The Oddest Little Chocolate Shop in London (9 page)

It was so cold outside in the street,
Clementine shivered and shrugged deeper into her coat. It felt as though she
had been cast out of Paradise. And she hadn't even got to nibble his apple
first!

  
At
the windy entrance to the tube, she looked back and saw the Persian cat framed
in the window to his flat. The obstinate creature had squeezed into the narrow
space between the glass and the blind, and was gazing down at the street as though
eager to be outside, hunting for her owner again.

  
She
knew how it felt.

  
Low.
As low as it was possible to go after feeling that high. So low it was
physically impossible for her to get any lower unless she was flattened into a
pancake shape by the next bus. She wanted to cry, but that was not her style.
She wanted to pinch herself, but that would be painful. She was hurting enough
as it was without adding bruising to her list of wounds. Perhaps just a light
slap …

  
Had
she blown it by refusing to give Dominic a definite yes to sex in the future?

  
But
how could she have agreed to sleep with him tomorrow when tomorrow was another
day, and anything – literally anything! – could happen between now
and then?

  
She
liked the chocolatier – an enormous amount, truth be told – but she
did not really know how he felt about her. All she knew for certain was that
Dominic found her sexually attractive. That was not enough to prompt her into
bed with him, surely? Besides, she had seen Chloe’s face. That girl did not
like the intimacy between her and Dominic, and would no doubt be doing her best
to split them up right now. Maybe she had her eye on Clementine’s job, or
thought Clementine was not good enough for her cousin.

  
Clementine
was not the kind to stay down for long. In fact, she would have made an
excellent boxer, she considered, if only she was better at doing up laces.
(Those huge boxing gloves would have been a nightmare to lace up, and how on
earth do you lace one glove up once the other’s already on? That had always
left her bemused.)

  
She
shook herself, putting aside the pain of her disappointment. It was not as
though she had no experience at getting brushed aside for someone better. On
the contrary, it was becoming a niche skill for her.

  
Perhaps
it was better not to get involved with her new boss anyway. It was always a bad
idea, bringing your sex life into the office. All those steamy clinches in the
stock cupboard. The misunderstandings and petty jealousies of colleagues.
Sweaty lunch hours drifting into long afternoons of wishing you’d worn more
deodorant that day. Finding paper clips in your gusset afterwards.

  
Oh
yes, she told herself,
that way madness
lies
.

  
And
almost – but not quite – believed her own fib.

‘Are you mad?' Her sister stared at her, mouth
open. 'You turned him down?’

  
‘Yes,
that’s the reason I said no to sex with my boss. Because I’m completely insane.
Thanks for confirming it. Now I know what's wrong with me. Brilliant, I won't
even need to pay for a shrink.’

  
For
once infuriated by her sister’s blunt approach to monitoring her sex life,
Clementine kicked her bedroom door shut and began to peel off her sodden work clothes.
It had started to rain on the way home, and although the flat she shared with
her sister was not far from the tube station, she had still managed to get
soaked.

  
A
summer storm, she thought grimly, listening to the pounding of rain against the
roof and windows.

  
Oh,
Dominic.

  
Florrie
came to the closed bedroom door, speaking through it urgently. She had a note
in her voice that was difficult to ignore. ‘There’s no need to snap at me like
that, Clem. You said it yourself, Dominic Ravel is incredibly hot. “Sex god”
was your actual description, as I recall. So why turn down the chance of a
night with a French sex god, even if his dad is a bit of a tosser? It’s not
like he’s going to be your boss forever. Business is hardly thriving there, the
shop will probably go bust within another month or two. So you can boink him,
and not ...’

  
She
paused, and Clementine could almost hear the cogs going round in her sister’s
over-active brain. ‘Oh shit, Clem! Tell me you haven’t fallen in love with this
guy, have you?’

  
‘No,
I haven’t,’ she told her flatly.

  
‘
You have
!’

  
‘Do
not be so ridiculous.’

  
‘So
why refuse to spend the night with him when you fancy him rotten?’

  
‘Oh,
I see. By your standards, I should just sleep with every hot man I meet and
think nothing of it, in other words?’

  
‘If
you’ve remembered to take condoms, why not? I usually recommend at least three.
The first bout is always great, but over far too quickly. Then you need seconds
and a spare. Or seconds … and a third for anything back-door related.’

  
She
stopped undressing then, staring at the closed door with her mouth open. Had
her sister really just said … ?

  
‘Florrie!’

  
‘Clementine!’

  
‘Oh
my god, you are incorrigible. And a slut, I might add.
Back-door
?’

  
‘It
was a euphemism.’

  
‘But
not a joke?’

  
‘You
should try it some time. It’s very liberating.’

  
‘What,
joking?’

  
‘I’m
not sure I want to pursue this topic,’ Clementine said darkly. ‘Anyway, you
can’t distract me from the truth. It’s all very well telling me to be
liberated, but what if it goes horribly wrong?’

  
‘Duh.
That’s what the condom’s for.’

  
‘Oh
my god, I didn’t mean if the back-door … I mean, if
the sex
goes wrong. I mean, in general terms, what if it goes
horribly wrong?’ Clementine leant her head against the bedroom door, closing
her eyes. ‘I can’t believe I’m having this conversation.’

  
Her
sister hesitated. ‘I’m not sure I get what you’re trying to say. So you mean,
what if his thing falls off partway through? Or you get stuck together during
the act and have to be admitted to Casualty like two halves of a pantomime
horse? You’re right, I hadn’t thought of that possibility.’

