The Oddest Little Chocolate Shop in London (11 page)

  
Though
maybe a quickie …

The award for Most Surreal Moment of the
day had to go to turning up at work together though, and finding Rachel already
there in front of the shop, knocking on the glass and wearing a bemused
expression.

  
Dominic
coughed, stopping behind her as he fished his keys out of his jeans pocket.
‘Bonjour, Rachel.’

  
She
started, turning to stare. ‘Dominic?’

  
Then
Rachel spotted Clementine standing a few feet behind him, her face flushed,
trying to look innocent and as though they had decided to go out for a morning stroll
together. Not spent the night panting in each other’s arms.

  
Rachel’s
eyes widened impossibly as she clocked her boss's damp, creased clothes, then
Clementine's flushed cheeks, and clearly realised what had happened between
them last night.

  
‘Oh.
My. God.’

  
Flashing
her a wicked smile, Dominic unlocked the shop door and opened it for her. ‘After
you, ma chére Rachel,’ he drawled. ‘Time to go to work.’

  
‘Yes,
Dom,’ Rachel stammered, ‘I mean, Monsieur Ravel.’

  
When
she had slipped inside, he turned to Clementine. His smile had faded. ‘I’ll
have to go and check on my father. He spent the night in my flat last night, all
alone, so is probably waiting for me to go upstairs and apologise.’

  
She
looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Will you?’

  
‘I’ll
apologise for upsetting his expectations,’ Dominic conceded, though he was not
looking very conciliatory, ‘but not for telling him the truth. I’m not going
back to France, and that’s final. He can’t blackmail me into doing what he
says. Those days are long gone.’

  
‘Good
for you.’

  
He
smiled and kissed her deeply, so that her toes wriggled in her shoes. ‘Ten
minutes, then I’ll be back in the kitchen. You make the coffee, I’ll make the
chocolates.’

  
‘It’s
a plan.’

  
Dominic
snaked an arm about her waist and pulled her close, kissing her more
intimately. ‘Mmm,’ he murmured against her mouth. ‘I could happily take the day
off work and go back to bed. You are very … moreish.’

  
‘And
then you really will go out of business,’ she told him tartly.

  
Dominic
grinned. ‘Bien, I’ll spend the day working in the kitchen and look forward to
an enjoyable evening instead. I can see you will be a hard mistress.’

  
She
remembered how Rachel had called him Dom, and thought it suited him. ‘The Dom’s
mistress,’ she said coyly. ‘I like the sound of that.’

  
He
threw back his head and laughed. ‘Dix minutes, cherie. I’ll be back down in
time to open the shop at nine. D’accord?’

  
‘Oui,
d’accord,’ she agreed, trying out her French, and received an impressed smile
as a reward.

  
‘Not
bad. You have a skilful tongue,’ Dominic murmured, and his eyes glinted with
laughter at her wild blush.

Clementine worked harder than ever that
morning, serving customers, smiling broadly at everyone she saw, checking and
rearranging stock, buzzing in and out of the kitchen with freshly-made
chocolates to restock the glass cabinets near the door. She felt intensely
alive, her heart racing every time she heard Dominic’s deep voice from the
kitchen or the echo of his laughter down the shop. I must be falling in love
with him, she kept thinking, and would remember how he had made love to her in
the night, their warm bodies tangled together for hours.

  
So
this was love.

  
This
must be what it’s like being on drugs, she thought, bemused by her own churning
excitement and restlessness. It felt like she was a teenager again, too wired to
settle to any one chore, always listening for the sound of his voice. In fact,
she had to keep checking every few minutes that she was not actually floating on
air, her feet felt so light!

  
Just
before noon, the old lady from the day before wandered into the shop.

  
At
once Clementine felt guilty.

  
In
her rush of excitement over the night she and Dominic had spent together, she
had forgotten the old lady’s request for Cherry Bombs. Now the lady had
returned, and there was no sign of those special chocolates in the glass
display cabinets.

  
‘Good
morning,’ she said, managing a broad smile. Poor thing, she had only recently
lost her husband. It must be awful for her. ‘Cherry Bombs, right?’

  
‘That’s
right,’ the lady agreed, smiling back. ‘You are very kind.’

  
‘I’ll
go and see if they’re ready yet.’

  
‘Thank
you.’

  
But
as Clementine turned towards the back of the shop, she saw Dominic already striding
towards the counter with a small box wrapped extravagantly in cherry-pink
crepe, secured with a lavish bow, and with one Cherry Bomb perched precariously
on top.

  
He
reached the old lady before Clementine could say anything, smiling warmly at
her. ‘Madame,’ he said courteously, bowing with his usual continental charm, ‘forgive
me for not having these at the counter for your arrival. I trust you have not
waited long?’

  
Flustered
by this exposure to the full power of his charm, the old lady stammered
something incomprehensible and nearly dropped her walking stick.

  
Clementine
retrieved her stick and handed it back, glad it was not just her who became
weak-kneed when he turned that smile in her direction.

  
‘These
are the chocolates you requested, I hope?’ He offered her the Cherry Bomb on
top of the gift box. She took it, and for a moment there was silence as she bit
into the delicate chocolate shell. Then she smiled and nodded, a look of sheer
pleasure on her face.

  
‘Yes,
thank you so much,’ she told him. ‘These were my late husband’s favourites.’
She took the box he was holding out and examined it, her eyes shining with unshed
tears. ‘Ernie would have been so touched by all the effort you’ve made … Just
for some chocolates.’

