Silent Was the Spy by Robertson Tait

Author:Robertson Tait
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Robertson Tait
Published: 2021-01-04T00:00:00+00:00

LONDON – 25 FEBRUARY 2002

In his London flat, Sebastian sat in a wing chair watching Christelle on his bed. She was still naked, but nestling under his duvet fast asleep, peacefully wrapped in the prospect of a possible long-term association. A union of sorts, that might lead on to who knows what, and the hint of a smile on her beautiful face as she slept made Sebastian feel bad about the inevitable conclusion of his inner deliberations.

They had talked half-way into the night, sipping Amaretto and opening up to each other in a way that felt personal but still held back the vital details of their respective past lives.

She had floated out the idea of some kind of restaurant venture. Something small to start with, but where Sebastian could exhibit his natural ability and then develop a fuller, more comprehensive mastery of the metier.

It had been fun to toy with, and imagine in his mind’s eye the day-to-day running of a bistro or such, and always of course with the intoxicating foundation at the base of the idea that they would be together at the end of the day, tucked up under the eaves in some romantic, airy bedroom above the business.

Christelle thought it would have to be Switzerland or France, and Sebastian conceded that her familiarity with the cultures of those countries and her language skills would be a great asset. And, of course, his own French was more than passable. In fact, he was so fluent that even in Paris he could pass for a native.

Her eyelids fluttered open, and he was struck afresh by the magnetic allure of her gaze. The green eyes glowed in the half-dark as they focused on her surroundings.

She smiled at him sitting there, watching her sleep, but noticed the smile she got in return had a tinge of regret to it.

“What you doing? You look a little wistful.” She watched a shadow of pain crease his brow as he conceded to himself that he needed to tell her.

“Christelle, I’ve been thinking. I don’t think our escapism idea would work.”

“You mean the restaurant? Why not?”

“Because a restaurant ... you need to have a lot of experience in that line of work, and being able to cook for one or two is not the same as cooking professionally for dozens, every single day.”

She sat up against the padded headboard, hugging her legs under the duvet as she listened carefully, waiting for the rest.

He continued: “Most restaurants die a death in the first two years. It’s a very hard and competitive business. Very few survive long term. You need serious financing, a unique presence, and a good dose of luck. I’ve seen it happen too often to have any unrealistic expectations. Also, because of what I am, we would have to keep it low-key, so the personality-chef concept is out. I’m not even sure I would risk having your face out there.”

She pouted a little at his bursting of their hope balloon and crashed back into their mundane reality with a sad acceptance.

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