The Oddest Little Chocolate Shop in London Read online

  First published as a digital edition 2014

  Copyright © Beth Good 2014

  All rights reserved.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  No part of this book can be reproduced in part or in whole or transferred by any means without the express written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Any names of places or characters are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  CHAPTER ONE

  In Which Butter Is Most Lavishly Applied

  Dashing up the steps from the tube station, Clementine paused to double-wrap her soft green pashmina about her throat – the wind was biting that morning, quite vampiric – and glanced at the chocolate shop opposite with her usual grimace: a stab of pure primeval yearning mixed with the age-old fear of widening of the hips.

  Ravel’s Chocolaterie de Londres.

  It was a tall, narrow Victorian building with a very tempting chocolate-shaped sign in metal scrollwork hanging above the display window. Inside, the shop premises stretched far back, lit discreetly at intervals by soft uplighters on the red-papered walls, a rich and intimate corridor of tiered chocolates and gift displays on either side. She had been inside on many memorable occasions and could still recall the luxurious smell of those handmade chocolates, and the equally gorgeous dark eyes of its French owner, Monsieur Ravel.

  Like inhaling love. It was well-known that chocolate could enhance sexual drive and performance, she thought defensively, and even make a woman more attractive to men, via some hormonal-chemical-reaction-thingy which she did not understand, but which had sounded entirely plausible when she read about it in a health magazine in the dentist’s waiting room.

  Besides, Clementine adored the taste of chocolate. Ordinarily she would be in this shop every few days, browsing and buying chocs to her greedy heart’s content. But though she had burnt off such excess luxuries in her teens, she was twenty-three now and every chocolate she consumed seemed to find its way unerringly to her hips, thighs and squashy bottom. So she had sworn not to touch chocolate for an entire year, one of those absurd promises you make when you step on the scales after a long period of backsliding and wonder if cutting your hair would make a difference. She still had three months to run on her resolution.

  Most days she passed the chocolate shop without a second glance, knowing it to be sternly out of bounds until her year of ‘no chocolates’ was up.

  Today though her gaze snagged on the window display longingly, her soul hungry for something pure, something wonderful, something uplifting. Like chocolate. And her gaze stopped there, bemused.

  The shop window was empty. There were no chocolates in sight.

  ‘How very odd,’ Clementine said to nobody in particular, and began to feel aggrieved as well as puzzled. ‘Where have all the delicious chocolates gone?’

  Her reflection stared back at her mutely: a too-tall blonde with flyaway hair that simply would not behave on this windy day, slanted hazel eyes and a generous mouth. Generous, her mother used to say, because it was forever opening and spouting words. And usually at the worst possible moments.

  She wondered if the little chocolate shop had gone bust and was shutting down. Poor Monsieur Ravel. So many small businesses in the area seemed to be failing in this horrible recession, it would hardly be surprising if another had gone under. But chocolates …

  Surely that was a luxury many people reached for when under stress?

  Monsieur Ravel’s chocolates were expensive though, it was true. Maybe his usual customers had started to cut back on their orders, and now he could no longer afford to keep his business open.

  That would be a terrible shame, Clementine thought, remembering Monsieur Ravel with sudden fascination. She paused a few minutes longer, staring into the darkened interior to no avail. Then she started hunting for a notice in the window, anything that might indicate imminent closure. But she could see nothing but empty display shelves, and had to move aside after several harried-looking commuters elbowed her in the side.

  One middle-aged man in a pinstriped suit and black overcoat glared at her accusingly, muttered ‘Excuse me,’ in a haughty manner, then worked around the admittedly large obstacle of her body in the flow of rush-hour commuters.

  A bitter gust of wind swirled about the street in his wake. Clementine shivered, tightening the pashmina still further.

  I bet that man could do with some expensive chocolates, she considered, watching his disappearing back. Or his wife could. A little treat to make her life sweeter.