  
‘Some
very special chocolates,’ he corrected her softly.

  
‘Thank
you,’ the lady repeated, and sniffed.

  
Dominic
reached into the large tissue box on the display cabinet and handed the lady a
handful of tissues.

  
'You
are welcome, madame.'

  
Clementine's
heart was breaking as she slipped back behind the counter, trying to pretend
she had not noticed that the lady was crying. ‘Please, it was the least we could
do. I’m so sorry for your loss.’

  
The
lady looked very moved indeed, leaning awkwardly on her walking stick as she
fumbled to blow her nose. ‘Well, I still thank you,’ she managed from behind a
bunched handful of white tissues.

  
Shirt
sleeves rolled up, looking marvellous and yet somehow forbidding in his black
and white pinstriped apron, Dominic drew out a chair from behind the counter.

  
‘Would
you care to sit for a moment, madame?’

  
‘Oh,
thank you,’ the lady muttered, looking up at him as she sat down, adding with a
slight flush in her cheeks. ‘Merci, monsieur.’

  
‘Ah,
vous parlez francais!’

  
‘Seulement
un peu.’

  
He
shrugged, a typically Gallic gesture, and so sexy it made Clementine’s heart
turn over. This was her man!

  
‘Mais
c’est parfait, madame. Parfait.’

  
The
old lady giggled, looking suddenly girlish, and put a hand on his forearm. ‘Merci,
monsieur. Merci beaucoup.’

  
Clementine
realised the old lady’s handbag had fallen on the floor when she sat down.
‘Excuse me, madam,’ she said, hurrying round to pick it up, ‘but you’ve dropped
your bag … Oh!’

  
The
handbag had fallen open, and several sheets of paper, all printed with the same
message, had slipped onto the floor. Gathering them together, it was impossible
not to see what was written on them:

REWARD £300

Lost white Persian cat Misty. If seen, please call
this number.

  
There
was a telephone number, and details of where the cat had last been seen, and
below it, a small black and white photograph of the cat. It was grainy and
poorly reproduced, but there was no doubt in Clementine’s mind as she handed
the stack of flyers up to Dominic in a daze.

  
‘B
… back in a minute,’ she stammered, then ran along the shop and up the steep stairs
to Dominic’s flat.

  
She
had completely forgotten about Dominic’s father, of course. Part of her had
hoped he would have slipped out the back and gone back to France now Dominic
had rejected his ultimatum. But whatever had passed between them, Monsieur Ravel
Père was still in the upstairs flat, and she burst through the door to find him
collapsed face-down on the floor.

  
‘Oh
my god!’ she exclaimed, and ran forward to help the older man up. ‘What on
earth’s the matter, Monsieur Ravel? Are you sick?’

  
The
poor man was wearing nothing but boxer shorts and a white vest, his face dark
red, perspiration pouring off his forehead. He waved her away, panting
violently, but seemed unable to say a word.

  
‘You
look awful, monsieur … and you’re running a temperature. Oh my god, you can
hardly breathe. It must be a heart attack!’

  
He
just stared up at her, eyes wide, gasping for breath.

  
Monsieur
Ravel might only have seconds to live. A heart attack! And a bad one, by the
look of it. Was Dominic’s father about to die in front of her eyes?

  
She
jumped to her feet, struggling to remember her first aid training from school.

  
Time is muscle.

  
Her
other mission temporarily forgotten, Clementine plunged for the telephone.

  
‘Don’t
you worry, Monsieur Ravel,’ she gabbled as she fumbled with the unfamiliar phone,
her brain racing. ‘Just a minute … ’

  
She
had to call the emergency services, then get Dominic up here to sit with his
father. Oh god, poor Dominic! He would blame himself, of course. No doubt the
stress of his refusal had brought on this attack. And the old lady was still
waiting downstairs.

  
‘I
don’t know about your French emergency services, but the NHS is brilliant.
We’ll have an ambulance here in no time. Well, at least half an hour. Or maybe
an hour, it depends how busy they are. But it’s all completely free. Though the
parking at the hospital can be exorbitant. But you won’t need to worry about
that. You’ll be in a nice comfy bed. If there’s one free when they admit you …’

  
Somehow,
her hands trembling, she managed to punch out 999. The phone rang at the other
end.

  
Monsieur
Ravel was banging his forehead on the floor, now gasping something in French.
But all she could understand was, ‘Un… deux… ’

  
‘Please
don’t jerk about like that, monsieur. Just lie back and relax. You’ll only do
yourself a mischief lunging up and down like that. Ah, at last. Yes, ambulance,
thank you,’ she said hurriedly to the lady who had answered the telephone on
the other end, ‘we need an ambulance straight away!’

  
‘Not
… a heart … attack, mademoiselle!’ Monsieur Ravel insisted, still breathless
but flailing up and down in a strangely animated fashion for someone in the throes
of cardiac arrest. ‘I am … doing … les push-ups!’

  
Les
push-ups.

  
‘Madam,
can you give me your name and address, please?’ the lady was asking urgently on
the other end.

  
Oh
shit.

  
‘Erm,
I’m terribly sorry,’ Clementine told her haltingly, staring at Monsieur Ravel
as his odd puffing and lunging movements finally made sense, ‘but … it seems I
made a mistake. It’s not a heart attack.’

  
‘You
don’t need an ambulance, madam?’

  
‘I’m
really incredibly sorry for wasting your time,’ Clementine apologised again,
her face almost as red as Dominic’s father’s, then struggled to explain the
situation, finally ringing off in an embarrassed silence.