‘It’s so great that you can talk to the cab driver,’ said Donna a few hours later when they loaded bulging bags into the boot of a taxi.
‘You can too, if you practise,’ said Alexandra. ‘What’s the address?’
Donna lived in a very good arrondissement near the Eiffel Tower. Alexandra resolved to send a postcard, borrowing Donna’s address, to her relations. They’d be very reassured. The address of the small pension where Alexandra was staying wouldn’t be nearly as impressive.
And Donna’s apartment was glorious. It had high ceilings, huge rooms with herringbone parquet floors and marble fireplaces, and tall windows that opened on to balconies and Paris and beyond.
‘This is lovely!’ said Alexandra, looking around the salon, thinking that Bob must be doing very well to be able to afford such a beautiful apartment.
‘It is. But you wait until you see where I have to cook.’
Alexandra followed Donna into the kitchen. ‘I see what you mean!’ she said, horrified. ‘It’s like a corridor with a sink in it!
‘How am I supposed to produce a dinner party in here?’ asked Donna. ‘It’s hard enough to make coffee and toast.’
It was more like a scullery, fairly long, but very narrow. It had a shallow sink and a plate rack above, the only thing which reminded Alexandra of the beloved kitchen she had left behind in London.
‘I don’t suppose you are expected to produce dinner parties, really,’ Alexandra said. ‘I expect your cook would have done what we have, and brought in things from outside.’
‘Or maybe people entertain in restaurants. That’s what Bob should have suggested really, but we’re American!’
‘That’s all right,’ said Alexandra, as Donna did seem a bit shamefaced. ‘We’ve bought pâté, fresh bread and butter for the starter, and the most wonderful Gâteau Saint-Honoré for the pudding, so we’ve only got the chicken dish to do.’
‘That is the most beautiful dessert,’ said Donna, looking at the confection which had sat on her knee during the taxi ride, encased in a white cardboard box. Golden spheres of choux pastry sat on a circle of puff pastry topped with whipped cream. A circlet of spun sugar was the final touch. ‘But no one will think I made it.’
‘They don’t have to think you made it,’ said Alexandra. ‘My nanny told me when I was in Paris before that no Frenchwoman would dream of making a cake or a tart for a formal dinner.’ She paused. ‘Now, what shall we do with the chicken?’
Donna gave a gasp of horror. ‘Don’t you know? You bought all those vegetables and herbs – I thought you had a recipe in mind!’
‘I soon will have a recipe,’ said Alexandra confidently. ‘Look, here’s a Larousse Gastronomique.’ She pulled out the large and very battered book from the shelf. ‘Thank goodness there was a copy of it in the apartment.’
‘We rented it furnished,’ said Donna. ‘I expect they consider it essential, unlike effective plumbing and drains that don’t smell.’
‘I hope my French is up to obscure technical terms.’ Alexandra realised that Donna was looking at her uncertainly. ‘Why don’t you set the table? That can take ages!’
‘Oh yes. I could find the plates too. There are hundreds of plates and glasses, all shapes and sizes.’
‘See if there’s something attractive to serve the pâté on,’ suggested Alexandra. ‘And also for the cheese. I think we should unwrap it.’
She was glad when Donna went back into the dining room because she wasn’t quite as confident as she made out, and didn’t want to be watched or talked to while she went through the book. However, she had done a cookery course, and had helped her friend Meg, who’d done the same course, cook directors’ lunches, so she had a bit of experience.
It wasn’t long before she decided to put down what was thought by many to be the Bible of French cuisine and just get going. She didn’t have enough time to translate obscure culinary terms – the course she’d done in London had been for young women, not chefs. She began by chopping a few onions and lots of the purple garlic bulb that had so appealed to her when she saw it rolling into the gutter.
She was glad she’d had the foresight to ask the butcher to divide the two chickens into pieces. They needed tidying up but she didn’t have to bash her way through anything too large. She threw all the leftover bits into a pot with the onion skins, some whole onions, carrots and a bunch of thyme. She had no plans for a stock but thought it might come in handy.
