Chapter 42
Chapter Forty-Two
‘It’s beautiful,’ I mouthed to Hugo, as the crowd clapped and our eyes locked. It was the perfect tribute to his brother.
‘I would like to thank you all for coming here this evening,’ Hugo began, standing at the entrance where I had tied a red ribbon for him to cut.
Manu had his camera out to film the occasion and I stood, arms linked, with my father, who had travelled over for the occasion.
On Dad’s other arm was Seraphine Chadwick, smiling proudly at her son.
‘Chez Stéphane, as some of you may know, will be a training restaurant for students from all backgrounds. It will be a welcoming space for customers and, I hope, an inclusive space for people to learn, to integrate with the community and, above all, to eat good food!’
We all gave him a large round of applause and cameras flashed as the local media snapped Hugo cutting the ribbon.
‘I am so pleased for you both,’ Seraphine said, kissing my cheek.
‘Oh, this is all Hugo’s work,’ I said, wondering if perhaps she had forgotten that I worked in the bakery next door.
‘Perhaps, but it is you who inspired him and made him believe he could.’
‘I think you did that a long time before I came along,’ I said, truthfully.
‘Maybe, but sometimes you need to throw a pebble into a tranquil pond to make some ripples,’ she said rather cryptically, implying that I was the pebble in this scenario.
‘Make sure you hang on to this one, hein? Hugo?’
Hugo shook off the fact that he was being embarrassed by his mother.
‘That’s the intention,’ he said, linking arms with both of us as we crossed the threshold.
There was a party atmosphere inside and the tables were already dressed, displaying platters of delicate appetisers and glasses of sparkling wine.
In the far left corner, where I had sat with Hugo for dinner all those months ago, was a small plinth doubling as a stage for Johnny’s band, who were playing an upbeat version of Glenn Miller’s ‘In the Mood’.
The staff moved efficiently between tables, wearing monogrammed shirts and navy aprons.
I could hardly believe that the empty old building had been transformed into something so vibrant and welcoming.
‘Where is Hugo, anyway?’ Nicole asked, looking hot as ever in a sprayed-on dress in canary yellow.
‘I’m not sure, he might be up in his apartment,’ I shouted over the music.
‘I’ll go have a look.’ I climbed the back stairs to the top floor where Hugo had converted the attic space into a small apartment.
We had joked about knocking through a door to our adjoining ateliers, but Madame Moreau was having none of it.
The door was unlocked and when I walked in, I saw him splashing water on his face in the bathroom.
‘What are you doing? The party is downstairs, you know,’ I said.
‘Oh, just taking a moment. It went OK, didn’t it?’
I wrapped my arms around his waist and he kissed me, a little longer than was entirely necessary.
‘Hugo, you were amazing! Everyone’s enjoying themselves, the restaurant looks fantastic and the staff seem really excited. You should be really proud of yourself.’
He smiled that crooked smile I’d fallen in love with all those months ago.
‘Not sure if your father likes me,’ he said, tucking a stray tendril behind my ear.
‘He’s my dad, he’s not supposed to like you,’ I joked.
‘I’ll get Manu to give him one of your special hot chocolates,’ he said, nuzzling my neck.
‘Ahem, ahem.’
We both turned to see who it was audibly clearing their throat and saw Dad standing in the open doorway. Hugo instinctively shoved his hands in his pockets, as though we were two teenagers caught kissing behind the bike sheds.
‘Eh, you’re needed downstairs, lad,’ he said and Hugo, glad to have an excuse to leave, practically launched himself out of the doorway.
‘You’re making him nervous, you know,’ I said, giving Dad a scolding look.
‘Sure, isn’t that my job?’ he winked.
‘Seriously though, do you like him?’ I asked.
‘You know, your granddad tried to talk your mother out of marrying me,’ he said, linking my arm and walking out into the hallway. ‘But you know your mother, once she’d made her mind up about something, there was no changing it.’
I smiled at the memory of her. And just like that, I realised that it was the first time I’d been able to do that. The pain was still there, but it had softened somehow. Just like she said it would.
‘What do you think she’d make of all this?’ I asked.
‘I think you know she’d be the proudest mother in the world, Edie. Just like I’m the proudest dad.’
I gave him a bear hug, the way he used to hug me when I was younger.
‘Easy now, I’ll need a defibrillator!’
‘And to think,’ I said to him, as we descended the stairs and saw all of my new friends waiting for us in the restaurant, ‘if I’d gone to Paris, I would have missed all of this.’
* * *
Later that night, I walked with Madame Moreau back to the bakery.
Although she leaned heavily on a walking stick, she seemed so much lighter in herself.
I took the keys from her and began unlocking the door.
I held it open for her, but she didn’t move.
She looked at me with an unreadable smile on her face.
‘What is it?’
‘As I said before, I underestimated you, édith.’
I returned her smile.
‘I think I underestimated myself!’ I leaned against the door for a moment and looked up at the old bakery sign, swaying in the breeze.
‘You know, I think we have a lot more in common than I first realised. I think we both needed to put the past to rest before we could move on with our lives. And I think you were stuck, every bit as much as I was.’
Madame Moreau nodded, and at last I realised that just because you get older, it doesn’t mean you get wiser. If anything, you become more protective of what little you can control in this life, shutting out all of the possibilities that require you to trust, have faith and let go.
She reached into her pocket and held in her arthritic hands some dried grains of wheat.
‘I keep these, always,’ she said. ‘After my mother was taken, I did not know how to live. Who was I to become, now? Pierre explained to me, holding this grain of wheat between his fingers. “Inside,” he said, “it holds the potential to become any number of things.” “Like a croissant?” I asked, in my childish voice. “Yes, like a croissant, or a baguette, or an entire meal if you were a little field mouse!”’ She smiled.
‘“Remember,” he told me, “you have that same life force inside of you to become anything you want.”’
‘That’s so beautiful,’ I said.
‘So you see, no matter what happens in life, given the right environment to prove, your life force will rise, ma chérie.’
We walked inside and the thought struck me: all along I had believed that I hadn’t found the right bakery in Paris, when, in truth, the bakery on Rue de Paris had found me.