the nails cut brutally short, the skin work-roughened, scored with tiny cuts and burn marks. Catching his eyes on them, she snatched them away, hiding them under the table. ‘Testament to my trade,’ she said, clearly embarrassed.
‘Testament to my lack of purpose,’ Owen said, holding up his own.
‘Goodness, you have a sculptor’s hands. Such beautifully long fingers.’
‘I don’t have an artistic bone in my body. I prefer more physical pursuits.’
Miss Brannagh sipped her wine, smiling. ‘It is so nice to converse in English, and though I love being in Paris, I do miss chatting with Estelle and Eloise and Aunt Kate.
