The French Lesson Read online

  “Do you want some more water?”

  Danny shook his head, and handed the glass back to him. He was a waiter, after all.

  Reality flooded back yet again. Danny stood up, patting frantically at his body, as if his briefcase might have been secreted in the small pockets of his dark navy suit. The guy stood up with him, his eyes watching Danny’s quick hand movements.

  “You’re not a mason, are you?” he asked, his eyes becoming even smokier with mischief settling in them.

  Danny stopped as abruptly as he’d started. “What?” and looked in puzzlement at him. Then, he realized what he was doing. “Sorry…my briefcase, my papers!”

  “Don’t worry, the briefcase is in Guillaume's office. Sorry about the papers, though,” slight pause for effect, as Danny followed his heavily accented words, “I think we mixed them up, when I put them in your case…blame Guillaume, he’s in charge of them.” Another pause, as he fixed Danny with an even more amused look “seeing as I’m in charge of you…”

  Danny stared at him, blushed again, then flopped back onto the crate, shaking his head. “I’m sorry.”

  “What for? Being unwell?”

  At that, Danny felt his nostrils contract as the guy crouched in front of him again, the soft vapor of the cool temperate forests causing Danny’s olfactory senses to sit up and beg.

  “Making a total arse of myself.” Danny clarified his apology.

  Laughing softly, shaking his head, the guy extended his hand. Danny took it, shook it.

  “Stephane.”

  Danny felt the firm grip, as his hand went up and down, their eyes locking again.

  “Daniel…uhm, Danny.”

  “Which one?”

  Danny allowed himself to relent – a bit - under the teasing smile. His pale skin, the bane of his life, lit up like a beacon on a hilltop.

  “Danny.”

  So, Stephane. No longer the waiter. He was Stephane, with eyes one could submerge into, and Danny was floundering to stay above water. It started to rain again, and Danny kept blinking against the fine mist settling on his eyelashes.

  Stephane stayed where he was, crouched in front of Danny, looking up into a face that was throwing him into perplexed confusion. He saw Danny’s face change from the softening of amazing, sharp cheekbones, to the pixifying effect of instant alertness.

  He leapt up again. “Shit, I’ve got to go…sorry, sorry!” Danny cried out, and Stephane leapt up with him, to prevent Danny colliding into his midriff. He watched Danny turn this way and that, and then pause, a mad professor aspect to him, slender arms outstretched. Crazy guy, thought Stephane, looks like a scientist or something.

  “You need to calm down, Danny, or you’ll make yourself ill again,” Stephane advised, and Danny wrenched at the door handle, pulling it with a furious tug.

  “I’ve got to go…I’m late already...Jesus!” and he disappeared inside, leaving Stephane standing outside, shrugging in amazement.

  “Mad scientist, got to be,” Stephane assessed and followed Danny inside. He walked along the short passageway, and turned left into Guillaume's office. Where he found his brother and Danny, making an exchange of mutual apologies. Guillaume glanced at Stephane, who was standing in the doorway, watching Danny’s increasingly erratic behavior. Guillaume shook his head, a slight, imperceptible movement, to head his younger bro off at the pass, for a silly comment would not be helpful at the moment. Besides, this young guy was in a real state.

  Danny clutched at the retrieved briefcase, put it onto Guillaume's desk, and unclipped the solid, brass catch. He rummaged for a few seconds, seeming to have forgotten Guillaume andStephane were watching him. Guillaume glanced again at Stephane.

  “Stephane,” he muttered, jerking his head to the door behind his brother, which led to that place where Stephane was supposed to be now, and what Guillaume was paying him for.

  Stephane ignored him, and made a point of shaking his head, watching Danny fishing in the briefcase.

  “It’s not here,” Danny muttered, beginning to wrench the papers from the briefcase, and start to array them on Guillaume's desk. Stephane came into the office, and hovered behind Danny.

  “Danny,” Stephane said quietly, and reached out, putting a tentative hand on Danny’s shoulder. He felt Danny’s body tense, the tremors of anxiety transferring to Stephane’s palm. Ignoring him, Danny continued virtually throwing papers onto Guillaume's desk. Guillaume walked to the door, leaning against Stephane, murmuring in his ear.

