Chapter 35
CHLOE
I’ve seen people attempt to make croquembouches on Bake Off and I tell you, those things never work out, but there’s been something about Ben all day that is so determined.
It’s clear he’s going to follow through with his promises for this wedding even if he has to beat that choux to death and clean every clam by hand.
Such is Ben, the perfectionist, someone who wants to get things right and do right by the people around him.
But it’s also chef Ben. He’s an angrier version of Ben who doesn’t listen, who has a singular focus.
But also Ben who can speak French and talk angry brides down into a calm stupor because of the magic in his croquembouche.
‘MIGUEL! I needed those figs yesterday. Where are they?’ his voice echoes through the kitchen.
‘I am coming, chef. Calm your pretty panties down,’ Miguel sings back, trying to diffuse Ben’s stress.
I look through to the kitchen and watch him mop his brow on the sleeve of his T-shirt, standing over a counter, tapping the underside of some bread and smelling it.
It’s a careful, nurturing action until he spots something on the other side of the kitchen.
‘Can someone take the cheese out before it becomes fondue!’ I see Jess pick up the platters and scamper away.
‘Yeah, this bit wasn’t on the flyer either, was it?’ Zara says next to me, working through her washing-up duty.
‘Ah, yes – you will also become part of a ninja stealth catering team that will save a French couple’s wedding.’ I laugh. ‘It was in the small print.’
It’s been a day of absolute chaos but we’ve all played our part.
Miguel has zipped around the island buying butter from every supermarket while I tagged along to buy a tasteful light-blue number for Fabien’s mother.
We have chopped, we have styled out canapés, we have poured glasses of champagne, and we’ve put Bella to good use, sending her upstairs to contour the bride and apply her fake eyelashes.
Fabien’s uncle even returned to us in a Pacha T-shirt and with a love bite on his neck, but we won’t talk about that.
‘Was your wedding like this?’ I ask Zara as we stand at the counter, overlooking the guests sitting at their tables, impeccably decorated with white bougainvillea and roses. Fairy lights make the clifftop twinkle, the sweet sound of guitars serenade the guests.
‘God no, nothing as classy as this. I doubt they’re all going to get on the dancefloor later and do the “YMCA”,’ she says. ‘Bella told me the bride’s in rental Dior, that’s why she’s wearing a tablecloth as a bib to eat her paella.’
I laugh, holding onto Zara’s arm. That’s what that is.
I thought it was fashion. Now the sun has set, the ceremony has taken place and the photographs have been taken, the guests eat and I now get why Ben cooks the way he does.
It must be a nice feeling to deliver all that satisfaction, to see people gather around your food and notice the collective joy it gives them.
They eat paella out of big metal pans; the prawns are so large I can see their little beady eyes from here.
I hope everyone appreciates the lemon wedges that I cut for that dish.
From where we stand, I can see family members laughing, sharing stories, breaking bread.
And at a very small table with the best view of the sea are Fabien (with his trousers on at last) and Odette, who is classically very beautiful even if she scares me just a little bit.
Most importantly, they are calm, happy and married.
I didn’t understand the ceremony as it was mostly in French but I didn’t need to in order to understand their love and observe the joy which seems to be the theme of the day in more ways than one.
‘Can I tell you something, just between the two of us, because I have to tell someone?’ I say to Zara. Despite all the chaos, I realise I’m also holding on to the excitement of the phone call this morning. I haven’t had a beat to share the news, to digest it.
‘Sure thing,’ she says, stopping for a moment, curious.
‘I had a phone call this morning with an architect in London, she’s from a practice it would be my dream to work for back home.
Zaha Hadid, have you heard of her? She’s a legend.
The technical director I spoke to had heard I’m leaving my previous practice and she wants to meet as soon as I get back. She knows my work. I’m completely—’
Zara doesn’t hesitate to take her hands out of the soapy water, dry them on her T-shirt and wrap her arms around me.
It’s a warm, maternal hug and that is just what I needed: to properly take in the news and have someone celebrate it with me.
‘Chloe, that’s bloody fantastic! Why didn’t you tell us all? ’
‘It’s been a day, you know? All the rushing around. I think I was only just absorbing it myself. The scale of the work they do, it wins awards. I can’t believe she would get in touch.’
