A Perfect Paris Christmas - Mandy Baggot Page 0,92

definitely wouldn’t. ‘It was… comfortable.’

‘It was what now?’ Erica asked, bringing her face really close to the screen.

Keeley could see every blood vessel in her eyes, but she could also see that her gorgeous, flawless complexion had somehow returned even at this lowest point in her health. Keeley had always been a little envious of her friend’s perfect skin. She smiled at Erica’s confusion.

‘It’s kind of a thing we have together.’ They had a ‘thing’ with each other. How bizarre was that? But the thought of sharing something like that with this enigmatic man warmed her all the way through. It was almost like somehow they had known each other all along…

‘I need to see a photo,’ Erica said, her voice a little weaker.

‘I will get you a photo,’ Keeley promised as Erica’s eyes began to close. ‘But, Erica, you have to promise me one thing.’

‘Sshh… I want to have sweet dreams of Nick Jonas.’

‘Promise me you’ll hold on a bit longer,’ Keeley begged. She knew it wasn’t fair to ask this and immediately hated herself for it. She was thinking selfishly, about her fear of losing her friend, not about Erica’s pain and her fight.

‘Get me a photo,’ Erica breathed, the phone screen dropping a little as her grip loosened. ‘I want to see who’s making you smile that way before I kick the bucket.’

Erica’s eyes closed shut, her breathing slowing even more and Keeley knew she had fallen asleep. She ended the call and looked out over the view again. Had more than Silvie Durand brought her here? Could it be that actually the universe had a plan?

Forty-One

L’Hotel Paris Parfait, Opera District, Paris

It was morning and Paris was coming alive. From the inside of the boardroom Ethan could see the light snowfall that had swept over the streets like the pearlescent train of a bridal gown. Last night he had worked on a new menu for the hotels, in between catering for either Jeanne or Bo-Bo. Jeanne needed toiletries. Bo-Bo needed the toilet. Jeanne wanted to sleep with the light on. Bo-Bo wanted to sleep with Ethan. Surprisingly, despite the interruptions, when he had eventually managed to shut his eyes, it had been the best sleep he had had in some time. He had left for the hotel early, leaving croissants for Jeanne, dog biscuits for Bo-Bo and the instruction that the girl was not to sign up for any premium television services in his absence.

Now, Ethan watched Noel’s lip curl as his assistant read the email on his tablet out loud.

‘Daube de boeuf Provençale.’ Noel cast his eyes upwards. ‘Beef stew.’

‘Yes,’ Ethan answered, nodding. ‘Served with thick fresh bread.’

‘Cassoulet.’ Noel said the word with a scoff. ‘With mutton and sausage. Excuse my candour, Monsieur Bouchard, but all these new dishes for the menu, the cuts of meat you are suggesting… they are…’

‘Yes?’ Ethan knew what was coming but he wanted to hear his assistant say the words aloud. He was relishing the feeling that would come when the word he was expecting floated into the boardroom atmosphere.

‘Food of the… poor,’ Noel stated.

Ethan grabbed his own chest in a theatrical play, leaning back in his chair and gasping for air. ‘Oh… oh… I cannot seem to catch my breath.’

Noel shook his head and put down his tablet. ‘Monsieur Bouchard, we are a well-respected establishment. We have five stars. Customers expect a certain level of excellence.’

‘I realise,’ Ethan told him. ‘And we are going to provide them all with excellent traditional French dishes with a layer of a memory from their childhood. Think of it,’ he continued. ‘All those heart-warming times that their grandmother made them a rich hearty meal and shared stories from long ago.’ He smiled at Noel, getting up from the table and elongating his stride across the breadth of the window, making the pigeons lined up on the chimney pots outside suddenly take flight.

‘We do not have that style here currently,’ Noel reminded. ‘Remember the science behind the menu that Miss Durand had created.’

‘Delicate and refined,’ Ethan stated, remembering the watchwords that had formed the basis of Ferne’s vision for the hotel’s food. ‘A whisper on the taste buds.’

‘The very opposite of this,’ Noel said, pointing to the tablet he had discarded on the table.

‘Yes!’ Ethan said, widening his arms. ‘The exact opposite is exactly right! It is also the exact opposite of most five-star establishments in Paris if my research is correct.’ This wasn’t about stamping over what Ferne had created. What Ferne had