He usually left work by dinnertime, but occasionally he stayed late to help her work on a project she couldn’t do alone. She had a passion for antique books and had bought a whole collection of vintage fashion and decorating books in an auction at Drouot. She found innumerable treasures there.
He stayed late one night to put together a bookcase and help her put the books away. She could have done it herself, but it was easier with his help. The bookcase was ten feet tall, dwarfed by the high ceilings, and she was up and down a tall ladder all night. It was ten o’clock when they finished, and neither of them had eaten. They were too engrossed by what they were doing, and he could tell that she didn’t want to stop and would have been teetering on the high ladder all night alone in the apartment, so he stayed. He offered to make dinner when they finished. They both admitted they were starving. She had bought a roasted chicken at the supermarket. He made a quick bowl of pasta and she made a salad to go with it. He was an adequate cook for himself, but had never worked as a chef, and didn’t want to.
They sat down at the kitchen table together. She had set it simply with colorful placemats she’d bought at one of the shops he’d taken her to. She set a bouquet of white tulips on the table. She used linen napkins and had a nice touch about the way she did things. She was very visual about her surroundings and had an eclectic style. It wasn’t grand in the way he was used to, but she had a good sense for fine things, and he had learned that her home was important to her. She was having fun with the apartment.
“I used to come home from work so tired, I’d eat a salad out of a plastic box, or wouldn’t eat at all,” she volunteered, as he served her the simple pasta he had made with fresh tomatoes and basil. “It’s lovely having time to actually sit down and do things nicely. Great pasta, by the way,” she complimented him. “My mother always insisted we sit down to a proper meal.” She had always set a pretty table for George, with candles and flowers on the table. She had everything ready whenever he dropped in and acted as though he was expected. She would have been the perfect wife if he’d ever married her. It still angered her that he never did.
“What was your father like?” he asked, curious about her. She talked about her mother, but had never mentioned her father. Eating together, at a late hour, after working side by side all day dropped some of the barriers between them.
“I never knew him,” she said bluntly. “Or actually, I did. But I didn’t know he was my father until after he died. I thought my father had died when I was a baby.” It was an odd admission to make to someone she barely knew, who was her employee. Joachim was quiet for a minute, as he digested the information.
“That must have been painful for you, when you found out about your father,” he said. “I never knew mine either. He died when I was three. I only found that out recently. He left us before that. It was just me, my brother, and my mother. She remarried when I was seventeen. That’s when we came to France from Buenos Aires. My stepfather was a wonderful person. I only lived with them for a few years, and then I left for England, and stayed there. It’d odd never having known your father. My mother did a good job with us for all those years before we came here. She’s a remarkably strong woman.”
Olivia was pensive, thinking of her own mother. “Mine wasn’t. She gave up her whole life for one man. They never married. She spent every moment waiting for him, and only came alive when he was with her. She was like a ghost in a way, or a shadow. She never materialized until he was in the room. I hated it for her. It made me gun-shy about ever being dependent on a man. So I became addicted to my work instead,” she said. “I suppose we all have our addictions.”
He nodded, thinking about it. It explained why she wasn’t married at forty-three. He had less of an excuse, other than the nature and demands of his job. He had dedicated himself to his career too, to the exclusion of all else, with the exception of occasional passing romances that he never allowed to become serious involvements. But he never let them get in the way of his work. They had that in common too.
“My mother met my stepfather when she was fifty-four,” he said. “She was almost forty when she had me. He was the love of her life, so I suppose it can happen at any age. I remind her of that now when she tells me I should be married.” He grinned at Olivia. It was easy opening up to her, and unusual for him. He always kept his distance, but in many ways their circumstances were similar. They were each at a crossroads in their lives, during a pause between jobs, with previous single-minded direction. Olivia seemed very vulnerable to him, and his instinct was to protect her, as he had from the dishonest maid. That was part of his job too. He had shielded the Cheshires, particularly as they got older and more fragile. He had been at his side with the marchioness when the marquess died. Their children had never been very attentive. They had grown up in boarding schools from an early age, and weren’t close to their parents, except when it suited them, which wasn’t often. But he supposed the same could be said of him, working in England now that his mother was alone. She never complained, and made it easy for him, and he felt guilty about it.