Writer's Notebook

This week's Fiction Friday prompt asks us to pick two established characters from your previous work and tell the story of their meeting. I've chosen Simon, my itinerant Irishman who finally settles down in France and Elizabeth who after a long voyage of self-discovery finally discovered her life was intricately linked up with Africa. Several years later...

When he saw the drizzle outside, Simon began to have his doubts. He turned away from the window and glanced up at the fine grandfather clock in the corner of his salon. Just ten more minutes before the taxi came. Too late for doubts.

He picked up the CD she'd given him when he'd met her at the airport yesterday evening: Mama Etta's Bongo Supreme.

"They're really very good. They're the first band from Dahc to make it onto the world stage."

He'd listened to a couple of the titles, just to say he had, should she ask. He placed the CD in the rack between underneath the Irish Folk section, making mental note to write a label for musique du monde. Strange how some expressions just refused to come to him now in English. The internal phone buzzed: the portier telling him the taxi was on its way. Passing in front of the mirror to straighten his tie, he picked up the bouquet and made his way out.

They pulled up in front of the hotel some five minutes later and before he knew it an apparition in traditional African clothing came racing out of the hotel and opened the door to the taxi. How Simon stared. Her hair was made up in ringed sticks which stood out at angles from her head. He stared and stared not knowing what to think or say. He even forgot to make to make room for her to get into the taxi and she almost had to push him over.

As she leaned across and gave him a peck on the cheek the bouquet of her perfume roused him. He took her hand with not quite his usual eagerness and pressed his lips to it. It was one of the most exquisite perfumes he had ever come across. She was obviously a connaisseur. Was that her one redeeming feature? Maybe things would work out okay. She was certainly a beautiful woman with her tall, straight figure and the fine features of her face. If only she wouldn't stop behaving like a child all the time. She was like a bottle of freshly opened Champagne, bubbling away with all her might as she babbled on at all there was to see. Was there no end to her enthusiasm.

The taxi pulled up in front of the Arpège and Simon scuttled out and handed the Majeur d' the box containing the bouquet. He then opened the door for Elizabeth and taking her arm accompanied her inside.He was acutely aware that every eye was fixed on them as they made their way to the small private chamber he had ordered for the occasion. Would the table-talk revolve around her beauty or her outlandish appearance. Surely, Arpège had never seen anything like it. Was it his fault? Should he have prepared her? But how?They'd only met for the first time yesterday. True her letters had been full of Africa. But never once had he suspected anything like this.

He lead her to their table and pulled the chair out for her, giving an almost imperceptible nod to the waiter. He had scarcely sat down himself when she started.

"Oh Simon, you can't possibly imagine how I feel. It's all so heavenly like in a fairy story. Here in Paris, in the shadow of so much history. And all these wonderful things happening to me. Aaaah, yellow roses! My favourite colour. How on earth could you have known!"

He blushed; whether out her embarrassment at her shriek or due to his stroke of luck with the roses, we shall refrain from enquiring. The waiter returned again, champagne bucket in hand.

"Oh, what's that? I'm afraid I couldn't possibly drink that. I'm not a drinker. Seen to many lives ruined by it. I hope you don't mind, but I really don't drink." Her smile failed to penetrate.

"This isn't drinking, it's Champagne. You can't possibly refuse Champagne."

But it became perfectly obvious that that's what she intended doing and with a sigh he ordered her a bottle of Peregrinet - "Sparkling, if you please," she added.

They chatted a while but somehow life had gone out of their conversation. Could this really be the vibrant lady he had been corresponding with these past months; he'd thought her so charming, so refined. And once they'd exchanged photos, he knew he had to meet her. Where had he gone wrong?

The waiter brought in the dishes for the snails. She seemed puzzled.

"Snails."

"How wonderful." She clapped her hands together. "I love snails." But why all these dishes. What on earth are they for?"

He opened his mouth and was about to give an explanation but thought better of it.

"You ate snails in Dahc? So how did you prepare them?"

"We chop them up in the lettuce, of course. How else can you prepare snails."

He didn't bother answering. Was she really trying to tell him she ate raw snails straight from the garden? She obviously had no idea of how civilised people ate them. He helped her as well as he could. She didn't seem terribly keen on them. The waiter cleared up the dishes and reappeared with the dinner plates and an innumerable number of knives and forks. Elizabeth gave him an anxious smile.

"I'm afraid you're going to have to help me. I'm just not used to all this finery. In Africa everything is far simpler. Most times use our fingers."

Simon stared at her with disgust. Wiping his mouth with his serviette he leant forward:

"Would you please excuse me a minute."

He got up and left the room discreetly. He went immediately to the Majeur d' and whispered into his ear. The latter led him through into the manager's office. Before eclipsing, he paid the bill in full and left an additional sum: "For the lady to take a taxi back to her hotel." He may have been a coward but he was also scrupulously fair.