LITMIR.BIZ

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American and returned to the kitchen, making a magnificent exit.

      Jean-Michel came over to the table carrying two tall glasses of pink wine. “Phew! That’s my punishment over. I’m sorry about all that — she’s always larger than life!” He glanced at Rosie anxiously. Rosie burst into laughter.

      “She’s great, simply fantastic.”

      Jean-Michel laughed too, his dark eyes sparkling with vitality as he set the drinks on the table.

      “Do you like Kir? It’s the only way to drink the cheap wine here.”

      “Kir is perfect and so is this place.” Rosie had a really brilliant smile but this time she smiled as she had never smiled before.

      “And so are you,” Jean-Michel said quietly as he looked at her over the rim of his glass. “Let’s drink to perfection.”

      “To perfection!” said Rosie, sipping the cool, blackcurrant-flavoured wine and reflecting that this was what eye contact was really all about. And the evening was perfect — so perfect that Rosie felt she had floated into a dreamlike world. The only cloud looming on the entire horizon was her absolute certainty that he must be married. She kept pushing the doubt to the back of her mind, enjoying the moment and avoiding any questions about his private life. It wasn’t difficult. Jean-Michel was an excellent listener. She found herself telling him more about her work. Finally she drew to a halt.

      “Now it’s really your turn,” she said. “You must tell me your long, boring story and why the perfume house are trying to buy you. Was it the buyers that you were seeing into the stretch limo?”

      “You’re very observant. Was it that obvious I was trying to send them on their way?” Jean-Michel smiled but his eyes were serious. “If you really want to know then I have to insist we have dinner together — somewhere more comfortable.”

      Rosie dreaded that he would make some crass comment about going back to his flat. Was his wife away perhaps?

      “There’s a restaurant perched on the very edge of the village with a superb view. Can I tempt you?”

      Rosie gave another of her wide smiles. “That sounds perfect. But how ever are we going to make our way back up that path in the dark?” she asked doubtfully.

      “Mais non — you have sensible shoes but you’re not a goat. Did I mention on the way down that it was a goat-path?”

      Rosie laughed. “No, but I’m not at all surprised.”

      “Definitely the most famous goat-path in France or maybe the whole world — and, as your personal tour guide, I must now tell you that it is known as the Chemin Nietszche because the great man was walking along it when inspired to write — zut, I can’t remember — something about what Zarathoustra said to someone or other… Anyway, it was extremely philosophical and also explains how Zara came to be called Zara. But I’m afraid I can’t recall the detail. Ah, well, perhaps I won’t make a tour guide when I lose my job in the perfume industry. Now for the next instalment we must bypass Nietzsche and borrow Zara’s Jeep… Excuse me, I’ll just go and tell her. If I don’t return immediately it will be because she has hugged me to death.”

      Ten minutes later they were chugging up the steep road that wound its way up to the village. Rosie hung onto the roll bar as she looked down at the steep drop to the sea. This place was all vertical roads.

      “How on earth will Zara get home?” she asked, although it was one of the minor questions that she had in the long list forming in her head.

      “Oh, Zara will get a lift — she knows everyone here. The place will be buzzing until three or four in the morning. She was born here like me.”

      Well, that crossed another question off her list. “How amazing to be born in such a spectacular place.”

      “Yes, I suppose so. Apart from the Mediterranean at your feet, the ruined château and the white penitents’ chapel it’s just like any other ordinary old mediaeval village.” Jean-Michel laughed.

      “Not forgetting the Chemin Nietzsche,” added Rosie. “And the perfumery and the pine trees on the beach and…”

      “Do you want a job as a tour guide?” Jean-Michel asked, raising his dark eyebrows. “Anyway, you haven’t seen anything yet. This is ‘be glad of your sensible shoe time’ again.” He slung the Jeep into the square, turned off the engine and then slipped the car key behind the sun visor.

      “Will it be OK to leave it like that?” Rosie asked in surprise.

      “Goodness, yes. Everyone around knows Zara and not a soul would dare take it without her permission. You must have noticed she is one terrifying woman!” Jean-Michel laughed and then came round to open her door. Rosie couldn’t remember anyone ever doing that for her before. She supposed she should feel some sort of feminist rebellion but instead she felt enchanted.

      “This time we climb, mademoiselle. May I take your hand as the cobbles are so uneven and the lights few and far between and…? Well, I can’t think of any more excuses.”

      So hand in hand they made their way through a heavy stone arch and into the narrow winding streets of the village. Up and up, towards the starry sky. Finally they arrived at a small entrance with a wrought-iron hanging sign announcing ‘Château Eza’. Rosie was suddenly conscious of her casual appearance and, yes, the loafers.

      Jean-Michel, still holding her hand, strode into the narrow foyer and, leaning across the desk, called out, “Pierre, où es toi?”

      A young man hurried into sight, his face breaking into a smile of welcome when he saw Jean-Michel. They talked rapidly in French for a minute and then Jean-Michel turned to her. “Isn’t that lucky? They have a table for two on the terrace.”

      “Perfect!” Rosie laughed. She hadn’t understood much of what had been said but she knew enough about booking the best locations to know that something had just been fixed. As they walked through the small restaurant and out onto the candlelit terrace Rosie felt all eyes were fixed on them. Jean-Michel seemed completely oblivious. Stopping to give close examination to the dessert trolley and shaking hands with several people, waiters and diners, he led the way through the tables. Rosie was not a shy person and she began to enjoy the attention, smiling to herself as the waiters hurried to lay a small table on the very edge of the terrace. She recognised and knew the value of being known and liked.

      It wasn’t until they had finished the main course that Rosie reminded Jean-Michel of his promise to tell her about his work.

      “Do I have to? Do I really have to? I’m having such a good time…but, yes, a promise is a promise. I shall try to tell the story as quickly as possible. Are you sitting comfortably?”

      “Very comfortably!” Rosie sighed as she leaned back in her chair and looked across at the wide expanse of dark sea now divided by a silvery gold path to the moon.

      “Well, it’s a long family saga…a bit like a French edition of The Archers! My family own quite a large area of greenhouses and lavender fields in the Provençal hills near Grasse. Our business is making perfume and has been since the time of Catherine de Medici. In fact, one of my ancestors reputedly scented her gloves…but that is another story and belongs to a tourist guide. I knew little of the business until last year when my parents were killed in a plane accident. It’s OK…” He hesitated as Rosie instinctively put her hand over his in sympathy. “I’m getting over it now but certainly it was a great shock. I had been educated in England and I was working in London when it happened — nothing to do with perfume. I’m a quantity surveyor.”

      He smiled ruefully and looked out to sea. “Or rather I was a quantity surveyor in a big company in Hanover Square. To cut a long story short, I resigned and came back here to try to carry on the business. My grandmother is still alive and she knows a great deal about it all but somehow it’s just not working. Then a short time ago I was approached by the big boys here. They want to buy us out. My grandmother is set against

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