  Talking of which, she could do with a small chocolate or two herself. It was nearly a year since she gave them up, after all, and she was not planning to go without treats forever. That would be ridiculous, she told herself. Everyone needs a treat now and then.

  As she turned to enter the shop, she nearly fell over a large white Persian cat squeezed into the shelter of the doorway like a goalkeeper. The cat tilted its head, staring up at her with slitty-eyed determination as if to say, ‘You look like a football and you shall not pass.’

  ‘Oh, you’re gorgeous!’ Clementine reached down on impulse to stroke the cat’s silky fur. ‘Do you live here, pussy? Are you a chocolate shop cat?’

  The cat continued to stare, its green eyes slowly widening.

  ‘You look rather sad,’ she thought aloud, tickling the cat behind its ears. ‘But then you’re probably freezing, poor thing.’

  The cat began to purr weakly.

  It was so viciously cold out in the wind, she scooped up the green-eyed cat without considering whether that would be a good idea, given that her green pashmina loved cat hair so much it often refused to let go of it over several careful handwashes, and swept majestically into the shop with the cat.

  ‘Hello?’

  There was no one in sight, so she pushed on down the narrow shop, taking note of all the empty display cases, and into the dark space at the back where one of those bead curtains separated the chocolate preparation area from the shop itself.

  ‘Hello, is anybody there?’ she called out, feeling a little foolish.

  The cat wriggled in her arms, then hissed a furious warning.

  Instinctively, guessing that claws would be next, Clementine opened her arms and let the ungrateful feline jump down. She looked up in dismay a second later as the bead curtain rattled. ‘Oh, oops. Hello.’

  ‘Bonjour, mademoiselle.’

  It was Monsieur Ravel himself, his dark eyes rather aloof as he studied first the cat, now licking its fur disdainfully at his feet, then her flushed cheeks and probably horribly dishevelled hair.

  Goodness, he really was very good-looking. Late twenties, she guessed, and not an ounce of spare flesh on him.

  I bet he works out, she thought, trying not to imagine him in shorts on a treadmill.

  And now she was staring. And he had noticed.

  ‘How may I help you?’ he asked, his eyebrows still raised as he waited for her to respond. ‘Forgive me, mademoiselle, but as you can see, we are not open to customers at the moment.’

  ‘Well, yes, that’s why I came in,’ she managed, feeling foolish. He had definitely seen her staring at him, because now he was staring back. Perhaps he thought she was just shortsighted. Which was even worse, she considered. Either she looked consumed by lust or myopic. Possibly both at the same time. Ugh.

  ‘We do not allow animals in the shop, I’m afraid, mademoiselle. Except guide dogs. Hygiene regulations.’

  ‘Of course not. But I thought … ’ Was the Frenchman laughing at her behind that sardonic expression? She drew herself up to her full height. ‘He … She’s not your cat, then?’

  ‘What makes you think this is my cat?’

  ‘Well, she was sitting outside your shop. On the mat.’

  ‘The cat was sitting on the mat, mademoiselle?’

  The chocolatier was definitely mocking her. But gently, in that very French way, as though to say Monsieur would not be so rude as to laugh in her face, but as soon as she had gone …

  ‘Um, yes,’ she said, very flustered now.

  ‘Alas, mademoiselle, I do not own a cat.’

  The white cat had stopped licking its fur and was now exploring the furniture, sniffing at the empty display cases.

  ‘Oh, well, I’m sorry,’ she muttered. ‘I’ll take the cat out with me again. I just assumed it belonged to you.’

  ‘Then your assumption was mistaken, mademoiselle.’

  ‘Clearly.’

  Yet she found herself curiously unwilling to leave the shop, looking at him more closely instead. Usually the dark-haired chocolatier was wearing a sombre black apron over a tight-fitting three piece suit in steel grey, an outfit that sent her pulses fluttering whenever she came in for truffles and a bag of those mouthwatering chocolates piped with delicate lemon or raspberry mousse. No, today he was even more sexy, clad in faded blue denim jeans and a chest-hugging white tee-shirt that showed off a body as fit and mouthwatering as those lemon chocolates.