  “I’ll cover for you, seeing as you’ve done fuck all else this morning…just calm him down, if you can!”

  Guillaume took a final look as Danny had seemed to forget he was standing in Guillaume's office, making the place more of a tip than it already was. Giving his brother an exasperated look, he disappeared behind the door into his restaurant, the momentary aroma of food and coffee, the hum of voices, reminding him he wasn’t in some soap opera. There really was a crazy guy in his office, throwing papers all over the place.

  Stephane stared at the strewn papers, picked one of them up. Instantly, Danny reacted.

  “Don’t touch them! They’re already out of sequence, thanks very much!” and Danny grabbed the paper from Stephane's fingers. The tearing sound caused Danny to erupt. “For God's sake, I just need to get out of here!” and with that he scooped up the papers on Guillaume's desk and crammed them back in the briefcase. It seemed his impromptu retrieve and file efforts were at an end.

  Stephane stepped back, holding his hands up in mock supplication. “Okay, no one’s keeping you a prisoner, Daniel.”

  Danny clipped the clasp on the briefcase. “I said it was Danny,” he snapped, and for the second time Stephane was forced to move quickly out of the way of typhoon Dan.

  Danny stalked out of Guillaume's office, and was momentarily nonplussed, losing his bearings. Stephane followed him, seeing Danny’s confusion, and jerked his head towards the back door.

  “Unless you’d prefer to walk through the restaurant?” he offered.

  Danny stood for a moment, weighing up the options. Endure the walk of humiliation through the restaurant with every set of eyes on him, or slink out unseen at the back. No contest.

  Nodding, Danny followed Stephane who opened the back door for him. Danny looked at him but only made brief eye contact; awkward, ragingly embarrassed, his anxiety state now at def-con four, looking at that handsome face was now completely too much.

  “Turn right, the back lane takes you onto Glanville Street. Can you find your way to your laboratory?” Stephane chuckled, unable to resist. Seeing the puzzled, almost haunted look on Danny’s face, made him regret the comment instantly. He suddenly noted the dark circles under Danny’s eyes, the jutting cheekbones giving him a lost orphan kind of appearance. And Stephane surprised himself at the feelings rising up in his chest, as he looked at Danny. The oddest thing, realized Stephane. Like he wanted to protect the guy, or something. Or just give him a hug.

  Realizing that might not be the right tactic to calm Danny at this particular moment, Stephane kept his mouth shut as Danny swept past him without another word. Stephane followed him outside, and lit a cigarette, watching the retreating figure, clutching his briefcase as if it were the elixir of life itself. He kept on watching Danny, dragging on his cigarette as he did, until Danny turned towards Glanville Street, and out of Stephane’s watchful sight.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Annelise was still trying to get used to the rapid French rat-a-tatting with machine gun efficiency between the brothers. Her French was improving since Guillaume had come into her life, but listening to her partner and his brother reminded her she really was still taking linguistic baby steps. They were yammering away at the table, as she cleared away the last of the plates. Rather, a transference operation of moving the plates to the marble topped benches, awaiting the dish-washing faery to descend and wave its wand.

  “Sorry, babe, English at home, I know.”

  Guillaume
leaned over, kissed her on the cheek. Stephane sat back in his chair, picking up his cigarette packet, shooting a look at his potential sister in law. Annelise saw the look. He was hard to make out, this baby brother of Guillaume's, she was thinking not for the first time. She liked Stephane. But it was odd looking at them together. Guillaume was the foil for the second coming, as he described it to Annelise. Annelise found her man to be just about perfect to look at, and secretly thought Stephane’s looks a bit of a curse. Stephane had more or less admitted that to her, in one of their wine drinking one to ones, since he had arrived in London seven weeks ago, disheveled and disillusioned. He was distractingly handsome, that was the thing. He seemed to Annelise some exotic island stranded in the middle of the ocean; everyone knew it was there and really great to visit now and then, but no one stayed.

  “They either want to screw me senseless before the first date’s finished, or assume my brains are in my balls and patronize me,” was Stephane’s succinct assessment of his failure to find the loving relationship Annelise suspected he was seriously wanting.