‘I told you it would work out,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘I tell you, it’s the magic of this bloody island, it heals, it puts things right.’
‘Perhaps,’ I say.
‘I sense some hesitation though,’ she says, studying my face.
‘Maybe. Don’t tell anyone else yet, yeah?
’ Especially Ben. Because before that phone call, I’m not going to lie, there was a part of me beginning to imagine asking if I could stay longer, get to know him better, see where we could go.
I could have become invested here. But now it’s like London is trying to lure me back, it’s telling me to make a choice and come up with a better plan.
‘You’d be silly not to snap that job up though, right?’ Zara says, reassuring me. ‘Is it a money thing? Contracts?’
I think it might be a love thing but I can’t say that out loud because it sounds ridiculous. I shrug my shoulders.
‘Then I would grab that opportunity with both hands and dive into it. Well done, you clever, talented little thing.’ Zara hugs me again and I hug her back. I want to find Bella now and tell her she has the best mum, she really does, because this feels completely validating.
‘Ladies,’ a voice suddenly says behind us. It’s Ben walking in with an empty pan.
‘I might have to put in a complaint about the lack of breaks here, gaffer, it’s the law,’ Zara jokes, putting her hands back in the sink to make it look like she’s doing her job. ‘Give it here?’
‘Just leave it to soak. Actually, could you go down with more of the champagne, Zara? I’ve got to get to my croquembouche.’ She salutes, grabbing a bottle and winking at me before she leaves.
‘Fancy a hand?’ I ask him and he pauses for a moment but then nods.
I follow Ben into the back of the kitchen, seeing a dark shadow on the back of his T-shirt from all his sweat and hard work.
I’ve never seen anyone work like that, under that kind of pressure.
But now, there are around eighty little choux buns sitting on this counter and it feels like this is the real test. I’ve watched him pipe each one meticulously and make his own caramel; with every step, he’s taken care to make sure it all comes together.
He cracks his knuckles and stretches his arms above his chest, and I study the gorgeous contour of his torso as he does this.
‘So, you’ve not said how you learned how to make one of these?’ I say as he finishes washing his hands and lines up a massive white serving platter.
‘I haven’t,’ he says. ‘I jumped on YouTube before. But I’ve seen it done when I worked in Paris. I’ve cheated though with the crème filling. I’ve shop-bought some macarons and edible flowers to decorate it.’
‘Yeah, I noticed you know French,’ I say.
‘Un petit peu. I did a bit of pastry training in Paris but all the patisserie stuff wasn’t quite for me,’ he says, smiling and flicking the top of one of the puffs.
‘Why?’ I ask him, in awe of what he’s achieved.
‘I’m too impatient. I like things a little messy,’ he says. ‘Right, the caramel has set, it’s time to build – this could be your thing as you’re the architect.’
‘That’s a lot of pressure,’ I tell him.
‘Yep and we’ve all met Odette. This thing could turn on a sixpence if it’s wonky or collapses—’
‘Says he who told her he’d make her a croquembouche. Next time, maybe offer a Victoria sponge,’ I say.
Ben laughs. ‘Where’s the challenge and fun in that?’ He lifts up a puff and examines it for a moment. ‘Could you just top up the filling in this one?’ he asks, handing it over.
‘How do I do that?’ I ask, picking up the piping bag.
‘Get it in the hole, push until the ball is full, make sure it doesn’t squirt everywhere,’ he says, po-faced, not even searching for the innuendo as he’s so focused.
‘And if it does squirt?’ I reply, biting my lip.
‘It’s because you’re squeezing too tight,’ he says, smiling.
I fill the pastry ball with cream perfectly and hand it back to him, smirking. He’s not rising to it, is he?
He continues to dip the other pastry balls in the caramel and arranges them in a large circle so it’s like they’re balancing on their side. ‘And we just layer it up in alternating circles… with the caramel?’ I ask.
He watches me as I look at the balls on the plate from all angles, smiling. ‘Yep, like one of your corbelled roofs, hold everything in place while it sets and make sure it’s not lopsided.’
‘Quality control?’
He nods. I watch him cement the balls together with the caramel, the way he applies the lightest of touches. The pastry puffs just stand there like magic once I let them go. It really is a work of art. ‘I have a question. Fabien called Odette his “choue” – what does that mean?’