  She tried not to ogle him, but of course it was like trying not to breathe. His crisp white shirt was unbuttoned and hanging open, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and oh goodness, he looked tasty.

  Those muscular forearms!

  Monsieur Ravel was waiting for her to leave, she realised. But how on earth could she leave when every biological urge in he
r body was screaming at her to stand there and stare at him for hours like a village idiot?

  ‘Is there something else I can help you with?’ he prompted her politely, but she caught him sneaking a quick peek at his wristwatch.

  ‘You … You’re not dressed for work.’

  ‘As you see, mademoiselle.’

  ‘And there aren’t any chocolates on display.’

  ‘I fear not, mademoiselle.’

  She blurted out, ‘You’re not closing down, are you? I mean, I really love your little chocolate shop, and it would be a travesty – a disaster, in fact – if you were going out of business. And I would totally blame myself too, because I used to come in here all the time. Do you remember? Probably not, because I don’t think I ever saw you serving behind the counter – I would have remembered that – but perhaps you saw me. Well, I was always buying your gorgeous little truffle bags, and the fruit-flavoured mousse selections, and oh god, those Chocolate Orgasms! But then, the diet came along, you know, and …’

  He was staring now, his eyes hardening, and she did not know how to finish.

  ‘Oh, please don’t look at me like that, Monsieur Ravel. Tell me you’re not closing down. That you’re just renovating.’

  He looked at her in silence, then ran a hand across his face. It was a gesture of despair, of total vulnerability.

  Clementine felt awful, and could have bitten her tongue out. So there was something wrong. But what?

  A second later, his chin came up, his dark eyes pinpointed her coldly, and the very beautiful mouth said, ‘Mademoiselle, I thank you for your interest but I must ask you to leave. At the risk of repeating myself, we are not open to customers.’

  Ouch. That was her told. Maybe the chocolatier was less vulnerable than she had thought. Maybe he just had indigestion. Or maybe it was her rambling idiocy that had made him despair. It always made her sister despair. Once Florrie had even shoved her in a cupboard to shut her up. In vain.

  ‘Well,’ was all she managed to say, very hot in the face now.

  The cat was weaving between her legs, purring. She picked the animal up, cradling it like a baby. A fluffy baby with a crossly whisking tail.

  Was it a girl cat or a boy cat? She could not keep on thinking of the poor creature as an ‘it’. But there was no way she was lifting its tail to check its bits in front of this man. Tempting though it was to have a quick rummage down there, if only to see his horrified expression.

  ‘Well,’ she repeated, then glanced back at the door, which she had left open. The wind was whistling down into the shop. ‘It’s so cold outside today, Monsieur Ravel. Really quite bitter. And this poor cat may be lost. She looked so forlorn on the doorstep. She’s clearly someone’s treasured pet, is there any chance you would look after her for a few minutes while I check your neighbours, in case she belongs to one of them?’

  He blinked. ‘Look after the cat?’

  ‘Just for five minutes, I promise.’

  ‘Je suis désolé, mademoiselle.’ He spoke very precisely, his French accent clipped. ‘No, I could not possibly.’

  Her mouth set stubbornly. ‘Three minutes, then?’

  ‘Forgive me. I would prefer not to take responsibility for it.’

  ‘It’s just a cat,’ she pointed out tartly. ‘Not a child.’

  He spread his hands in a gesture of apology. ‘As you can see, mademoiselle, I’m all alone in the shop today, and there are many things I must – ’

  At that second, there was a loud, resonating sneeze from beyond the bead curtain. So loud that Clementine was surprised not to see the beads swaying in its aftermath.

  All alone?

  She raised her eyebrows, looking at him.

  Monsieur Ravel drew breath as though to explain. But before he could speak there was another loud sneeze, also out of sight. Then a third and a fourth in quick succession.

  He expelled his breath, shaking his head, and put his hands on his hips. On any other man the gesture might have looked a trifle effeminate. On him it looked oddly, touchingly, masculine and frustrated.

