Le Hotel

Le Hotel



         François disliked a number of things about tourists. They were demanding, untidy and noisy. Rude and obnoxious, even in some cases. The one thing, however, he loathed the most was the way they could be rude to him in one instant and then pretend that he didn’t exist or even worse: look at him as though he had a big wart on his nose, bird dropping on his shoulders and spinach between his teeth.

         When his uncle told him he could work in his associate’s five star restaurant in Edinburgh, François had welcomed the break. Free at last from the impertinent Parisians, tourists and baguette’ he had thought to himself while looking forward to improving his English.

         Tonight was turning out to be just one of those evenings he had always hoped for and dreamed of: a classy hotel at the foot of Edinburgh Castle, stylish, rich guests who visited the Opera instead of the Eiffel Tower. Here, with class and style came the serenity, the manners and the respect with which he hoped Parisians could one day treat the Garçons.

         As the middle-aged couple at table three ordered coffee and Cointreau, a young woman entered the restaurant. Wearing a tight, knee-long skirt, a flimsy top and far too much make-up, she appeared to be looking for someone.

          ‘Madame?’ François asked with the slightly arrogant Parisian look. ‘May I help you?’ After six weeks in this northern city, his French accent was as thick as ever.

          ‘Eh… well, I’m ehm.. sort of waiting for someone.’

         Sort of waiting for someone. François looked at her questioningly while rummaging his mental dictionary. Either she is or she isn’t waiting for someone. He gave her a small bow, and gestured for her to take a seat at the bar.

          ‘Certainly. Madame would like a drink?’ he asked, while trying to work out how old she was. Her clothes indicated mid-twenties but judging by the amount of make-up she wore, he put a safe bet on at least thirty-six.

          ‘Gin and tonic, please’ she replayed, only half paying attention to François as she fumbled for something in her handbag.

          ‘Certainly, Madame’ and with that, he went behind the bar. ‘Madame likes ice?’

          ‘Sorry?’ She looked up from the photograph she had retrieved from her bag.

          ‘Ice. Madame likes ice in gin and tonic?’

          ‘Yes. And lemon, please.’ She gave him a small smile; there was something irresistibly sexy about the waiter’s French accent. Tonight, however, her mind was busy with the meeting that was due to take place. It was nearly fifteen years since she and Thomas had parted. He had lived at her parents’ house for eight months while on an exchange programme from his school in Munich. She had fallen madly in love with him, a secret she had kept for all these years. Today was her big chance to own up. She checked her watch.

          ‘Voila, Madame’ François bowed and turned his attention to a young couple entering the room.

          ‘Table for two?’ he asked, taking the woman’s coat.

          ‘Yes please, a quiet corner if possible, please’ the young man replied in a rich Irish brogue.

          ‘Monsier, Madame, follow me’ François said, leading the way to what he termed the love nest: table seven. The young couple held hands as they followed him and as they passed table three, the young woman almost tripped over a handbag placed on the floor there. She put her hand to her mouth and giggled, apologised to the middle-aged woman.

          ‘It’s all right, love. No harm done’ the older woman said but turned to her husband with a look of obvious disgust. She had ‘today’s youth, honestly´ written all over her face and threw her head back slightly to emphasise her point. Her husband puffed at his cigar and caught François as he walked back to the bar.

          ‘Another Cointreau, François please’ he said with a voice so deep François felt he may get lost in it.

          ‘Monsieur’ he said, bowed and smiled. On his way to the bar, he nodded at the party of four at table six who were indicating they were ready to order.

         The young woman at table seven gave a loud roar of laughter.

          ‘Pete Donovan, honestly, you are terrible sometimes!” she screeched.

          ‘Arh well, you see, Emma, you bring it out in me. My animal instincts come alive when I’m around you.’ He kissed her fingers while looking into her eyes. Emma shifted slightly in her seat and grinned, throwing her long blonde hair back. She moistened her lips and smiled at him.

          ‘Animal instincts? You’re a regular caveman, Pete!’ she looked at him adoringly.

          ‘Well, that’s me. Once a caveman, always a caveman’ he said, loosening his designer tie slightly.

          ‘Shall we order some grub, me lady?’ Emma drowned another loud outburst by kissing him.

         At table three, the middle-aged woman was ready to launch into a further disgruntled attack on the young couple, but her husband, still puffing at his cigar, beat her to it.

          ‘Isn’t it lovely, Madge, young love?’ He cast a long look at table three, then looked at his wife. ‘Do you remember what we were like years ago?’

         His wife’s face lit up in a smile, then she looked down, blushing slightly.



          ‘Madame still waiting?’ François asked the woman at the bar.

          ‘Yes’ she replied politely. ‘He should be here soon’ she sounded more convinced than she looked. She had been watching the young couple since they entered the room. They appeared to be so together – that was the best word for it, she thought. Six years of marriage to Max had ended partly because they had never really felt together like that. She wondered if she and Thomas could be like that, unaware and uncaring of the world around them, completely wrapped up in themselves.

         She checked her watch again, he was over twenty minutes late. At the same time a tall man entered. She held her breath. The French waiter was there in an instant.

          ‘Monsieur, good evening’ he greeted the new guest. ‘You are dining with us tonight?’

          ‘What else would I be doing here? Have my MOT? Dental treatment?’ the tall man scoured the room. ‘I’ll take that table by the window, Manuel’ he said, laughing to himself for a reason unbeknown to François.

          ‘I’m sorry, Monsieur, but that table is reserved. May I offer…’

          ‘Reserved? What do you mean, man? I have more sheep than you have guests here tonight. There are plenty of other tables and I want the one by the window’ he said, giving François a look which instantly made him feel his teeth for any spinach that might be stuck there.

         The couple at table three were watching the scene, intrigued. The young couple at table seven appeared to have discovered new depths in each other’s eyes. François shifted his weight to his other foot.

          ‘I’m very sorry, Monsieur. That table was booked over three weeks ago for a special occasion. It is for a very important guest. We have another very nice table here’ François made a movement with his right hand and out of the corner of his eye caught the young woman sneaking out of the restaurant.

          ‘What the hell!’ the man said, followed by a less audible ‘bloody foreigners!’ François turned to him with his left eyebrow raised.

          ‘Monsieur?’ he said questioningly.

          ‘Never mind, Manuel. I guess the food will taste the same wherever I sit.’

          ‘François’ said the waiter.

          ‘What?’ the tall man demanded, taking a slight step backwards.

          ‘My name is François, not Manuel. Follow me.’

         As the tall man sat down he touched François’ arm lightly and said, ‘I am waiting for a friend. A young lady. Is she here yet? I am a little late, you see.’

         François thought of the nice young woman at the bar who had sneaked out only a few minutes before, looking embarrassed.

          ‘Non, Monsieur. No young lady here tonight’ he said, and with that he went to table six to take their order.