Tea at Laduree

She said she would meet him for tea at 4 o'clock: the usual place. There were similar teashops spread across Paris but they liked this one best; it was more intimate. Besides, this was the only branch on their side of the river. Since student days Helene had grown fond of the Left Bank with its literary cafes, the Sorbonne, Saint Germain a Pres, the Musee D'Orsay. As she cut through the Jardins de Luxembourg leaves swirled around her, copper-coloured and pale yellow. Shop windows, decorated with Hallowe'en pumpkins and shiny horsechestnuts, displayed accesories of finest suede, velvet and tortoiseshell, silk and lace lingerie the colour of marrons glaces or bitter chocolate.
As she pushed open the heavy pale green door Helene scanned the rows of exquisite patisseries, brioches and macarons carefully being placed in boxes of pink card and rustling carrier bags by impeccably groomed shop assistants. The men wore grey silk ties, the ladies spotted cravats and aprons over their pin-striped suits. The shop was like a miniature Fortnum and Mason; each confection was meticulously labelled in a gilt frame; the windows displayed pyramids of madeleines or macaroons, caramel or pistachio-coloured.
Helene tidied her hair, reapplied some lipstick, briefly pausing to smell the fragrance of some heavy pink roses by the marble washstand. Quickly, she climbed the curved staircase noting the pretty floral design of the carpet secured by stair-rods, anxious to find an empty table. There were one or two tables left as she was ushered into the low square room with its heavy dark-blue tasselled drapes and window boxes planted with marguerites and mauve heather. She sat in the corner, observing the scene: old friends sat on silk button-back chairs engrossed in conversation; silver teapots glistened on little circular black tables in the lamp light; the grey panelled walls were hung with sepia photographs of trees and flowers, framed in gilt. She opened her briefcase and started to read the last two pages of a story she had written, crossing out a few words here and there, scribbling more in the margin.
She put the book away, smiled at the tall familiar figure who strode across the room and kissed her on both cheeks. He passed his raincoat to a waitress who handed them both a menu. Helene wanted to savour this moment forever: the cosy intimacy of being together again. She glanced at his long fingers as he brushed back his wind-swept hair, noticed the pristine collar of his blue shirt, the little dots on his silk tie. Their eyes met: there was so much to say, so little time.
'Tarte au citron?'
'Oui, Papa,' she nodded, utterly content.