Ben chuckles under his breath. ‘Literally, it means cabbage, but I think the French use it more to denote sweetheart, as a term of affection. The French do that, they’ll take a random word and as long as it’s said affectionately in a French accent then it’s endearing. Ma petite croquembouche.’
‘That’s a mouthful,’ I say.
He looks to me, forcing a smile.
‘You’re getting distracted, chef. Keep dipping your balls.
’ Is this a chef thing? Maybe there’s too much at stake with this cake, it’s not a time to joke.
His eyes are creased, drawn maybe. ‘So, if and when you ever get married, would it be like this?’ I ask.
I guess it’s a relevant question given where we are, but he still raises his eyebrows at me as he singes his fingers in caramel.
‘This feels swish, too swish,’ he tells me. ‘I like that it’s a big family dinner but I don’t think I’d spend such a long time taking photos, waiting for the sunset.’
‘Right? There was a lot of posturing and fluffing out of the veil.’
He’s quiet, focused, and I can’t tell if I’ve scared him off.
Maybe I need to change the subject. The caramel sets quickly and we get to the top of the pyramid.
Ben checks it from all angles and nods. ‘It’s not the biggest ’bouche I’ve ever seen but we’ll pretty it up.
’ I shake my head, laughing. ‘Here, you can do the last three puffs,’ he says sandwiching two together.
He hands them to me, like I’m putting a star on the top of a Christmas tree, and then dips a final puff in caramel for me to balance on the top.
I hold it there for a moment. ‘Now let go.’
I smile as we both step back to inspect our work. ‘It’s so glossy.’
‘But this is the best bit,’ he says and he dips his fork into the caramel and starts whipping it lightly over the pastry. The caramel lands in wisps like spiderwebs. I marvel at how such an effect is created by such a simple action.
‘Can I have a go?’ I ask. ‘That looks like fun.’
He hands me the fork but holds onto my hand to mimic the action, standing slightly behind me.
I can feel the warmth of his skin next to mine and the way he doesn’t quite let go of my hand.
I hand him back the fork and he wraps a few more strands around it, looking at it carefully to make sure it’s as perfect as it can be.
‘A few more touches and she’ll be done. She can stay in here for a bit so she doesn’t wilt in the heat,’ Ben says.
I like how this extraordinary piece of confection already has feminine pronouns, an identity.
‘Teamwork,’ he says, putting a hand to the air but as I go to meet his hand, he grabs mine and pulls me in, landing a kiss on my lips, slow and prolonged, before resting his head against my forehead.
‘Hi,’ he says.
‘Hi.’
‘Thank you, catering assistant.’
‘You’re welcome… retreat manager,’ I reply.
And then he kisses me, gently. I can’t quite read the kiss. It’s the way he cups my face with his hands, a different emotion runs through it. He steps back, his gaze curious, maybe a little sad.
‘Fuck me, that is immense, Benjamin!’ Jess says, walking into the kitchen, marvelling at the croquembouche on the counter.
‘Thank you, Jess. It was a team effort,’ he replies.
‘They’re doing the first dance if you guys want to come out and watch?’ she says.
We walk out to the patio overlooking where the couple have made their way to a small square of dancefloor below.
They move slowly, Odette’s head nestled into Fabien’s chest. Zara and Bella are already partnered up on the patio, doing a slow dance under the stars that have come out to play.
I look up as Miguel offers Jess his hand for a turn.
‘I guess that leaves you and me,’ Ben says and he bows, takes my hand and twirls me into him.
He does look tired. It’s been a day, so I say very little, nestling my head in his chest, swaying from side to side, our legs tangled with the movement, our hips touching.
I can hear the waves crashing below, the stars of the night sky framing this scene.
Why does this never feel like it’s real?
Like this is not what life is supposed to look like.
It’s too polished, too perfect. You are perfect.
He pulls me in close and I hear his heartbeat, loud and clear.
It’s all too much. Go back to what I know or stay here with an emotion that feels so sure, a feeling that could propel me into the next part of my life.
I think I’m falling in love with you, I whisper so he can’t see my mouth moving.
‘What was that?’ Ben asks.
‘Nothing,’ I reply.