  
‘FLORRIE!’
Clementine wailed in horror, and reached for the first clean clothes to hand, a
red tee-shirt and comfy bed shorts.

  
‘Well,
what do you mean by,
if something goes horribly
wrong in general terms
?’

  
‘I
mean, what if I wake up the next day and it’s awful? You know, when you can't
bear to see him naked or you're desperate to get out of there before he starts
kissing you again? Then I would have to go to work with him, and I wouldn't
know what to say.’ Clementine pulled on her PJ shorts, and a new and genuinely
terrifying thought struck her. ‘What if Dominic’s the kind of man who never
speaks to a woman again after he’s slept with her?’

  
‘There's
always sign language.’

  
She
struggled into her tee-shirt, waving one arm about helplessly as she got her
elbow stuck. ‘Florrie, it’s not funny. I’m serious. I can’t just launch myself
into sex with some Frenchman just because he makes my knees go weak when he
kisses me.’

  
Florrie
made an exasperated sound through the door. It was her sister’s favourite noise,
apart from the braying laugh that made her sound like a donkey on heat. ‘Hurry
up, are you decent yet?’ Her sister jerked open the door without waiting for a
response, staring in at her. ‘He makes your knees go weak? There are serious
medical conditions that can cause that, you know. It could be diabetes. Perhaps
you should see a doctor.’

  
‘Go
away.’

  
‘Oh
come on, I insist on hearing the details of this sudden knee weakness. Did it
come on while he was kissing you? Or afterwards, when his dad walked in and
found you looking like a tramp with lipstick smeared all over your face?’

  
Clementine
strode past her into the living room of their flat, pretending to be calm when
in fact she was feeling murderous and distressed and possibly constipated all
at the same time. She threw herself on the sofa and stared into the distance,
remembering the grim scene when Dominic’s father had walked in. ‘Yes, Monsieur Ravel.
What a nightmare. He must think I'm so odd.’

  
'I'm
sure he's seen worse. Well, probably. They eat snails in France, so ... you
know. Odd is a relative term.'

  
Florrie
trailed after her and collapsed onto the sofa, already in PJs and slippers. She
picked up her cocoa and sipped it, then made a face. ‘Ugh, this is lukewarm now.
All your fault.’

  
Clementine
raised her eyebrows at her sister. ‘You want me to reheat your cocoa for you?
Perhaps I could put a warming pan into your bed while I’m at it. Or find my housemaid’s
outfit and start dusting.’

  
‘God,
no, I want to hear more about your sex life. I don’t have anything even remotely
approaching a sex life, so I’m naturally curious. Unless you count the guy in
the supermarket who I thought was following me home the other day, so I
threatened him with a baguette, then it turned out he actually lives in the
same building as us. Yeah, I know. So embarrassing. He’s just moved into flat
two downstairs, big guy with glasses and a false leg, have you met him yet?
Well, when you do, remember not to mention me.’

  
Clementine
snorted, clasping a large embroidered cushion to her chest and rocking gently
as she tried not to think about Dominic. Oh, Dominic. Dominic. Dominic.

  
Shit,
she was thinking about him!

  
Oh
well. Too late now. Might as well go with it.

  
Dominic.

  
Oh,
Dominic.

  
They
had come so close to a blissful night together too. Blissful and probably
highly
satisfying. More satisfying at
least than any of her various electrical goods designed to take the edge off
chastity. And now he was probably going back to France and she might never see
him again.

  
Dominic.

  
At
least she was not in any danger of forgetting his name soon.

  
I
am not going to cry, she told herself, and forced herself to keep talking
instead, though her voice came out a little squeaky and unsteady. ‘Typical of
you to assault one of our neighbours with a French loaf. You always try to copy
me.’

  
'Yes,
that's right, I thumped our neighbour with a baguette because I am desperately
jealous of your inept ways with men and was trying to copy you.' Suddenly
Florrie sat up and frowned. ‘Wait a minute. You said … Monsieur Ravel. I’m
sorry, I thought we were talking about Dominic Ravel. Is there a second man now
whose kiss makes your knees go weak?’

  
‘His
father, also Monsieur Ravel.’

  
‘His
father?’ Florrie sat up so fast she spilt her cocoa on her PJs. ‘Shit!’ She put
down the cup and brushed feebly at the stain on her cream-coloured PJs, then
gave up and stared across at her. ‘You kissed his father? That’s disgusting. You
ought to be ashamed of yourself. Hold on, I thought you only met his father
tonight? You certainly move fast.’

  
‘For
god’s sake! I mean his father is an obstacle, not that I kissed him.’

  
‘Oh,
I see.’ Florrie clearly did not see though, shaking her head in mock sorrow.
‘An obstacle. Yes, I see. He won’t give his permission for you and Dominic to
have nookie.’

  
‘I
made a complete fool of myself in front of him, that’s all. It was humiliating.
Anyway, he thinks we’re already having sex, and he disapproves.’ Clementine
sighed. ‘I guess he must be a strict Catholic.’

  
‘Dominic
or his father?’

  
‘His
father. I don’t think Dominic is anything.’

  
‘Apart
from being a sex god.’ Florrie grinned evilly. ‘Oh, but there you go. That’s
the answer. He worships himself.’

  
Briefly,
Clementine closed her eyes. ‘Don’t be nasty about him, Florrie, or I shall go
to bed and never mention this again.’

  
‘Sorry,’
her sister said unapologetically.