French Summer In Prague
Maxim was a charming Frenchman and a born Parisian who never forgot to mention that his family came from the correct, wealthy bank of the Seine. Actually, to be precise, it concerned only his mother. His father’s presence in the family was considered an unpleasant social slip which had been held against him bitterly all his life.
Maxim, with a sweet apologetic smile, often interrupted his colleagues’ English classes when he passed through the room in order to get into his office. He always left behind him the intoxicating smell of his luxurious perfume, of coffee and dark chocolate. He enjoyed showing off his carelessly elegant walk and the perfect manicure on long, sinfully sexy fingers that evoked even more sinful ideas in every woman.
“I’m looking for an Italian teacher. Would you happen to know any?” said Beautiful Maxim during one of his flights over the English class. He had a voice of the Marlboro Man and spoke English with a cute French accent.
“I would, myself,” I answered in French which obviously surprised him very pleasantly.
“And would you like to teach me?”
“Of course, if I manage to find some time.” With a professional look on my face, I took out my diary and started looking for “the last available gap in my schedule, only because it’s you”. But in my mind, between the lines of the diary, I envied the silver Parker pen that his fingers softly played with.
As Beautiful Maxim refused to indulge in the secrets of the Italian language in the mundane environment of his office, our regular, even more regular, and finally daily meetings were transferred to secluded cafés, bars and restaurants, over French wine, seafood and chocolate fondue. To conversations about how he loved when the wind blew through my hair, about my perfume making his head spin and about how adorably I sipped cappuccino from my cup. He had no male vices, he always called when he promised to and looked most dazzling over a glass of red wine with a cigarette in his hand. His perfect fingers surpassed all expectations and he seemed to be one of the last few specimens of the disappearing stock of French charmers and lovers.
“My aunts are coming tomorrow,” he said slackly in front of the cracking fireplace of his apartment, naturally on Parisian Street, on a rainy November Tuesday twenty minutes past midnight.
“They want to take care of the last details of the wedding because my fiancée is not coming from London until next week.”
I started to laugh at his wonderful sense of humor, and as I didn’t want to ruin all the fun I asked playfully: “And when are you getting married?”
“Next week of course. Don’t tell me you didn’t know that.”
I started to panic. There must be something wrong. Beautiful Maxim who walks like a lion in the bush and whose eyes are gloomy like the sky in Marseille is only mine. I’m sure of it; he loves my perfume, my hair in the wind and all my gestures, his famous fingers know every curve of my body. He cooks excellent dinners, whispers into my ear and his laugh makes me feel butterflies in my stomach. He’s MINE!
During the following twenty minutes, I listened in a sort of trance to his lecture about the hard life of a man who had decided to sign a lifelong deal and enter holy matrimony with a blond Swedish girl who was deeply loved and adored by his Provence aunts, his Dijone grandmother and both banks of the Seine. About his brave life decision to give up other women forever because the arrangement between family clans, sealed by their marriage, could not be broken. What would his deaf granduncle Hugo say, and what about his cousin Agnes who dragged her irritating pinscher everywhere and who wanted to give them a set of 19th century family porcelain for twelve people, and what would...
“Hang on, you’re really serious? C'est vrai? C'est possible? And what about me?”
“What about you?” He looked at me, baffled. “You... You are like a chocolate tart.”
“Excuse me?!”
“You know, SHE is like a raspberry cake. A homemade cake that is always handy, that is good and tasty, and that neither offends nor thrills anyone. But you... You are like a chocolate tart. A luxurious chocolate tart that melts in the mouth, that we savor with delight but treat ourselves to only a few times in our life. A sumptuous dessert, passionate pleasure, the last adventure before I become a responsible man and the head of the family.”
A few months ago, I ran into Maxim in Paris. We said Hi, and Maxim assured me that he was going to call next week and that we’d have lunch together. He hasn’t called yet. It’s better this way. I don’t know if he really got married, if he keeps the deal, if he’s happy with his raspberry cake and if he renounced chocolate tarts forever. I don’t know, and whether it was true or not, I don’t really care. Simply because all sinfully beautiful, wicked and damn irresistible Maxims of this world enter our lives for one single reason: To fly through it like the spring wind over a lavender field in Provence and leave behind that bittersweet taste of chocolate noir.
About the Author:
Barbara Conelli is an internationally published bestselling author and Chiquenist on the mission to bring Fantastic Fearless Feminine Fun into women's lives. In her charming, delightful and humorous Chique Books filled with Italian passion, Barb invites women to explore Italy from the comfort of their home with elegance, grace and style, encouraging them to live their own Dolce Vita no matter where they are in the world.
Barb lives between New York and Milan, and as a real globetrotter, she's always on the move, accompanied by her adorable and very spoiled beagle. Barb's motto is: "When life gives you twists and turns, Chique Yourself Up in Italy." To her, writing is like breathing, and she's currently working on her new book. To know more about her and her writing, visit her website:
http://www.barbaraconelli.com
About her Book:
Chique Secrets of Dolce Vita - "Put on your Borsalino and swing those hips, baby."
Charming, poetic, delightful and humorous travel and life stories about extraordinary Milanese women, men who have succumbed to their temptation, and the art of living your own dolce vita no matter where in the world you are. An entertaining storyteller, Barb has a unique ability to capture the magical atmosphere of the places she writes about.
Through the pages of her books, Barb takes your hand and guides you through the irresistible beauty, captivating secrets, unrepeatable spell and fugitive moments of Italy. She makes them come alive easily and spontaneously, and her writing is like a magic carpet that carries you to Italy and back in the blink of an eye. She introduces you to fascinating women who have created the face of Italy, lifts the shroud of their mysteries, and reveals adorable places off the beaten track where the authentic Italian heart hasn't stopped beating.
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Note: The pictures and illustrations seen in BE MY GUEST are compiled by Review Girl.
