She shook her head, smiling. ‘You know, food isn’t the answer to everything.’
‘Spoken like a true Englishwoman.’ He opened up the car door. ‘I know the perfect place.’
‘You cannot keep taking me out to eat,’ she protested. ‘It’s too . . . too extravagant.’
‘Calm yourself: I wasn’t suggesting Maxim’s,’ he said. ‘But this is a cause for celebration. And, as I’m the only person you know in Paris, I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.’
They drove back into the city and he pulled up in front of Fouquet, on the Champs-Élysées.
Grace looked up at the sky as they climbed out of the car. The clouds had grown dark and heavy; the temperature was dropping. ‘Do you mind if we sit outside?’
‘Not at all,’
They dined under the distinctive red awning and before she could stop him, Monsieur Tissot ordered them both oysters and champagne.
‘Have you ever had oysters before?’ he asked as the waiter set a platter down in front of them.
She bit her lower lip. ‘No.’ They were a great deal wetter and more raw than she’d imagined. This went far beyond the confines of her normal luncheon of tea and toast.
‘Don’t be frightened. They’re not nearly as difficult as they seem,’
‘I’m not frightened.’
‘You’re terrified.’ He poured the champagne. ‘And your lip is curling.’
‘They look like something one would avoid stepping on in the street.’
‘Don’t be bourgeois.’
‘Bourgeois!’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Well, then, explain this to me – how is one meant to eat them without looking foolish?’
‘Simple.’ He demonstrated, taking one. ‘You just let it slide down.’
She watched in horror. ‘You don’t chew?’
‘No. I like a squirt of lemon, that’s all.’ Taking a slice, he squeezed the fresh juice on to them.
‘But what if I choke?’
‘Then I’ll move to another table. Go on,’ he dared. ‘Tilt your head back and relax your throat!’
Taking off her gloves, Grace picked one up warily. ‘You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you? Playing “Torment the English Girl”.’
‘Trust me, if I wanted to torment you, there are cheaper ways.’
‘Fine.’ Closing her eyes, she braced herself; swallowed. ‘Oh my goodness!’ she gasped, wide-eyed.
‘Now,’ he handed her a glass, ‘have a sip of champagne – quickly.’
The crisp, icy bubbles exploded against the back of her palate. ‘Oh, yes,’ she laughed, surprised. ‘That is good!’
‘Bravo! To the English Heiress!’ he toasted.
‘To the Impostor!’ she toasted back. ‘How many of these am I allowed to eat?’
‘As many as you like. As long as you don’t eat these six, which are mine and completely off-limits.’
‘Spoilsport.’
He sat back and lit a cigarette, watching as she squeezed the lemon carefully on each one and devoured them.
‘Do you feel better now?’ he asked after a while.
‘Yes, thank you, I do.’
He smiled, exhaled.
‘Actually,’ she went on, ‘I feel like a sheet of paper that someone’s torn into tiny pieces and thrown to the wind. But the wind in Paris is rather nice.’ Grace downed another oyster. It was sinful, how delicious they were. ‘See, you can’t call me bourgeois now.’
‘I could,’ he corrected her, taking a drink, ‘but it would be inaccurate.’
‘Mon Dieu! Have you always been so pedantic?’
‘Always. And please don’t speak French – it’s nails across a chalkboard.’
‘I suppose splitting hairs is quite useful in your profession.’ She sat back, opened her handbag and took out a pack of Chesterfields. Leaning across the table, he gave her a light. As she inhaled, the thick acrid smoke mixed with the salty brine of the oysters and the cool, moist air – an unexpected, earthy combination. She took another sip of champagne. ‘So, is the law your life, Monsieur Tissot?’
‘Not entirely.’
‘Do you spend much time with your family?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m a bachelor.’
‘Oh!’ The shock in her voice was unmistakable. For some reason she’d naturally assumed he was married.
He caught this, and, looking down, smiled. ‘Not everyone is suited to a domestic life,’ he pointed out.
‘No, of course not,’ she agreed quickly. ‘I’ve often wondered if I’m not one of them.’
‘Also, I’ve never had the luck of finding anyone who could tolerate my glittering personality.’