The two of them sat side by side in the brasserie, comfortable but not with long conversation. It was an old ritual and one which they had both learned to tolerate.
Francoise was normally a flamboyant dresser, but for her father she put on a plain dress and held back on the makeup.
Guillaume was the most conventional of businessmen; he always wore a dark suit and tie, and never had a hair out of place. His ex-wife was very insistent to Francoise that she respect his traditions.
“Be kind to your papa.”
“Oui, Maman, bien sur.”
She also did not want to let Guillaume off the hook with his filial responsibilities:
“You must look out for Françoise.”
“But she is all grown up.”
“Doesn’t matter, she still needs you.”
Guillaume sighed and put down the menu. The charade was finally beginning to irritate him. He looked closely at his daughter.
“Do you really like coming here?”
“Mais oui, papa. And you?”
“Oh yes, I love it.”
“Really? Why? Come on, I know you!”
Guillaume sighed.
“If you must know, I picked it originally because it is convenient. Honestly I thought you liked it.”
“I was being polite.”
“Yes, you were always brought up to be polite,” he smiled.
“So where would you rather be, papa, if you were not here?”
“Easy. The Cuban Bar down the street I suppose.”
“Sounds great. What would we drink?”
“Mojitos.”
“Love them. Shall we go?”
“Why not,” said Guillaume, loosening his tie. “How are your salsa lessons coming on?”
*
“I didn’t know Pushkin had a daughter.”
“Perhaps that is why he wrote the story.”
“There must be scenes like this going on all over the world.”
“Dogma always gets in the way of common sense where families are concerned. Do you have dinner with your father very often?”
“Lunch mostly, but he does love it when I take him out drinking.”