The dress was totally out of style—fashionable women in Paris were wearing soft flared denims on their long skinny legs, big hair, huge sunglasses, and large, soft felt hats tied around with Hermès scarves. But the soft leaf pattern and pulled-in waist suited Claire’s shape and made a virtue out of her slenderness; by making her look petite and delicate, the dress turned her short stature into a positive attribute. In her jeans, she was often overshadowed.
“There,” said Madame. “Much better.”
Claire walked out with a basket to pick up some bits and bobs and with soft sandals on her feet. Several men were actively appreciative as she walked past, often with an approving smile or a murmured, “Très jolie, mam’zelle,” which made a difference to the shouts and wolf whistles girls were subjected to at home and added a bounce to her steps, and her nerves added a pinkness to her face and a sparkle to her eyes.
Of course, she told herself, he was hardly likely to remember someone he’d met for two seconds at a party. And he would doubtless be far too busy; the shop would be a huge success, and he wouldn’t have two seconds to spend on her. Still, what would she even say to him if he did? Maybe he wouldn’t even be there, too busy off being creative somewhere else?
She decided to pretend to herself that anyway, she was only going to find some lovely chocolate, nothing more, and try to stay concentrating on how excited Arnaud and Claudette would be when she brought some home. Yes. That was all.
There was a bustle of people outside the shop as she arrived; already the buzz around town was growing. Claire couldn’t help smiling; she was so pleased. It seemed such a bold thing to do, to announce to the world that you had made something wonderful, and everyone was welcome to come and pay you money to have it. She couldn’t imagine anything she could do possibly being worth that amount of attention. There was as yet no name painted above the door.
She advanced a little closer, drawn by the window. A crowd stood, just looking at it, and Claire realized why as she came closer—it was an entire, beautiful scene in the window, a fairytale castle with a carriage arriving at the door and a princess emerging. In the sky above was a hot air balloon, Montgolfier in French. Every single bit was sculpted from chocolate. There was white piping on the princess’s lacy gown, and the castle windows were of dark chocolate, cut into shapes. A tree had chocolate leaves and the balloon white chocolate designs inlaid on it. In the middle of the courtyard of the castle stood a fountain, chocolate bubbling through it merrily.
It was so childlike and adorable and witty, Claire couldn’t help it—she burst into a huge smile and clapped her hands together. As she did so, she suddenly felt someone’s eyes upon her and glanced up. Frozen on the other side of the glass, clearly in the middle of talking to somebody else, was Thierry, suddenly stock still and gazing at her like he couldn’t tear his face away. Claire felt her smile fade from her face and her cheeks go pink. She bit her lip anxiously. Without even realizing it, it was as if all the crowds, the customers, the noise and bustle of the summer in the city had completely vanished. Tentatively, she raised her hand in a gesture of hello and pressed it against the vitrine, the shop window. Thierry put down his scoop—his customer started talking to him, but he completely ignored her—and raised his great bearlike paw. Claire noticed what she hadn’t seen before; his thick black eyelashes were ridiculously long—they protruded over the dark brown, lively eyes and hooded lids. She felt, even through the window, as if she could see every last one, trace every hair, every cell.
Suddenly someone, trying to get a better look, jostled her out of the way. Instantly it was as if the spell was broken. She staggered slightly to the side, and in an instant, Thierry was out of the door, pushing his way through the crowd.
“Are you all right? Are you hurt? Who did that?” he barked.
The crowd sidled away from one slightly awkward-looking small man.
“You!” said Thierry, waggling his finger directly in the man’s face. “You are banned from this shop forever. Go!”
The man blushed violently, muttered some words of apology in Claire’s direction, then disappeared.
“Bon!” said Thierry. “Everyone else, come in. Well, only if you wish to experience the best chocolate in the world. Otherwise, it is unimportant to me what you would like to do.”
People started flooding into the shop, but Thierry led from the front, a huge arm around Claire’s shoulders. Next to him, she thought, all the other men looked puny.
He led her straight through the selling area, with its original ’30s golden lettering and polished glass cases. The walls were lined, Claire saw, with great old jars for different kinds of sugar—vanilla, demerara, violet, lemon, icing. He led her through to the back of the shop, where a grumpy old man with a unibrow was tending, and nodded him through to the front. The man went, looking sullen.
Claire hardly noticed. She had just seen the room for the first time. To her, the far back wall was a flower garden. Many of the herbs and plants she didn’t even recognize; her family’s meals at home were plain affairs. Her mother had attempted spaghetti Bolognese once and everyone had felt it dangerously daring. Mme. LeGuarde believed in eating lightly and cleanly, so there was much plain steamed fish and vast amounts of salad and vegetables. But this was something else; all the greenery sent its competing perfumes into the air, set against the warm, comforting, utterly solid scent of chocolate everywhere; warm and thick and comforting, the scent, Claire realized later, of Thierry himself.
“You like it?” he said. She beamed, her face and heart full. “I…I love it!” she said, completely sincerely. She saw how much this pleased him; he couldn’t hide anything he felt in his face.
“Here, here,” he said, beckoning her to the large copper vat. He dropped in the long ladle spoon, then drew it up to her. Then he stopped.
“Non,” he said. “Close your eyes.”
Claire looked at him quizzically. Inside her chest, she could feel her heart beat. “Why?” she said.
“Oh! Coquette!” he said smiling. “So I can kidnap you and sell you to white traders. Then, so I can chop up your body and disguise it in the chocolate.”
He took a handkerchief from his pocket—“clean, I most solemnly vow”—and tied it around her eyes.
“It is so,” he said, his voice suddenly disturbingly close to her ear, “you can truly taste it. So you shut out distractions.”