Bye Bye Love Read online

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘And don’t forget to have some fun as well. Work hard and play hard, that’s the way to do it. After all, you know, Paris—’

  He gave him a man-to-man type wink.

  ‘Right.’

  For one horrible moment, Jonathan thought his father might be about to make sure he knew the facts of life.

  ‘Got to go, Dad.’

  They lugged the suitcases downstairs to the waiting cab, Jonathan stiff in his new jacket and trousers, his mother done up in one of her tailored suits with a matching hat and gloves. Irma and Marlene came out to wave goodbye. For the length of the short journey to the station, Jonathan could feel only relief that he had escaped. Once inside, he stood by the cases as his mother queued to buy the tickets to London.

  ‘Jonathan—’

  He spun round, his heart thumping. It wasn’t a dream. There she was, in her school uniform, her hair neatly plaited and her beret perched on the back of her head.

  ‘Scarlett!’

  They flung their arms round each other.

  ‘You came to see me off. I’m so glad.’

  ‘I couldn’t not come.’

  ‘But what about school? You’ll be so late.’

  ‘I don’t care. This is more important.’

  His mother’s voice cut through their brief reunion. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘She’s come to say goodbye,’ Jonathan said. As if it wasn’t perfectly obvious.

  His mother sniffed her disapproval. ‘Well, get it over with, then. We’re going onto the platform. The train leaves in five minutes.’

  ‘I’ve got a platform ticket,’ Scarlett said.

  ‘You clever thing! You think of everything.’

  Grim-faced, his mother got hold of a porter and marched beside him to make sure he didn’t drop the suitcases. Jonathan and Scarlett followed behind, arms round each other. They stood on the platform while his mother banged on the window of the carriage behind them, trying to make Jonathan get on board.

  ‘It’s only until Christmas. The time’ll fly,’ Jonathan said, though he hardly believed it himself.

  ‘It won’t. It’ll seem like a hundred years.’

  ‘I’ll think about you all the time.’

  ‘Will you?’

  She looked up at him, her dark eyes swimming with tears. Jonathan felt as if his heart would burst.

  All down the platform, doors were being slammed shut.

  ‘I love you, Scarlett.’

  Her chin was trembling. ‘Do you? Do you really?’

  ‘I’ll always love you.’

  She swallowed. Her voice was gruff with unshed tears. ‘And I’ll always love you. Always and for ever.’

  At the end of the platform, the guard blew his whistle. Jonathan’s mother let down the window in the carriage door and called at him to get in at once. Jonathan ignored her. Her kissed Scarlett’s full lips.

  The train gave a jolt and began to move.

  ‘Jonathan! Get in now!’ his mother yelled.

  He tore himself away and ran to jump onto the moving train.

  ‘Always and for ever!’ he called, pulling the door shut, leaning out of the open window.

  Scarlett was running down the platform, waving. She ran right to the end and stood there. Jonathan waved back until she was out of sight, oblivious to his mother’s efforts to make him sit down.

  He finally collapsed onto the seat. Opposite him, his mother was looking thunderous.

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘That was a fine display. Thank God you’re going away. A few months in Paris will soon cure you of that little madam.’

  Jonathan stared back at her.

  ‘You just don’t understand,’ he said.

  CHAPTER TEN

  DEAR Scarlett,

  Here I am in Paris. I hope you are all right. It was awful leaving you at the station like that. If only you could have come with me.

  Except that it wouldn’t have worked, Jonathan realised. He didn’t like to think what Madame Dupont, his landlady, would have said to his turning up with a girl in tow.

  The boat crossing was pretty rough. There were people being seasick all over the place, but I enjoyed it. I stood out on deck with spray flying up from the bow. It was really exciting. It took the captain three goes to get into the harbour and by the time we got in the train to Paris had gone, so we had to wait for the next one. I found my way to the Duponts’ place all right, but of course I was late and Madame wasn’t very pleased.

