Chapter 37
Chapter Thirty-Seven
By the following week, Nicole’s social media campaign to save the bakery had gone viral.
Artisan bakeries from all over France pledged their support to Madame Moreau and it seemed that her individual story had sparked something of a national debate.
Even celebrities were hopping on board, insisting that France needed to retain its cultural identity in the face of globalisation.
No one was more stunned by the response than I was.
Frankly, I was a little out of my depth.
All I wanted to do was help Madame Moreau to keep her home and her business for Manu, but now the protesters were talking about descending on Paris and the Minister for Food and Agriculture to demand more support for small businesses.
It was Friday night, and as planned, Johnny and his band came to the boulangerie to play some Django Reinhardt tributes.
The floor space was impossibly small, but a nice crowd managed to cram their way in.
I’d hoarded a box full of jam jars and lit candles in them and placed them all over the shop, which created a lovely atmosphere.
As the music began to play, I could see Madame Moreau’s face light up.
‘He is good, this Johnny, hein?’
‘He’s passionate,’ I replied, admiring his love of the gypsy style of playing.
‘He has duende,’ she remarked approvingly.
After every song, the crowd clapped and cheered for more, and I wondered if this is what it felt like on that night during the war.
The music was hypnotic and defied anyone not to move or sway to its rhythmic beat.
If only this place was bigger, I thought to myself, we could really make a go of this.
We had no liquor licence, so everyone brought their own bottle of wine, but we served platters of bread, cheese and cold meats.
‘There’s a great atmosphere, isn’t there?’ I said to Nicole as I squeezed back behind the counter.
‘That might be about to change,’ she said, nodding towards the door.
I couldn’t mistake his tall silhouette, his lean build or his piercing blue eyes.
‘Shit,’ was all I could say. Not because he was the enemy or that he might be bringing us more bad news, but because I hadn’t done my hair in ages and at that moment it was scraped back into an unflattering ponytail.
Why wasn’t I wearing my new red dress? Instead I was in my usual black blouse and skirt with my pink polka-dot apron.
It wasn’t exactly a power suit or an outfit to stop traffic in.
‘You’re blushing, Edie!’ Nicole whispered.
‘It’s just hot in here,’ I assured her, trying to hide behind the counter.
Johnny and his boys wrapped up another swinging number by Django Reinhardt – ‘I’ll See You in My Dreams’ – and the small audience clapped their appreciation.
I could hear a voice shouting something beyond the hubbub and everyone else stopped their cheering in order to hear.
‘Let’s hear Miss Lane sing a song,’ came the taunting words from the door, then repeated in French for everyone else’s benefit. Heads turned in search of this elusive Miss Lane and people asked each other if anyone knew of her.
‘Eh, that’s you Edie,’ Nicole pointed out needlessly.
Johnny, in his enthusiasm, shouted at me to join him on the imaginary stage.
‘Come on, Edie, give us a song!’
My head now resembled a well-roasted beetroot. ‘No, no,’ I replied. ‘I’m not a singer,’ I assured everyone, while my nails dug into the counter.
‘Au contraire,’ the goading voice came again, ‘you told me you were a singer – and I’m sure the lovely lady wouldn’t tell a lie.
’ He smiled mischievously, like the villain in a pantomime, entertaining the crowd.
It had the desired effect, for the audience assumed that this was an act, that I would feign reluctance only to turn around and belt out a heartwarming number like Edith Piaf.
They all clapped, including Madame Moreau, Manu and Nicole.
There was no way of backing out and he knew it.
I smiled graciously at the audience and took my apron off. They all cheered supportively and I made my way, jelly legs and all, over to Johnny and his band.
‘You can do this,’ he said with an encouraging nod.
‘You haven’t heard me sing yet,’ I whispered out of the corner of my mouth.
‘So, what will it be, Miss Lane?’ Johnny asked, returning his guitar.
The first song that came to mind was ‘Cry Me a River’, but I didn’t want to give Hugo the satisfaction of thinking I had shed any tears over him. ‘I’m a Fool to Want You,’ I said, with my tongue firmly in my cheek.
‘Oh, I love Billie Holiday’s version of that,’ said Johnny, as he began discussing keys and arrangements with the guys, while I stood looking out at the expectant crowd.
It was one of those moments when you think to yourself, How the hell did I end up here?
I could feel Hugo’s eyes upon me and saw his Cheshire grin from across the room.
He was calling my bluff and was probably going to make a fool of me in front of all these people.
Correction, I was going to make a fool of myself; he had just instigated it.
Once again I found myself in a moment of intense fear, and once again I prayed to my mother for help.
‘One, two, three, four…’ counted Johnny and I took a deep breath.
Think Billie Holiday, I whispered to myself; slow, relaxed and sultry. I opened my mouth and began to sing, but all that came out was a whisper. I missed my cue. The band kept playing but I looked at Johnny with terror in my eyes.
‘I can’t do this,’ I whispered.
‘Tiens.’ Madame Moreau appeared with a glass of water. ‘Take a sip, clear your throat and let the world hear you.’
I had not been expecting a pep talk, but it seemed to do the trick.
I did exactly as she said, took a sip of water, cleared my throat and waited for the band to play the melody again.
I took a deep breath and tried to remember what Johnny had said before.
I didn’t have to perform. I just had to let people see the real me.
I closed my eyes and let the words flow out.
I’m a fool to want you; I’m a fool to want you
To want a love that can’t be true
A love that’s there for others too
I’m a fool to hold you, such a fool to hold you
To seek a kiss not mine alone
To share a kiss the devil has known…
I lost myself in the song and the words and by the last verse, I was actually enjoying myself.
