The Oddest Little Chocolate Shop

by Beth Good

Genres: Family Life; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Treat yourself to something delicious . . . 'I love Beth Good's quirky style!' - bestselling author Katie Fforde When Clementine discovers that Monsieur Ravel's beloved chocolaterie is about to close, she rushes to rescue it - without thinking through the consequences. A lost Persian cat, a depressed but utterly gorgeous French chocolatier, an allergic shop assistant in search of true love, the oddest little chocolate shop Clementine has ever seen . . . Can Clementine save them all, or has she bitten off more than she can chew? A delicious, feel-good novella set in the world of chocolate-making from popular romantic comedy writer Beth Good.

Release date: August 1, 2018

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 114

Sample

Dashing up the steps from the tube station, Clementine paused to double-wrap her soft green pashmina about her throat – the wind was biting that morning, quite vampiric – and glanced at the chocolate shop opposite with her usual grimace: a stab of pure primeval yearning mixed with the age-old fear of hips widening.

Ravel’s Chocolaterie de Londres.

It was a tall, narrow Victorian building with a very tempting chocolate-shaped sign in metal scrollwork hanging above the display window. Inside, the shop premises stretched far back, lit discreetly at intervals by soft uplighters on the red-papered walls, a rich and intimate corridor of tiered chocolates and gift displays on either side. She had been inside on many memorable occasions and could still recall the luxurious smell of those handmade chocolates, and the equally gorgeous dark eyes of its French owner, Monsieur Ravel.

Like inhaling love. It was well-known that chocolate could enhance sexual drive and performance, Clementine thought defensively, and even make a woman more attractive to men, via some hormonal-chemical-reaction-thingy she didn’t understand, but which had sounded entirely plausible when she read about it in a health magazine in the dentist’s waiting room.

Besides, Clementine adored the taste of chocolate. Ordinarily she would be in this shop every few days, browsing and buying chocs to her greedy heart’s content. She had burnt off such excess luxuries in her teens, but now she was twenty-three and every chocolate she consumed seemed to find its way unerringly to her hips, thighs and squashy bottom. So she had sworn not to touch chocolate for an entire year, one of those absurd promises you make when you step on the scales after a long period of backsliding and wonder if cutting your hair would make a difference. She still had three months to run on her resolution.

Most days she passed the shop without a second glance, knowing it to be sternly out of bounds until her year of ‘no chocolates’ was up, but today her gaze snagged on the window display longingly, her soul hungry for something pure, something wonderful, something uplifting. And her gaze stopped there, bemused.

The shop window was empty. There wasn’t a confection in sight.

‘How very odd,’ Clementine said to nobody in particular, and began to feel aggrieved as well as puzzled. ‘Where have all the delicious chocolates gone?’

Her reflection stared back at her mutely: a too-tall blonde with flyaway hair that simply would not behave on this windy day, slanted hazel eyes and a generous mouth. Generous, her mother used to say, because it was forever opening and spouting words. And usually at the worst possible moments.

She wondered if the little chocolate shop had gone bust and was shutting down. Poor Monsieur Ravel. So many small businesses in the area seemed to be failing in this horrible recession, it would hardly be surprising if another had gone under. But chocolates . . .

Surely that was a luxury many people reached for when under stress?

Monsieur Ravel’s chocolates were expensive though, it was true. Maybe his usual customers had started to cut back on their orders, and now he could no longer afford to keep his business open.

That would be a terrible shame, Clementine thought, remembering him with sudden fascination. She paused a few minutes longer, staring into the darkened interior to no avail. Then she started hunting for a notice in the window, anything that might indicate imminent closure. But she could see nothing but empty display shelves, and had to move aside after several harried-looking commuters elbowed her in the side.

One middle-aged man in a pinstriped suit and black overcoat glared at her accusingly, muttered ‘Excuse me’ in a haughty manner, then worked around the admittedly large obstacle of her body in the flow of rush-hour commuters.

A bitter gust of wind swirled about the street in his wake. Clementine shivered, tightening the pashmina still further.