  Two days on, he was beginning to realise that Madame was never very pleased about anything. But it hadn’t been a very good start. He looked round the stark little room that was to be his foothold in Paris. It had been Madame’s son’s room before he’d left home. Jonathan wasn’t surprised he had gone. It wasn’t very comfortable. There was a narrow hard bed, a large gloomy armoire, a chest of drawers, also gloomy but not matching, and, on the walls, faded rose paper and a large and rather terrifying picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus—Madame was very religious.

  I was pretty nervous about starting at the restaurant, so I was up miles too early and went for a walk just to make sure I knew the way there. This is a very posh area of Paris, and most of the buildings are very grand, but the Duponts’ apartment is sort of round the back in a big block. My room faces inwards into a tiny central bit. I think it’s called a light well, but not a lot of light comes into it. But anyway, it is nice and near the restaurant, so I found it all right and got there in good time. It’s an amazing place, all red and gold and marble. I can’t believe I’m working there.

  If only he wasn’t working with Leblanc. He didn’t mind being put on vegetables again. After all, this was Paris and he wasn’t going to be asked to boil them to death. He didn’t mind spending all his time prepping. He knew that all that cleaning and chopping was a necessary part of the process. But Leblanc was a bastard.

  Jonathan paused again, wondering just what to tell Scarlett. He didn’t want to moan to her the moment he arrived, especially after insisting that he had to come.

  I’ve been put with the veg chef, a bloke called Leblanc. I don’t think he likes the English very much.

  When Leblanc wasn’t mocking Jonathan’s accent or pretending he didn’t understand what he said, he was complaining that the English were stupid, that Jonathan was doing everything wrong and that he had better things to do than explain every little thing to a dumb boy.

  But I’ll show him. I’ll learn quicker than any French apprentice they’ve had in the kitchen, then he’ll have to eat his words. I was getting really fed up with him by the end of service this evening, but the pastry chef came up to me when his back was

  turned and said not to mind Leblanc and that he was a miserable old devil and the same with everyone. ‘But he is the best vegetable chef in Paris. To learn, you have to suffer,’ he said. So there you are.

  He paused again. It was the quiet time of the day, between lunch and evening service, and he had three hours to himself. He wanted to get this letter finished, find a post office and send it off to Scarlett. He knew she would be waiting for it. But what else to write? He’d never written to a girlfriend before. It was a bit different from writing a thank you letter to his grandparents for a birthday present. He wrote a bit more about the kitchen and the people in it, but then wondered if Scarlett would find that boring. He stared out of the window. There was nothing to see but another window staring blankly back at him. He knew nobody in Paris except the men in the restaurant kitchen, and they were all much older than him. For the first time since his arrival, he felt horribly alone. He gazed at the paper. Did Scarlett feel the same way?

  I miss you terribly. It’s like a big space inside me. I think about you all the time. I wouldn’t mind anything, not Leblanc or Madame or not knowing anyone, if only you were here too. Please write back as soon as you can and tell me how you are.

  Love,

  Jonathan XXXXX

  He read the letter throug
h, decided it sounded daft but would have to do, and set out to find a post office.

  It was raining again. It had been raining all week. There were drips coming through the ceiling in three places. Scarlett emptied the bowls that she had placed under them into the bucket. Soon she would have to go downstairs and empty the bucket. She shivered and went to get a cardigan to put over the jumper, blouse and vest she was already wearing. Luckily, the ceiling in her bedroom was sound so there was no danger of her bed or any of her precious possessions getting wet, but it was very cold in there, even colder than in the other room, so she picked up her small bundle of letters from Jonathan and took them back into the main room. The clothes-horse was in front of the feeble gas fire with a selection of underwear draped over it, steaming gently. Scarlett moved it slightly to one side so that some of the warmth reached her and settled down on the hearthrug to reread the letters.

