Popping the cap back on the pen, I stick the post-it inside my notebook. “I’ve got nothing to lose. Might as well give it a try, right?”
“That’s our girl. Right back into the swing of things.” Glancing at her watch, Harry passes me my purse. “If you leave now, you can catch him before his restaurant opens for lunch. You’d better leave the cat with me while you go. Chef Rousseau will chase you out the door if you bring an animal into his sanctuary. Come here, little puss puss.”
Rising from his cat bed, H meanders his way over to Harry, arching his back for a rub. He even has the gall to wink at me before launching into something that sounds remarkably like a purr.
Leaning over, Harry trails a hand down H’s back. “This little beast and I are old friends, aren’t we? I spent many an evening with him and Lillian. Never could understand why she called him H though. Surely he must have a proper name and not a letter.”
His glare promises retribution if I rat him out. “He doesn’t seem to have a proper home or permanent owner, so why should his name be any different, I guess.”
Harry gives him a fond pat, encouraging H to arch his head up so she can scratch his chin. “Lillian often asked me to babysit him. What kind of trouble can a cat get into, I’d ask. She’d shake her head and say that he’d magic up some kind of nonsense in no time if left to his own devices. Her exact words were that ‘it’d be beyond all my expectations’.”
That’s for sure.
With a final stroke down H’s back, Harry rights herself before rising from her chair. “C’mon little fellow, maybe I can find some nice cheese for you in the college kitchen.”
❖
Thankfully La Maison Oxford is only a mile from the college. Robert, the security guard working in the porter’s lodge, helps me unlock one of the college bicycles after providing a quick set of directions. “Straight down the road until you get to the shops. You can’t miss them. La Maison will be on your right, past the Marks & Spencer.”
I drop my purse into the bicycle basket, testing the gears before pedalling into the street. The glorious sensation of the wind in my hair re-energises me. All too quickly, I spot the restaurant exactly where Robert said it would be.
As I lock the bicycle up, I peer into the front windows. Despite being in the middle of a line of English shops, the restaurant screams Parisian bistro with its eclectic mix of tables and chairs, Pernod bottles on display and the obligatory skinny French woman manning the host desk. My foot is barely in the door before she’s shooing me back out again.
“I’m sorry, madame, but the restaurant doesn’t open for another hour.”
I hold my hands out to reassure the French hostess that I’m not looking for a table. “My name is Natalie Payne. I’m Head of Ceremonies at the University. Is Chef Rousseau available for a short chat?”
“Chef Rousseau is very busy with the food preparation.” Her accent turns every word into a dagger.
After my year in France, I know there’s only one way I’ll get past someone like her. Sheer persistence. I wedge my foot in the doorway, forcing her to continue our conversation. “I’ll only take a moment…” Gritting my teeth, I lean into the door, watching her face for the exact moment she realises I outweigh her by more than a stone. When her eyes flash wide, I grab hold of the door, preventing it from flying into her as she steps back from the pressure.
Now inside, I brush some imaginary dust off my skirt, allowing the hostess a moment to accept that I’m here and she will have to deal with me. “Perhaps you didn’t hear me clearly the first time. Natalie Payne. Head of Ceremonies. The University. Could you let Chef Rousseau know I’d like a word?”
She stares me down, but we both know she’s fighting a losing battle. At last, she sniffs, flips her hair and turns towards the back of the restaurant. “Peut-être, maybe he will make a few minutes available for you. Wait here a moment.”
When the wait stretches closer to five minutes, I grab a menu and seat myself at the nearest table. Might as well find out what kind of food is his specialty while I wait. The paper is still warm from the printer, indicating that he either changes it daily or has added something new.
“Zuppe du jour, Poisson du jour, Pasta du jour… nothing that would require a reprint,” I note. Then I catch the extra line right at the bottom.
“Scones al Rousseau with homemade jam and locally sourced clotted cream - second to none in Oxford”
Hmm, definitely didn’t wait for the body to get cold before he came up with that one.
The sour-faced hostess returns with a tiny French man behind her. The hostess is a waif, but somehow Chef Rousseau is even smaller. He reminds me of a bobble-head doll, his entire body existing in a state of constant motion. He must burn away every calorie that goes in - a rather convenient ability for a French chef. He stalls in front of me, but doesn’t stop moving, shuffling his feet, hands smoothing up and down his white apron, his head swivelling between me and the kitchen in the back. I can’t help feeling that he’s left a pot of food on the stovetop. Unlucky for him. Whatever guilt I had felt over interrupting him evaporated when I spotted that menu addition.
The hostess moves to stand behind me, the weakest attempt at bodyguarding I’ve ever seen. A decent breeze and
