Chef Véronique had cut them each a wedge of poire Hélène. Beauvoir watched as she put plump almost purple raspberries and coulis on each plate. One was larger than the other. Had more fruit, more custard. More rich pear pie on a dark chocolate base.
She’d put the plates in front of them. The larger one in front of the maître d’.
Jean Guy Beauvoir had felt himself grow cold. In the hot kitchen, on a hot summer’s evening, he felt himself freeze over.
Now, in the bright, fresh, warm morning he felt hungover, as though he’d been drunk on emotion. Drunk and sick. But still, as he descended the wide stairs he felt himself pulled once again to the door into the kitchen. He stood outside for a moment, willing himself to turn round, to go into the dining room, or the library, or into his car and head home and make love with his wife.
The door suddenly swung open, knocking Beauvoir square in the face.
He fell back, swallowing with a massive effort the swear words that sprang to mind and tongue, in case it was Véronique who’d done it. For some reason, around her, he couldn’t bring himself to swear. He shut his eyes against the pain and his hand flashed up and held his nose, feeling something trickle between his fingers.
“Oh, God, I’m so sorry.”
It was the maître d’.
Beauvoir opened his eyes and his mouth at the same time. “Chalice, look at this.” He stared down at his hand, covered in blood. Suddenly he felt a little lightheaded.
“Here, let me help.” The maître d’ took Beauvoir’s arm, but he shook it away.
“Tabernacle! Leave me alone,” he shouted, nasally, hemorrhaging swear words and blood.
“It wasn’t his fault.”
Beauvoir stood still, not wanting this to be happening.
“You shouldn’t be standing right in front of a kitchen door at mealtime. Monsieur Patenaude was simply doing his job.”
The foghorn voice was unmistakable, as was the tone. A woman defending someone she cared about. More concerned about the attack on the maître d’ than the bleeding policeman. That hurt more, far more, than the hard door to the soft nose. Beauvoir turned and saw Chef Véronique towering behind him, sheaves of paper in her beefy hand. Her voice had been hard, censorious, like his teachers at Catholic school when he’d done something particularly stupid.