  The last one was a good deal more cheerful than the first two or three. Jonathan had met a boy a year or so older than himself who lived in the apartment below him, and through him had made friends with a little group. Together they roamed over Paris, played football, listened to records and went to the cinema. He was still not getting on with Leblanc, but he was being trusted to make salads and dress them properly.

  Scarlett looked at the flickering blue flames of the fire, wondering just what to write back. The flat was far too dismal to write about, her battle with the washing and drying too depressing. She’d not even attempted to lug the sheets downstairs and trample them in the bath this week, as she knew she would never get them dry.

  Writing to Jonathan was her biggest solace, even though it did make her miss him even more. She fetched her writing pad and sat cross-legged by the damp socks and pants.

  Dearest Jonathan,

  I’m glad to hear you’ve made some friends. It must be nice to have some people your own age to go around with. You’re lucky to meet someone so quickly. The girls at school have only just decided that I’m worth talking to. I wasn’t sure that I wanted to talk to them after they’ve been ignoring me all this time, but one of them, Margie, is really quite nice and said she was sorry she hadn’t tried to make friends before. So things are looking a bit better.

  The only trouble was, now she was worried sick about being invited to anyone’s house. How could she accept when she couldn’t possibly invite them back to this horrible flat? But what excuse could she give for not accepting? It was all so different from when she had a proper home. She had always been happy to invite friends to the room behind the Red Lion. It had been warm and cheerful and comfortable and her mother would always have a cake to offer to visitors. Not like here. She couldn’t bear to let anyone see how she lived.

  We’re practising carols at school for the concert. I’m in the choir. That makes something to go to after school every day now, so I don’t get in till nearly five, and just have time to make something for Dad’s tea before he goes off to work.

  Sometimes she felt guilty about doing this, but it was warm and clean and dry at school, whereas it was chilly and damp at home, and her dad always seemed to be gloomy. Or, worse still, drunk. It worried her that he went off to work drunk. How long would it be before his new boss got fed up with it?

  It won’t be long now till you’re back for Christmas. I can’t wait to see you again.

  The restaurant would be closed for the few days between Christmas and New Year and Jonathan was due to come home on a flying visit. It was the only thing about Christmas that she was excited about. Otherwise she was dreading the end of term. Holidays meant being at home all the time. Even if she didn’t like all the teachers or enjoy all the lessons, at least there was a pattern and a purpose to each day when she was at school. And there were the school dinners. They might not be that tasty, what with the gristly meat and the lumpy custard, but they were proper hot meals. It meant she only had to make beans on toast or a sandwich for tea. All in all she wasn’t looking forward to being at home and, as for Christmas Day itself, it threatened to be truly dreadful.

  I don’t know what we’ll be doing then. It used to be so lovely at the Red Lion. We always put up lots of paper chains and stuff and made it look pretty, then on the day we had family time and presents in the morning, then we went in the bar and talked to all the regulars while they had their Christmas drinks, and then we had our dinner in the afternoon.

  It was going to be horrible here in the flat. But, most of all, it was going to be horrible without her mother. It wouldn’t have mattered where they were if her mother had been here. Scarlett felt the familiar lump forming in her throat, the sense of loss overwhelming her. How were they going to get through the festive season without her? The only thing that made it bearable was the thought of seeing Jonathan again, even if it was only for a couple of days.

  I expect Dad will have to work over midday. I suppose your family will want you to be with them, but if you could get away it would be lovely. I think it’s going to be very lonely here.

  The flames on the gas fire began to flicker and fade.

  ‘Damn!’ Scarlett said out loud.

  The money had run out again. It didn’t seem to last five minutes. Normally when this happened she just went to bed, but this evening she needed to get the washing dry, or she would have no clean knickers or socks for school tomorrow. She looked in the jam jar by the cooking ring. Only coppers. Why did her father do that? He took the shillings and left pennies. Pennies were no use for the meter. She went into her room and looked in the shoebox at the back of the wardrobe where she had hidden the money she earned working on Saturdays at the corner shop. She wasn’t supposed to be working, of course, as she wasn’t yet fifteen, but why should she take any notice of the rules when she needed the money and Mrs Sefton at the shop needed the help? And it meant another day out of the flat. Still feeling disgruntled at having to use her money for heat, she fed the meter and huddled up by the fire again to finish her letter to Jonathan.

