Chapter 34
BEN
I wasn’t sure what I was going to be walking into when I agreed to cater for this wedding at six o’clock this morning, but a crying groom in his pants wasn’t one of them.
I also didn’t expect French. Fabien and Odette are from Lille and flew both sets of families and friends to Ibiza to get married, but from the way Miguel describes it, things have not gone to plan.
A bridesmaid fell off an electric scooter last night and twisted her ankle, the groom’s mother’s luggage never arrived, and early this morning, the caterers did a disappearing act on them.
Miguel knew one of the band who put the emergency feelers out and because I’m a kindly individual who enjoys a challenge, I said yes.
Why not? I cook. You need food. Let’s not make your day any worse.
I, however, did not expect a half-naked man in tears.
This wedding better still be on because I’ve just ordered in thirty pounds of clams.
‘Hi, are you Fabien?’ I ask.
The man looks at me wide-eyed and sees me carrying the bread. He has a bow tie hanging around his neck, and he’s wearing an unbuttoned white shirt and well, thankfully, a very swish pair of silk boxer shorts. Zara makes Bella turn away.
‘You are the man with the food,’ he says, tearing up and putting both hands in the air to grab my face and give me the customary double-kiss. ‘You are the saviour. Sent from the heavens.’ His accent is strong and he mumbles the words through his tears.
‘Is everything OK?’ I ask. Please just be happy tears.
We all enter the villa, a picturesque stone building overlooking the cliffs of a secluded cove.
It is a hive of activity: family running up and down, bridesmaid dresses hanging from doors, there’s signs of a florist. I can see down to the cliff where chairs are laid out around tables, and fairy lights and lanterns hang from wooden posts and trellises.
‘It is a lot. My beloved is not happy. My mother is wearing some hot pink dress she bought in town and she looks like bubblegum; we’ve lost my uncle; and now the caterer has cancelled, and my beloved thinks it’s a sign,’ he tells us.
‘I’m so sorry about your uncle,’ I say, my eyes widening.
‘No, he is not dead. He went to Pacha, the nightclub and he is not back. He is seventy-one years of age.’
Zara nudges Bella in the ribs to stop her laughing.
I wish she’d do the same to me. I know Pacha, the uncle is likely still there dancing through the day, but I nod to the ladies around me carrying equipment and ingredients to go through to the kitchen, giving the bread in my hands to Miguel.
I hope Fabien can’t tell that they are not a completely professional outfit.
The majority of us have known each other for less than a week and we all just threw on something black so we’d look the same.
He welcomes them all in while Chloe holds back, knowing I might need some help.
She reaches into her handbag and gives Fabien a tissue.
‘What is your beloved’s name?’ she asks softly, putting an arm around him.
‘Odette,’ he says.
She guides him over to a nearby sofa to sit down and catch his breath.
I wish he’d sit with his legs together but it doesn’t seem to faze Chloe who really has seen it all this holiday.
She’s wearing that black slip dress that has served her well all week.
As she bends down to his level, the slit to the leg reveals a glimpse of thigh.
‘It’s probably nerves, don’t worry. It’s a big day and it must be frustrating when things don’t go to plan,’ she says.
‘It is one thing after another. And then the make-up artist came and she was angry with her so she left and now, I don’t know who is doing her face. I am… so…’
He sits there, sobbing. The sort of crying you do after a bad hangover. Chloe glances at me, looking like this might be beyond repair because she only has three tissues on her.
‘Fabien, avez-vous mangé?’ I ask him.
Chloe looks up at me curiously.
‘I cannot eat. I am so full of nerves and emotions.’
I sit down next to him. ‘Then let’s battle this first. You can’t marry someone on an empty stomach. Some bread maybe? Un café? I have fruit; we have to make sure you have energy.’
He looks at me and nods.
‘Where is Odette now?’ I ask.
‘Upstairs.’ We all hear glass breaking and look up. ‘Yes, that is her,’ he confirms.
‘Let’s go and talk to her,’ I say, unsure why I’ve suggested this.
‘I cannot see her before the marriage. It is tradition,’ he replies.
‘We can work around that.’ I turn to the kitchen where the girls and Miguel stand there waiting for instructions. ‘Jess, can you put two slices of bread onto toast? Maybe we can start prepping the herbs, finely chopped please. Get on peeling the garlic. Zara, you good with dicing the chorizo?’
‘YES CHEF!’ they all shout in unison. I don’t know why Miguel salutes me like he’s at sea though.
I laugh. ‘Chloe, you’re with me,’ I tell her. We climb the wooden staircase to a room upstairs at the end of a corridor.
‘Why do you need me here?’ Chloe whispers.
‘Because I’m not sure I can handle an angry French bride on my own.
’ But I also just like having you next to me despite all the garlic that needs peeling downstairs.
