Her Empty Chair: She left without a trace... not even a crumb

By Sunna Coleman

For student and waitress, Sylvia Morelle, it's just another day at the French café in Covent Garden - that is, until her beloved elderly regular, Mrs Ida Laine, mysteriously disappears. As weeks go by with no sign of the glamorous Parisian, the young journalist in

• Language: English
• Publisher: Inspired By Publishing
• Release date: Jun 9, 2024
• ISBN: 9781068634710

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The delicious, delicately soft almond croissant was not meant for the grubby, snot-covered hands of the two year old that came to the café about a month ago. Nor were its flaky floating crumbs meant to nestle into the wiry beard of the rich entrepreneur who had flown in from Dubai the other week. And it certainly wasn’t meant for the open-mouthed chewer who sat in the corner today, absent-mindedly shoving the perfect pastry into her mouth while she simultaneously devoured a book, corners stained with buttery residue.

The almond croissant undoubtedly belonged in the age-worn hands of the enchanting lady from Paris, whose refined table manner kept even the most mischievous croissant from throwing its pastry confetti around.

But as each Sunday passed, and every almond croissant sealed its fate in another’s hands, worry for the Parisian pensioner grew. Her once occupied chair, now starkly empty…

CHAPTER ONE

Sylvia

The clinking of silver spoons against china teacups, the aroma of freshly baked pastry, and the melodious hum of many tangled conversations. It was lunchtime, and the Bijoux de Paris café was in full swing. For everyone else, it was an ordinary Sunday. But for Sylvia Morelle, this was the day that changed her life forever…

Excuse me?… Excuse me!

Sylvia, who had been lost in thought, snapped back to reality, instantly donning a well-practised smile and turning her attention to the impatient businessman who had failed to sweep sandwich crumbs away from his otherwise immaculate suit. Yes, sir?

I didn’t order a cookie. I said black coffee.

Oh. I’m so sorry, sir. I’ll be back with your coffee in just a minute. Sylvia hurried off to the counter, catching the eye of her manager, Aiko, who smiled at her forgivingly. She was distracted today, and Aiko had an inkling as to why.

Usually so composed, gliding from table to table, Sylvia quite enjoyed working at the quaint Covent Garden café, even if it was just a weekend job. Her real passion though, lay in writing and she was currently in her last year of university studying Journalism from her family home in West Kensington.

Intrinsically curious, she had a knack for bringing even the deepest, darkest secrets out of others. Her kind brown eyes and genuine smile drew people towards her and made them feel like they were being listened to. But on this particular day, her eyes were distant and her smile gone.

Where’s your friend Ida today? Aiko read her mind.

I’m not sure… she trailed off, as she turned her gaze towards the unoccupied seat at table seven, gleaming empty under the midday sun. Perhaps there was traffic? But it had been over an hour already – London was busy but this was far too long for that to be the reason. She chewed on her lip with worry and regretted not having asked for a phone number; though, she had never really needed it before.

For the past five months, lunchtime at table seven had run like clockwork. Every Sunday, Mrs Ida Laine would totter over to her favourite seat in the house, overlooking the bustling cobbled streets of Covent Garden Piazza. She would gently shrug off her extravagant fur coat, allowing Sylvia to carefully drape it over the chair behind her. How a woman so frail could hold herself up in it was a mystery to all, but Ida had such grace and Sylvia truly admired her.

By now, Ida didn’t even need to speak. Sylvia knew her order off by heart: a large glass of Cabernet and an almond croissant – lightly toasted. With one manicured hand trembling ever so slightly, she would lift the glass up to her thinned lips and savour her first warming taste of red. Each sip would leave layer upon layer of crimson lipstick at the top of the glass like a kiss of appreciation. Her croissant would remain untouched until every last drop of wine had vanished.

This was precisely when Sylvia would hang up her apron and let down her long dark curls, shift over for another week and a delicious pastry waiting with her name on it. Together with Ida, she would sit for hours, lost in animated conversation. The Parisian had just moved to London and Sylvia, who had grown up there, felt an instant connection. Her pure elegance, air of mystery and vivid tales piqued the young waitress’ interest.

Sundays with Ida were Sylvia’s favourite part of the week.