  Dear Scarlett,

  It’s really cold here at the moment. Everyone says spring is just around the corner, but it doesn’t feel like it. I hope you’re all right. Christmas seems so long ago now, doesn’t it?

  Looking back, it seemed as if he had spent most of his brief break in trains or on the cross Channel ferry. But it had been worth it, worth all the travelling and the row with his parents when they learnt that he was rushing off as soon as he got home, worth it all to hold Scarlett in his arms again. The trouble was, it had all been over so quickly. Scarlett and Southend, and even the Trafalgar and his parents, were a different world. Paris and the Ortolan were his reality now.

  I’ve got a new nickname—P’tit Salade. One of our customers said I made the best salad in Paris! I was really pleased when the waiter told me, but of course I get teased something awful over it.

  He paused, wondering whether to explain the layers of meaning behind the name. Petite Salade was Ortolan slang for mistress. When the kitchen staff asked what customers they had in, the waiters would sometimes give that dismissive puffing of the lips that the French did so well and say, ‘Nothing but a bunch of uncles.’ ‘Uncles’were middle-aged men who came in with their young mistresses. The mistresses, especially if they were not so young, were all watching their weight. They ignored the wonderful menu, with all the exquisite delights it offered, and asked for a little salad.

  He decided against it. It was difficult to convey to Scarlett just what the atmosphere was like in the kitchen. He had tried to explain at Christmas, when she’d asked what was so wonderful about preparing vegetables all day. You had to experience it—the pressure when service got really busy, the satisfaction of a difficult job well done at the end of a long evening, the cursing, the obscene jokes, the tension between the kitchen and front-of-house. The head chef, Monsieur Bonnard, was a perfectionist of the first water. Anything that did not meet with his approval was thrown in the bin. ‘Fit only for pigs!’ he would yell, clouting the unfortunate sous chef across the ear.
His underlings might mutter about him behind his back, but they accepted the punishment. Bonnard was a master. He had three Michelin stars. He was entitled to hurl insults or even knives. They were proud to be working for him.

  Monsieur Bonnard himself congratulated me over it. Mind you, he said I wasn’t to let it go to my head. One compliment doesn’t make a chef. But it’s a start. Of course, Leblanc wasn’t very happy.

  We had a very important customer come in yesterday —General de Gaulle himself! After he had eaten, he asked if he might thank Monsieur Bonnard personally. Just think, I have made a rémoulade for the president of France! It is a great honour.

  That was one of the big pluses of working at a prestigious restaurant. They had lots of famous guests. The stars of French cinema came in, people whom Jonathan had seen on the silver screen with his friends. A grande dame of the theatre came in regularly with her little poodle and sat at her own special table with the dog opposite her on its own chair. Ministers of state decided new legislation over their five course dinners and bottles of Petrus. And then there were the Americans. They were a mixed blessing. The waiters considered them philistines, on a par with the British, unless they proved themselves otherwise, but they did spend a fabulous amount of money.

  The other day a party of Americans came in. They generally don’t speak French, but Monsieur Duchamp, the maître d’hôtel, has pretty good English. The trouble was, he was at a funeral, and nobody else front-of-house could understand them. They were getting impatient, so I was called out. I had to put on a jacket and bow-tie double-quick and go and take their order. They spoke with those drawly southern accents, like in Gone with the Wind. It made me think of you. Anyway, they were so glad to have someone who could understand them that they left me a massive tip. On top of that, the sommelier was really pleased when I persuaded them to have the wine he recommended, which is super because now I’m in his good books and I really want to learn about wine and he’s brilliant. What he doesn’t know isn’t worth knowing. When he found I could ask intelligent questions, he was willing to talk to me.