since Ferne’s death would have all turned up their noses at this setting, expecting champagne and five stars from the owner of a hotel chain. But in this moment there was no expectation. This woman only knew his name. He could be anyone he wanted to be – perhaps even himself – the man behind the Perfect Paris brand who didn’t know where he had come from and didn’t really know what he was going to do with the rest of his life.
‘You like it?’ Ethan asked, stepping forward to a table by the front windows and pulling a seat out for her.
‘It’s not at all what I was expecting,’ she answered. ‘In a good way.’
Her eyes were still roaming around the interior and he watched her taking it all in as if she was standing in one of the city’s famous museums, admiring the artwork and statues. But instead of paintings from famous artists, here there were posters – their edges ripped. Old adverts for perfume, pictures of parasols and Chinese characters, music concerts showing performances long since passed. The wooden tables were worn with age and shelves of mismatched glasses of all sizes, cups and condiments lined one corner. He watched her remove her coat and put it over her chair before sitting down. He sat down opposite her feeling something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. A connection of sorts, a hidden unable-to-fathom vibe between them.
‘In the summer,’ he said, ‘when it is warm, they open the doors right up.’
‘It’s so relaxed here,’ she said, settling into her seat and smoothing her fingers over the rough scratches on the table, varnish lost through years of use. ‘It’s like places used to be until someone decided to make everything so chrome you could use every surface as a mirror.’
‘You like things more traditional?’ he asked her.
‘I like things that make me feel comfortable,’ she admitted. She seemed to go a little coy then, dropping her eyes to the table and putting her fingers to the ends of her hair. ‘I just made myself sound like the most boring person in the world.’ She looked up. ‘Storing toilet rolls in case of Armageddon and liking things plain.’
‘Non,’ Ethan replied. ‘Not at all. Comfortable… it is good.’
‘Well,’ she started, ‘I have two close friends who think “comfortable” says “given up”.’
He smiled at her. ‘Perhaps they are too scared to embrace “comfortable”,’ he suggested. ‘Admitting you enjoy the simple things can be hard for some people.’ He hitched his head to their right indicating a couple sitting a few tables away. ‘Technology is good. We keep in touch with everybody we are not close to but at the cost of not connecting with the people we are close to.’ He whispered. ‘How crazy is that?’
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘You’re completely right.’
‘So, tonight we will embrace all the “comfortable”,’ Ethan said. ‘We have ridden on animals that were too small for us and now I propose we shall eat food that will be too big for our stomachs.’
She smiled back at him. ‘What do you recommend I try?’
‘Wait and see,’ he answered, grinning as a waitress approached.
*
Keeley was chewing on a brik. A Tunisian-style brik that was making her mouth water with every bite she took. This had been Ethan’s suggestion for their meal. Not a traditional French dish of coq au vin or omelettes, but apparently this café’s speciality. It was perfect filo pastry with potatoes, cheese and onion served with a little harissa, the egg with that soft, running yolk so difficult to get exactly right. It was a little piece of simple food heaven.
‘This is so good,’ she told Ethan. She looked up from her plate to find he was looking back at her. But the moment their eyes connected he looked away as if her catching him had embarrassed him a little.
‘Sorry… I confess… I was watching you eat.’ His cheeks were hit with colour then and he put his lips around his glass of beer. He took a sip then continued. ‘I admit that sounded weirder than I intended. Forgive me.’ He smiled. ‘I simply wanted to see how you would react to the dish.’
Keeley put another piece of the brik on her fork, slipping it into her mouth and letting all the exotic flavours hit her senses. It wasn’t an exaggeration to roll her eyes or try to inhale the scents she knew had to be rising up from her plate, but she was now doing