Read The Loveliest Chocolate Shop in Paris for Free Online Page A

time.”
    â€œThis was definitely a romance,” I said.
    â€œIt was definitely a long time ago,” she said crisply in her teacher’s voice again.
    â€œDon’t you want to go?” I said.
    â€œOh no,” she said quickly. “That time of my life is well over with, quite done and dusted. And I have quite enough on my plate. But you’re still young…”
    â€œI’m thirty,” I said, moaning.
    â€œThat’s young,” she said very sharply. “That’s very young.”
    â€œSo, what’s it like, this factory?” I said, changing the subject. Her own kids weren’t much older than me and all married and settled with good jobs, and I didn’t think I could handle the comparison.
    â€œOh, it’s probably changed a bit,” she said, looking a bit dreamy. Then she came back to herself. “Anyway, it’s not a factory, more an atelier —a workshop. Le Chapeau Chocolat. ”
    â€œThe Chocolate Hat?” I said. “That sounds…I mean, do they actually make hats out of chocolate?”
    Claire ignored me.
    â€œThey’ll take you on as a general factotum, normal hours, and they normally use a room nearby, apparently, that you can stay in. It’s extremely expensive in that area of Paris, incredibly, so it’s very helpful. He says they’re busy till about October, so you could stay that long then come back. By then, the UK shops will be gearing up for Christmas, so I’m sure you’ll get a job then.”
    â€œDon’t they have Christmas in France?”
    Claire smiled at me. “Yes, but it isn’t the crazy obsession it is here. A few oysters and some time with your family; that’s about the size of it.”
    â€œThat sounds rubbish,” I said, suddenly a bit cross at how much this had been sorted out. I still felt as if I were being railroaded a bit, rather than being worried about and cosseted. Everyone was saying things like how I should stand on my own two feet, which I found particularly annoying as I didn’t really have two feet anymore.
    â€œIt’s lovely,” said Claire, her thin face going a bit dreamy. “The rain hits the pavement and the lights go all misty over the bridges, and you huddle up in front of the fire…”
    â€œAnd eat oysters,” I said. “Bleurgh.”
    Claire took her glasses off and rubbed her sore-looking eyes. “Well,” she said hopefully. “I think it’s a very generous offer, considering he’s never met you.”
    â€œWhat about speaking French?” I said, sounding slightly panicky. “I won’t be able to speak all the French.”
    â€œDon’t be silly, you’re coming along brilliantly.”
    â€œYes, but that’s talking to you. Real French people will talk like this…zubba zubba zubba zubba zuBBAH, at, like, one hundred miles an hour. One hundred kilometers an hour,” I said gloomily.
    Claire laughed. “The trick is not to panic. Trust your brain to know what people are saying. Also, people talk just as much rubbish in French as they do in English. They repeat themselves all the time, just like real people do. Don’t worry about it.”
    I blinked.
    â€œDoes he speak English?”
    Claire smiled shyly.
    â€œNot a word, as far as I remember.”
    - - -
    1972
    His mustache had been the first thing she’d noticed about him—not because it was a mustache, because lots of men had them at that time, along with long unruly sideburns, which he also had, but because it had chocolate on the ends. She had blinked at it.
    â€œWhat?” he had said instantly, waggling his eyebrows at her. “What? Tell me—you cannot believe such a devastatingly handsome man has just walked through the door?”
    She had smiled involuntarily—with his thick mop of dark brown curly hair, mischievous brown eyes, and burly, large body, he was undeniably