10. ROMY
2009 Words
A shrill noise twists my skull. I try not to pay attention to it, but I have the feeling that it’s more and more insistent. I don’t understand where it comes from... or maybe if it’s oddly familiar… Driiing…
The fog clears slightly, I’m semi-conscious, and still that shrill ringing. Then it hits me: it’s my phone. I open one eye, it’s still dark in my room – who’s calling me at this hour? I’m tempted to roll over and go back to sleep, but the tiny working part of my brain tells me that won’t stop the phone from ringing. I also have a thought that crosses my mind: we don’t call people in the middle of the night for nothing.
I open my eyes, at least I try to peel my eyelids from them. The clock digits show 6:32 a.m. My hand dips towards my phone on the nightstand. I take a look and see the name of Sergio, my baker, appear on the screen.
There’s a problem at the bakery.
Suddenly, I’m much more alert – well, let’s say within the limits of my abilities. I pick up:
“Hello?”
My mouth is pasty, my voice scratchy. And given the second of silence left by Sergio, I guess he wonders if it’s me or Scarlett Johanson he has on the line.
“Romy?”
“Yeah,” I croak.
“Where are you? There’s no one in the store!”
“You’re not there?” I asked, his words making no sense to me.
“I’m not talking about the bakery! Of course, we’re here! I’m talking about the store. There’s no one at the cash register!”
I sit up in bed and rub my forehead as if to help revive my brain. It’s Sunday. I usually go to the store a little later, around eight o’clock, it’s Sabrina who does the opening.
Sabrina.
Sabrina, who announced to me yesterday that she was in a relationship with Simon, and even engaged to him...
Sabrina who I…fired?
My words come to mind. The moment I yelled at her that it wasn’t worth coming today or any other day for that matter. Her lack of reaction, or rather the total indifference to having lost her job. She suspected that I was going to react like that... And that’s perhaps the worst part: knowing that she had anticipated the fact that I would be furious, hurt, and that, despite everything, she didn’t care.
“I’m coming,” I said to Sergio, already rushing out of bed.
I ran into the bathroom. My body is screaming that it lacks sleep. I came home late from Alistair’s. After drowning my sorrows in his whiskey, I had the sudden urge to bake.
Not that it’s exceptional, as far as I’m concerned. But that I do it at a total stranger’s house? A first. As his cupboards offered me a limited choice, I fell back on the basics, namely pancakes. When I think about it, Alistair must have taken me for a fool. What woman does that? Me, it would seem. In any case, I’m sure he didn’t suffer too much from the disturbance, given the number of pancakes he ate. I was surprised. After the evening I spent with him, I can say that the guy has serious skills. I’m talking about his ability to flip pancakes, of course. Don’t look for anything else. Double flip? Impressive.
Twenty minutes later, I pushed open the door of the bakery. I didn’t have breakfast, but the advantage is that the croissants are at work! Sergio is behind the counter, frowning as he stares at the cash register as if it were some creature fresh from hell. He tends to be wary, as a general rule, of anything invented after 1988; so my automated cash register must seem to him as complex as an A380 dashboard.
When he sees me, he heaves a sigh of relief.
“Thank God! Max has already burned a whole batch of breadsticks while I was busy here!”
Max is our young apprentice. He is full of goodwill, but a little slow. Sergio disappears into the back of the shop and I find myself facing the line of Sunday morning workers: the athletes who have already had time to jog and are rewarded with a good croissant; the elderly who have kept the habit of waking up early in the morning and who take the opportunity to go buy their baguette; parents who get up far too early for a toddler and take the opportunity to go to the bakery.
The hours go by without me even realising it. The customers are numerous. As always on Sunday morning, I’m quickly overwhelmed. Advantage of the weekend: they wait without complaining too much.
My phone vibrates on the counter behind me. I glance discreetly and see that it’s my mother.
Sorry, mom, but the little mother-daughter discussion, that will be for another time.
I get two slices of pizza, the phone starts ringing again. I know it’s my mother. She’s one of those people who thinks that if you didn’t answer the first time, it’s because you didn’t hear or didn’t have time to grab the device in time. Well no, it sometimes happens that we don’t want to answer voluntarily.
I serve two pain au chocolat to a loving couple. This time, it’s the shop’s phone that rings.
“Romy’s Bakehouse, hello!”
“Romy, it’s your mother,” she announced as if it were something highly solemn.
“Mom, I don’t really have time now.”
“I don’t really have the time either, but you see, I still carried you for nine months and raised you for eighteen years afterwards.”
I roll my eyes and refrain from answering, it would only make things worse. I smile at the next customer, just to make him understand that despite the handset in my hand, I am at his disposal to take his order. I take care of him, giving only a distracted ear to my parent.