Despite my complete lack of confidence, I knew that I was somehow captivating the audience.
Perhaps it was the song, or the story I was telling, but I believed it and I knew they did too.
It was my first time singing with a live band and I relished every second of it.
Instead of hearing myself a capella, my voice was supported by a soft snare drum, a deep resonating bass and a rhythmic guitar.
When I sang the last line, I finally dared to look over where Hugo had been standing.
He was leaning against the door, his head cocked to one side and a sly grin on his face.
Our little gathering of people erupted into wild applause when I stopped singing and I was showered with kisses and shouts for an encore.
For the first time in my life, I felt as though I was doing what I was always meant to do.
It felt natural and just … right. I’d found the same flow I’d experienced when doing my TikTok videos.
Something magical happened when I stopped putting pressure on myself to be someone – the person I thought people wanted me to be.
I discovered an inner self, someone who’d been there all along, just waiting for me to stop getting in my own way.
I saw the door opening and Hugo’s tall frame exiting and it was only then that I realised he had done me a favour.
Perhaps he wasn’t trying to humiliate me, after all.
Maybe he was giving me a shot at my dreams. I extricated myself from the embraces of my newfound fans and ran after him out onto the street.
‘Why did you do that?’ I shouted.
He turned around in that insouciant way he had that meant he never looked as though he was in a rush.
‘I wanted to hear you sing.’
‘No, you wanted to prove your point; that I had lied about being a singer just as you lied about being a photographer,’ I panted, out of breath after my impromptu performance.
‘Now why would I do that?’ he said, leading me.
‘To prove we’re both as gutless as each other when it comes to living our dreams,’ I replied.
He smiled at me in a way that made it difficult to stay angry with him.
‘The only difference is, I’m not a very good photographer, while you…’ he trailed off.
‘I’m assuming that’s meant to be a compliment.’
We were smiling at each other, which made a nice change to our recent encounters.
‘Why are you being kind to me now?’
‘I never wanted to be unkind, Edith. It’s this place that came between us,’ he said, gesturing to the bakery.
‘Well, I still can’t see a way around it,’ I said and we both fell silent for a time.
‘I see your protests have reached Paris,’ he said, ‘I saw an article in Le Monde. You’re really not going to give up, are you?’ He looked at me thoughtfully, as though he begrudgingly admired my tenacity.
‘If you knew what this place meant to Madame Moreau, Hugo, you wouldn’t give up either. If I could only tell you…’
‘édith!’ came Manu’s voice, just in time. ‘Ils veulent un encore,’ he shouted.
At this, Hugo bowed slightly and said, ‘Your audience awaits, Mademoiselle.’ With that, he took his leave and it took all of my willpower not to call after him.
The cheer that welcomed me as I came back in almost floored me. It couldn’t all be pity, I told myself. They really wanted to hear me sing again.
‘Why didn’t you tell me you had those pipes?’ Johnny said, as I rejoined him and the guys.
‘I wasn’t sure they’d work outside of the shower!’ I shouted over the noise.
‘Fancy giving it another go?’
I nodded, almost afraid to voice my overwhelming desire to sing all night. Like a latecomer who’s hidden their light under a bushel for too long, I wanted to shine. I sang a little French song by Melody Gardot, aptly called ‘Les étoiles’ – ‘The Stars’.
* * *
Finally, it was time to call it a night and after we’d thanked our patrons and sent them home, I began cleaning up.
I felt a little like Cinderella after midnight, returning to her day job.
I stacked the chairs up onto the tables and mopped the floor, while Madame Moreau totted up the receipts at the cash register.
‘Why do you think Mr Chadwick stopped by this evening?’ she said after a time.
‘I’ve no idea,’ I replied, applying myself to an imaginary stain on the floor.
‘He seemed to know that you had a beautiful voice,’ she remarked casually.
I couldn’t think of a reply, so I just kept my mouth shut and hoped she’d forget about this line of inquiry.
‘I think he likes you.’
‘What? Don’t be ridiculous,’ I blustered.
‘I think you like him, too,’ she continued, sounding not altogether displeased with her revelations.
‘Well, it wouldn’t matter, anyway. I mean, it’s not like anything can happen between us.’ I kept mopping and she kept prodding.
‘Why not? You’re both young, single…’
‘Eh, hello? I said, leaning the mop against the counter. ‘He is our nemesis, remember? He’s shutting down the bakery? How could I possibly love a man like that?’
‘Love, eh?’
‘Oh, you know what I mean,’ I said exasperated.
‘édith, how many times must I remind you, it is the bank that is closing us down. Mr Chadwick, ‘e is just a businessman hoping to buy a premises at a good price.’
‘Or a vulture picking at a carcass,’ I said under my breath.
‘Is that what you truly believe? Or is that what you’re telling yourself, so you can avoid the feelings that are obviously shared between the two of you?’
If it had been a game of chess we were playing, she would have declared checkmate. I then confided in her about how Hugo and I had met, that magical night, and then the terrible arguments we had about the bakery. Not to mention the hurtful things he had said about my life here.
‘It’s natural, ma belle, you care about what he thinks of you,’ she said gently. ‘But just think; maybe he cares about your opinion of ‘im also…’
I remembered then how I had accused him of bowing down to his father’s expectations. Perhaps I had touched a raw nerve. It was obvious he felt guilty about letting his father down.
‘And if you ask me, I think he went out of his way to put things right tonight, n’est ce pas?’