Several hours passed and, at last, the tiny kitchen was filled with the delicious smells of chicken, wine and mushrooms. There was a sauce to pour over the portions and chopped parsley to go on top of that. Alexandra was tired. She wanted to go back to her pension and lie on her bed and do nothing. Cooking a simple chicken dish wasn’t nearly as easy as everyone pretended it was, or at least, not for her. But she had really enjoyed helping Donna, and was very sad to think that they probably wouldn’t see each other again. They’d become friends as they worked out which glasses went where and speculated about what the dinner guests might be like.
‘And you’re sure there’ll be someone to serve for you?’ she said, reluctant to leave even though she was tired.
‘Yes, yes. Bob’s secretary organised that when she set up the dinner party. She booked the chef too. I must tell her they didn’t turn up.’
‘You should!’ said Alexandra, who had started to resent the non-appearance of a trained professional quite early on.
‘But at least now I can give you this.’ Donna put an envelope full of French francs into Alexandra’s hand. ‘Don’t argue. Just get in a cab and go back to your lodgings. But promise you’ll come back in the morning to hear how it went?’
‘I promise,’ said Alexandra, suspecting she might be called upon to help clear up as well, in spite of the hired waitress.
‘I don’t know what I’d have done without you, Alexandra!’ Donna said. ‘You’ve been so brilliant.’
‘I’ve really enjoyed myself! I just wish …’
‘What?’
‘That I could spend more than just a few days in Paris.’
‘Oh, I’d love that!’ said Donna. ‘We could explore it together and I’d learn not to be terrified of the waiters.’
Alexandra laughed and then sighed. ‘What I need is a proper reason to stay, like a job. If I was working for grand people my relations would probably approve. I’d be improving my French with people with the right accent.’
‘What qualifications do you have? Shorthand, typing?’ asked Donna.
Alexandra shrugged and sighed again. ‘I have no qualifications. I’m fit for nothing.’
‘That’s certainly not true! Look what you’ve done for me!’
‘I loved doing it.’ Then she and Donna shared a long hug before Alexandra got into the tiny, creaking lift.
When Alexandra presented herself at the elegant apartment at eleven o’clock the following morning, she found Donna in a state of excitement.
‘It was amazing!’ she said to Alexandra, without waiting for an exchange of how-are-yous. ‘I am so grateful to you I cannot tell you!’ Donna took Alexandra by the arm and led her into the salon. The long windows were open and there was a little table set on the balcony. ‘Sit down. I’m going to bring you coffee and dessert and then I’ll tell you some wonderful news.’
Alexandra was very happy to sit and watch Paris go by below her in the sunshine. Donna appeared with coffee and a plate of profiteroles and cream: Gâteau Saint-Honoré in its component parts.
‘I met the most gorgeous man!’ said Donna. ‘Don’t worry, not like that. I’m married to Bob and nothing will ever change that. But this man has a job for you! What about that? He also had a gorgeous woman with him, but that’s not the point. Can you imagine? When I told him about you, he was so interested, especially when I mentioned your family house in Belgravia.’
Alexandra’s heart leaped. She really didn’t want to go to finishing school in Switzerland, especially not when there was a chance she could stay in Paris and have fun with Donna.
‘What’s the job? Do you know?’ Alexandra now really wanted to stay in Paris so badly, she’d try anything. Although the gorgeous man probably wanted a bilingual secretary who could not only speak French but do shorthand too – in both languages.
Donna made a face. ‘I don’t really know, but the good part is, it’s only for a month. Your relatives might not mind you staying for a month. Families like dates, I’ve discovered. Mine really didn’t want us to come to Paris but when I said it was only for a year, they felt a lot better about it.’
Alexandra nodded. ‘I think mine would be the same, but I need to know what sort of job it is. I may not be able to do it. I told you I couldn’t do shorthand, for example.’
‘He didn’t say anything like that. He said you must be able to cook, which you can, speak English and French, which obviously you can, and drive. Can you drive?’
