A Girl's Guide to Fairy Tales

Chapter Four (part 2)

‘I don’t know which one I like best. What do you think?’ I said picking a piece of paintbrush hair from the taupe patch I’d painted on the living room wall.

I’ll have to wait until all the patches have dried because they all look the same to me. They look brown,’ Tom replied.

‘What? They’re not brown! They’re all neutral shades and all completely different.’ I stood in front of the wall as if it were my white board at school. ‘Here we have Rich Praline, then on to Velvet Truffle before we cross over to Exotic Spice and then into the realm of Bitter Chocolate and Cocoa Blush.’

‘Very tasty shades then?’ said Tom licking his beautiful lips.

‘Well I thought it was a nice touch with you being a chef and all,’ I shrugged. ‘I’ve considered Roasted Pumpkin or Ginger Glow for the kitchen and Hot Paprika or Damson Dream for the bedroom.’

‘Now that’s where we could have the Exotic Spice.’

‘Thomas Anderson, don’t I provide you with enough spice on my own?’

‘Oh Dawson, what I meant to say was you are so hot that Exotic Spice would compliment your sexiness,’ he laughed as he scooped me up in his arms. I dabbed a splodge of Bitter Chocolate on his forehead. ‘I deserved that I suppose,’ he nodded.

‘So which is it to be?’ I asked wriggling free.

Tom took a few paces backwards to take in the five blocks of colour at once. ‘Well perhaps I can see a subtle difference between them...but in the long run I don’t suppose it really matters does it? You choose.’

‘No,’ I whined. ‘It has to be a joint decision, not my decision. You have to like it too otherwise what’s the point? When I lived with Clare, my room was decorated her way and that made me feel like a constant guest. I want this to be a home. Our home.’

‘And calm,’ Tom replied with the matching hand gestures.

I took a deep breath as he instructed. ‘I just want your opinion that’s all.’

‘Of course you do sweetheart. I’m sorry,’ he soothed as he rubbed my shoulder. ‘Okay then, if I’m being perfectly honest the only shade that doesn’t remind me of sirloin steak is Cocoa Blush. That’s more rich and silky, with a hint of purple in it. I like that one.’

‘Perfect!’ I said in an overly-excited tone in an attempt to cover my lie. I preferred Bitter Chocolate but I could be flexible on this. Besides, I had already picked out the cream and chocolate accessories so at least he liked at least one of these shades. ‘Cocoa Blush it is then.’

As soon as Tom had returned from the store with two tins of our chosen shade, we picked up our rollers and started at opposite ends ready to meet in the middle so we could tackle the fireplace together.  

Rolling the paint up and down and then across was quite therapeutic. As I manoeuvred my roller to fill in the magnolia space I suddenly understood why a packet of wax crayons and a piece of paper kept my children so quiet.

‘Oh we filled the maitre d’ position by the way,’ Tom said.

‘I was gonna ask you about that,’ I lied again. I hadn’t given it a second thought since he told me the previous maitre d’ had handed in his resignation. ‘So what’s he like?’ I asked.

‘You mean what’s she like?’

‘Naturally,’ I laughed.

‘Well her name is Michelle Pattison-Jones and she’s perfect.’

‘Perfect indeed?’

‘For the job I mean.’

‘But of course.’

‘Well she is. She did a degree in hospitality management before getting a job straight away as deputy maitre d’ at Carmella’s Restaurant and Bar in London, where she has been for the last three years.’

‘London?’ My eyes widened the way they had done when Tom suggested we should go on a detox diet. Tom’s ambition had always been to work in the heart of London. I quickly did my calculations. ‘So she’s quite young then?’

‘What’s in an age when her experience is second-to-none? Not only could she tell me the name of every wine she tasted for me, she also told me when it was made give or take a few years. Unbelievable.’

‘Oh right, well when does she start?’ I asked, forcing enthusiasm.

‘She’s already started. I gave her the job on Thursday morning, an induction Thursday afternoon, she did her first shift that night and by yesterday she had found her feet and was telling me what to do. Unbelievable,’ he said again.  Tom’s eyes glazed over and his roller graced the same space of wall for at least five strokes. Chefs and maitre d’s were supposed to hate each other. Why didn’t he hate her?

I wrapped my fingers tightly around the handle and squeezed tightly. ‘So er, what does she look like?’ I asked casually. ‘Is she fit?’

The gently slosh of paint stopped abruptly as Tom turned to face me square on. ‘Dawson,’ he snapped playfully. He marched slowly over to my side of the wall, sliding his roller across it as he went, creating a Cocoa Blush bridge across the neutral divide. ‘It doesn’t matter what she looks like. I...love...you.’ He punctuated each word with a kiss, first on each cheek and then finally on my lips.

It was certainly the first time the ‘I love you’ card had been played to serve as a distraction but his firm and tender touch doused the flicker of jealousy, which had ignited ever so briefly in the depths of my consciousness.

Yet it wasn’t enough to extinguish it completely. His refusal to answer my question only meant one thing.

Michelle Pattison-Jones was beautiful.