I bet that man could do with some nice chocolates, she considered, watching his disappearing back. Or his wife could. A little treat to make her life sweeter.

Talking of which, she could do with a small truffle or two herself. It was nearly a year since she gave them up, after all, and she was not planning to go without treats forever. That would be ridiculous, she told herself. Everyone needs an indulgence now and then.

As she turned to enter the shop, she nearly fell over a large white Persian cat squeezed into the shelter of the doorway like a goalkeeper. The cat tilted its head, staring up at her with slitty-eyed determination as if to say, ‘You look like a football and you shall not pass.’

‘Oh, you’re gorgeous!’ Clementine reached down on impulse to stroke the cat’s silky fur. ‘Do you live here, pussy? Are you a shop cat?’

The cat continued to stare, its green eyes slowly widening.

‘You look rather sad,’ she thought aloud, tickling the cat behind its ears. ‘But then you’re probably freezing, poor thing.’

The cat began to purr weakly.

It was so viciously cold out in the wind, Clementine scooped up the green-eyed animal without considering whether that would be a good idea, given that her green pashmina loved cat hair so much it often refused to let go of it over several careful handwashes, and swept majestically into the shop.

‘Hello?’

There was no one in sight, so she pushed on down the narrow shop, taking note of all the empty display cases, and into the dark space at the back where one of those bead curtains separated the chocolate preparation area from the shop itself.

‘Hello, is anybody there?’ she called out, feeling a little foolish.

The cat wriggled in her arms, then hissed a furious warning.

Instinctively, guessing that claws would be next, Clementine opened her arms and let the ungrateful feline jump down. She looked up in dismay a second later as the bead curtain rattled. ‘Oh, oops. Hello.’

‘Bonjour, mademoiselle.’

It was Monsieur Ravel himself, his dark eyes rather aloof as he studied first the cat, now licking its fur disdainfully at his feet, then Clementine’s flushed cheeks and probably horribly dishevelled hair.

Goodness, he really was very good-looking. Late twenties, she guessed, and not an ounce of spare flesh on him.

I bet he works out, she thought, trying not to imagine him in shorts on a treadmill.

And now she was staring. And he had noticed.

‘How may I help you?’ he asked, his eyebrows still raised as he waited for her to respond. ‘Forgive me, mademoiselle, but as you can see, we are not open to customers at the moment.’

‘Well, yes, that’s why I came in,’ she managed, feeling foolish. He had definitely seen her staring at him, because now he was staring back. Perhaps he thought she was just short-sighted. Which was even worse, she considered. She looked either consumed by lust or myopic. Possibly both at the same time. Ugh.

‘We do not allow animals in the shop, I’m afraid, mademoiselle. Except guide dogs. Hygiene regulations.’

‘Of course not. But I thought . . .’ Was the Frenchman laughing at her behind that sardonic expression? She drew herself up to her full height. ‘He – she’s not your cat, then?’

‘What makes you think this is my cat?’

‘Well, it was sitting outside your shop. On the mat.’

‘The cat was sitting on the mat, mademoiselle?’

The chocolatier was definitely mocking her. But gently, in that very French way, as though to say Monsieur would not be so rude as to laugh in her face, but as soon as she had gone . . .

‘Um, yes,’ she said, very flustered now.

‘Alas, mademoiselle, I do not own a cat.’

The white cat had stopped licking its fur and was now exploring the furniture, sniffing at the empty display cases.

‘Oh, well, I’m sorry,’ she muttered. ‘I’ll take it out with me again. I just assumed it belonged to you.’

‘Then your assumption was mistaken, mademoiselle.’

‘Clearly.’

Yet she found herself curiously unwilling to leave the shop, looking at the dark-haired chocolatier more closely instead. Usually he wore a sombre black apron over a form-fitting three-piece suit in steel grey, an outfit that sent her pulses fluttering whenever she came in for truffles and a bag of those mouthwatering chocolates piped with delicate lemon or raspberry mousse. But today he was even more sexy, clad in faded blue denim jeans and a chest-hugging white T-shirt that showed off a body as fit and mouthwatering as those lemon chocolates.

She tried not . . .