21. ALISTAIR
1133 Words
When I find myself in front of Romy’s door, I have a moment of hesitation. Isn’t it in this same place, barely a day ago, that I made the resolution not to try anything with her?
After returning home, I couldn’t sleep. I watched the film of our almost-kiss again and again. I soon regretted my decision to keep my distance. And constantly thinking about the pretty redhead didn’t help me relax, especially in the southern areas of my anatomy. It wasn’t until late at night – and after deciding to free myself from my fantasies in a more practical but solitary way – that I was finally able to close my eyes. When I woke up, I was in a morose mood, and there again Romy haunted my thoughts.
So, like a drug addict looking for his dose, I showed up at the bakery. To do what? To see her. My crazy brain had thought no further than that. When I walked through the door to the store and finally caught her eye, I felt a weight lift off my chest. And when she asked me what I was looking for, the truth came out of my mouth: her. But since Romy is certainly not the kind of woman you convince by telling her bluntly that you want her, I had to make up for my mistake. Within seconds, I had a backup plan. I noticed that when I said I was hosting a dinner engagement, a glimmer of disappointment crossed her eyes. She behaved like a perfect saleswoman afterwards, but I know her well enough now to know that the heart wasn’t really in it.
I knocked on her door. I heard a little noise inside. The second that follows, the door opens on a wide-eyed Romy. Her hair is coiled atop her head in a messy bun. She’s wearing a chocolate-stained white T-shirt and simple jeans.
“Alistair? What are you doing here?”
Her gaze falls on the box in my hands.
“Is there a problem with the Saint-Honoré?”
“None, that I know of. But you’re the expert, tell me what you think. Can I come in?”
She glances down at her T-shirt, then pushes the door further open.
“Of course, don’t pay attention to the mess. I was baking.”
I walk into the house and see a pile of strange ingredients and utensils that seem to be scattered on the kitchen counter.
“Do you ever stop?”
“It’s not for work, I like to bake cakes to relax.”
“I guess when you’re passionate…”
“Alistair… what are you doing here?” she cuts me off.
“I came to propose that we have dinner together.”
“Your date has cancelled?”
The tone of her question and the look she gave me confirmed my suspicions.
“She didn’t cancel, she was just not aware.”
I see the moment she understands: she opens her mouth in surprise. I take advantage of the fact that she’s silent to declare:
“I would have invited you to eat with me, but something tells me that you would have refused. So I preferred to take the lead.”
I lift the other package I have in my hand and continue:
“I brought dinner. But since I didn’t want to take the risk of you kicking me out when you discovered my poor cooking skills, I ordered everything especially for you at the Café de la Place. Mark, the owner, assured me that it was one of your favourite dishes.”
“They don’t do take-out.”
I smiled at her.
“I had to negotiate a little, but I got there.”
I didn’t tell her that, in truth, I made the request to Loraine, the chef’s wife, who saw no objection to my request when I told her it was for Romy. And that she had no great difficulty in persuading her husband.
Romy watches me suspiciously, then ends up reaching for the cake box still in my arms.
“I’m going to put the Saint-Honoré in the fridge,” she said.
I take that as an acceptance that I’m having dinner here with her tonight. So I followed her into her kitchen and put the other food on the table. I approach the preparations in progress. There’s a bowl that looks like it’s filled with some kind of chocolate cream.
“What is that?” I asked.
“A chocolate pastry cream. I had some choux pastry left, I wanted to make éclairs.”
I dip my finger into the bowl without even thinking about it, then bring it to my lips. The lightness of cream, the scent of cocoa, the sweet flavour blend together in a succulent combination.
“Mmm!”
I close my eyes for a second, and when I open them again, I see Romy watching me, her cheeks burning.
“Delicious,” I said.
She clears her throat and replies:
“Thank you.”
“I think your éclairs are definitely my favourite dessert.”
“Ah, yes?”
Her voice is high pitched, and I realise that she really doesn’t care if I talk to her about dessert right now. Unless, maybe, I tell her outright that I want to be her dessert tonight. As you’ll have understood, I have no objection to becoming one. I just want to put the pastries in the way of announcing it to her. At least, I’ll try... because when she looks at me like that, I hold back with great difficulty not to cross the two metres that separate us and press my mouth to hers.
A few seconds of silence stretch during which we stare at each other, as if waiting to see what will be the next move of the other to make a decision. Romy leans back against her kitchen worktop, her hands resting on it.
“What are you doing here, Alistair?”
This is the second time she has asked me this question, I realise. And I could give her a whole bunch of shaky answers, sentences that want to be ambiguous without being too ambiguous. I could continue this little game of cat and mouse, but for what purpose? It’s not like I doubted that she liked me. Even if she’ll never admit it, it’s written in her eyes, in the way she has to stand in front of me, to smile at me, or even when she makes sure to hide this smile from me, certainly with the aim of not showing too much.
So I took a step towards her, determined to play fair. It remains to be seen if she’ll agree to play with me.
- Writer