*

What street did you live on? Sylvia asked eagerly.

Avenue des Beau.

That’s only fifteen minutes away from where we were! You lived near Rue des Croissants?

Ida smiled. Oui.

I loved that road! Every time we drove down it, I insisted on having a croissant to eat. My dad always told me that all the croissants in Paris were stocked in those houses…

And you believed him?

Of course I did! I was only five! Sylvia laughed. Do you remember that dessert shop by the Seine? They sold the most amazing ice cream. Sylvia thought back to hot summers in Paris when her parents would keep her little feet from tiring with the promise of something sweet at the end of the day. Is that still around?

Berthillon. The only choice when it comes to ice cream.

The strawberry flavour was the best.

Sylvia, don’t let me down. Strawberry is practically without taste! It has to be the richness of classic chocolat.

Sylvia was absorbed. There was so much to ask and she could never tire of hearing about her birthplace. She loved the air of ambition in London but held the most charming memories of life in Paris, before her parents made the big move for their careers.

As Sylvia's mind drifted, so did her eyes, skimming the waves of passers-by. This is a great spot for people watching. I can see why you like to sit here, she remarked.

Oui, chérie. This is what we do in Paris. The chairs in our cafés face the streets so we can observe. We do it even when we walk – slow down, pay attention, take in beauty. This is what we call ‘flânerie’.

That’s such a lovely way of life. I should do that more often. I’m so used to plugging in my headphones and reading on the go to drown out my surroundings.

Looking out to the elephant grey clouds, Ida replied, I can see why.

*

That afternoon, when Ida didn’t turn up, Sylvia couldn’t help but feel a bit upset. She had never missed a Sunday at the café before and she surely would have mentioned it during her last visit if she had somewhere else to be… Ida knew how much Sylvia valued their time together and the two had become quite close.

Crash! The cup and saucer fell to the floor and shattered upon impact, sending ceramic shrapnel flying. The hot tea had just missed a now shell-shocked toddler, stunned still for a millisecond before unleashing an ear piercing cry, sending the mother into a fit of rage. Watch what you’re doing for goodness’ sake, that could have gone all over her!

I am so sorry! Is she okay? Sylvia awkwardly went about mopping up the mess, her long limbs clumsily attempting to contain the damage. She had been lost in her thoughts again, accidentally placing a boiling drink in front of thrashing hands.

You’re very lucky she is, young lady, I could have you fired! Cancel my order, we’re leaving.

The mother got up, grabbed her screaming child and stormed out, cursing not quite under her breath. Sylvia went bright red and hurriedly crouched behind the table to hide from all the staring eyes while she scrabbled to pick up the broken shards. Ouch! She cut her finger against the jagged china, fresh red blood trickling down her finger.

A comforting hand came to rest upon her shoulder. Aiko said it’s okay if you go, her colleague whispered. It’s almost the end of your shift anyway. And don’t worry about that, I’ll clean it up.

Reemerging slowly in total embarrassment, Sylvia clutched her finger to stop it from bleeding and quietly thanked her colleague before she scuttled off to the staff room, bumping into tables and chairs along the way.

As the door swung shut behind her, she took a deep breath in and shook her head. Why was she like this? In an attempt to calm herself down, she tried to reason that Ida must have had something important come up – a doctor’s appointment perhaps? She was sure that she would see her again next week. That’s what her logical mind was telling her anyway. Her gut feeling was very different.

CHAPTER TWO

Ida

Ida had always wanted a daughter, but by the time Albin had agreed to have kids, it was a little late to try for two and she was stuck with a son.

She had always imagined raising a little girl into a fiery young woman and having an incredibly close bond, much like she and her mother had had before she passed away. Teaching her how to apply mascara without smudging, to walk in heels without looking like you’re in pain, to keep a man in his place… She would have relished in passing these life lessons down.

When she had first met Albin, Ida had been delighted to learn that he had three sisters. That was until she had met them, of course.

"Oh how funny, Annette, the eldest had said. Little Albie has found himself a girlfriend! Tell us, Ida, what’s wrong with you? Why did you settle for Awkward Albie here? Have you got missing toes or something?" All three sisters cackled like wicked witches.

You can tell Annette is the funny one, can’t you? the youngest sister, Aline, commented like a loyal cheerleader.

