Red Rainbow by G Johanson (top books of all time TXT) 📗

Phantom had given the maître d’ instructions to show the lady who asked for him straight to his table. She strode ahead of the maître d’ upon seeing her date, walking with the confidence of a woman who wanted all eyes upon her in the busy, if not quite packed, club, relishing the attention. He did not want to burst her bubble, but she would not be the focal point of their attentions tonight for the short time they had together. He’d asked her to meet him at 6:30. It was 10 past seven now (for almost half a second he wondered if Hilaire didn’t mention the meal to her, an improbable notion he quickly dismissed). The club shut at eight every night, the profit margins no doubt diabolical, like so many night-time businesses during the curfew. They’d have to wolf their food down. He’d waited for her and had stuck to drinks. This meeting wasn’t really about the meal, though he had a particular reason to want to enjoy it.

“Do you not stand to greet a lady?” Florence asked, scraping her chair back, the sound grating and only partially drowned out by the band.

“You put me on my knees the last time we met. I’ve less far to fall here. Thank you for coming. Cigarette?” he offered.

Florence took one and accepted his invitation to light it for her. He lit one himself and pushed the open menu across the table towards her. He knew what he was having, which was prepared and ready to be cooked. She had to decide quickly. The maître d’ had caught up with her and loitered by the table, trying not to press the issue but needing to get her order quick smart else he would end up disappointing his favourite customer’s date.

“Tricky, tricky,” she mused theatrically. “It’s quite limited, isn’t it? I thought this was an ‘in’ place.”

“We have specials that aren’t on there. What would madam like?” the maître d’ asked, eager to please and as quickly as possible. She was already grating on the Love Phantom, studying the menu like it was a novel, making a show of it too, dawdling on purpose. They close at eight. He bit his tongue for now in the face of this laboured performance.

“I tell you what. Surprise me.” Florence passed the maître d’ the menu. He took it even though it was meant to stay on the table. She started speaking to the Love Phantom without care while he was still in earshot. “I feel honoured to have been given your real name, which he said with such reverence. César Vadeboncoeur. And to finally see that irresistible face.”

“I’d struggle to eat and drink with the mask on,” he said, copying her flippancy.

“And the peasants might not bow down and scrape to you either. Your eyes are different colours,” she observed. His mask had not hidden his eyes from her during their first meeting, it was more a case of the lighting here was so much better than the lamp at the flat, so he let her off with that one.

“Indeed. Mostly green,” César said, pointing to the left, and then the right, “Mostly brown.”

“That’s not very symmetrical.”

He chuckled at this comment, which seemed genuinely critical of what he knew was a selling point. “Hold a mirror down my middle, you can see how I would look with whichever eye you think looks best.”

“There’s an offer I can refuse. I don’t share the mirror. I guess your theory about everyone falling in love with you on first sight is up in smoke. I don’t sound like I’m in love, do I?”

“Playful comments, light critique – no, definitely not.”

“You are wrong. Don’t go thinking because he came straight over to serve us that that means anything either. Good looking people jump the queue everywhere. It doesn’t mean he loves you, just like me agreeing to come here doesn’t mean I do,” she said, pre-empting any comments confirming his abilities.

“He did offer to serve me when I first came in way back when. He came over now because of you, Florence, not me, because they’ll be closing when the food comes out. I hope you didn’t want dessert.” He fancied they would always have been personally attended to by the maître d’ as that was the way it usually went for him; sometimes the manager would come across to make sure everything was to his satisfaction. In this instance, what he said was true, the clock was against them, hence the maître d’ was taking charge of the situation.

“I’ll decide on that later,” she said ominously. A junior waiter raced across with their starters, able to produce these quickly as they’d started on César’s in readiness and were able to pick anything for Florence. She picked César’s starter, swapping their plates. He had his fork in hand ready to start and frowned at her, which she seemed to enjoy. “It looks nicer than mine. I am your guest.”

“I offered you anything on the menu. You could have picked it.”

“Be grateful I’m not making you eat mine, César.”

“I intend to.” Fucking cold soup while he had to watch her eat his warm gougères.

“The name reveal was disappointing. You’re not from a notable family else I’d have heard of you. What does your father do?”

Better things than yours did. “He was a draughtsman. He’s still around, he’s just not in France at the moment. He’ll go back to that when this is over.”

“What did his father do?”

César scrutinised her expression. She was asking the questions, but he was the one with the quizzical gaze. “How far back do you want to go?”

“It’s a simple question. I’ll be grilling you worse than that before we’re done.”

It was a simple question which he could answer with ease. Why she wanted to know was the issue. He knew what this was really about. She was asking how far back he could go. The family had progressed upwards socially and financially in recent