  Guillaume found that difficult to believe. He was hard on Stephane, Annelise thought. She knew Guillaume adored Stephane, and felt a degree of protectiveness for his wayward, glamour puss of a brother; but Annelise had distance, and perspective. She could see what Guillaume was too close to see. That Stephane envied what Guillaume had. Annelise didn’t mind the occasional green tinged looks Stephane shot her. She knew he probably wasn’t even aware of them.

  “Don’t smoke in here, Stef,” Guillaume glugged down the remaining contents of his wine glass, tipped his chair back, to grasp the other wine bottle on the bench behind him. Stephane sighed, giving his brother a sour look.

  “I wasn’t about to; I’ll smoke on the veranda, Maman!” and Stephane got up, already lighting his ciggie and making his way to the French windows. Annelise glanced at him as he did so. Faded jeans, a black t-shirt, the combination devastating in its effortless simplicity.

  “Yeh, and that looks great too,” observed Guillaume, shaking his head at Annelise, as he replenished their glasses, “it lowers the tone, you know, you standing there puffing away.”

  The aroma of cigarette smoke coiled back into the kitchen defiantly, along with warm, humid air. London was oppressive at the best of times for Stephane, he was a real Parisian boy, and he had never adapted as well as Guillaume to the English culture. Okay, it got sweltering in Paris, too, but Stephane would put up with Jean-Claude for a month or so, and ensconce himself in the annex adjacent to château Clermont throughout August.

  “What tone? We’re not at château Clermont now, you know!” came the sardonic voice, pausing for another drag, “you should be grateful everyone can see me, I could stand here with your logo on my t-shirt…that’d get them piling into the best café-restaurant this side of the Channel!”, that last, deliberately mimicking the catch line on Guillaume's website.

  Annelise laughed at Guillaume's expression, and mouthed a ‘let it go’ to him as he was about to make his riposte. Guillaume grimaced, and took another large swig of wine, swooshing it around in his mouth. They sat quietly for a while, Annelise enjoying the air whispering from the open windows, compensating for Stephane’s evil habit. She looked over to Guillaume, who leaned forward in his chair, and winked at her, before jerking his head in the direction of his out of sight brother.

  “Did Stef tell you he’s turning into Mother Teresa?” and Guillaume suppressed a laugh, with another fortifying swig. If tension could be cut with a knife, like the saying insists, there was need for a nice flash of the old stainless. It seemed to drift in with the cigarette smoke, and Annelise could hear Stephane dragging harshly on his cigarette before volunteering a ‘very witty, Guillaume; now, go and have a lie down.”

  Intrigued, Annelise got up, sauntered to the window, leaned against one of the doors. Stephane turned, smiled at her. He had a beautiful smile. She thought that when he smiled, he lost all of that bravado and bluster about him. He seemed more vulnerable, gentler, when he smiled. She had been surprised, the first time she had met him, to learn he was gay. Guillaume told her he had known long before Stephane, though she doubted that. Big brother liked the idea that no one knew Stephane better than he did, and that included Stephane.

  When she met him for the first time, in Paris, Stephane struck her as being one of the straightest guys she’d ever come across, considering the female attention he received and his ensuing appreciation; she had checked with Guillaume that he was actually out, and he assured her Stephane had been since his early 20s. Then, Annelise had encountered Antoine. You didn’t meet France’s answer to Liberace on hardcore steroids, you definitely encountered. Stephane’s turbulent affair with the beautiful model – Brazilian mother, French father – had confirmed for the intuitive Annelise that Stephane was hooked on the drama rather than the guy, and liked to be the big, strong partner. And, boy, did dramas abound.

  At a family dinner at the château (she still couldn’t get used to that), she had sat with her mouth nearly on the table at the ensuing scenes, of Antoine raging at Stephane for some unknown slight; Stephane raging back, then raging at his father, then at Guillaume, only Elisabeth managing to calm everyone down, after considerable efforts on the matriarch’s part.

  Or the time Antoine had shredded Stephane’s research papers the night before he was due to submit them, after a particularly bitter public row; with Stephane having to be physically held back by Guillaume and their friend, Michel, from murdering Antoine.

