‘Do you have plans?’
‘I . . . No.’
‘Then it seems the kindest thing to do.’ And for the first time he smiled; a rather surprising, angular grin, punctuated by two dimples. ‘I cannot solve your mystery, but at least I can feed you.’
Monsieur Tissot took Grace to a café with a bistro on one side and a more formal restaurant on the other. The staff seemed to know him there and quickly seated them at a corner table, where they sat, side by side, looking out on to the rest of the room. Grace hadn’t dined alone with a man who wasn’t her husband since her marriage. But perhaps because of the circumstances, or the strangeness of the country, it was easier than she imagined. Monsieur Tissot didn’t seem to require or expect conversation. Instead they sat, watching the other diners – a fascinating occupation in itself.
Grace surveyed the menu. ‘I think I’ll have the ragout de cou d’agneau,’ she decided, closing it.
‘The lamb’s neck stew? Excellent choice.’
‘Lamb’s neck?’ She picked up the menu again.
He grinned. ‘Shall I order for both of us?’
‘Well . . .’ She scanned the entrées again, searching for something familiar. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have a very sophisticated palate. By French standards, that is.’
‘Well then,’ he leaned back, stretching out his long legs, ‘tell me what you like to eat at home and I will advise you.’
‘Well, I suppose I eat a great deal of . . . toast.’
‘Toast?’ He cocked his head, as if perhaps he hadn’t heard her correctly. ‘I’m sorry. Out of choice?’
‘The thing is, I’m not used to anything too . . . too French.’
‘You are in Paris, madame.’
‘Yes, but you know what I mean, don’t you? Dishes with too much flavour?’
‘How can anything possibly have too much flavour?’
‘What I mean is too many strong flavours, like onions and garlic . . .’
They gazed at each other across a great cultural divide.
Grace gave up; put the menu down. ‘Yes. I trust you.’
The waiter came up and M Tissot ordered for both of them – salade mixte, poule au pot, and a bottle of vin rouge.
He poured her a glass, passing the bread. And she realized that she was very hungry. Lunch had passed and she’d forgotten about it. She tore off a piece of baguette; it was both crusty and soft, still warm in the centre. It was amazing how something so simple, so basic could be this delicious. And so completely different from its counterpart in England.
‘Who is this woman?’ Grace wondered aloud, devouring the bread. ‘That’s the question. And why on earth is she giving me this money?’
‘Of course,’ he nodded. ‘But what I’d like to know is – what do you propose to do with it?’
She hadn’t considered that, perhaps because she didn’t really believe the money belonged to her.
‘I’m not sure.’ She took a sip of wine.
‘You could buy a new house, travel, collect art, invest . . .’
‘Perhaps.’ She wasn’t familiar with making financial decisions. ‘I suppose the best thing would be to discuss it with a professional lawyer.’
He folded his hands in front of him. ‘I’m lawyer.’
‘Well, yes, but I need one versed in English law.’
‘Yes but they can only advise you. What would you like to do with it?’ he pressed.
Grace thought a moment. ‘Live, Monsieur Tissot. I’d like to live in great comfort. And peace.’ And then she added, quite to her surprise, ‘With no one to tell me what to do or how to do it.’
He raised his glass. ‘An admirable aspiration!’
‘Are you making fun of me?’
‘No, I’m quite serious. People take for granted what is in fact an art. To live well, to live comfortably by one’s own standards takes a certain maturity of spirit, exceptional character, truly refined taste, and—’
‘And money.’ She tore off another piece of bread.
‘It helps.’
She looked at him sideways. Perhaps it was being in Paris or the bizarre situation but she felt free to ask, ‘Do you live by your own standards?’
He thought a moment. ‘I believe it’s a privilege, madam. One that’s earned through a certain amount of courage and adversity.’
She laughed, shook her head. ‘You haven’t answered my question.’
‘Sometimes,’ he smiled. ‘Sometimes I do and other times I do what’s expected of me.’
It was an oddly frank thing to say; one that, nevertheless, Grace understood. Only she’d never heard anyone say it out loud. He looked away, moving the subject back to safer territory. ‘And where would you live this life of comfort?’