‘Yes,’ said Alexandra, ‘but I’m not sure I can drive in French.’ She tried to imagine herself driving through Paris and felt a little daunted.
‘Oh, you mean in Paris? I see your point. Parisians make up their own rules about how to do it.’
Then Alexandra got over her defeatist attitude. ‘I did learn to drive in London, and if I can do Hyde Park Corner, I’m sure I’d get used to Paris. For a month, you say?’
Donna nodded. ‘Your family would like that, wouldn’t they? You’d have a month of really brushing up your French, although I think it’s perfectly fine as it is, and then you can go to the finishing school.’ Donna paused, not something she did often. ‘What do they teach you to do there, do you think?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. How to write cheques, how to address the nobility and how to get in and out of sports cars without showing your pants.’
Donna laughed delightedly. ‘In America pants are things men wear. But never mind that: here’s his card. You’re to go to that address at two o’clock today for an interview. All the information is on there. If you need a reference, Bob will give you one.’
Alexandra inspected the card and her spirits lifted. ‘He’s a count! My relations will love that. If I get the job, I’ll have to send them details.’
‘Of course! Now, what are you going to wear for the interview?’
This did give Alexandra pause. She had very few clothes with her. ‘I don’t have a lot of choice. Most of my things are probably already in Switzerland. They were sent ahead so I wouldn’t have heavy luggage to deal with on the train. I have some pyjamas, a change of underwear, this dress, a pair of slacks and a cardigan. That’s it, more or less.’
‘And your Hermès scarf.’
‘Yes, but while it may be useful, it’s not a whole outfit.’ Alexandra looked down at her dress, which was fitted, sleeveless and knee-length. It was a ‘meet your relations dress’ and it would have to do for an interview. ‘I think this is fine. It may smell slightly of cooking but perhaps, being a Frenchman, he won’t mind that. He’s not judging me for my clothes, after all; he wants to know if I’m suitable for the job.’ She paused. ‘Are you sure he didn’t mention what sort of job it was?’
‘No, but don’t worry. He didn’t mention any secretarial skills or accountancy, and surely he would have done if he’d wanted those?’
‘I’d be much keener on going to Switzerland if I thought they were going to teach me things like that. Although I’m sure they’re awfully boring, secretarial skills and grown-up arithmetic would be useful.’
Donna patted Alexandra’s knee. ‘I’m sure you’ll be fine. And it’ll be so cool having you in Paris. I’ll have a friend!’
‘Oh, I know! I would love that.’
‘Are you absolutely sure about that dress? We could look in my closet – I could lend you something? You are a bit taller so my clothes would be short on you, but that may not be a bad thing.’
Alexandra smiled. ‘I think this dress will be fine. I wore an apron when I cooked in it yesterday. Though if you have some lovely scent I could spray on myself, I’d be delighted. To disguise the faint eau d’oignon.
‘Perfume!’ Donna cried out. ‘I have so much I could take a bath in it. Now, I thought we’d have an early lunch, no wine, and then after your interview we can celebrate.’
‘I may not get the job,’ said Alexandra. ‘I’ve never actually been to an interview before. Have you got any tips?’
Donna shook her head. ‘I’ve never had a job.’
‘I’ve done lots of catering jobs, and I used to deal in antiques. But I’ve never had a nine-to-five sort of job.’
‘Antiques? How exciting!’
‘A friend of mine has a stall on the Portobello Road market. He let me put my things with his. He taught me all I know.’
Alexandra allowed herself a moment’s reflection. Her life had been very good in London, sharing a large house with friends, earning money cooking or waitressing with one of the friends and doing the antiques stall with another one at weekends. She was a person who made the best of things, but life in Switzerland was going to feel lonely and confined. At home she’d be stuck with her boring, formal relations and at finishing school she’d be surrounded by girls she’d probably have nothing in common with.
‘At least let me do your make-up,’ said Donna. ‘All my spare time was spent practising how to put on eyeliner without smudging it. You have such lovely eyes; it will be such fun emphasising their beauty. He’ll have to give you the job!’