  Clementine fixed her gaze on the bead curtain. ‘Bless you!’

  ‘Thank you!’ a woman’s voice called back at once. ‘Though you’re not meant to say “Thank you,” when someone says “Bless you,” are you? Because it’s unlucky.’ The bead curtain swayed for real, and a long pale arm poked through them, waving in her general direction. ‘Hello, I’m not here.’

  ‘Evidently,’ Clementine agreed.

  ‘Well, obviously I am here. What I mean is, I’m not supposed to be here. In fact, I was just leaving. Only I got … ’

  The woman cleared her throat, sounding embarrassed.

  ‘Stuck,’ the chocolatier supplied.

  Clementine raised her eyebrows again. She had a feeling it might be better just to leave them raised, to save herself the effort of constantly lifting them up and down.

  ‘Stuck?’

  ‘Yes,’ the voice agreed reluctantly, ‘I got stuck.’

  ‘In?’

  ‘A crack.’ The pale arm waved at her again through the bead curtain, then withdrew. ‘My other arm is stuck in a crack. Well, it’s a gap really. Between two units. So silly of me, I’m really very embarrassed. Dominic was just helping me get unstuck when you … When we heard you come in.’

  Dominic.

  So that was his first name.

  At that moment he looked at her sideways through his long lashes, and she realised with a shock that it was possible for a heart to skip a beat. Good grief.

  Then she reminded herself that this was probably Madame Ravel. The woman with her arm stuck in a crack. His wife. His very English-sounding wife.

  Damn.

  She handed him the cat and he took it automatically. ‘Can I help?’ Without waiting for his permission – he would never have given it anyway – she pushed through the bead curtain.

  ‘Oh!’ A young woman in an olive green T-shirt and pink dungarees, maybe nineteen or twenty years old, was standing immediately on the other side of the curtain, slightly bent over, one arm thrust past the elbow between two units and the other waving free.

  She twisted to look up at Clementine, her smile lopsided, her face very flushed. Her long glossy dark hair was gathered up in what had probably been a neat chignon first thing that morning, but was now looking very sorry for itself, strands hanging loose and dangling in her mouth and eyes. ‘Sorry, I can’t see you properly. But hello again, I’m Rachel.’

  ‘Hello, Rachel,’ Clementine said and crouched down to examine the problem. ‘Let’s see what’s going on here. Can’t you just … I don’t know, pull your arm out?’

  ‘No, I’ve tried. I was trying to reach something behind these pipes at the back, you see.’ Her smile was a little bit sad. ‘My engagement ring, in fact. I wriggled my hand through the gap and managed to pick up the ring. But now I can’t wriggle it out.’

  Her engagement ring.

  Hmm. Monsieur Ravel liked them young, she thought tartly, but said nothing. It was none of her business.

  Clementine could see what the girl meant. There was a painfully narrow gap between two units – health and safety should have had something to say about that, she thought testily – with some ancient pipes down at the back. Rachel had her hand stuck between the pipes, and it did look like a very uncomfortable position, poor thing.

  Monsieur Ravel – she was trying hard not to think of him as Dominic – had pushed through the bead curtain after her. He did not seem impressed by her continuing presence in his shop, watching her through narrowed eyes. ‘As you can see, we are genuinely busy today, Miss … I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.’

  And she had thought he would never ask!

  ‘Clementine!’

  She stuck out a hand, somewhat hampered by the girl bending between them. Undeterred, he reached through and shook it under Rachel’s chest.

  The chocolatier had a firm handshake, she noted with satisfaction, despite his distracted air. Strong masculine fingers curled about her own, squeezed hard as though finalizing a big business deal, then released her more slowly than she had expected.

  ‘Dominic,’ he said grudgingly, his voice pitched at a timbre low enough to make the hairs rise on the back of her neck. Or they would have done, if she had not been wrapped so tightly in her thick pashmina. ‘Dominic Ravel.’