Girl at the Lion D'Or by Sebastian Faulks Read Free Book Online

gathered up some empty plates from a table near the bar and scraped off the uneaten food. Bruno’s dish of the day was a kidney stew in a vigorous mustard sauce. It was of the same family as the previous day’s lunchtime speciality in the main restaurant, though the powerful juice went some way to concealing the closeness of the relationship. Many of the locals were taking it manfully with the help of baskets of bread and frequent pitchers of soothing red wine that Anne had brought to their tables.
    In the glass she watched her colour return to normal before she swivelled round to face the main room again. She moved between the tables with a measured neutrality. She was wearing her waitress’s black dress and her waitress’s smile through which, Hartmann thought as he watched, little bubbles of the private girl kept breaking. He found it easier now that he saw her at work to imagine what she might be thinking. The aura some people carry with them can deter others from approaching, but the uniform of a servant is so clearly artificial that it invites speculation.
    At last he signalled to her from his table. She flattened the skirt over her hips and moved across the room, between the tables, holding a small round tray to give her hands some work to do.
    ‘We met the other day at the tennis court,’ he said as she reached his table.
    ‘Yes, I remember, monsieur.’
    He asked her about the hotel and if she was happy there. He thought that since they had been introduced away from her place of work it was polite – or permissible – for him to talk to her on a level of social equality. But as he continued his questions, Anne looked down, confused by his apparent interest. She didn’t know if the gentleness of his manner was prompted by politeness or whether he really cared about her. Hartmann glanced up at her averted face, the dark hair pulled back by a piece of ribbon. He thought she seemed a forthright girl who would be well able to look after herself. This view was confirmed when, after a pause, she looked up brightly and said, ‘Haven’t you just moved into a new home?’
    ‘That’s right. How did you know?’
    ‘I overheard two people talking about it at the bar. I suppose I shouldn’t have listened, but I couldn’t help it. People don’t lower their voices when I’m there. It sounds a wonderful house.’
    Her eyes were big with enthusiasm. Hartmann smiled. ‘I’m afraid it needs a lot of work.’
    ‘And have you got that builder, Monsieur Roussel, coming to help?’
    ‘You seem to know as much about it as I do! Yes, my wife was told by her cousin that he was the best man for the job, so we’ve hired him.’
    ‘Your . . . your wife recommended him?’
    ‘My wife’s cousin, to be precise.’
    Anne didn’t care about his precision. She felt as though she had been caught by a sudden blow behind the knees. All her life she had been cursed with a face on which her thoughts were boldly printed, and she knew that Hartmann must now be reading them.
    A wife . . . It had never crossed her mind in the heat of her silly fantasy by the tennis court. She was annoyed at her own stupidity and shamed by the way Hartmann rode her discomfort, lobbing her harmless questions and then talking of his house in a gentle, neutral way when all the time he must be thinking what a fool she was.
    A loud call came from the barman.
    ‘Excuse me,’ said Anne.
    ‘Of course.’
    Surely he couldn’t leave it at that? Perhaps he would speak to her again before he left.
    ‘Anne!’ The call was louder than before.
    ‘I must go.’
    ‘Yes, I think you must.’
    She turned quickly. The two notes in his voice – one of concern, one of gentle irony – combined in a perfect yet noncommittal civility.
    Pierre, the head waiter, slid up to her as she loaded her tray with glasses of beer. He held her elbow for a moment and spoke softly.
    ‘It would be better, my dear, if you were not to spend such a long time at each table.’ He