“So imagine my surprise when Brigitte, the neighbour, told me that this morning!”
“Oh yes, I guess…” I mumbled before announcing to my client: “That will be 2.90.”
“What?”
“Nothing, Mom, I was talking to a client.”
“You’re not listening to me, Romy,” she moans.
“There’re a lot of people at the bakery.”
“It’s absolutely vital that you come to eat at home today.”
Sergio waves to me, he puts some cakes in the window and wants to know if the location suits me. “Yes, if you want,” I told him.
Except my mom thinks I’m talking to her.
“Perfect! We’ll be waiting for you as soon as you close the bakery. Your brothers will be here, don’t forget to get the bread,” she jokes as if she hasn’t done that joke a thousand times already.
She hangs up and I don’t know if I should feel relieved to be rid of her or worried that I unwittingly accepted a family lunch. Something tells me that if my mother requires my presence, it’s something fishy.
I serve a customer, cash it and move on to the next one. Except that the man who smiles at me isn’t a stranger. Well, you can’t say that he and I know everything about each other, I don’t even know much about him – except that he likes my pancakes, my butt and that he’s curious.
“Hello,” he said in the tone of one who knows all my secrets.
And that’s the problem; it’s that even if he doesn’t know everything, alcohol helping, I entrusted him with one or two personal pieces of information. If only I had drunk enough not to remember our conversation this morning…
He seemed genuinely happy to see me. I feel especially embarrassed. Still, I hold his gaze. I noticed yesterday that his eyes were the same colour as the whiskey he offered me: amber. Although in the light of day they seem clearer, they still radiate this warmth, reinforced by his smile. His blond hair, short on the sides and longer on top, is skilfully styled. Just like his neatly groomed beard. He didn’t have to get out of bed in a hurry. He wears an open plaid shirt over a white T-shirt, his sleeves are rolled up over his forearms. He’s got the perfect hipster look and yet it feels like he’s not even doing it on purpose.
“Romy? Are you okay?”
Lost in my contemplation, I realised that I haven’t even answered him.
“Uh... hello! What did you need?”
“I came to get my eclair.”
I wrinkle my nose, not understanding. His smile fades slightly as if disappointed. It was then that I remembered the pastry that I had promised him!
“Ah yes! Eclair!”
I rushed to the window, seized a box under it and put in not one, but two éclairs. A little extra to make him forgive my forgetfulness, but also because the guy still offered me hospitality and his whiskey. Well worth two pastries.
I hand him the box, our two hands brush against each other.
“Thanks,” he said, not turning to go.
“It’s I who thank you... for last night,” I said.
I realise that if anyone heard what I just said, they might think I thanked Alistair for something else entirely. And despite myself, I feel that my cheeks are heating up.
“We could perhaps…” he began.
“Is it possible to be served before tomorrow?” asks Mrs Laugier, a cantankerous little grandmother, well known in the village for her non-existent patience.
I gave Alistair an apologetic grimace. His eyes fell on Mrs Laugier, he gave her a charming smile. I’m sure he must be knocking the girls off their feet with this one.
“Actually, madam, I hadn’t finished ordering,” he informed her.
I see from her expression that she’s annoyed, but strangely, she says nothing.
He then turns to me and, in a tone of infinite politeness, asks me:
“I need your advice on which bread to get…”
I made a sign to him to follow me a little further, along the window, away from indiscreet ears.
“Alistair, in normal times, I would have nothing against giving a lesson in politeness to that old magpie; but now, the bakery is full, I’m all alone at the counter, and if I don’t serve these people quickly, I’ll start a riot. These people take their Sunday morning baguette very seriously.”
He glances over his shoulder and sees the line stretching out, even continuing onto the sidewalk outside.
“How come you’re all alone?” he asks.
I sigh.
“Do you remember Sabrina being my employee?”
I see on his face that he understands what I’m talking about.
“Oh yes, she’s…”
“Fired. And let’s say that between last night and this morning, I had a hard time finding someone to replace her.
He nods, then the next second hands me the box containing his éclairs.
“But what…?”
I didn’t have time to finish my question. I saw him go around the window and go to the other side of the counter.
“You can’t…”
I fall silent as his hands land on either side of my hips.
What’s he doing there? He’s going to feel all my rolls!
He shifts me to the side and stands near the window.
“Do you have a pair of gloves somewhere, darling?”
I automatically indicated the box to him. Darling?
“I serve the customers, you do the register?” he suggests.
“Uh…”
But he doesn’t care about my hesitation. Already, he looks at Mrs Laugier, saying a joyful:
“Who’s next?”
- Writer