We reach a hallway with a large wooden door; inside, a woman is shouting angrily in French, the sort of words I once heard a tramp use in Montmartre just before he peed himself and threw a bottle of brandy at me.
Fabien walks up to the door tentatively and knocks. ‘Ma choue… the caterers are here. They want to—’
‘Mon dieu. Oh, super… where did they come from? Now you are telling me we are going to be eating McDo on the rocks,’ she shrieks. ‘Has he come dressed like a clown?’
Chloe and I look at each other, trying not to laugh.
‘Odette, please… He is a nice English man, he has offered to help.’
I step forward. ‘Madame, je m’appelle Ben. Pourrions-nous en discuter un petit peu?’
She stops to hear my voice, my attempt to speak French and offer help. I hear her come to the door. ‘I thought you were English.’
‘I am but I have worked in many countries and trained in various cookery schools. I have a restaurant in London,’ I tell her.
I hear a noise like she may have backed onto the door and is now sitting on the floor.
‘Sit with me,’ she says. ‘I do not want to see Fabien. We talk through the door.’ We all look at each other and opt to sit in the hallway.
It’s very cosy. ‘We had such beautiful plans. We came here and tested the menus in January and I can’t believe they would cancel like this.
This day is going so wrong. I bet they steal our money too. ’
‘Let me put it right,’ I say through the wooden door. ‘Can I tell you what I had planned for today?’
‘Racontez-moi. Allez-y,’ she says.
‘I have some canapés – I have some beautiful Serrano ham, Manchego, olives and bruschetta, beautiful fresh figs, gazpacho shots,’ I tell her.
‘After that, I have a seafood course, some clams cooked in wine, some flao, which is a traditional Ibizan cheese tart, and I thought we would go traditional with a big paella for all to share. Everything is being cooked fresh today, bought from the markets. My associate says the gambas are excellent,’ I say nervously.
I am not one to create Michelin-star tasting menus, my style has always been huge platters being shared family-style.
People eating with their hands, swabbing big chunks of bread in broth and oils, aunties reaching over and stacking plates high.
I hope that’s enough. Maybe I should have run this through with them before I agreed to this.
Odette is silent for a while before she responds. ‘It sounds perfect. I thought you might be serving my guests fish with chips as you are English.’
I’ll forgive her French snobbery for now because my fish and chips are bloody marvellous.
‘You see, ma choue, they are all here. The day will be fine. I love you so much,’ Fabien says, resting his forehead against the door. We may have to get him some cucumber for his eyes too.
‘Is your mother still in pink? She is going to clash with my bridesmaids, Fabien.’
‘Odette… be reasonable. Her suitcase is gone. She has none of her clothes,’ he pleads.
‘FABIEN!’ she shrieks.
Chloe and I recoil from the volume of the noise that has managed to travel through the oak door. She shrieks a lot in French and I hear many swear words.
‘Odette, please. Ma choue, ma choue…’
‘Odette. Parlez-moi de Fabien?’ I ask her, trying to calm some of the noise. ‘Expliquez-moi toutes les bonnes choses.’
She goes silent for a moment. ‘He is… funny, gentil, very sweet,’ she murmurs through the door. ‘There is a way he loves me that is like no other. He loves me all the time.’
‘Depuis toujours,’ Fabien says, putting a hand to the door and I look over at Chloe to translate, mouthing the word forever.
‘I can go into town with your mother and sort something else?’ Chloe intervenes, placing a hand on Fabien’s back.
‘Who are you?’ Odette asks abruptly as she hears a female voice.
‘I am Ben’s… catering assistant,’ Chloe says, stepping in tentatively.
‘Please rest assured that we will try and make your day as perfect as possible.’ I reach down and graze my fingers along hers.
‘It will be a perfect day because you have each other.’ She looks at me as she says that and my breath catches in my throat.
‘Et le gateau?’ she asks.
I widen my eyes at Chloe. I also had to make a cake?
Fabien senses my shock and shakes his head.
Please don’t tell the bride there is no cake.
It will be the nail in the coffin for this wedding.
I should have thought of this. What the hell do I do?
I have no time to do a massive three-tiered confection.
I don’t have the tools or the dowelling.
I had a chocolate tart planned, maybe I can ice hearts on it, load it up with fruit and sparklers?
That feels flat. I have a large wheel of cheese I could put some flowers on.
‘Une croquembouche, bien s?r…’ I say.
‘You can make a croquembouche?’ she asks.
‘Oui. Une petite croquembouche,’ I say blankly. I can but Miguel’s going to have to sprint to find some fucking butter.
‘Then parfait. Thank you. You are perfection.’
I’m not really. I’m actually quite stressed. I’m remembering why I needed a break from my restaurant. Then, Chloe’s hand slips into mine and squeezes it tightly. I squeeze hers back. Let’s do this.