  Then there had been the making up after the rows. No matter the screaming matches, they were inevitably followed by intense lovemaking that was so raucous, no amount of ear plugs could obliterate for Annelise and Guillaume in their own room next to Stephane’s at the château the evidence that love really could find a way. You’d think 400 year-old walls would suppress that kind of bloody carry on, Annelise’s mother had commented dryly, in response to her daughter’s recounting.

  “Come on then!” Annelise encouraged now, swatting Stephane lightly on his arm.

  Stephane winked at her, before flicking the cigarette butt over the veranda, laughing soundlessly. He only did it to annoy Guillaume, or the idea of annoying Guillaume, anyway. Shaking her head in mock admonition, Guillaume's voice drifted from the kitchen.

  “He rescued one of our customers this morning, didn’t you Stef? I nearly had a tear in my eye, I was so moved.”

  “Oh? Was he good looking?” Annelise asked instantly, raising her finely plucked brows like sensory antenna.

  Stephane leaned on the veranda railings, pretending to be engrossed by looking across the street and onto the panorama of north London on a sultry, July evening. It was past ten o'clock but it was still light, the sky just starting its traverse from wakefulness to ocher sunset. She often found him here, even a couple of times during the night, when she got up for a glass of water, or to pee. There he was, leaning over the railings, gazing up at the sky. Annelise knew he was having problems sleeping, he had been since he’d arrived.

  “How do you know it was a ‘he’?” Stephane asked, coming off the veranda and pulling a face as he stepped back into the kitchen.

  She laughed, following him, pushing gently at his back.

  “I didn’t, just call it my sixth sense,” she explained.

  “Look, I’m the one with the crystal balls.”

  They came and sat back down, Stephane crossing his eyes childishly, as Guillaume waited for him to fill Annelise in on the morning’s ER escapade.

  Both brothers pretended to glower at each other.

  “Well?” Annelise cried out, exasperated, kicking them both in turn under the table.

  “It was nothing,” Stephane said, slightly dismissively, and rubbed at his nose. For a moment, she had the feeling he was being oddly defensive.

  Guillaume, meanwhile, slid down his chair, pressing a hand to each cheek. “My God, Annelise, write that down, will you? Date, time, century…Stephane Clermont has an
attack of modesty.”

  Guillaume and Annelise enjoyed that one. “Now you both think you’re funny; such sad self-delusion is catching!” Stephane muttered, and drank his wine in two gulps. He’d already run the gauntlet of the other waiters taking the piss throughout the day. That, Stephane could deal with.

  Other, less straightforward thoughts were more problematic. As Annelise tried to coax vast swathes of detail from him, Stephane glanced at the long, black overcoat hanging from one of the pegs on the kitchen door. He’d brought Danny’s coat back home with him when he saw it hanging on the coat stand later that morning, an abandoned look to it.

  Glancing out of the large main window of Guillaume's, Stephane had seen the rain coming down hard again, and wondered if the mad scientist had got a soaking on his way to the lab. Then, he had remembered the look on Danny’s face again, and retrieved the coat, bringing it back home. Wondering why he had. Instead of taking it to Guillaume's office, for doubtless collection later. The guy would come back, for sure, he was a regular. According to Fabrice, he would sit huddled over table six, drinking his café latte, all pale faced and chewing on his nails instead of working on the papers he invariably had sprawled everywhere.

  “What does he do?” Stephane had asked, and Fabrice had thought for a few moments, then shrugged.

  “Don’t know. Looks a bit like a lawyer or something?”

  “A lawyer!” Stephane had said, incredulous “you’re kidding, right!”

  Annelise nudged him back to the present. “What happened?”

  “He rescued one of our regulars from having a public panic attack,” Guillaume answered for him, “took the guy outside to give him breathing exercises…hey, write that down as well, Annelise; Stephane takes guy into an alleyway and doesn’t give him a blow job!”

  Stephane slammed his wine glass onto the table. “For fuck’s sake, leave it, will you!”

  Guillaume stopped laughing abruptly, surprised at his brother’s reaction. Stephane’s ability to take Guillaume's teasing about his sex life was legendary. Something in Stephane’s face made Guillaume indeed leave it, and, pulling a wry face at Annelise, he got up and started loading the dishwasher. The faery’s wand had been wafted.