Maybe she’s not all there in the head. Agnès, the middle sister, spoke from between long drags on her cigarette. She was a woman of few words but when she spoke, it was always with brutal opinions or sarcasm.

Well, you all seem lovely, was all Ida had said in response to which they howled with venomous laughter again. Albin had said nothing.

The cackling clique were a tight-knit group who let no one else in – not even their brother. If they weren’t being rude to others they were being rude to themselves, falling out every other week – two sisters unfairly ganging up on the other. If this is what it was like to have sisters, Ida was blessed that she never got her wish. But a daughter she did want.

She loved Frederic as any mother would but it just wasn’t the same. She didn’t feel as though she could ever quite connect with him on a deeper level and so she never felt like she truly knew him.

And how are things, outside of work? she would say.

Fine, the same.

Met anyone nice lately?

There was a girl at the convenience store.

Oh?

She told me to have a good day. That was kind of nice.

Ida huffed. Frederic, when will you take me seriously and stop giving silly answers?

When you stop asking silly questions. Anyway, I’ve got to go, I have work to do.

This disconnect worked both ways. Frederic had little interest in chatting to his mother about whatever it was that women were into. In fact, Frederic had little interest in chatting to anyone about anything much. He was a lone wolf: belonging to no one, quite beautiful when admired from afar with a bit of a bite if you got too close.

He admired his father whom he deemed a shining example of how a man should be: hard-working, Stoic and unconcerned in wasting time on frivolous chatter. There was one thing, however, that both men could converse about endlessly. All it took was a subject, a lens, and a reel of film.

Photography was a great passion among the Laine men. Perhaps it was something about being behind the scenes instead of in among the action that drew them both to the craft: quietly observing and capturing fleeting moments for people to admire, demanding respect whilst not having to interact themselves.

Frederic had grown up in awe of his father’s talent, joining him in the darkroom to watch reels of translucent film miraculously transform into solid images. A blank card slowly revealing itself in the solution, one blotch at a time. To him, it was absolute magic.

For Ida, a typical conversation between the two would be like trying to read doctor’s notes. Short, blunt and incomprehensible. Something about shutter seeds, or was it speed? She could never remember.

One thing she had managed to grasp though, was her son’s favourite subject (he had followed her around with a camera enough to know that). Though he was hardly sociable, Frederic found people the most interesting to photograph. He loved the challenge of anything that moved but capturing a living, breathing character in one still image was quite a talent, and he dedicated his life to it.

The captivating presence of someone who can hold a room...

The infectious joy of a child with a lollipop...

The deep furrows of a troubled man...

The confident gaze of a woman who knows her worth...

It was this last one that would end up filling Ida’s heart with extreme joy before violently smashing it into scattering pieces.

CHAPTER THREE

Sylvia

The first thing Sylvia had noticed when Ida had walked into the café five months ago was her voice. Bonjour, Madame. Une table – by the window, s’il vous plait.

The nostalgic sound of a heavy French accent pricked Sylvia’s ears and she spun around. A dainty old woman in an extraordinary fur coat was waiting patiently by the counter. Despite it being an overcast January day, a large pair of jet black sunglasses covered most of her face and she kept her head down as though she were trying to go unnoticed. Sylvia thought this was a little odd coming from such a glamorously dressed woman and couldn’t help but stare. She didn’t want to come across as rude but the old woman was so intriguing – and Sylvia wasn’t the only one looking.

While everyone else watched, Aiko greeted the lady and escorted her to an available table at the far edge of the café. Once she had sat down, she took off her glasses without disrupting a single strand of her perfectly set bronze hair and scanned the room. Sylvia finally tore her eyes away and was immediately met with the expectant gaze of her returning manager. "That’s your table, Sylvia…"

Springing into action, Sylvia headed over, feeling very plain in her burgundy apron and white shirt. Upon approaching the table, she caught the scent of the lady’s exquisite citrus fragrance. She loved it instantly. This woman was so elegant and Sylvia was so in awe.

Bonjour Madame, are you from France? Sylvia asked eagerly before she could stop herself. The old lady looked up at her, mouth falling open into a little ‘o’.

"Sorry. I didn’t mean to be